Wildflowers In The Ruins: A 1917 Story

Chapter Eight. Daisies

Friday April 6th, 1917:

"Wwaaayyyy!" I heard a voice cheer from behind Scho. Immediately I thought it was Blake, before being jerked back to the here and now. Scho instantly whipped round, on high alert. I could feel the adrenaline suddenly pulsing through his body as he stepped in front of me protectively.
They were British!
Thank you God!

Two young soldiers stood staring at us, one grinning, the other perplexed.
Oh no! If this got out, I'd lose my job! Even though me and Scho hadn't kissed, things had still become intimate.
No, he was worth it.
But I couldn't let him go now.
Feeling we were a matching pair, we must stay together.
Like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
No, that was him and Blake!
Letting him go now though felt unbearable.
I needn't have been concerned as the perplexed-faced one asked "y'alright mate? Love?"
"Hey. It's alrigh', it's okay," came the reassurance of his friend in a Geordie accent.
Noticing the red cross badges on their shoulders and matching medical bags confirming it, I could tell they were orderlies. The Geordie one pointed in the direction of Blake, "Jesus! What 'appened to 'im?"
"Was it the plane? We saw the smoke," the first one asked us.
"Yeah," Schofield nodded his head, eyes downcast as we followed them down past the barn and pilot towards Blake and the farmhouse.

Arriving at Tom's body, one pulled back my cloak, glanced briefly, then lay it back. Schofield knelt at his head, me at his feet and I noticed a patch of damp blood, the size of my hand, on the left of my apron. It splayed out in feathered ends, rather like a scarlet carnation.

Heavy footsteps approached and a walking cane lightly tapped the ground near my feet.
"Go and fetch their things," came the deep, commanding yet somewhat soft voice of the walking cane.
"Certainly, yes sir." The two orderlies rushed off and the cane spoke again, this time attached to two sturdy feet, legs, overcoat and leather-gloved hands, "a friend."
Scho bent his head down, hands resting on his knees.
"What are you doing here?" inquired the voice.
"I have an urgent message for the Second Devons. Orders to stop tomorrow morning's attack," Schofield replied, eyes still fixed on my cloak containing Blake's body underneath it.
"And where are they stationed?" continued to the voice, calm and rational.
Schofield looked exhausted, as if he were too drained to speak.
"Just beyond Eccoust," I volunteered, standing "I was sent alongside as I'm needed urgently near to there, at the Newfoundland's, sir."
The voice had come from an officer who I would describe as having a 'presence' about him.
"Come with me," he instructed and I began to follow, both bags still looped across my chest but no sign of my helmet.
Turning, I noted Schofield had not moved. He looked as though he bore the weight of the world on his shoulders as he sat resignedly staring at Blake.
Saying goodbye?
"Come with me Corporal, it's an order!" he called, "We're passing through Eccoust, we can take you some of the way."
Then to me, "We should take you the whole way, nurse...?"
"Morgan. Thank you Sir,"
He shook my hand, firm and trustworthy: "Captain Smith."
"Sir," Schofield replied, acknowledging him, then begining to move, as if breaking from a trance, before wiping any remainders of blood and water from his hands on the dry grass.

He strode towards us, one of the orderlies passing him his helmet snd rifle, the other handing me my helmet as we followed the Captain back through the farmhouse. Turning to my right as I approached the back door, I caught a glimpse of Blake's outurned, booted feet.
I sensed Schofield do the same behind me as his helmet came back on again.
And then Blake was gone.

Fixing my own helmet back on tightly as I decended the front few steps, I couldn't help the surprised expression on my face.
Dozens of soldiers milled around whilst a convoy of trucks, led by an open-top beige car, had stopped outside short of the fallen tree across the road I'd noticed earlier. Around nine or ten privates were attempting to lift the trunk and clear the road.
The Coronel in the car sounded highly irritated and barked out orders in the effected voice and manner of someone who has led a highly privileged life, but is full of their own importance, with no regard for anyone less fortunate than themselves: "Come on Sergeant! Put more men at the base. At the trunk! It'll be heavier there!" he was commanding.
Captain Smith turned to us both, "it might be a tight squeeze," he warned.