For the first time in my life, I had never seen so much of the colour red.
Europe sounded beautiful, with Lively cultures and wonders of great possibilities. But, the landscape wasn't gorgeous enough for me to decide that is what I only should focus on.
To be completely fair, I was standing in a medical tent, with wounded and dying men filling the beds, as I was throwing away blood-soaked bandages.
Everything I owned had a stained hue of pink. My hands looked pink, my uniform apron was hardly pristine white, nor were any of the water basins. They all needed to be scrubbed clean, but we had no time to clean them.
Wounded men only just kept coming. It was my job to try and put them back together, one piece at a time.
We rushed and raced as howls of pain flooded the tent. The other nurses and I never had time for conversation much less we never had much time for a break. We fought over who got to go to bed first, that is if you were fast enough to not be chosen to stay overnight to observe the medical station, making sure everyone was all right while sleeping.
I always stayed.
It was easier to only get short bursts of sleep, rather than long breaks where I would feel nothing but how cold the cot was. It felt cold because we weren't given luxuries or anything close... maybe it was how I was sleeping alone that made the bed feel so cold.
My small lamp that barely gave enough light was what I sat next to on a cold, damp wooden chair. All I could do was stare at the men sleeping in front of me in the chilled night that France brought.
Well, it was the edge of Germany. Was I in France, Germany, or Belgium?
I wasn't sure anymore. We had moved so far in such a short amount of time that I was never so sure where we were.
I read my letter again. I had been getting all my mail redirected from the cottage house to me in Europe. I did that so no one would ever find out that I in fact had run away to become a nurse, sewing up army men next to a battlefield.
I wished I were better at building bullets than I was with blood.
'Dear Ginger,
Now I'm not good with letters. But, I'm hoping by corresponding, you can tell me that everything is going well at home.
Everything's is okay here. I can't tell you much, but what I can say is that the sun rises make me think of your hair. That reddish orange? That colour.
The food sucks and I could really go for a few of your cookies right now. Have you been baking? I hope the check was enough for a little while longer. I haven't made very much only being a private, but I'm learning.
I hope I can provide more soon.
Take care of yourself, ginger. Please watch out for yourself and make sure my family isn't going too stir crazy. I know my Ma is furious I left apparently just like Dad left for the first war.
Tell me about home, Ginger.
With my best,
Mack Blythe. '
I only stopped staring at the mangled letter when I noticed someone running from the tree line not far from me.
They were running in the moonlight, sprinting as fast as they could but were stumbling, tripping and obviously in pain.
It was when I heard them calling out quietly.
"Medic? Medic? Allied medic?"
I stood, knowing they had spoken English. That meant they were safe to treat and go near.
I quickly left my letter on my stiff chair before running out to the man, limping his way to the tent.
I looped his arm over my shoulders and wrapped my arm around his back, helping hold him up a bit and get him to the tent.
"I'm shot. Fuckkk, I'm shot." He told me as I quickly managed to get him out of the open area and into the medical tent.
I laid him down on an empty stained stretcher at the end of the tent as he hissed in pain. It was when I noticed the navy blue pants, leather bomber jacket and how he had tiny shards of glass in his dirty blonde hair.
"Fuck fuck fuck, please get it out." He begged as I couldn't even see where this bullet was.
But I saw the entry wound on his pant leg.
The blood had soaked the pant that I had thought it only was discoloured black because of the dew in the tall grass he had hobbled through.
Quickly, I managed to get his pant leg out of the way before staring at the bullet.
He had three in his leg.
"Jesus, it hurts so much. I need morphine."
I held him still, knowing we didn't have enough morphine to give to him for only a bullet wound. We were rationing it already and we had gotten a delivery three weeks before.
We had to save the morphine for the patients who needed surgery or were missing limbs.
"I can't, we don't have enough. You're going to have to trust me. Just breathe and you'll be fine. It's only bullet wounds, nothing much."
But as I took the final bullet out, two already sitting in my hand, I saw how that final bullet was against a tendon that it had been tearing. Now removing it cause it to tear more.
"You're getting morphine. Stay still."
