«letters to the somme»

a cross.

He wakes to the sound of shells. They rain down on the trench like hail, but then they explode with terrible noises. Are they real, or are they the ones in his head?
Both. James hears the sound of soldiers screaming and yelling, shooting their guns, falling to the ground.  

All this sounds far away, faint like a little girl singing next door, or laughter when two men talk in the street. Oh, how he misses Southwark. How he misses home.
How he misses Rose.
James hears footsteps, and his breath gets more haggard. His chest thumps loudly and grenades thrust their pins away and burst into a thousand painful bits of shrapnel, which embed themselves into his head. It is all he can do to not yell in pain and fear.

The door bursts open, and James protests weakly, crawling to the corner of the cell, huddling away from what seems like to be the latest of endless floggings.
“Who are you?”
Is he dreaming? The man speaks English.
But the English died, fallen on the first day of the Somme. Red blood, staining the dull brown of no-man’s land. Shells, raining everywhere, exploding near him, on him, in him. He has another fit.
“What is this creature?” Another soldier, another of his countrymen, says in horror. James giggles hysterically.
I used to be a man. He wants to say. But I am not anymore.
“Who are you?” The first soldier steps closer, and his fingers brush over his scabs.
James shakes his head in terror, shivering and crying in exhaustion and fear.
But something inside him, deep where his memories of his past life are stored, the ones which war can never touch, can never twist, can never mar, knows that these are his allies.
“J-James. I’m James.” He has not spoken properly for a long time.
“James what? James of where?” The soldier asks almost hesitantly.
“Private James Waters. Twenty-fourth London Regiment.” He manages to croak.

A man pushes his way through the horrified soldiers in their khaki kit, until only the first soldier stands between him and James. His dark, unruly waves over stark blue eyes are instantly recognizable, and more tears stream down his face when he connects the face to a name like a rusty machine, cranking back into work.
“Good God, James.” Jack says in wonder. James feels almost embarrassed as he looks up at this tall, strong soldier.
“Oi, Fred, get him something to wear. James, you’re going home.”
The thought of home and Jack’s voice makes him drunk, almost. When the men drape a rough blanket over him and lift him up, astounded by his meagre weight and his fragile, sharp bones, and thin, grayish brown hair, he feels dizzy, and the bombs burst in his head and he has a fit when he is taken out of the cell, eyes blind to anything but the shells exploding stars in his eyes. Somewhere he hears that it’s only been a little over a month since he was missing. Only a month? It cannot be.

He blacks out as he is put into an emergency van with a few stretcher-bearers and Jack.

James wakes in a clean, white hospital bed. After weeks in darkness, the white is stark to him, and the sound of dozens of over sick soldiers is almost deafening. Two nurses whisper next to him.
“The twenty-fourth found him when they were capturing Ginchy…it’s terrible.” One murmurs.
“Gone missing at Guillemont, I’ll warrant.” The second turns and sees James, awake, and they start bustling around him silently. He is too weak to speak, but he is fed a thin broth. It is like heaven to him. Foul medicine is put down his throat, and he notices the cream bandages looped around his arms and legs, like ribbons.
“Well, Private Waters, you’ve been sleeping for quite a few days.” A doctor says gravely, followed by Jack and a man he does not know.
“What’s the damage?” He lips are dry and his throat is parched, but he musters the strength to ask. He must know. Rose cannot marry a broken man.
“Lockjaw. You’re lucky we found you when we did, mate. Another week…” Jack shakes his head.
James’ eyes turn weakly to the man, dressed in a uniform weighed down with medals.
“I am your General. General Rawlinson.”
The man shakes his hand, and Jack is quiet in respect as he usually is not. But after all the torture he has faced titles bear no meaning to him.
“I am proud to inform you that you have been awarded the Victoria Cross. You showed great bravery in the face of torture, and never divulged your country’s secrets.”

James is silent. It should be an honour. But the fact that this man thinks a piece of metal, however the weight and gravity behind it, is compensation for the ruin of his life and his childhood is hilarious to him. And suddenly James is laughing, laughing great peals of laughter as everyone around him stares. Then the dreaded, awful shells and grenades explode in his head and he goes into another fit again, shaking and shivering wildly, eyes wide as saucers and dilated, as if he is staring miles away. It is all the nurses can do to hold him back from lurching out at the General, who wipes at the spittle James has left on his cheeks. The restrain makes him panic further, and in the end the day melts away and all he sees is black, like despair.