Remember Me (Thilbo - Bagginshield)

Clouds of War

Canada, 1917
17th Life
The veteran and the soldier
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Northern France, April 1917

The earth was shaking. With every dropped shell and fired gun, the ground above and around Duncan Thornton shuddered. Flakes of dirt trickled from the ceiling and fell into his face, and the men around him shifted nervously. He closed his eyes, and pretended he was somewhere else; the rumbling above him was only thunder, and he was back home, safe with his family.

Someone beside him coughed, and Duncan opened his eyes. It was dark—the nearest lantern was several meters away, and much of its dim light was blocked by the bodies of other men, who looked to Duncan like shadows. Their features were shrouded by the dark of the tunnel, so that he did not who was who.

Nearby, a man began praying. Few of them were talking, and those that did, did so in whispers. It was as if they were too afraid to speak loudly, though no one above the surface would be able to hear them. Duncan took in a deep breath. The tunnel smelled oppressively of cigarette smoke and sweat, and he felt the overwhelming urge to smoke; he had run out of cigarettes the night before.

He wondered what time it was. Likely 5 o'clock in the morning, he decided. They were set to begin their attack on the Germans at 5:30, when they would surge from the tunnels close to the enemy's lines. Duncan had been in battles before, but that did little to lessen his fear. He had seen men blown to bits by exploding shells or struck in the face by bullets. He knew it could happen to him, as quickly as it had happened to them.

He leaned back, resting against the cool, chalky surface of the tunnel walls. His hands were shaking violently, and he clasped them tightly together to stop their tremors. He wished he had saved at least one cigarette.

~*~

Weeks later, when Duncan thought back to it, he remembered little of the ensuing battle. Bits and pieces of it came back to him in fragments—his feet slipping in the mud; the wind and the sleet stabbing at his face; the constant sounds of gunshots and screams. He remembered the sun rising, obscured behind grey clouds and smoke, slowly illuminating the horrors unfolding around him.

He didn't remember the shell falling towards him, but he remembered it going off, only a few meters away. The pain as the flesh was torn from his foot and the shrapnel dug itself into his back seemed to be forever seared into his mind; he remembered collapsing to the muddy ground with a cry, but little else after that.

He woke up hours later, on a cot in a casualty clearing station. His back and leg felt as if they were on fire, and when he tried to move, they screamed out in agony. He felt hot; too hot. The world around him seemed blurry, and he thought he could still hear the sounds of battle, muffled in the distance.

A nurse was hovering over him, a concerned look on her face. It sounded as if she was saying his name, but Duncan couldn't be sure. He could see her lips moving, but it was like he was underwater, and she was above the surface.

He opened his mouth to speak to her, but before he could get any words out, he drifted away. For a reason he couldn't quite understand, he imagined himself being carried out to sea by a gentle current, as sleep and exhaustion overtook him.

~*~

Nova Scotia, Canada, June 1917

It was mid-afternoon, and the air was hot and humid as Peter Taggart walked down the sidewalk. The shops were busy, and people were crowding the streets, going every which way and driving past in motor cars. Peter kept a tight hold on his youngest nephew's hand, making sure that he stayed close. Up ahead, his oldest nephew was expertly dodging those in his path, swinging around the suitcase clutched in his hands.