He thanked me multiple times as I was rushing to the medical cart closest, grabbing morphine, bandages, a suture kit and alcohol.
He was lucky enough to get the lowest dose of morphine.
He relaxed more after the morphine hit his system as I was stitching his tendon together.
All I could think was that he was a pilot. A pilot like my Mack was.
"Thank you, nurse. I really needed that." He thanked again.
I nodded small, continuing to fix his tendon, hoping he would be alright again.
"Are all nurses this quiet, or is it because everyone's sleeping?" He asked, trying to make conversation.
I shook my head and gave him a small smile, knowing I fixed his tendon now.
"No, I just... I have a problem with pilots."
He raised a brown brow at me while I wiped his leg off, getting ready to stitch four inches of his shin closed.
"Whatever the rest say about us might not even be true... we do fly fast planes and have one of the most difficult and death defying tasks of the entire war effort, but we're all just average Joe's."
I nodded, stopping the stitches and looking to him. "Exactly. Average. And the death defying and being so high up,"
He chuckled at me, noting my anger yet continuing as I stitched him.
"You really do have a problem with us, don't you?"
I let out a frustrated sigh, stitching him tightly making him groan in pain.
"Jesus!"
"My husband is a pilot. He can't even make himself toast or a cup of coffee without the grounds floating in it, but he decided to go fly in a little plane, shooting at other men doing the same thing."
The pilot watched my face for anger then asked: "what squadron?"
I shrugged and chuckled to myself. I laughed sometimes when I was trying to cope now. It was my way of not crying.
"He's been gone for close to a year. I haven't gotten more than one letter. So, Fly boy, I'm not entirely sure if he even is flying."
Tears would have welled my eyes if I wasn't sleep deprived and dehydrated.
The pilot nodded and swallowed hard. "Maybe the letters are getting lost."
I nodded, finishing his stitches. I cut the thread as I spoke to him. "Getting lost like you had been just now?"
He knew exactly what I had meant. He knew I meant that Mack could be dead. Crashed and dead.
"I'm sure he's fine."
I cleaned off his leg as we both were quiet.
"You should stay here for a few days. Heal, rest and get in contact with your squadron leader. I will ask for someone to bring you another set of pants in the morning. Get some sleep."
I went to go back to my waterlogged chair and letter as the flyboy spoke.
"Richard. I'm Richard."
I nodded, thanking him for telling me. At least I could document his name on his chart, but otherwise? Names seemed to be useless now in the sea of blood, screams, bullets and morphine.
—————
Richard wouldn't sleep. He sat there, staring at me as I was checking other patients as they slept. It was peculiar, but understandable since his adrenaline must have still been racing from being shot at.
"I'm trying to remember If anyone in my squad had a wife." He whispered, noticing how I was glaring at him for staring at me. Many men would try and grope nurses as we were the first women they would likely see in the war.
I nodded small, putting the chart back on the end of the bed, moving towards Richards bed next in line.
I crossed my arms at hun as he was focused on my face. He was trying to remember any defining feature that he could tell if he had heard of me or not.
"I wouldn't have been talked about even if he was in your squad. He's chatty, but he doesn't particularly like to share anything about me. I know he wouldn't."
"Bend over." Richard told me, staring at my hair.
I went to smack his arm with his clipboard chart, but he asked again, not being a creep or disgusted, but more with a plea.
"I know it sounds as if I want to look at your ass, but many of my boys talk about women and what they prefer. I need to see so I can tell you if your husband is in my squad."
I rolled my eyes. "Go to bed, Richard." I scolded, turning away and putting his clipboard on the end of the bed. I wasn't falling for that trick.
But as I glanced back at him, he was staring at me and wouldn't look away. I stood still, facing him now at the end of his bed.
"Ginger." He uttered.
I was taken back for a moment, thinking of the last time I had heard that word being from Mack. I wondered if he had thought of how I was a ginger, with the red hair and freckles.
"Pardon?"
Richard nodded, as if a large picture was coming to life.
"Your name, it's ginger isn't it?"
I shook my head but get overwhelmed. "Where did you get that idea?"
