The Sharpest Jewel |Alfie Solomons|

~ Chapter 18 ~

FRANCE,1917.

A few weeks had passed since that first conversation with Robbie, and Florence found herself looking forward to her daily chats with the injured soldier. He was only 25, with sandy blonde hair that peeked out from beneath the bandages on his head, and bright blue eyes that still held a spark of life despite everything he'd been through. There was something about Robbie—his resilience, his easy humor—that made the brutal days a little more bearable for Florence.

They had become friends, in the odd way war sometimes forged unlikely bonds. He still teased her often, usually about something mundane like her tendency to knit her brows when she was focused or how she always carried extra bandages, just in case. And despite his injuries, despite the horrors they both witnessed, Robbie was sweet. His stories of home were filled with warmth, painting pictures of the peaceful countryside where he grew up and the family he longed to return to.

Florence would sit by his bedside when she could spare the time such as her breaks and after she was called of duty for sleep, listening to him talk about the farm his family owned, the fields of wheat that stretched out as far as the eye could see, and the little stream that ran along the back of the property where he and his brothers would fish as boys. His voice would soften as he spoke of his mother, how she'd always have a pot of stew simmering on the stove, and how she never let anyone leave the table without a second helping.

As the weeks rolled on, Florence found herself growing more attached to Robbie. She had cared for many soldiers since she had been stationed there—too many, some days—but there was something about him that made her feel connected in a way she hadn't before. Maybe it was his humor, or the way he still seemed to see the world with a sense of hope, even after everything. Or maybe it was simply because, in him, Florence saw a reflection of what they had all lost—their innocence, their homes, the lives they once knew.

Christmas reared its head again, and Florence found herself thinking more and more of home, but also of the new family she had made here—of men like Robbie, who had become her tether to humanity in these dark times. The medical tent was colder than usual, the air biting through the thin canvas that barely shielded them from the elements. It was nearing Christmas, but the festive spirit felt a distant memory. The sounds of war had dulled a little, but the constant reminder of the front lines was always present in the background—an occasional boom, the distant whistle of shells, the groans of wounded soldiers.

Florence made her way through her rounds as she had done every day since arriving in France. There was something different about the men now, though, something heavier in the air. The war had gone on for so long, stretching endlessly like a dark cloud that refused to lift. Each man in the tent had the same look of exhaustion—both physical and emotional. Even the ones who tried to joke, like Robbie, couldn't hide the weight of it all.

It was early in the morning, and the air inside the medical tent was filled with the familiar smells of antiseptic and blood. The wounded were beginning to stir, some groaning in pain, others still too weak to do much more than breathe. Florence moved between the cots, doing her usual rounds. She was making her way over to Robbie's bed when her footsteps slowed, catching the hushed voices of two nurses nearby.

They were standing just out of sight, but their conversation carried in the quiet tent. Florence wasn't one to eavesdrop, but the tension in their voices made her pause.

"Did you hear about the captain?" one of them whispered, her voice laced with fear. "The one from the previous company?" the other nurse asked, lowering her voice even more. "Yes," the first nurse replied. "They say he killed six Italians on the front. Brutally. It wasn't even in battle, some of them were allies." There was a sharp intake of breath from the second nurse. "Are you sure? That can't be true. Not even... not even here, surely." "I'm telling you, I heard it from one of the men who came in last week. He was shaken, said the captain didn't hesitate. Shoved a nail of some sort through there skull and shot two of them in cold blood. No remorse. They said he was covered in blood by the time it was over."