I'm the enemy

Chapter Two

He awoke gasping, chest heaving  and blood pounding. Nightmare. He envisioned those poor souls, their corpses lying upon the mud churned ground, some looking peaceful as if they were only sleeping, some covered in blood and very few with irritated skin, blisters on its surface, irritated eyes and bloody noses after exposure to mustard gas. He shuddered, seeing their empty eyes as the light had left them. Some of them friends, comrades. All of them innocents stuck in the plots and ploys of some political game, a chessboard that they were the pawns in. Bound by duty and honour to do as they were bid. But it wasn't the world leaders in the trenches  like sitting ducks, waiting for the next move or order. It wasn't them watching people die before them with no family to say their goodbyes. Not Lloyd George. Not Woodrow Wilson. Not Clemenceau. Not the Kaiser. Not Nicholas II, he'd been executed along with his family though he couldn't for the life of him remember when, the days had all merged. Sometime in July he wagered. Not Lenin. Ordinary people. Ernst had lost count of the number of wounded and dead he'd come across in the last four years. It sickened him. Men, young and old falling. People at home thought this was heroism, men and boys dying for the love of their country. How patriotic he thought bitterly. It was stupidity. They'd been sent off like pigs to slaughter. Tears filled in his eyes as he thought of never seeing his family again. "Scheiße" he swore softly in German, quickly looking around to make sure no one had heard him. Without him noticing, the tears had slowly started to creep down his face. He tried in vain to brush them away but gave up eventually just letting them fall. And he cried, by God he cried. He cried for himself, for his family,     for his fellow soldiers' families be that soldier alive or dead, he cried for everything that he'd missed and he cried for the lives that had been cut down as easily as a flower is cut from the ground. He sniffled and tried to compose himself but he feared he'd done it a little too loudly as he heard a shuffle. Brushing it off as nothing he continued to wallow until he heard someone's feet hitting the floor. 

Lucille peered over at him and saw that he was awake. She walked over to him in concern. "Are you alright, John?" she asked gently. 

"I'm fine" he assured her but his voice cracked unconvincingly and a few more trickles of tears followed.

"No you're not" she said firmly "You are crying" 

Seeing that she didn't intend on leaving, he nodded to the space on the bed "Please sit" he told her.

"Merci Monsieur" She sat delicately on the bed in silence for a few moments until she spoke up "If I may ask, why are you crying?" 

"I'm not" he denied again 

She arched an eyebrow. "Please don't insult my intelligence by lying to me"

"Look, it was just a nightmare. I'm fine I promise. You can go back to sleep now" He told her, a little frustrated. She stayed sitting next to him. 

"I have them too. How could I not? The men I have seen. The injuries I have dealt with. I put some much effort in, care for them, talk to them, comfort them, tell them that it will all be over soon. How can I tell them that when I don't even believe it myself. It's been going on for four years now with no sign of it ending. How many more will die because I cannot save them? How many more will die because I have failed them? How many more will I watch the light leave their eyes before the governments see reason?"  She cried passionately, tears in her own eyes now too. 

"I've thought the same thing since this damned war started  on the 28th of July 1914. What's the point of continuing this. Princip's dead. Their pride's the only thing stopping them"

He sighed and she turned to meet his eyes, her own blue eyes imploring him to speak. "Please" she begged " Tell me what's wrong.  Maybe we can help each other"

"I don't want to burden you"

"I want to help. Besides it can't be any worse than I've already heard before" Though she smiled and gently patted his shoulder. 

He took a deep breath and began, describing in detail the nightmarish reality that his mind had conjured from his memories. With every word that flew from his mouth, his shoulders loosened and his mind felt relieved. He felt compelled to tell her now that he'd started and he watched as this kind, soft spoken French woman listened intently. He saw many emotions flit across her face: horror, frustration, anger with the government, fear at what was to come, deepest sympathy and sadness. She clearly was able to find a sense of relatability within his experiences.   

By the end of his recount he was shaking like a leaf trying to contain his emotions as a few more tears escaped and trickled down his face. His emotions flooded him, overwhelming his defences. He felt an acute embarrassment for crying in front of this French nurse, a woman who was practically a stranger, though a kind stranger nonetheless. He brushed that off though, at the end of the day she was just like him, caught up in war with no way of escape and burdened with a guilty conscience. Though in the back of his mind, dead soldiers screamed "murderer" at him with hatred and pain reflected in their dull eyes. I'm sorry, he told them pleading, I had no choice. Forgive me. 

He was startled out of his melancholic, morbid musings  when he felt a warm hand atop his own.  He watched as she quickly pulled it away, embarrassed. Ernst made a grab for it, sub consciously desperate for her comfort. Her eyes widened but she didn't object and they sat it almost comfortable silence for a little while. Then she stood, "I'm sorry to leave you but I've got to go. You should see if you can get some rest. Do you think you can do that?" She said softly, caringly. He nodded then cleared his throat. 

"Thank you" he paused "for this" he gestured around them. 

"Thank you for what you do and thank you for listening and letting me help. Goodnight John" He jolted imperceptibly for a second until he remembered that John was his alias. 

"Goodnight Lucille". Be thankful you don't know who I really am, kind Lucille. You would be horrified. 

Author's Note: Hello again, thanks for reading this chapter of I'm the enemy. I hope you enjoyed it. Please vote and comment, it's much appreciated. As I am writing this it is Remembrance Day, where we remember the soldiers that fought in wars from World War One to present day, so writing this is particularly poignant. Thanks to those soldiers for laying down their lives for us and to you for reading my stories. See you in the next chapter.