I was hoping to god that he didn't know Mack. I felt it was easier not knowing and being ignorant of the truth in this war, as ignorance was bliss.
All I could think of was Schrödinger's cat. Mack was neither dead or alive until I would go home. Nothing could possibly tell me he wasn't dead and wasn't alive all at once.
He gestured to me, sitting up straighter in the cot.
"You have to be her. I have this one bloke, he said once that he liked his wife's behind. He was the only one."
I shook my head, knowing Mack never said everything about my ass before other than that one time he had helped me up into a tree, boosting me and saying: "for god sakes, ginger, move your ass.", all because I had been hesitant.
But his proof had no valid argument. It was just a mention of someone's ass.
"I think your adrenaline is rushing off. You should get to sleep-" I told him, moving to turn off his lamp.
He spoke over me though, staring into my eyes.
"He's aggressive over his letters. Doesn't let a single one of us touch his sugar reports, but he sits and smiles at them for as long as he can."
I stood and listened, just hoping maybe it was Mack after all.
"We talked about if we had wives or girls back at home, and he said he had this beautiful wife with red hair and green eyes, one that he only ever calls ginger and nearly busted someone's head in for saying she looked chubby in a photograph he has of her."
That sounded like Mack. I knew it was Mack. I knew with every fibre of my being that it was Mack.
"His name is Blythe."
I couldn't even cry, I just nodded and let out a solemn breath.
Richard watched my facing hoping maybe he was right after all.
"It's just a nickname. I'm actually Phoebe."
Richard let out a breath, astonished that I was the wife of one of his friends and brother in arms.
"Is he.." I began, not being able to stomach the thought of Mack being truly dead.
But Richard smiled small. "He's fine. He flew tonight too, but I saw him flying back to base after I crashed. I'm sure he got there just fine."
I let a deep breath I had held, I was so glad to know he was okay.
"He talks about you when we bother him enough. Says you two married just before he left."
I nodded and shrugged. "It's complicated," I told him, not wanting to explain my situation with Mack much. I was just too tired to explain.
"How so? He's quite in love by the way he talks about you."
I knew Mack wasn't in love.
"We were only friends for the longest time, and I was adopted. So, my parents fought constantly and all of them were begging for custody... so he promised to marry me. He married me so I wouldn't be alone, but so I could get away from the hectic life I was in. He's not in love."
Richard furrowed his brows. He seemed to just go along with what I had said, seeming to understand that Mack would do such a thing.
"Phoebe... he loves you. He doesn't keep any extra money from his pay to spend it on beer or extra cigs, he sends it all home to you. He's convinced you're at home, needing money for food and the house."
It was when I began to cry.
"And he doesn't know that his wages were never enough."
Richard frowned as I sat on a shitty little wooden chair at his cot. I wiped my tears as I spoke. "He doesn't make enough in the military to cover the cost of the bills. I worked in a factory until they decided I was better as a nurse. I'm only here so he can come home to a house he loves and doesn't have to worry about not being able to afford it for another week."
Richard spoke to me, a bit frustrated though. "Why would you lie about it though? He's letters are addressed to your home, are they not? He must not know you're here."
Then he realized and was in awe that I had devised that plan.
"You're doing this without taking his masculinity away."
I nodded and shrugged, wiping more tears away. "I just want him to think he can care for me and the house. It would destroy him to know that he couldn't provide for me."
"He does love you, Phoebe."
I sighed, shaking my head and speaking to Richard again. "He doesn't. That's fine. I just need to make sure he will be okay since he's trying so hard to protect and provide for me."
Richard frowned and sighed, letting out a defeated breath. He knew I was stubborn right then. "When he said you were more stubborn than him, I didn't think it was possible."
We sat, talking about Mack for quite some time, how he had been doing and whether or not he truly loved me, which I knew was false.
He would never love me.
"His brother wanted him to sleep with a brothel of French women while here, like hell Mack does love me like a true husband loves a wife." I said to richard, flustered with him.
