The War Correspondant, [PG] Dean, Sam, Bill Harvelle
Title: The War Correspondant
Authored by: vanillafluffy
Pairing/spoilers: None, gen, AU
Rating/Work-safeness: PG
Approximate word count: 5500
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Prompt by harrigan for SPN_Summergen.
Betaed by: creamfudge, jdsgirlbev and pwcorgigirl.
Summary: In 1918, in an isolated French farmhouse, three American farmboys struggle to avoid detection by German patrols. Could be considered AU or a couple generations pre-series.
The War Correspondant
17 November 1918
From a field hospital in France
Dearest Ellen,
By now you have surely heard the glorious news that peace has been declared. This terrible war is over, and I pray with all my heart that I will be back in Nebraska with you by the year's end. Let me reassure you that although the influenza here has been severe, there are fewer new cases of it than there were mere weeks ago. I am recovering from my own struggles with it in addition to my wound.
I owe my life to brothers named Sam and Dean Winchester. If it wasn't for their loyalty and their bravery in rescuing me from behind enemy lines, I fully believe I wouldn't be writing this to you.
During the recent Meuse-Argonne offensive, I found myself separated from the rest of my company. Huddled behind a stone wall being used for target practice by the Boche, I knew it was only a matter of time before they picked me off. It wasn't at all like my childhood games of cowboys and indians where we could call "Time out!" to get a sandwich or use the outhouse. These "indians" meant to take my life if they could, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. I didn't even have a handkerchief that I could use as a white flag of surrender, and I thought my time had come.
There was a great rumbling nearby---in my terror, I couldn't imagine what it was---and then to my astonishment, a motorcycle roared up to me. Its rider whipped up his Browning Automatic Rifle and began to return fire toward the German position, regardless of his own peril, at the same time barking at me to get on the machine behind him, which I hastily did. I clung tightly to my savior as the motorcycle leapt away.
Although these vehicles are in common use for couriers at the front, I had never before ridden on one, nor especially wanted to. Our ride was as wild as any cowboy's. Zigzagging back and forth across the field to avoid shell holes and rubble, we reached the tree-line away from the sniper's position.
The contraption slowed somewhat to negotiate the trees, although after several close calls with low-hanging branches, I tucked my chin against my chest like a turtle and closed my eyes, trying to stay as low as possible. I could hear the wind gusting around the trees as we zoomed through the forest and shortly the sound changed.
I opened my eyes to discover we were in a meadow that sloped away to a steeper drop-off, and to my anxiety, the rider headed right for the incline. I closed my eyes again, praying that we would not come crashing down. Perhaps the Almighty was listening, for we successfully reached the bottom of the hill.
A rutted roadway led to a small farmhouse on the other side of a valley which remained mostly unscathed by the conflict. With so many trees almost bare of leaves in this season, the blackened and jagged trunks of the ones hit by artillery were less evident amid the general starkness.
It was a typical farmhouse of the region, built of field-stone with a slate roof. A well-sweep was visible in the dooryard, and as we pulled up beside a little shed, I noticed a broad area of freshly turned earth with a crude cross thrust into it.
I felt a cold chill at the sight of the grave and was slightly light-headed. It was as I attempted to dismount from the bike that I realized I'd taken a hit; my left leg felt like I'd been kicked by a mule and there was blood soaking my trousers.
My rescuer, sizing up the situation, helped me to lean against the stone wall of the shed while he wheeled the motor-bike into it. Then, with his assistance, I limped into the farmhouse and sank down onto a wooden bench in a low-ceilinged kitchen.
Someone coughed in another room. I started. The cyclist held up a hand, forestalling my grab for my pistol. "Lawrence?" he said.
More coughing ensued. "Kansas," said a hoarse voice. "Any luck finding the division?"
"No, but I got us reinforcements," said the first man, shrugging out of his jacket. "He's a little shot up, though."
As the adrenalin from my predicament and escape wore off and I began to think clearly again, I realized that they were speaking American-accented English. "Who are you fellows?" I asked.
"My name's Dean Winchester," announced my rescuer. "That’s my brother Sam sacked out in the other room; he's getting over the influenza---which he wouldn't have caught if he hadn't tried to play nursemaid to the family that lived here."
I thought of the grave outside and my pulse beat double-time. I was undoubtedly surrounded by the contagion---but for the moment, the possibility of sickness at some future time was of slightly less concern than the ever-increasing pain from my wound. "I'm Bill Harvelle," I introduced myself. "Any chance you can patch me up while we're stuck here? I have no idea where I am, much less where the nearest field hospital is."
"Stretch out and let me take a look," Dean said, and I complied, awkwardly maneuvering on the bench so that my injured side was uppermost.
There was a scraping noise, and when I looked up, a tall figure was framed in the doorway. He had a rag tied over the lower half of his face, and again I was reminded of playing Wild West games---in this case, holding up the stagecoach. As Sam walked unsteadily across the room, I couldn't help but notice that he hadn’t seen a barber in some time, in contrast to his brother, who, stubble aside, was as clean-cut as one would expect from a proper soldier.
"I told you to stay in bed," Dean scowled.
"If I listened to everything you ever said, I'd be milking cows right now," replied Sam, "And listening to dad beef about how I'm doing it all wrong. Bill, I'm a medic. I'm qualified to evaluate and care for your wound. My bossy older brother is a motorcycle courier. If you need your oil changed, he's the guy to go to." I grinned---I hadn't expected humor under the circumstances. "I'm just going to wash my hands, and then we'll see what's what."
"Go ahead, Miss Nightingale, practice your cross-stitch on him. I'm going out to reconnoiter, make sure nobody followed us back here." Dean stomped out the door.
"Don't pay any attention to him," Sam advised me as he washed up. "He's been over here for almost a year, he's got battle nerves."
Having been in action these six months, I have seen my share of men with that affliction. Often they seem vague, like sleepwalkers---but that description did not in the least apply to my rescuer. "He seemed very bold when he came to my aid," I said. "He stood returning fire while I got onto the motorcycle with him and drove it with no lack of nerve through difficult terrain."
Sam only said, "This war has changed him. Hmm, lucky for you, someone had lousy aim." He helped me unbelt and roll down my trousers, then seated himself upon a kitchen stool.
During the procedure, I had ample time to survey my surroundings. The farmhouse kitchen I found myself in seemed oddly primitive. Its floors were stone, and overhead were thick beams from which hung herbs and tools and all manner of things. A stone fireplace held a big iron cauldron which looked as if it had been cooked in recently.
