Where Death Sings

two // astrid

I sit on the stairs outside a church in a small, French town. The hard surface beneath me is cold and damp, and I will probably get a cold if I stay out here for too long. The building of worship behind me is beautiful. The dark stone walls create an elegant yet a monumental church standing in the centre of the town. I spend most hours of the day in there. It's my workplace. However the church no longer contains silent prayers, and I haven't devoted my life to God. The prayers have been replaced by the painful cries of dying soldiers, and I have devoted my life to life.

   The gothic church had its interior removed a couple of weeks before I arrived in France. The rows of benches were replaced with rows of beds, which soon were filled with wounded soldiers. The church is the last stop before the soldiers, those who survive, are moved to a Base Hospital. Most days there are too many soldiers and not enough nurses. It's almost impossible to keep track of all soldiers, all injuries and all treatments. We try, though. Every day we try, and we hope that the soldiers will walk out of the church on their own legs, but that is often not the case. Instead they fall silent in their beds and never speak again.

   I look down at my hands resting in my lap. They still have some blood on them. It's not my blood, it never is. It's the blood of a dead solider, another life that couldn't be saved. Blood is a common sight in war. Blood is everywhere. Sometimes there's so much blood that the floor in the church get slippery. I have noticed that blood is something you can get used to, but the source of the blood is harder to get used to. The battered bodies, the blown off limps, the open wounds.

   I sigh and let my eyes rest at what lies beyond the town. Even though it's located a few miles behind the front, it's still possible to see the flashes of light and explosions over by the horizon. And unless the wind is blowing east, it's possible to hear the distant, hammering sound of artillery fire.

Just as a few raindrops hit the ground where I sit, the sound of trucks approaching and the soft melody of singing soldiers reaches my ears. The voices are filled with emptiness, sung by broken boys and men with scarred minds and hearts. It's a company coming back from the front to get a few days' rest.

   I stand up, staring at a street leading into the square, and then I wait. The singing slowly comes closer. And I get ready for what might come. Sometimes the wounded come alone, sometimes the soldiers come alone, and sometimes they come back from the front at the same time.

   The next moment the first trucks roll into the square. I observe them, waiting for them to drive towards the church or to make a turn and drive towards the houses used by the soldiers. They don't make a right, they drive straight towards me where I still stand outside the church.

   For a short moment, as the trucks pull up outside the church, there's a moment of stillness lingering around me. A few seconds of calmness, and a few seconds to prepare yourself before the chaos breaks out.

   Shouts and commands fill the air around me, and nurses come running out from the church to collect the wounded soldiers. And I stand there, staring. They are so many wounded. There is so much blood. There's a hurricane of bodies around me, and a push from someone finally wakes me from my trance. I do as I have done so many times before. I rush towards one of the trucks and help a soldier down. His leg is badly wounded and his face tells me how much pain he is in. I say a few comforting words, but I'm not sure if he can hear me in the midst of chaos or in the midst of his own suffering.

   I put his arm around my shoulders before putting my own around his waist as I try to carry some of his weight. I struggle to get him to the church, something that must be noticeable because another solider approaches me and helps me.