Richard spoke seriously, without even an ounce of kid in his voice. "We have tried before he told us he was married to send him off with a woman. He looked at her once and said to us that she wasn't the woman he loved, so he wasn't going to sleep with her."
"But you love him, don't you?"
A simple nod was all that was needed.
—————————
It isn't that I was afraid as much as I wasn't sure. I wasn't afraid to suture a solider, but I wasn't always sure if I would hurt them.
It was the same as I sent my letter. I wasn't afraid to send a letter, I just wasn't so sure if I would hurt him.
—
Patrick nudged me, walking with Dick, myself, and Marcus while the other four were just resting, checking their planes or already in the mess hall, getting dinner. We were on our way to just do the same. Get some dinner, then be ready to fly that night.
"Found this for you," he told me, handing me a white enveloped letter.
But Marcus took a glance at it as I was reading who it was from.
"I'm sorry, buddy." Marcus and Patrick both patted my back, sorry for me all the sudden.
"What?" I asked, confused at them and shrugging off their hands.
"Look at how she addressed it. Maxwell instead of Max. It's a 'Dear John', I'm sorry man. I think she's cutting you loose."
I rolled my eyes, knowing Phoebe and I weren't even in a relationship.
But, they wouldn't let it go as we ate dinner. I had the letter stuffed in my jacket, away from their curious hands.
I had my forearm down on the table, around my bowl of crappy chilli, protecting it from anyone since everyone was hungry constantly, ready to grab your food if you weren't watching close enough.
"Just tell us the gist of it. She good in bed?" Patrick grinned comically at me across the table with his full mouth.
Dick shoved him, making Patrick shove back with a chuckle. "She might not even be breaking it off with him. Who knows, so leave it, College."
Marcus nudged me as I was chewing. "Did you read it yet at least? We'll be here for you, when... ya know."
Dick narrowed his eyes at him. "For when, ya know." He mocked before reaching over the table and smacking Marcus's head for being an idiot.
But, I continued to get harassed, so I read the letter.
They were right.
I sat there, reading the letter at the dinner table with them staring at me in the mess hall. It was hard to not admit that my wife wanted only to be friends with me.
"I know it sounds so strange, but I want you to remember our friendship. I want nothing but to be your best friend, Mack. I love our friendship. It's what has kept me so happy for three years.
I cannot lose our friendship, Max. I feel as if I will die without having you as the greatest friend to me.
It's why I'm sorry to tell you that you must come home to me, whether or no you must swim or fly that stupid little plane of yours.
I have never needed you more than I do now. Come home to me and please hug me. I'm so scared and alone. I'm terrified that maybe you've died and no one has told me.
Please, Mack. Come home.
With desperation,
Phoebe."
I folded the letter silently and stuffed it into my jacket.
It felt good to know she needed me. Only me. Not some bloke in town, but rather was desperate for me to come home to her.
But it felt as if an anvil was laying on my chest, knowing she still and forever would only see me as a friend.
So, all of my best chums were quiet, waiting for my reaction.
"No big smile... not good?" Dick asked, worry riddling his face.
I shrugged and sighed, feeling a pit of disparity in my chest. "She's not getting my letters. Shes terrified that I'm dead and no one has told her."
When i leapt up from the table and began to storm out of the mess hall, the boys followed after me, calling out my name and for me to slow down.
They followed me as I swung the post stations door open, looking for Perez. Perez ran the post, made sure all our letters left and were sorted when new mail arrived.
I was going to kill Perez.
I lunged at him, hitting him with a right cross over the mail counter, making him fall back into the shelf with letters all sorted into the little slots.
"WOAH!" Marcus shouted along with Dick and Patrick: "settle, Blythe!" "Go easy on him, save him some teeth!"
"You haven't sent a single fucking one of my letters out, have you, Perez?!" I shouted at him after getting around the counter and continuing to punch him harder.
Dick was trying to pull me off as Marcus was shouting to us looking out the window and Patrick was cheering me on.
"Yeah! You fucking get him, Max!"
"We've got company!! People are coming in for mail!"
"Get the hell off him and he'll send out your mail."
No one should fuck around with a flyboy who loved his best friend.