Modern appurtenances were lacking---there was no icebox, no electric lights---the most up-to-date article was a cast-iron stove. And yet, clearly someone cherished this as home. Pretty china was displayed in open cupboards and a nearby pantry revealed an orderly preserve closet and tidy shelves stacked with linens.
I was luckier than I had any right to be; Sam had a supply of carbolic soap---it had been destined for the field hospital to which he was supposed to report---and in fairly short order, he had my injury scrubbed and sutured. The bullet had gouged a clean in and out furrow of muscle just below my left hip. It hadn't hit bone or any vital organs, and although there was no morphine to be had, it could have been much worse.
That was scarcely accomplished when Dean returned, looking grim. "Patrol," he said tersely. "Not sure how close from the way the sound carries. Bill, how are you fixed for fire-power?"
Not very well; I had my 1911M pistol, which was loaded, with a handful of bullets left over, my Browning rifle with perhaps a dozen more rounds, and my bayonet. Dean had his Browning and a pocketful of shells, his bayonet and a hunting knife that looked well-used. Sam had a similar loaded pistol, no spare bullets, a pocket-knife and a carton of surgical instruments. Now the scenario that came to my mind was the Alamo, which was far from reassuring.
Sam rocked on the stool, coughing. He pulled the rag off and tilted his head back, gulping for air. "If you hitch the sidecar back onto the bike---" Sam began when he caught his breath.
"One, they'll hear the engine from a mille away, two, I don't cotton to trying to drive unfamiliar terrain without lights, three, I don’t have the first clue where we are and four, it won't carry all three of us. Any other bright ideas?"
"Try to pick them off from the attic?" Sam wheezed.
"Oh sure, us against half the damn German army with two BARs and a couple pistols. Remember the Alamo!" Despite his sarcasm, Dean thumped Sam on the back as he coughed, and his brows were knitted with concern.
The Alamo again! Our chances didn't look any better than theirs---of the three of us, I was wounded, Sam was sick and Dean was possibly not in his right mind. And if we stayed here for any length of time, Dean and I were likely to acquire the influenza as well.
A memory of one of my granny's stories stirred in the back of my mind, and I lay quietly while they bickered. "Hey," I said after thinking for a few moments. "We could try to scare them away."
They both stared at me. As I have said, they were quite different in type: Sam was tall enough to need to stoop to avoid the beams of the ceiling and rather haggard from his illness, while Dean was closer to my own height, lean but healthy. Still, the faces they presented to me wore identical expressions of skepticism.
"What did you have in mind?" Dean asked. "Pull sheets over our heads and pretend we're ghosts? Oh, wait, I forgot---you can't walk, and he can't walk without coughing. I guess that leaves me to play ghost."
"You're close," I said, sitting up gingerly. "What if we hung sheets out the window saying 'Influenza'? If anyone comes around, they'll hear Sam coughing and see that grave out in the yard. Certainly the Boche are worried about the 'flu' in their own ranks, I don't think they're going to stop to offer comfort to the local peasants."
"That might work," Sam agreed.
."I'll go strip the rest of the beds. Those sheets are disgusting" Dean quickly left the room, and I heard his footsteps drum up the stairs. "We'll need some kind of paint," he said when he returned with several horribly stained pieces of bed linen.
"Iodine," Sam suggested. "I hate to waste it when supplies are so short, but---" He was interrupted by more coughing, which he tried to contain with the rag he still clutched.
"Better us than them," was his brother's pragmatic rejoinder.
Dean knew a bit of French; shortly we had banners reading “Attention! La Grippe! La mort est ici!” (Beware! Influenza! Death is here.) and adorned with skulls and crossbones. Owing to the unsanitary condition of the sheets, we all thoroughly scrubbed our hands when we had finished, and Sam crept back to his couch. He lay there with a blanket pulled up to his chin, and his pistol under the blanket.
Soon banners hung on all sides of the house from its upper story. Dean had hardly closed the last window and hurried back down the stairs when we heard the stomping of many booted feet nearby. He found a post where he could not be seen if anyone were to peer into the windows, while I dragged myself into the pantry. I waited, breathless, for the kitchen door to burst open, to be killed or captured.
Voices in the farmyard were audible from my position. The only word I understood was “Strasburg”, and the only thing I knew about that was that it’s a city.
After what seemed like hours, the voices tromped away from us. By then, my hands were cramping from gripping my rifle so tightly.
“I heard them say something about Strasburg,” I told Dean when we met up back in the kitchen.
“You’d better hope he was talking about his home town,” he said grimly. “Because if that’s our position, we’re not just lost. We’re in Germany.”
“Do you really think so?” I asked in alarm.
He shook his head. “The last position I can pinpoint was Commercy, and if we’d gone as far as Strasburg, we would’ve run out of gas. Not to mention, I don’t think crossing the border can be done by accident these days.”
“What now?”
He sighed and looked around the room. “I think it’s time for supper.”
Thanks to the foresight of a frugal French housewife, we were well-fed from a pantry stocked with preserved fruits and vegetables, a root-cellar boasting potatoes, cabbages and onions, a cured ham---and a good many bottles of wine. There was also enough kindling split that we were able to have a fire, reasoning among ourselves that nothing could be more normal than smoke from a chimney. Certainly sick people would want the comfort of a fire, nothing suspicious about that. We were further enticed by the prospect of a hot meal, which we set about creating.
Dean took over most of the preparations for our dinner, saying gruffly that he didn't want Sam to get his germs all over everything. He set me to peeling potatoes, which I could do without much trouble. Indeed, after the enormous quantity of them that I peeled for ''KP' duty during Basic Training, the amount required to feed a mere three people seemed absurdly small.
It was the best meal I have had since I left home---Army chow is intended to sustain life but not to brighten it to any degree. Madame Farmer's lovingly canned produce---to say nothing of the ham! ---served with potatoes that must have been dug quite recently---what a feast! It made a new man of me. Granted, I was still uncomfortable from my injury, but I thought that if this was, in fact, my last night on earth, I was at least content, with a belly full of good food served on china dishes in a warm room with agreeable company.
I had hoped that we might spend the evening---night had fallen not long after we hung out the sheets---making plans for the morrow, but after giving lackluster attention to his meal, Sam swayed back to the other room to sleep, and Dean took a lantern out to the bike shed, I supposed to tinker with the machine.
Out of some sense of being a guest in the house, although I knew that the owners would never return, I undertook to tidy up the kitchen after our feasting. There was no running water, so I had to draw some from the well. How rustic, not to even have a hand-pump!
