What Charlotte Said; W. Schofield

1.

"Charlotte," Olivia Mitchell's voice barked from outside the medical tent, then the white tarp flap opened to reveal her brunette hair and freckled face. "Lottie, the posts arrived." Her pale hands held up an off-white letter.

Charlotte quickly smiled and arose from her spot on the bed, "Did you get anything?" She asked quickly, hoping Olivia wouldn't inquire about what she was doing in the tent midday.

"Mum sent me some propaganda clippings and a photo of her and Dad," she held out a black and white photo with edges clipped to a baroque pattern. Then she held out the clippings in a playing card fashion, fanning out the images of empty plates and large monkeys with German helmets on.

"I see no difference between this clipping and the Boche." Charlotte lifted her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.

"Look," Olivia held the clipping up to an old German helmet that lay in the grass, "they even got the helmet spot on." Chuckling lightly, the two of them began to walk across a field to the mail house, avoiding sleeping soldiers and catcalls. The fields were barren, with only a few trees scattered about in uniform lines, broken up by foxglove sprouts. The air was damp and sour, fumes of cigarettes and the sterile smell that the medical tents emitted as we walked by them. Beyond that were the trenches, muddy gullies where their boys fought. From what the nurses had heard, there were rats bigger than cats that stalked the muddy highway. Neither Liv nor Charlotte had been down there; they were not allowed, only on urgent occasions. Not that they had any longing to join the men in the trenches, they actually found comfort in believing that the Boche had to navigate the entirety of the trenches before they could reach our safe haven. Even then we would be gone before they reached us. Though, Olivia swears that she met a handsome Private who told her of the trenches atrocities. Stories that they all became very familiar with and questioned their legitimacy more than often.

When the two of them reached the mailing house, as usual, it was much less a house. More of two trucks parked parallel to one another with a large tarp serving as the roof. Men formed a ragged line leading up to it. At the peak of the line was a Scottish man with a ginger handlebar mustache and a missing right eye. We all called him "The Crook" or "The old Scottish Crook."

When Olivia grabbed Charlotte's hand and led her just beside the mail house, she snapped back to reality with a couple of blinks.

"So, what were you doing in the tents this late? That poor chap from the other day came in with his stab wound infected; we could've used your precise hands," Olivia asked, Weaving through the line to steady us in a pair away from their barbaric howling.

"I just needed a moment," Charlotte said, then was lightly shoved on the shoulder by a soldier who quickly said sorry and continued to walk, a taller one trailing behind him. "Began to feel sick to my stomach after seeing this poor mans femur fractured. Bone protruding from skin. it wasn't pretty." She rolled her eyes slightly and tilted her head towards Olivia who didn't look satisfied at this answer.

"I wasn't off slacking if thats what you think -- " she added, putting her hands up in front of herself.

"Y'know that's not what I meant, Lottie." olivia said, pushing her hands down.

After a quick silence, she spoke again, "Thinking of your Ma and brud again?" she inquired, to which Charlotte looked at her with her brows laced.

"Liv - i'm over it. It was nearly three years ago. Besides, what do you care of it?" She ended in a defensive tone. Charlotte knew that she wasn't over the loss of her mother and eldest brother. If she were over it, she wouldn't be working as a nurse of the frontlines anymore.

"Next!" the mailer yelled, then they hopped in line as it had shrunk profusely since they first arrived.

"It doesn't do to dwell on it, Lottie." her voice became soft, causing Charlotte to shake her head and murmur an apology.