Where Death Sings

seven // astrid

My heart feels heavy as I walk down the small aisle between two long rows of bed. The day is far from over, and yet we have already lost so many. I have watched so many young boys fall into a too deep slumber to ever awaken from again. Some of them have done it peacefully while others have done it screaming out in pain.

   One of the worst parts of it all is how helpless I can't help but feel as I try to save soldiers even when they are beyond saving. Too many soldier cannot be saved. They lie in their beds and scream, and when they don't have the strength to scream anymore they look at me with sorrowful eyes and await their final breaths.

   I hate the thought of soldiers dying alone away from home. I wish I had the time and possibility to take the hand of each dying soldier and hold it in mine, just so they know that they are not alone in their final moments. But I am only one person, and there are too many hands to hold.

   I spot the familiar face of a soldier not too far away from where I am. I quickly force the corners of my mouth into movement, and a small smile is formed on my face. I find quite hard to smile most of the time, and yet I do it all the time.

   Pearl, a nurse in her late thirties, had told me on my first day in France to remember to always smile while working. This was before I had even stepped inside the church. When she told me this, I could hardly understand why. I didn't understand its impact. A smile may not save someone's life, or relieve pain, but after I had spent a couple of hours in the church, I understood. Being able to smile in the church is a good trait, calmness is another one. Neither traits are concrete tools to save lives, but they are good additions to our skills. They can both go a long way when it comes to dealing with wounded soldiers.

   "Hi, William." I say as I reach the familiar soldier. The young man is the same soldier I met by the fountain earlier today. The green eyes that looked at me a couple of hours ago are yet again looking at me, observing me.

   His skin is free from dirt and darkened blood, and his uniform is no longer covered in a layer of mud and ash.

   William opens his mouth to say something, but doesn't have time before one of his friends pushes past him and smiles widely at me.

   "Of whom may I have the pleasure?" The soldiers says as he continues to flash a row of teeth.

   "Astrid." I reply and shake his hand.

   "Edwin Cook."

   The soldier confidently states his name before letting go of my hand, which falls back to my side. Edwin Cook is handsome in every way, with his dark and messy hair and even darker eyes. Yet there is something about him, something about the cocky look on his face that I can't look past. Cockiness is not something I personally like, not in war. Maybe it's because I know that it won't make him live any longer than the rest of the soldiers. Cockiness cannot divert shells or stop bullets.

   All kinds of men and boys are brought to the church. They are the soldiers who are strong and brave, and they are the soldiers who sit shivering and curled up in a corner of a dugout. They are soldiers who are wounded in the trenches, in no man's land and in dugouts. No place is safe, not to anyone.

   I turn my attention back to William to say something, but I am interrupted even before my first words. The soldier lying in the bed to my left jerks into a sitting position and lets out a somewhat inhumane noise as he starts coughing up blood. I don't need more than a second to react. I quickly grab a bucket and place it in front of the soldier before I sit down to him.

   While I hold on to the bucket with one of my hands, I place the other one on the young man back, gently running it up and down in a comforting manner.

   "It's okay." I say softly to the soldier who keeps coughing, staining the bottom and walls of the bucket with a thick, red liquid.

   "Is there anything I can do to help?" It's William, and as I look up I find myself staring at the same concerned face as I did earlier today.

   "It's fine." I say before I pull out a smaller cloth and wipe away the blood from the soldier's chin and place the bucket on the floor. Then I carefully assist the soldier to lie back down. His eyes are now closed, and he's breathing heavily as if he just finished running a marathon.

   I run a hand over his sweaty forehead before I stand up, facing William.

   "Can you promise me something, William?" A get a small nod in response. "Can you promise me that I never have to find you in one these beds?"

   William break our eye contact. Instead he lets his green eyes wander around the church, they travel from bed to bed, soldier to soldier, from one's misery to another's agony. He observes them carefully, all the men who could have been him.

   I know what I asked of him is impossible. We both know it. We don't know what might happen in the next couple of days, even less what might happen in the following weeks. He can't promise me that he will be fine, no one can. I know this. I just wish it wasn't that way.

   "You know I can't do that, Astrid." William says after a few seconds of silence. "I wish I could, for my own sake and for everyone who cares about me. I will be back in the trenches in a couple of days, and I can't guarantee that I will ever return. If I'm lucky, I might. If not..." He doesn't finish his sentence. He doesn't have to for me to understand.

   We remain still for a while, until William gives me a small smile before leaving me standing alone. For a few seconds I feel loneliness rush through my body, even though the church is crowded, but that feeling disappears as a heart-breaking shriek fills the air around me.