As I was struggling to stand upright and crank the first full bucket back up, Dean came over and handed me a length of pipe. The offering was metal, about four-and-a-half feet in length, with two shorter pieces of pipe attached to it, one horizontally across the top, another bolted midway down at right-angles. I didn’t know what to make of it, thinking it was some part that had come off the motorbike. He had me raise my arm, and fitted the cross-piece under it so that I could grasp the other bar to take my weight off my bad leg. While I leaned upon it, he took over on bucket duty.
The crude crutch made my return to the farmhouse much easier. Dean carried the water buckets, entrusting the lantern to my free hand. He was scornful of my endeavors and paced around the kitchen like a caged bear, but I persevered until I thought it would pass muster with Madame Farmer. I can’t say why that seemed so important, maybe because Mother is equally particular about her home. I knew she would not want my actions as a guest to reflect poorly on her raising of me. Nothing had been done in days, and it was slow going with only a bucket and rag.
To distract Dean, I gave him the story that had inspired our bed-sheet banners. Mother’s mother came West when the land was still fairly wild. One time, when Great-granddad had gone to town for supplies, a band of savages came to the farm to steal from them. Granny told how her mother had rubbed beet juice on her children’s’ faces so they looked feverish, and how they moaned and coughed until the would-be raiders were alarmed and departed quickly rather than risk catching the awful sickness.
Dean was much amused, and we ascertained that there were several jars of preserved beets in the pantry. (Fortunately, no such ruse was needed, for I have never cared over-much for beets.)
Our strategic discussion concluded, Dean and I talked about our lives before the war. He and Sam hail from Lawrence, Kansas, which makes them practically our neighbors. Like me, they grew up on a farm. We shared reminisces of chores and games, of one-room schoolhouses and Fourth of July concerts in the town square. I sat, resting, enjoying my memories.
“Of course, now I’m going to wind up like Tom Tillman,” Dean said. “He’s an old man in Lawrence who was in the War Between the States. He can’t stand to hear gunshots, and once when a car backfired on Main Street, he threw himself into the bushes. I have a feeling I’ll be the same way.” He gave a mirthless chuckle. “I used to love shooting off fireworks, but that was before I’d been through heavy bombardment. ”
Joining the war effort had seemed a given, he told me. Dean’s father was a volunteer cavalry trooper in Cuba with Roosevelt---he was looking for similar adventures.
We both agreed ruefully that war was more adventure than either of us expected. Dean has another brother, Johnny, who’s barely 14 and has tried unsuccessfully to enlist. We both shook our heads over the heroic ideas of youth.
“I didn’t even want Sam to come,” Dean said, pausing for a moment in his laps of the kitchen. “He’s only 17! But I didn’t find out until we met up on the troopship coming over, and by then it was too late. He was all trained, they weren’t about to ship him back, even though I swore to the brass that he was underage.“ He shook his head. “I guess I ought to be glad he got into the medical corps instead of infantry. Except---that. “
From the other room came the haunting sound of Sam hacking like he’d had a lungful of deadly mustard gas.
“My CO got me assigned to transport Sam and some supplies to the triage station at St-Mihiel. There was an artillery barrage and I got turned around somehow, ended up here, wherever here is. Sam talked me into approaching the house to ask directions---“ Here, he grimaced, as if that was the moment it all went wrong.
“There was a little girl collapsed out by the well, and my do-gooder brother carried her inside. Everyone here was sick---the girl, her two brothers, her folks, and their hired man, who was sixty if he was a day---“ His breath came raggedly.
“He should’ve washed his hands and left! I told him that, but no! He said God had a purpose in sending him here with supplies, that he could help---and what happened? They all died! And then, then he insisted they have a Christian burial, so I started digging when the old man croaked, he was the first one…”
His gruff voice trailed off for a moment. He paused, listening, all his frantic movement suspended until Sam coughed again. “God’s purpose, my ass,” he muttered.
Seeking to distract him from his grim ruminations, I told him of my beautiful Ellen, waiting for me to come home. I even showed him the picture of you that I carry with me, but I’m afraid Dean was more intrigued by Father’s Model A in the background than with your lovely self. We discussed automobiles and his motor-bike. He stated a desire to see Paris before returning to the States, and we speculated about the city’s charms until we both began to yawn.
Sam was coughing fitfully in the parlor. Dean had occupied an upstairs room that gave the widest view of the countryside to observe any troop movements. He volunteered to lug a feather-bed mattress downstairs for me, so I could rest my leg in comfort, but I declined his kind offer. Weary as I was, the thought of occupying someone’s deathbed repulsed me.
Instead, we set the kitchen benches side-by-side, reasoning that they would be easier for me to rise from than the floor. I rested my head on a partially-depleted sack of grain and covered myself with a blanket that smelled pleasantly of lavender.
For the first time in many weeks, I heard no booming of the Big Bertha guns, no cries of the wounded, only Sam coughing in the other room and an occasional cackle of hens in the chicken run. For the longest time, I could not sleep.
At last, I struck a match and lit one of the lanterns. I rummaged in my pocket to consult my Ingersoll, and discovered it was half-past ten. There were many hours of darkness still to come.
At the sound of yet another bout of coughing from the parlor, I filled one of Madame’s pitchers with some of the remaining water and laboriously took it and a cup in to Sam. He was propped up on what my Aunt Sally used to call a fainting couch, squinting at a book by candlelight.
“It sounds worse than it is,” he said after he had drained the cup twice. “My fever has gone down. I’m getting better.” He gave an unhappy smile. “At least it isn’t mustard gas. That’s the worst.”
“Dean’s worried about you.” I told him, and he nodded, too-long hair falling in his eyes.
“Dean’s like that,” he said quietly. “He’s always been like that. Back home, if one of our neighbors was sick or hurt, Dean would hurry through his chores at home and go milk someone else’s cows or feed their chickens or whatever needed doing. He’s too tender-hearted to be a vet or a doctor, but when it comes to practical help, ask anybody in Lawrence, Dean Winchester is the one who’ll come through every time.” There was a touching note of pride in his voice.
How at odds that description was with the man who’d wanted to wash his hands and walk away from a plague-filled house! Thinking of the crutch he’d made for me and the formidable amount of digging he’d done to bury six strangers, his actions told the story better than his words did.
When Sam swiped his hair back from his face again, I offered to fetch Madame’s kitchen scissors and play barber. I wasn’t joking---I’ve passed enough time in your uncle’s barber shop to feel confident that I wouldn’t botch the job---and neither was Sam when he shook his head.
“This is probably going to sound foolish, but being named Sam, and all, I’m kind of superstitious,” he told me. “Mamma cut my hair the night before I enlisted. She didn’t know I was going to enlist, she just thought I was due for a trim. I figure as long as nobody else cuts my hair until she does, I’ll make it back okay.”
That simple faith seemed very much in keeping with Dean’s disclosure, that Sam had seen a divine purpose in reaching the farmhouse. I agreed with that as well, for if not for Dean’s rescue and Sam’s medical skills I would be a prisoner-of-war or dead.
“These Army haircuts don’t suit me, either,” I said. “I’m looking forward to visiting Uncle Hiram’s Barber Shop when I get back home, of sitting in that red-leather covered chair and enjoying a splash of Bay Rum after my shave and haircut.”
“”Usually I comb it back and tuck it under my cap,” Sam admitted. “With the med corps, though, we’re so life-or-death busy most of the time that no one’s really gotten onto me about it.”
Sam drank some more water, and seemed inclined to return to his book. I felt as if my errand had alleviated my debt to him in some tiny measure, and this time, when I reclined on the benches, my eyes grew heavy and I was finally able to rest.
After my long and arduous day, I slept quite well. If there was a rooster on the farm, he performed very poorly, for it was long past sunrise when I awoke.
Dean was shaking me. “Bill, wake up! There are German troops coming up the valley! Come on, move!”
My leg stabbed fire as I sat up, and the previous day’s events flooded over me. Dean’s BAR was slung over his shoulder and he had Sam’s pistol in his other hand.
“What are we going to do?” Sam asked from the parlor doorway.
There were shouts close by. I didn’t understand their language, but their proximity was alarming. These fellows sounded rowdier than last night’s visitors, more likely to stomp in to investigate.
“This is what we’re going to do,” Dean said decisively, laying the Browning on the table near mine and following it with his remaining cartridges. “I’m going out to the shed; I’ll try to draw them away with the bike while you guys lay low.”
“You’ll need that,” Sam said looking at the gun, but his brother shook his head.
“I’ll have my knife and your pistol,” he said, but I noticed with alarm that he had only one round, chambered, and was leaving the rest of the bullets for me. “That’s all I need.”
Sam would have protested, but Dean rested a hand on his shoulder, said, “Take care of yourself, Sammy” and, tucking the pistol under the tail of his uniform shirt, was out the back door before we could forestall his exit or propose another plan.
He didn’t even make it as far as the shed; we heard an outcry from nearby, and a moment later, Dean walked past the kitchen window, followed at several paces by three enemy soldiers. More approached from the other direction---clearly they had encircled the farmhouse, and we would be invaded momentarily unless Dean’s fast-talking or the banners worked.
One of them advanced to within a few feet of him, and they stood talking as we peered at them. Leaning against the wall beside the window, gripping his brother’s rifle, Sam explained that Dean had learned more French than “la grippe” during his service, and I prayed that his powers of persuasion were capable of bamboozling our invaders.
Dean motioned toward the house, indicated the hanging sheets and grave and shook his head. The soldier who seemed to be in charge nodded solemnly. He waved his hand, indicating the valley, and one of his comrades interrupted with a comment that made the other men chuckle. Sam must have been holding his breath; Dean was in uniform and could have been shot on sight. My own nerves were wound tight with anxiety.
We were far enough away that we couldn’t hear what was being said, not that I speak much in the way of French or German---please, thank you, nothing complicated. Their conversation didn’t seem to be hostile; at one point, the German picked up a stick and began scratching something in the dirt, accompanying that with still more gestures.
And then…he began to walk away. The men who had intercepted Dean on his way to the shed followed him, leaving Dean to stand there and watch them go.
He stood there for what seemed to us a very long time until the soldiers were well out of sight. When he turned and walked back toward the house, his pace was slower than I had yet seen him do anything.
When he entered the kitchen and closed the door behind him, Dean leaned back against it, so pale that for the first time I noticed a dusting of freckles across his face.
“Peace,” he said hoarsely as we badgered him for news. “They’ve signed the Armistice---the war is over!” And with that, he sank down as if his knees had given way, huddling against the door and shaking as if with chills.
Sam laughed, for the first time looking as youthful as he actually was. He crouched down and embraced his brother, while I set down my BAR and allowed myself to dwell on thoughts of home and returning to you and my folks. Peace, Ellen---how precious it is.
A while later, after he had picked himself up and gone out to the well for fresh water, again taking his time, Dean explained that the drawing in the dirt and arm-waving had been the obliging German setting him straight on directions to find the hospital he’d set out for.
With no more fighting to be done, rejoining the rest of the army was not an immediate priority. Leaning on my crutch, I investigated the hen house for eggs, Dean cooked us a huge breakfast of eggs and ham and homemade biscuits. The amber gleam of a jar of honey reminded me that soon I would be able to run my hands through your golden tresses.
Later, we availed ourselves of Madame’s lavender soap and washtub to launder our uniforms and ourselves. Dean retrieved some of the farmer’s clean clothes for me so that I could attempt to clean and mend my uniform before reporting for treatment, as surplus uniforms were not easily procured. He, too, was wore carefully patched garments. Sam was swathed in one of Madame’s clean blankets, for his beanpole form would have looked absurd in the available clothes, which barely fitted Dean and myself.
Sam sat on a bench in the sunlight, hardly coughing at all. Madame’s sewing box provided us with the means to sew up rips and bullet holes when they had dried, although the bloodstains on my pants were still visible shadows.
It was, I must say, a very peaceful day. In the evening, we dined on ham with potatoes and carrots, and Dean brought a bottle of wine up from the cellar.
“To peace!” Dean toasted.
“To home!” Sam proposed in turn.
I looked around, and while peace and home are both sacred things, especially when both have been lacking, it seemed to me somewhat hollow. “To Madame,” I said somberly, “and to her family, whose fine hospitality we have enjoyed here. I’m very sorry that they can’t enjoy this celebration with us.”
“Here, here,” Sam and Dean seconded.
On the following day, I took my leave of them. Dean reattached the sidecar to the cycle and delivered me without difficulty to the triage station. He helped me to my feet, handed me my crutch and shook my hand.
I did not see either of them again.
The doctor who examined my wound pronounced the repair serviceable. I rested on a pallet and woke some hours later shivering and feverish. The war had not killed me, but for some days it was thought that the Spanish Lady might. That worry is past; I will return to you as soon as I am able, my darling Ellen, and I will never leave your side again.
Thank God for my deliverance from the hazards of war and pestilence, and I thank Him as well for those blessed brothers who were my saviors.
Yours with all my heart,
Pvt. William A Harvelle
(Bill)
***
Comment, please?
.
Authored by: vanillafluffy
Pairing/spoilers: None, gen, AU
Rating/Work-safeness: PG
Approximate word count: 5500
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Prompt by harrigan for SPN_Summergen.
Betaed by: creamfudge, jdsgirlbev and pwcorgigirl.
Summary: In 1918, in an isolated French farmhouse, three American farmboys struggle to avoid detection by German patrols. Could be considered AU or a couple generations pre-series.
The War Correspondant
17 November 1918
From a field hospital in France
Dearest Ellen,
By now you have surely heard the glorious news that peace has been declared. This terrible war is over, and I pray with all my heart that I will be back in Nebraska with you by the year's end. Let me reassure you that although the influenza here has been severe, there are fewer new cases of it than there were mere weeks ago. I am recovering from my own struggles with it in addition to my wound.
I owe my life to brothers named Sam and Dean Winchester. If it wasn't for their loyalty and their bravery in rescuing me from behind enemy lines, I fully believe I wouldn't be writing this to you.
During the recent Meuse-Argonne offensive, I found myself separated from the rest of my company. Huddled behind a stone wall being used for target practice by the Boche, I knew it was only a matter of time before they picked me off. It wasn't at all like my childhood games of cowboys and indians where we could call "Time out!" to get a sandwich or use the outhouse. These "indians" meant to take my life if they could, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. I didn't even have a handkerchief that I could use as a white flag of surrender, and I thought my time had come.
There was a great rumbling nearby---in my terror, I couldn't imagine what it was---and then to my astonishment, a motorcycle roared up to me. Its rider whipped up his Browning Automatic Rifle and began to return fire toward the German position, regardless of his own peril, at the same time barking at me to get on the machine behind him, which I hastily did. I clung tightly to my savior as the motorcycle leapt away.
Although these vehicles are in common use for couriers at the front, I had never before ridden on one, nor especially wanted to. Our ride was as wild as any cowboy's. Zigzagging back and forth across the field to avoid shell holes and rubble, we reached the tree-line away from the sniper's position.
The contraption slowed somewhat to negotiate the trees, although after several close calls with low-hanging branches, I tucked my chin against my chest like a turtle and closed my eyes, trying to stay as low as possible. I could hear the wind gusting around the trees as we zoomed through the forest and shortly the sound changed.
I opened my eyes to discover we were in a meadow that sloped away to a steeper drop-off, and to my anxiety, the rider headed right for the incline. I closed my eyes again, praying that we would not come crashing down. Perhaps the Almighty was listening, for we successfully reached the bottom of the hill.
A rutted roadway led to a small farmhouse on the other side of a valley which remained mostly unscathed by the conflict. With so many trees almost bare of leaves in this season, the blackened and jagged trunks of the ones hit by artillery were less evident amid the general starkness.
It was a typical farmhouse of the region, built of field-stone with a slate roof. A well-sweep was visible in the dooryard, and as we pulled up beside a little shed, I noticed a broad area of freshly turned earth with a crude cross thrust into it.
I felt a cold chill at the sight of the grave and was slightly light-headed. It was as I attempted to dismount from the bike that I realized I'd taken a hit; my left leg felt like I'd been kicked by a mule and there was blood soaking my trousers.
My rescuer, sizing up the situation, helped me to lean against the stone wall of the shed while he wheeled the motor-bike into it. Then, with his assistance, I limped into the farmhouse and sank down onto a wooden bench in a low-ceilinged kitchen.
Someone coughed in another room. I started. The cyclist held up a hand, forestalling my grab for my pistol. "Lawrence?" he said.
More coughing ensued. "Kansas," said a hoarse voice. "Any luck finding the division?"
"No, but I got us reinforcements," said the first man, shrugging out of his jacket. "He's a little shot up, though."
As the adrenalin from my predicament and escape wore off and I began to think clearly again, I realized that they were speaking American-accented English. "Who are you fellows?" I asked.
"My name's Dean Winchester," announced my rescuer. "That’s my brother Sam sacked out in the other room; he's getting over the influenza---which he wouldn't have caught if he hadn't tried to play nursemaid to the family that lived here."
I thought of the grave outside and my pulse beat double-time. I was undoubtedly surrounded by the contagion---but for the moment, the possibility of sickness at some future time was of slightly less concern than the ever-increasing pain from my wound. "I'm Bill Harvelle," I introduced myself. "Any chance you can patch me up while we're stuck here? I have no idea where I am, much less where the nearest field hospital is."
"Stretch out and let me take a look," Dean said, and I complied, awkwardly maneuvering on the bench so that my injured side was uppermost.
There was a scraping noise, and when I looked up, a tall figure was framed in the doorway. He had a rag tied over the lower half of his face, and again I was reminded of playing Wild West games---in this case, holding up the stagecoach. As Sam walked unsteadily across the room, I couldn't help but notice that he hadn’t seen a barber in some time, in contrast to his brother, who, stubble aside, was as clean-cut as one would expect from a proper soldier.
"I told you to stay in bed," Dean scowled.
"If I listened to everything you ever said, I'd be milking cows right now," replied Sam, "And listening to dad beef about how I'm doing it all wrong. Bill, I'm a medic. I'm qualified to evaluate and care for your wound. My bossy older brother is a motorcycle courier. If you need your oil changed, he's the guy to go to." I grinned---I hadn't expected humor under the circumstances. "I'm just going to wash my hands, and then we'll see what's what."
"Go ahead, Miss Nightingale, practice your cross-stitch on him. I'm going out to reconnoiter, make sure nobody followed us back here." Dean stomped out the door.
"Don't pay any attention to him," Sam advised me as he washed up. "He's been over here for almost a year, he's got battle nerves."
Having been in action these six months, I have seen my share of men with that affliction. Often they seem vague, like sleepwalkers---but that description did not in the least apply to my rescuer. "He seemed very bold when he came to my aid," I said. "He stood returning fire while I got onto the motorcycle with him and drove it with no lack of nerve through difficult terrain."
Sam only said, "This war has changed him. Hmm, lucky for you, someone had lousy aim." He helped me unbelt and roll down my trousers, then seated himself upon a kitchen stool.
During the procedure, I had ample time to survey my surroundings. The farmhouse kitchen I found myself in seemed oddly primitive. Its floors were stone, and overhead were thick beams from which hung herbs and tools and all manner of things. A stone fireplace held a big iron cauldron which looked as if it had been cooked in recently.
Modern appurtenances were lacking---there was no icebox, no electric lights---the most up-to-date article was a cast-iron stove. And yet, clearly someone cherished this as home. Pretty china was displayed in open cupboards and a nearby pantry revealed an orderly preserve closet and tidy shelves stacked with linens.
I was luckier than I had any right to be; Sam had a supply of carbolic soap---it had been destined for the field hospital to which he was supposed to report---and in fairly short order, he had my injury scrubbed and sutured. The bullet had gouged a clean in and out furrow of muscle just below my left hip. It hadn't hit bone or any vital organs, and although there was no morphine to be had, it could have been much worse.
That was scarcely accomplished when Dean returned, looking grim. "Patrol," he said tersely. "Not sure how close from the way the sound carries. Bill, how are you fixed for fire-power?"
Not very well; I had my 1911M pistol, which was loaded, with a handful of bullets left over, my Browning rifle with perhaps a dozen more rounds, and my bayonet. Dean had his Browning and a pocketful of shells, his bayonet and a hunting knife that looked well-used. Sam had a similar loaded pistol, no spare bullets, a pocket-knife and a carton of surgical instruments. Now the scenario that came to my mind was the Alamo, which was far from reassuring.
Sam rocked on the stool, coughing. He pulled the rag off and tilted his head back, gulping for air. "If you hitch the sidecar back onto the bike---" Sam began when he caught his breath.
"One, they'll hear the engine from a mille away, two, I don't cotton to trying to drive unfamiliar terrain without lights, three, I don’t have the first clue where we are and four, it won't carry all three of us. Any other bright ideas?"
"Try to pick them off from the attic?" Sam wheezed.
"Oh sure, us against half the damn German army with two BARs and a couple pistols. Remember the Alamo!" Despite his sarcasm, Dean thumped Sam on the back as he coughed, and his brows were knitted with concern.
The Alamo again! Our chances didn't look any better than theirs---of the three of us, I was wounded, Sam was sick and Dean was possibly not in his right mind. And if we stayed here for any length of time, Dean and I were likely to acquire the influenza as well.
A memory of one of my granny's stories stirred in the back of my mind, and I lay quietly while they bickered. "Hey," I said after thinking for a few moments. "We could try to scare them away."
They both stared at me. As I have said, they were quite different in type: Sam was tall enough to need to stoop to avoid the beams of the ceiling and rather haggard from his illness, while Dean was closer to my own height, lean but healthy. Still, the faces they presented to me wore identical expressions of skepticism.
"What did you have in mind?" Dean asked. "Pull sheets over our heads and pretend we're ghosts? Oh, wait, I forgot---you can't walk, and he can't walk without coughing. I guess that leaves me to play ghost."
"You're close," I said, sitting up gingerly. "What if we hung sheets out the window saying 'Influenza'? If anyone comes around, they'll hear Sam coughing and see that grave out in the yard. Certainly the Boche are worried about the 'flu' in their own ranks, I don't think they're going to stop to offer comfort to the local peasants."
"That might work," Sam agreed.
."I'll go strip the rest of the beds. Those sheets are disgusting" Dean quickly left the room, and I heard his footsteps drum up the stairs. "We'll need some kind of paint," he said when he returned with several horribly stained pieces of bed linen.
"Iodine," Sam suggested. "I hate to waste it when supplies are so short, but---" He was interrupted by more coughing, which he tried to contain with the rag he still clutched.
"Better us than them," was his brother's pragmatic rejoinder.
Dean knew a bit of French; shortly we had banners reading “Attention! La Grippe! La mort est ici!” (Beware! Influenza! Death is here.) and adorned with skulls and crossbones. Owing to the unsanitary condition of the sheets, we all thoroughly scrubbed our hands when we had finished, and Sam crept back to his couch. He lay there with a blanket pulled up to his chin, and his pistol under the blanket.
Soon banners hung on all sides of the house from its upper story. Dean had hardly closed the last window and hurried back down the stairs when we heard the stomping of many booted feet nearby. He found a post where he could not be seen if anyone were to peer into the windows, while I dragged myself into the pantry. I waited, breathless, for the kitchen door to burst open, to be killed or captured.
Voices in the farmyard were audible from my position. The only word I understood was “Strasburg”, and the only thing I knew about that was that it’s a city.
After what seemed like hours, the voices tromped away from us. By then, my hands were cramping from gripping my rifle so tightly.
“I heard them say something about Strasburg,” I told Dean when we met up back in the kitchen.
“You’d better hope he was talking about his home town,” he said grimly. “Because if that’s our position, we’re not just lost. We’re in Germany.”
“Do you really think so?” I asked in alarm.
He shook his head. “The last position I can pinpoint was Commercy, and if we’d gone as far as Strasburg, we would’ve run out of gas. Not to mention, I don’t think crossing the border can be done by accident these days.”
“What now?”
He sighed and looked around the room. “I think it’s time for supper.”
Thanks to the foresight of a frugal French housewife, we were well-fed from a pantry stocked with preserved fruits and vegetables, a root-cellar boasting potatoes, cabbages and onions, a cured ham---and a good many bottles of wine. There was also enough kindling split that we were able to have a fire, reasoning among ourselves that nothing could be more normal than smoke from a chimney. Certainly sick people would want the comfort of a fire, nothing suspicious about that. We were further enticed by the prospect of a hot meal, which we set about creating.
Dean took over most of the preparations for our dinner, saying gruffly that he didn't want Sam to get his germs all over everything. He set me to peeling potatoes, which I could do without much trouble. Indeed, after the enormous quantity of them that I peeled for ''KP' duty during Basic Training, the amount required to feed a mere three people seemed absurdly small.
It was the best meal I have had since I left home---Army chow is intended to sustain life but not to brighten it to any degree. Madame Farmer's lovingly canned produce---to say nothing of the ham! ---served with potatoes that must have been dug quite recently---what a feast! It made a new man of me. Granted, I was still uncomfortable from my injury, but I thought that if this was, in fact, my last night on earth, I was at least content, with a belly full of good food served on china dishes in a warm room with agreeable company.
I had hoped that we might spend the evening---night had fallen not long after we hung out the sheets---making plans for the morrow, but after giving lackluster attention to his meal, Sam swayed back to the other room to sleep, and Dean took a lantern out to the bike shed, I supposed to tinker with the machine.
Out of some sense of being a guest in the house, although I knew that the owners would never return, I undertook to tidy up the kitchen after our feasting. There was no running water, so I had to draw some from the well. How rustic, not to even have a hand-pump!
