The Sharpest Jewel |Alfie Solomons|

~ Chapter 17 ~

FRANCE, 1917.

Two weeks had passed since the company Captain Solomon's led had been dragged into the trenches and sent to the field hospitals. The passing days blurred together for Florence as she tended to the wounded. The routine was the only thing that kept her grounded. Dawn always broke the same, cold and bitter, and the sound of men groaning in pain or softly calling for comfort filled the air like an unwanted hymn.

It was a brutal life, but she had gotten used to it. At least she thought she had. Florence moved through the rows of cots in the medical tent, her face expressionless, her body moving on autopilot. She'd learned not to focus too long on any one person's injuries, or on their stories. It was easier that way. Safer. Every soldier was just another body, another life she had to mend, even though she knew deep down that some of them were far beyond saving.

"Good morning," she said quietly to one man who was still sleeping, adjusting his blanket before moving on to the next. Her hands were swift and efficient, moving from bed to bed, checking bandages, administering morphine, giving soft words of comfort when it felt necessary. As she moved through her rounds, a voice—soft but urgent—caught her attention.

"Nurse... nurse, please... could I have some water?" Florence turned her head and saw a young man, barely older than twenty five, lying on the cot with his leg and arm missing. His face was swathed in bandages, one side horribly burned. Only one of his eyes was visible, bloodshot but pleading as he gazed up at her. Her breath caught in her throat for a moment as she approached him. It wasn't the first time she had seen injuries like this, but the extent of his wounds was shocking even for her..

"Of course," she said softly, taking a tin cup and filling it with water from the nearby basin. She knelt beside him, carefully holding the cup to his lips. He drank slowly, a few drops spilling down his chin as he tried to steady himself. Florence's hands were gentle but firm as she helped him. The young soldier coughed weakly after he had drunk his fill, his throat raw and raspy. His visible eye was focused on her, full of a mixture of gratitude and despair.

"Thank you," he whispered, the words barely audible through his bandages. Florence nodded, offering him a small, soft smile—the best she could muster under the circumstances. "It's no trouble," she replied, though the heaviness in her heart spoke otherwise. It was never no trouble. Every one of these men carried a piece of her spirit with them, a weight she had learned to bear silently.

The young man stared at her for a moment longer before speaking again, his voice trembling slightly."I came in from Captain Solomon's infantry."the man spoke. "Many dead." He muttered "was not our fault nor the captain's he did the best he could with frightened boys... we all did the best we could." He looked to Florence. "D-do you think..." he hesitated, his gaze dropping to the place where his arm used to be. "Do you think it was worth it, miss?" His words hit her like a blow to the chest, and for a moment, she was silent, unsure of how to respond. What was she supposed to say? What did these men want to hear from her? That their suffering had some purpose? That the war they were fighting had meaning? The truth was, she didn't know anymore. She wasn't sure she had ever known.

Florence swallowed hard, keeping her expression calm as she set the cup down beside the bed. She brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear and looked him in the eye, her voice soft but steady. "I don't know," she admitted quietly. "But you're here. You're alive. And that's something." The soldier looked at her for a long moment, his eye wet with unshed tears. He nodded, though there was a distant look in his gaze, as if he wasn't quite convinced. Florence stood up, gently adjusting the blanket over his broken body. "Rest now," she told him softly. "I'll check on you again soon." She turned to move away, but before she could, the young man called out to her again.

"Nurse..." his voice wavered. "You... you must see a lot of this. A lot of men like me." Florence paused, her heart twisting in her chest as she glanced back at him. There was something in his voice, a fragile hope, maybe. He wanted to hear something that would ease his mind, something to make the weight of his suffering bearable. She took a deep breath, her hands trembling slightly as she forced herself to remain composed. "Yes," she said quietly. "I do." The soldier gave a small, almost bitter laugh, his breath hitching with the effort. "It's hell, isn't it?" he whispered. "All of it... this war... it's just hell." Florence looked at him, her throat tightening as she thought of all the men she had treated, all the lives she had seen shattered by this senseless war. He was right, of course. It was hell. And no matter how much she tried to numb herself to it, that truth was always there, lurking beneath the surface. But what could she say to him? How could she offer comfort in a place where comfort seemed impossible? She didn't know.

Florence closed her eyes for a moment, her mind racing as she struggled to find the right words. Finally, she opened them again, her voice soft and almost inaudible. "Maybe... maybe it is," she whispered. "But we're still here. And as long as we're here... we have to keep going." It wasn't much, she knew that. But it was all she could offer him. The young man looked at her for a long moment, then slowly nodded. He seemed to take some small comfort in her words, even if they were hollow. "Thank you," he whispered again, his voice barely above a breath.

As Florence moved to leave, the young man called her back with a soft chuckle that caught her off guard. She turned around, raising a brow at him. Despite his injuries, there was a mischievous glint in his one visible eye, and something in his expression seemed to defy the weight of the horror surrounding them. "Hey, nurse," he called out again, his voice shaky but warmer than before. "I reckon if I'm going to be sitting here with nothing but one leg and half a face, I at least deserve to know the name of the pretty lady who's been keeping me from dying of thirst."

Florence couldn't help but smile at the unexpected joke, her weariness momentarily lifting. "Pretty lady, huh?" she teased lightly, placing her hands on her hips. "You must have taken a harder knock to the head than we thought." The soldier grinned as best as his burned face would allow, the bandages tugging slightly. "Could be," he admitted, a bit of humor returning to his tired eyes. "But like you said I'm still alive, so I must be doing something right." Florence shook her head, her lips curling into a smile despite herself. "My name isFlorence," she said softly, a touch of warmth returning to her voice

"Florence," the soldier repeated, testing the name on his lips. "A good, strong name. Suits you." He paused for a moment, then added with a wink, "I'm Robbie. Well, just Robbie now. Used to be Robbie-with-two-arms-and-two-legs, but I figure that name doesn't suit me anymore." Despite herself, Florence let out a small laugh, surprised by his ability to joke in such dire circumstances. It was something she had seen before—how humor became a shield for men like Robbie, protecting them from the reality of their situation. Still, it impressed her how he could manage it, given his condition.

"Well, Robbie," Florence said, her voice softening with something close to fondness, "you certainly have a way with words. Maybe when this is all over, you can try your hand at storytelling instead of soldiering."

Robbie grinned. "I might just take you up on that, Florence. If I ever figure out how to hold a pen again." The two shared a brief moment of levity amidst the chaos around them, their conversation offering a small respite from the grimness of their reality. For a second, it felt like the world outside the tent didn't exist—the bombs, the blood, the unbearable loss. It was just a young man and a nurse, sharing a laugh like it was any ordinary day.

But then reality crept back in, as it always did. The moans and cries of the other soldiers reached their ears again, and the heavy scent of blood and antiseptic filled the air once more. Robbie sighed, his face softening as he looked at Florence. "Thanks for that, Florence," he said quietly. "For the water... and for the company." Florence nodded, her smile bittersweet now. "Anytime, Robbie," she said, her voice gentle. "I'll be around." As she turned to leave and continue her rounds, Robbie called after her one last time. "Florence ?" She stopped and looked back at him, her brow raised in question.

"Next time," Robbie said, his grin returning, "bring a bottle of whiskey instead of water. Might make this whole thing a bit more bearable." Florence laughed softly, shaking her head. "I'll see what I can do," she replied, though they both knew it was an impossible request. Still, for a moment, it felt good to pretend that things could be that simple. She left Robbie with a lighter heart than she'd had all morning. The pain, the sorrow, and the weight of the war hadn't vanished, but for now, at least, it felt like there was still a little room for hope.