Under heaven

Chapter Eleven: Paris

I came to my senses only a few times. Life presented itself in tiny bursts. I remember being carried on a litter through the trench works. I remember a French doctor telling me he was scared to remove the pieces in the field. After that....only a few feverish moments of darkness.

I would remain in that state for almost a month.

October 26th was my birthday. It was also the day I regained consciousness.

I looked up into a beautifully carved cathedral ceiling. Thinking I was being called unto God, I began to pray. Until the pain in my jaw and throat told me otherwise. "I'm not that fond of God lately anyway", I thought with what little grin my mouth could muster.

I returned to the land of the living gradually. In my mind, I was waking up on a sweaty hot afternoon back home, but the realm of my current reality was no front porch.

It was cool and damp, yet the beautiful light projected from the ornate stained glass settled my feverish mind.

It was plain to see, I was in a large Gothic church. A makeshift hospital ward for French soldiers just outside of Paris. But "why was I here?" I questioned to myself. "Why am I not in England?"

As I pondered the question, my ears summoned me to the quiet conversation next to me. I could speak fluent French. A byproduct of French heritage and French Canadian neighbours.

Parisian French was vastly different than what I was used to, but with some accuracy, I could ascertain the conversation.

Although my head was braced, I could make out the figures standing to my left through the corner of my eye. They kneeled over the man in the cot next to me. I could tell he was there by the sound of his breath. The kind of laboured breathing that precedes death.

I could make out the sad last tender words of a mother to her dying son.

"I'm here. Your sister is here. Your beautiful wife and children are here"

I became increasingly aware of the presence of small children that must have been holding tight to their father in his last moments. Their quiet sobs telling me that they were just old nough to know the hold of death over life.

"You are not alone son" the mother tenderly surrenderd. "You have never been alone from the moment I first held you in my arms."

His laboured breathing slowed and stopped. It was as if all surrounding him held their breath. Then, bitter and restrained weeping.

I felt unimaginable grief for a man I had never met. I felt it for his family. I felt it for all families.

But I could not find it in myself to cry. I still felt broken.

I stared straight up at the beautifully coloured rays of morning sunshine bouncing off the majestic ceiling.

"This place was built for you" I prayed silently in frustration, "Why have you forsaken him?"

I was truly angry at God.

The cot was empty within a few minutes, and filled again by yet another silent soul. I fell back to sleep with less faith in the Lord and humanity, not wanting wake.

I woke in the evening to find two figures leaning over me in the dim lamplight. One was a doctor. The other was the Young Lieutenant.

He was not in military uniform, but a plain suit. His arm hidden his coat, and his rather erect posture told me he was still in a sling and extensive bandages. But he, unlike me, was very able to walk.

"Good evening my friend" he whispered.

"Lieutenant" I answered, with what little smile I had left.

"Please call me Patrice. The war is over for me now. You see?" He revealed to me the paralyzed state of his arm.

He proceeded to tell me of how he had regained his wits while lying next to me in the dressing station.

"The doctor was afraid to treat your wounds there. The wound in your throat was beyond him. He wanted to send you in an ambulance to the British lines. I told them you had saved my life."

"But I didn't" I answered with a curious look from my braced position.

"I know" he said with a smile. "But you would have never made it.

I told them you had saved my life and that I owed you mine. I pleaded with the doctor to send you here to Paris. He reluctantly agreed. All the proper papers were sent to British headquarters. They know where you are."

I closed my eyes and smiled again, even though it hurt like hell.

He was right. I had heard men in the lines talk of how the worst injured would often die before reaching the hand of a good surgeon across the channel. Paris for the French was far too close for war, but close enough to save lives that would otherwise have been lost.

The doctor smiled at me and began to tell me of my condition.

"The piece of wood in your throat was a dangerous wound. It was lodged against your artery and had penetrated. We had to do a lot of repair and you lost a lot of blood. You were unconscious because of a severe concussion and you developed a bad infection of the blood. You are lucky to be alive."

He had an optimistic look about him as he continued.

"Your leg is going to take a while longer. It wasn't easy to remove the wood from it. It broke your femur. We had to set it."

I was to stay there for another week. I would not fully heal for another eight weeks.

Patrice had strings to pull. His was a beurocrat in the French government since well before the war. He had friends in high places. High enough to allow me to stay in Paris during recuperation. "Besides" he said, "winter in England is cold and it always rains."

The doctor removed the brace from my head and left, and Patrice would return for me as soon as I was released from the doctor's care.

I lay alone. Much more aware of my surroundings and situation. But it wasn't long before I grew depressed with the fact I would not be in my trench, with my trench mates.

In some strange way, I was afraid. Afraid to loose the bond between us, and afraid for their safety. For the first time in over a month I was perfectly safe, and it felt uncomfortable.

My injuries were not my fault. Nor was it my fault I was now in Paris. But they were still at St. Eloi, and I felt an overbearing sense of guilt over it.