As I was struggling to stand upright and crank the first full bucket back up, Dean came over and handed me a length of pipe. The offering was metal, about four-and-a-half feet in length, with two shorter pieces of pipe attached to it, one horizontally across the top, another bolted midway down at right-angles. I didn’t know what to make of it, thinking it was some part that had come off the motorbike. He had me raise my arm, and fitted the cross-piece under it so that I could grasp the other bar to take my weight off my bad leg. While I leaned upon it, he took over on bucket duty.
The crude crutch made my return to the farmhouse much easier. Dean carried the water buckets, entrusting the lantern to my free hand. He was scornful of my endeavors and paced around the kitchen like a caged bear, but I persevered until I thought it would pass muster with Madame Farmer. I can’t say why that seemed so important, maybe because Mother is equally particular about her home. I knew she would not want my actions as a guest to reflect poorly on her raising of me. Nothing had been done in days, and it was slow going with only a bucket and rag.
To distract Dean, I gave him the story that had inspired our bed-sheet banners. Mother’s mother came West when the land was still fairly wild. One time, when Great-granddad had gone to town for supplies, a band of savages came to the farm to steal from them. Granny told how her mother had rubbed beet juice on her children’s’ faces so they looked feverish, and how they moaned and coughed until the would-be raiders were alarmed and departed quickly rather than risk catching the awful sickness.
Dean was much amused, and we ascertained that there were several jars of preserved beets in the pantry. (Fortunately, no such ruse was needed, for I have never cared over-much for beets.)
Our strategic discussion concluded, Dean and I talked about our lives before the war. He and Sam hail from Lawrence, Kansas, which makes them practically our neighbors. Like me, they grew up on a farm. We shared reminisces of chores and games, of one-room schoolhouses and Fourth of July concerts in the town square. I sat, resting, enjoying my memories.
“Of course, now I’m going to wind up like Tom Tillman,” Dean said. “He’s an old man in Lawrence who was in the War Between the States. He can’t stand to hear gunshots, and once when a car backfired on Main Street, he threw himself into the bushes. I have a feeling I’ll be the same way.” He gave a mirthless chuckle. “I used to love shooting off fireworks, but that was before I’d been through heavy bombardment. ”
Joining the war effort had seemed a given, he told me. Dean’s father was a volunteer cavalry trooper in Cuba with Roosevelt---he was looking for similar adventures.
We both agreed ruefully that war was more adventure than either of us expected. Dean has another brother, Johnny, who’s barely 14 and has tried unsuccessfully to enlist. We both shook our heads over the heroic ideas of youth.
“I didn’t even want Sam to come,” Dean said, pausing for a moment in his laps of the kitchen. “He’s only 17! But I didn’t find out until we met up on the troopship coming over, and by then it was too late. He was all trained, they weren’t about to ship him back, even though I swore to the brass that he was underage.“ He shook his head. “I guess I ought to be glad he got into the medical corps instead of infantry. Except---that. “
From the other room came the haunting sound of Sam hacking like he’d had a lungful of deadly mustard gas.
“My CO got me assigned to transport Sam and some supplies to the triage station at St-Mihiel. There was an artillery barrage and I got turned around somehow, ended up here, wherever here is. Sam talked me into approaching the house to ask directions---“ Here, he grimaced, as if that was the moment it all went wrong.
“There was a little girl collapsed out by the well, and my do-gooder brother carried her inside. Everyone here was sick---the girl, her two brothers, her folks, and their hired man, who was sixty if he was a day---“ His breath came raggedly.
“He should’ve washed his hands and left! I told him that, but no! He said God had a purpose in sending him here with supplies, that he could help---and what happened? They all died! And then, then he insisted they have a Christian burial, so I started digging when the old man croaked, he was the first one…”
His gruff voice trailed off for a moment. He paused, listening, all his frantic movement suspended until Sam coughed again. “God’s purpose, my ass,” he muttered.
Seeking to distract him from his grim ruminations, I told him of my beautiful Ellen, waiting for me to come home. I even showed him the picture of you that I carry with me, but I’m afraid Dean was more intrigued by Father’s Model A in the background than with your lovely self. We discussed automobiles and his motor-bike. He stated a desire to see Paris before returning to the States, and we speculated about the city’s charms until we both began to yawn.
Sam was coughing fitfully in the parlor. Dean had occupied an upstairs room that gave the widest view of the countryside to observe any troop movements. He volunteered to lug a feather-bed mattress downstairs for me, so I could rest my leg in comfort, but I declined his kind offer. Weary as I was, the thought of occupying someone’s deathbed repulsed me.
Instead, we set the kitchen benches side-by-side, reasoning that they would be easier for me to rise from than the floor. I rested my head on a partially-depleted sack of grain and covered myself with a blanket that smelled pleasantly of lavender.
For the first time in many weeks, I heard no booming of the Big Bertha guns, no cries of the wounded, only Sam coughing in the other room and an occasional cackle of hens in the chicken run. For the longest time, I could not sleep.
At last, I struck a match and lit one of the lanterns. I rummaged in my pocket to consult my Ingersoll, and discovered it was half-past ten. There were many hours of darkness still to come.
At the sound of yet another bout of coughing from the parlor, I filled one of Madame’s pitchers with some of the remaining water and laboriously took it and a cup in to Sam. He was propped up on what my Aunt Sally used to call a fainting couch, squinting at a book by candlelight.
“It sounds worse than it is,” he said after he had drained the cup twice. “My fever has gone down. I’m getting better.” He gave an unhappy smile. “At least it isn’t mustard gas. That’s the worst.”
“Dean’s worried about you.” I told him, and he nodded, too-long hair falling in his eyes.
“Dean’s like that,” he said quietly. “He’s always been like that. Back home, if one of our neighbors was sick or hurt, Dean would hurry through his chores at home and go milk someone else’s cows or feed their chickens or whatever needed doing. He’s too tender-hearted to be a vet or a doctor, but when it comes to practical help, ask anybody in Lawrence, Dean Winchester is the one who’ll come through every time.” There was a touching note of pride in his voice.
How at odds that description was with the man who’d wanted to wash his hands and walk away from a plague-filled house! Thinking of the crutch he’d made for me and the formidable amount of digging he’d done to bury six strangers, his actions told the story better than his words did.
When Sam swiped his hair back from his face again, I offered to fetch Madame’s kitchen scissors and play barber. I wasn’t joking---I’ve passed enough time in your uncle’s barber shop to feel confident that I wouldn’t botch the job---and neither was Sam when he shook his head.
“This is probably going to sound foolish, but being named Sam, and all, I’m kind of superstitious,” he told me. “Mamma cut my hair the night before I enlisted. She didn’t know I was going to enlist, she just thought I was due for a trim. I figure as long as nobody else cuts my hair until she does, I’ll make it back okay.”
