Wind at Dawn (Noble Things)- October 1917
Title: Wind at Dawn (Noble Things)
Artist name: tringic
Pairing: Pinto
Genre: angst, h/c, romance, AU
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~47,000
Warnings/Spoilers: Highlight to reveal. War. Death- dead bodies, shooting, etc. Blood. Religion. French. Latin. Suicide-minor character. infant death- minor character. homophobia. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. Really, truly, I mean it, ANGST AND MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH.
Summary: In the chaos of the Great War, Zach is a medic in a camp hospital in Soissons, France. When he meets an American soldier named Chris with a gunshot wound, both their lives change.
Disclaimer: in case the fact that it's set a hundred years ago didn't tip you off, THIS IS FICTION. ENTIRELY MADE UP. NOT BASED IN REALITY AT ALL. and yeah, i'm not getting paid either.
A/N:
Part 1: to my amazing artist, tringic , OMG THANK YOU. to my fantastic betas, 1lostone and rainbowstrlght, THANK YOU SO MUCH. for all the cheerleading, correcting, suggesting, dissecting. THANK YOU. also to emmessann, who stepped in at the last minute to hold me accountable for all my loose ends, THANK YOU. to medea_fic , for being all around awesome and listening to me whine. and last but not least, to garden_hoe21 and 13empress for nobly keeping me on task when i wanted to do was read fic and pretend i'd never signed up.
Part 2: this is a historical AU. most of my historical knowledge is either much earlier or much later, so I tried to research as much as possible, but, in case you didn't know, WWI is kind of a huge topic! i'm sure that there are historical inaccuracies, so if you see them, feel free to point them out. but please know i did try to stick as close as i could to authenticity.
likewise the french. i have studied french, but not in many years, so i'm quite sure that there are errors, whether of vocab or syntax or usage. please feel free to point them out.
Part 3: the fanmix was made by rainbowstrlght , and is amazing! hooray! additionally, if you're interested, while i was writing i listened to a lot of Arvo Part (esp his Te Deum) and also to Eric Whitaker. Tallis, Britten, and Tavener were also along for the ride.
Part 4: HAPPY BIRTHDAY amerasu1013 ! here bb, i tied a ribbon on it and everything! happy reading!
Link to art: http://tringic.livejournal.com/19447.html
Link to mix: http://rainbowstrlght.livejournal.com/199245.html
October 1917
27th oct 1917
rained today. lots. cold, drizzly rain. the church itself is dry enough, though damp, but when i went to get bread from the corner, i got wet all through. bodes ill for the pneumatics.
had a letter from ma saying that she’s well. joe, too, last she heard. mrs. whiteside up the street said to say her daughter sends her regard. that girl. golly. paris is not far enough.
had a new batch of soldiers come in from the front today, mucking up the floors with their mud and blood and tears. mostly not too bad- shrapnel wounds, gunshots. they’ll live.
or they won’t.
there’s at least one yank. françois pointed him out. unconscious, and in frenchie blue, so who knows why he thinks he’s one of mine. kid looks all of 15. when he wakes up, if he wakes up, then. then. we’ll see.
29 oct. 1917
monday again. not that it matters, not here. our work flows on different tides.
saw a hospital boat last night on the Aisne- all lit up. lights for the red cross, little green fairy lights all over the rest of it. lovely, really. floating through the dark like that.
off-loaded some patients onto it in the afternoon- gilles, who likes checkers so much, and jack warren, who would sing hymns on sundays. bunch of others. i expect i’ll eventually forget them all, or try to.
most, anyway.
so-called yank hasn’t woken up yet. fevered. he’s been shot in the shoulder, nothing complicated, but didn’t get cleaned fast enough. also, seems to have dragged his leg on something- has a nasty gash on his right calf, also slightly infected.
françois has decided that he is my patient. God knows why. In case he wakes up and really is a yank?
he sleeps. i wait.
30 oct. 1917
still raining. had been so nice. indian summer, we’d call it at home. don’t know what they call it here- don’t really have indians. warm, sunny, bright even though the shadows are getting long. at least the rain has gotten rid of the flies, they were making the patients crazy. hard to swat flies with your arm in a sling, and they do love the blood.
the coughing has gone up as predicted. we’ve got enough blankets for the time being, but other than that there’s not much we can do to keep the boys warm.
it’ll be a long winter.
planning to sleep on the ward tonight- someone should stay up and take tea to the coughers, and fr. louis has done it the last two nights.
so-called yank still out. am honestly surprised he’s lasted this long- wound is definitely infected. oozing, red. he must be fresh off the boat to have an immune system this strong. i may not have the full proper training of some of the others, but i’ve seen enough to know when it’s bad. more than enough.
still, jury is out.
30 oct. 1917
actually, is probably the 31st now. i can hear père louis reciting the Te Deum in the corner. he told me once that technically it is only required to recite the Te Deum at Sunday Matins, but he figures at this point we can all use all the prayers we can get.
can’t argue with that.
Miserere nostri domine, miserere nostri.
Fiat misericordia tua,
Domine, super nos, quemadmodum speravimus in te.
In te, Domine, speravi:
non confundar in aeternum.
so-called yank’s fever has been rising all night. i had françois help me clean his wounds earlier. had some rotgut gin mme. bauchard up the street brought down a week ago. been using it here and there. could peel paint with the damn stuff. had françois hold him down, and washed his shoulder real good. at least got it so it doesn’t smell. his fever’s been going up ever since- it’ll either break soon, or he’ll be dead by morning.
hoping he wakes up at least long enough to give a name.
i hate it when they’re unidentified.
31 oct. 1917
so-called made it through the night. fever broke around dawn. i’d been keeping cold cloths on his head, since most of the others had been sleeping well. thought i’d try and help him out. all of a sudden he just relaxed, sighed. thought for a moment he was gone, but then he smiled in his sleep and i could tell his temperature had dropped.
merci a Dieu.
i need sleep. must be nearing dix heures. here comes jean and sr. marie-claude to take over.
31 oct. 1917
church is busy tonight. All Hallows Eve. the cemetery behind the church is full of women with flowers, with holy water, with hands and faces and voices and tears. tomorrow is a day of obligation- the main church will not be opened, since it is full of dying men in beds, but the side chapel will be. mass will be held on the ward by père louis for all who want to participate. also, turns out john simpkins with the cracked skull was working toward being rev. simpkins in the lutheran church, so hey, something for everyone.
something comforting about All Hallows Eve. know that’s not how it’s supposed to be, but I’ve always thought so. candles, voices, prayers. surge of faithful humanity bearing us all along. who needs faith with so many to have it for you?
éternelle accorder un repos pour eux, Seigneur,
et laisser la lumière perpétuelle
Zach jumps nearly a foot at the touch of a hand on his sleeve, pen skittering to blotch across the page.
“Puis-je avoir un peu d'eau s'il vous plait?”
So-called Yank is awake at last, Zach thinks with satisfaction. Though his French is flawless. Perhaps Francois is wrong after all.
“Oui, bien sûr. Un moment, d’accord?” Zach unfolds himself from the chair, stretching his stiff muscles as he stands. He leans to the side, hears his neck crack. There is a cup on the floor from earlier- he had been wetting the lips of the unconscious patients, So-called Yank among them. He grabs it, and makes the brief trek across the cold flagstones to the end of the ward. Looks like the rain barrel is running low- he’ll have to make sure to tell Marc, so a fresh one can be rolled in. At least the never-ending rain is good for something.
Zach returns, handing the boy the cup carefully. He is still weak, and his hands tremble lightly. He drinks slowly, clearly resisting the urge to drain the cup immediately. He’s well-trained, whoever he is.
“Merci beaucoup.”
His voice is rusty with disuse, and his hair is short cropped, sticking up all over his head. It’s filthy enough that it’s hard to tell the color, but it’s certainly fairer than Zach’s own, he thinks. Blue eyes, surprisingly luminous in the dim light of the sparingly rationed electric bulbs. He finds himself wondering what color they would be in the sun. Cerulean? Azure? Cobalt?
Zach is absorbed enough in examining his waking features that he nearly misses the increasingly desperate expression forming on the boy’s face. “Ah,” he asked quickly, “le basin?”
A flush rises swiftly in the boy’s pale cheeks. He ducks his head in embarrassment. “Non, non, je peux marcher!”
Zach rolls his eyes. “Like bloody hell you can. You just woke up!” he mutters impatiently. Honestly, who cares about modesty after being in a trench for weeks? Bedpan in hand, he turns just in time to see the smile that crawls swiftly across the boy’s mouth.
“You’re an American! I had no idea!” The boy’s excitement is obvious and catching.
Zach lifts the sheet and situates him, meeting his eyes and allowing a slow grin in response.
“So you are a Yank after all. François was right- that’s why he assigned you to me, you know. He thought you might be.”
The boy’s grin is contagious. Zach can feel himself giving the first genuine smile he remembers using in weeks. He replaces the pan under the bed, and reaches for a basin and cloth from the nearby cart. “Here, sit up, if you can, carefully.”
He leans forward to help ease the boy to an upright position. The clench of teeth against the discomfort is obvious, but he makes it with only a brief gasp of pain. Zach casts a critical eye over his shoulder- the bandages had been changed the night before, and are not showing any fresh staining. They’ll hold for a bit, he decides- there are no red lines showing underneath them, and the stench of infection is mostly gone.
“So. Talk,” Zach declares, glancing at the boy from the corner of his eye. “I haven’t heard another Yank talk in… God, I have no idea how long. Months.” He lifts the cloth from the steaming water, wrings it out.
“Well…” the boy laughs briefly. “What do you want to know? I mean, this isn’t how I usually make someone’s acquaintance. Making le bavardage seems a little… odd?” he laughs again.
Zach smiles to himself as he pushes the boy’s shoulders forward to reach the middle of his back with the cloth. “Well, let’s start with a name. You do know you’re unidentified, right?” He leans around to see the boy’s face. “Francois knew you were American, I’m not sure how, but that’s all we knew. You came in dressed in Frenchie blues, no tags, no letters.” He dips the cloth again, swishing it through the basin.
“Chris.”
Zach blinks.
“My name is Chris. I was - I am with the First Division. Came over here… well, I guess I don’t know when. I don’t know what day it is.”
“It’s the thirty-first of October.”
Chris chuckles again. “Halloween? That’s a laugh. I guess that means…I’ve been over here nearly a month. We put in to shore on the third, at Calais.” He rubs a hand through his hair, grimaces. “I don’t… I don’t really remember what happened.”
The cloth has become grey with grime. Zach rinses it a third time, raising it to Chris’ uninjured shoulder, rubbing past freckles with firm strokes down to his elbow.
“I can’t really tell you anything” Zach frowns pensively, scratches at the edge of his jaw. “We got a passel of soldiers in late one night, all kinds. Lot of Tommies, some Frenchies, one Jerry and the odd man from Oz. And you. There must have been some shooting, some shelling. You got shot-” he gestures pointedly to the bandages “-in case you hadn’t figured that out. You also cut your leg on something, and banged your head. Or had your head banged for you. But I don’t know any details. Our information is always spotty at best.” He looks down at his hands, knuckle deep in the cooling water. The distortion of the water makes them wavery, knotted, old. “You were lucky.” A glance at Chris’ face, and he looks older, solemn, as men do when faced with their own death. Zach looks away, chews his lip, blinks. “Oh. And I’m Zachary.”
The sun is warm on his neck as Zach rolls his head loosely to and fro. The massive kettles in front of him bubble greasily, and the belching fumes make his eyes sting even though he’s upwind. Still, at least it isn’t raining. He tips his head back and closes his eyes, letting the sun’s heat play across his face.
“Ey! Paresseux! Retourne-toi au travaille!”
Zach squints open a reluctant eye open to see Francois laughing at him from the edge of the courtyard. He grins lazily, and bats a hand at Francois’ general direction.
“Ahh, get lost. I’m working, I’m working.”
One last stretch, then he reaches resignedly for the large wooden paddle. In a previous incarnation it had pulled loaves from large ovens in the patisserie in the Rue de Jean D’Arc, but now it is cracked and dark with service as a laundry paddle. Three enormous kettles in front of him froth with lye, instantaneously killing the myriad lice, fleas, bedbugs, and other nasties that live on all the wounded men when they first arrive. It is an arduous and never-ending battle, but one that PèreLouis never gives up on, and Zach finds himself in whole-hearted agreement. It is hard, frequent, back-breaking labor to clean the sheets and towels and bandages for this many patients on a weekly basis, but it is absolutely necessary. It keeps the men as comfortable as possible, it cuts down on disease outbreaks, and it also helps keep the staff as parasite free as possible, for which Zach is endlessly appreciative.
He shoves the paddle in deep, pushing the sodden linens around in the pot, the boiling water slopping messily to hiss on the fires below. The day is cool with a hint of a breeze, but the air near the kettles is sweltering. Zach wipes sweat from his forehead with his shirtsleeve, and feels his face split into a smile as he catches a glimpse of a familiar figure settling into a chair under the eaves.
“Oi, Jean!” He catches the attention of another staffer, and waves the man over, “your turn!” The man grimaces, but takes the proffered paddle wordlessly from Zach’s hand. Zach claps him gratefully on the back, and turns to lope across the grass toward the shade.
Chris is sitting before a table, a basin of water, a bar of soap, and a mirror in front of him. There is a look of intense concentration on his face as he carefully unfolds a razor and grasps it firmly.
“Hey- what are you…” Zach stares, watching in puzzlement as Chris awkwardly changes his grip on the handle again. “Oh. Ohh. Here-” He reaches out firmly and takes the razor from Chris’ hand. “Here. