The Sharpest Jewel |Alfie Solomons|

~ Chapter 15 ~

FRANCE, 1916.

December 1916. The war had been raging for over two years now, and though Florence had grown used to the constant drone of gunfire in the distance, the horrors of the battlefield never dulled. The makeshift hospital where she worked was busier than ever—lines of wounded men continued to flood in from the front, and she moved from one patient to the next with an almost mechanical efficiency, her hands wrapped in stained bandages, her heart hardened by the relentless cycle of death and suffering.

The camp was colder than ever this winter. The snow that blanketed the ground made everything feel even more bleak. The wounded were shivering, despite the fires that crackled outside and the desperate attempts to keep them warm. Florence herself felt the sting of the cold even in her bones, but she pushed through, focusing on the task at hand. It was all she could do to stay sane.

She had just finished checking on a soldier, his breath shallow and his skin pale from loss of blood, when one of the orderlies approached her with a letter in hand. The sight of it made her stop in her tracks—mail was rare these days, especially personal letters. She hadn't heard from anyone back home in months, not since the war had swallowed up every aspect of her life.

"Florence," the orderly said softly, holding out the envelope. "This came for you." She wiped her hands on her apron and took the letter, her fingers brushing against the worn paper. She recognized the handwriting immediately—Val. Her heart twisted as she stared at the familiar script. Val was in Africa, working as a nurse as well. Florence had always drawn some comfort in knowing that her friends were out there, also trying to make a difference in this horrible war. But she hadn't heard from either Val or Betsy in a long while, and the silence had been worrying. With trembling hands, she carefully opened the letter and began to read:

My Dearest Flo,

I hope this letter reaches you safely and that you're holding up as best you can in that wretched cold. It must be freezing where you are, with snow all around. It's quite different here—hot, unbearably so at times. But I've grown used to the heat. I'm sure you'd laugh if you saw me now, sweating away in a tent, my hair sticking to my face like a mop. I can picture you now, teasing me for complaining when I'm the one who left for warmer pastures.

But, Flo, I write to you with heavy news. It pains me beyond words to tell you this, but you deserve to hear it from me... Betsy is gone.

She was killed in action, trying to save a man who had been blown apart by a landmine. You know how she was—always so brave, always running toward danger when others would step back. There was no stopping her once her mind was set, and that day was no different.

The man had stepped on a mine, and Betsy god bless her soul she ran to him without thinking, trying to save him, to pull him away from the worst of it. She managed to drag him a few feet before another mine went off nearby. The blast... it was too much. She didn't survive it, Flo. They told me she didn't suffer, that it was quick, but I can't find comfort in that. She was too good, too full of life to be taken like this.

She died a hero, Flo. I hope you know that. She saved that man's life, even though it cost her own. She was everything we knew her to be—brave, selfless, full of love even in the most terrifying of moments. But now... she's gone, and I feel lost without her. We were supposed to get through this together, the three of us. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

She was somehow still the same Betsy we knew—the same girl who always had a laugh ready, even in the hardest of times. She wanted to go home... she talked about it all the time, about the bakery, about you she spoke of starting her own family finding a husband and having children oh Florence. She missed you so much. She spoke of you often, always with that fondness in her voice, always imagining the day we'd all be together again. I wish I could have done more for her. I stayed with her until the end. But it still feels like a part of me has been ripped away. I can't stop thinking of how things used to be—how we'd laugh together in the bakery, how we thought nothing could ever come between us. War... it takes everything, doesn't it?