That simple faith seemed very much in keeping with Dean’s disclosure, that Sam had seen a divine purpose in reaching the farmhouse. I agreed with that as well, for if not for Dean’s rescue and Sam’s medical skills I would be a prisoner-of-war or dead.
“These Army haircuts don’t suit me, either,” I said. “I’m looking forward to visiting Uncle Hiram’s Barber Shop when I get back home, of sitting in that red-leather covered chair and enjoying a splash of Bay Rum after my shave and haircut.”
“”Usually I comb it back and tuck it under my cap,” Sam admitted. “With the med corps, though, we’re so life-or-death busy most of the time that no one’s really gotten onto me about it.”
Sam drank some more water, and seemed inclined to return to his book. I felt as if my errand had alleviated my debt to him in some tiny measure, and this time, when I reclined on the benches, my eyes grew heavy and I was finally able to rest.
After my long and arduous day, I slept quite well. If there was a rooster on the farm, he performed very poorly, for it was long past sunrise when I awoke.
Dean was shaking me. “Bill, wake up! There are German troops coming up the valley! Come on, move!”
My leg stabbed fire as I sat up, and the previous day’s events flooded over me. Dean’s BAR was slung over his shoulder and he had Sam’s pistol in his other hand.
“What are we going to do?” Sam asked from the parlor doorway.
There were shouts close by. I didn’t understand their language, but their proximity was alarming. These fellows sounded rowdier than last night’s visitors, more likely to stomp in to investigate.
“This is what we’re going to do,” Dean said decisively, laying the Browning on the table near mine and following it with his remaining cartridges. “I’m going out to the shed; I’ll try to draw them away with the bike while you guys lay low.”
“You’ll need that,” Sam said looking at the gun, but his brother shook his head.
“I’ll have my knife and your pistol,” he said, but I noticed with alarm that he had only one round, chambered, and was leaving the rest of the bullets for me. “That’s all I need.”
Sam would have protested, but Dean rested a hand on his shoulder, said, “Take care of yourself, Sammy” and, tucking the pistol under the tail of his uniform shirt, was out the back door before we could forestall his exit or propose another plan.
He didn’t even make it as far as the shed; we heard an outcry from nearby, and a moment later, Dean walked past the kitchen window, followed at several paces by three enemy soldiers. More approached from the other direction---clearly they had encircled the farmhouse, and we would be invaded momentarily unless Dean’s fast-talking or the banners worked.
One of them advanced to within a few feet of him, and they stood talking as we peered at them. Leaning against the wall beside the window, gripping his brother’s rifle, Sam explained that Dean had learned more French than “la grippe” during his service, and I prayed that his powers of persuasion were capable of bamboozling our invaders.
Dean motioned toward the house, indicated the hanging sheets and grave and shook his head. The soldier who seemed to be in charge nodded solemnly. He waved his hand, indicating the valley, and one of his comrades interrupted with a comment that made the other men chuckle. Sam must have been holding his breath; Dean was in uniform and could have been shot on sight. My own nerves were wound tight with anxiety.
We were far enough away that we couldn’t hear what was being said, not that I speak much in the way of French or German---please, thank you, nothing complicated. Their conversation didn’t seem to be hostile; at one point, the German picked up a stick and began scratching something in the dirt, accompanying that with still more gestures.
And then…he began to walk away. The men who had intercepted Dean on his way to the shed followed him, leaving Dean to stand there and watch them go.
He stood there for what seemed to us a very long time until the soldiers were well out of sight. When he turned and walked back toward the house, his pace was slower than I had yet seen him do anything.
When he entered the kitchen and closed the door behind him, Dean leaned back against it, so pale that for the first time I noticed a dusting of freckles across his face.
“Peace,” he said hoarsely as we badgered him for news. “They’ve signed the Armistice---the war is over!” And with that, he sank down as if his knees had given way, huddling against the door and shaking as if with chills.
Sam laughed, for the first time looking as youthful as he actually was. He crouched down and embraced his brother, while I set down my BAR and allowed myself to dwell on thoughts of home and returning to you and my folks. Peace, Ellen---how precious it is.
A while later, after he had picked himself up and gone out to the well for fresh water, again taking his time, Dean explained that the drawing in the dirt and arm-waving had been the obliging German setting him straight on directions to find the hospital he’d set out for.
With no more fighting to be done, rejoining the rest of the army was not an immediate priority. Leaning on my crutch, I investigated the hen house for eggs, Dean cooked us a huge breakfast of eggs and ham and homemade biscuits. The amber gleam of a jar of honey reminded me that soon I would be able to run my hands through your golden tresses.
Later, we availed ourselves of Madame’s lavender soap and washtub to launder our uniforms and ourselves. Dean retrieved some of the farmer’s clean clothes for me so that I could attempt to clean and mend my uniform before reporting for treatment, as surplus uniforms were not easily procured. He, too, was wore carefully patched garments. Sam was swathed in one of Madame’s clean blankets, for his beanpole form would have looked absurd in the available clothes, which barely fitted Dean and myself.
Sam sat on a bench in the sunlight, hardly coughing at all. Madame’s sewing box provided us with the means to sew up rips and bullet holes when they had dried, although the bloodstains on my pants were still visible shadows.
It was, I must say, a very peaceful day. In the evening, we dined on ham with potatoes and carrots, and Dean brought a bottle of wine up from the cellar.
“To peace!” Dean toasted.
“To home!” Sam proposed in turn.
I looked around, and while peace and home are both sacred things, especially when both have been lacking, it seemed to me somewhat hollow. “To Madame,” I said somberly, “and to her family, whose fine hospitality we have enjoyed here. I’m very sorry that they can’t enjoy this celebration with us.”
“Here, here,” Sam and Dean seconded.
On the following day, I took my leave of them. Dean reattached the sidecar to the cycle and delivered me without difficulty to the triage station. He helped me to my feet, handed me my crutch and shook my hand.
I did not see either of them again.
The doctor who examined my wound pronounced the repair serviceable. I rested on a pallet and woke some hours later shivering and feverish. The war had not killed me, but for some days it was thought that the Spanish Lady might. That worry is past; I will return to you as soon as I am able, my darling Ellen, and I will never leave your side again.
Thank God for my deliverance from the hazards of war and pestilence, and I thank Him as well for those blessed brothers who were my saviors.
Yours with all my heart,
Pvt. William A Harvelle
(Bill)
***
Comment, please?
.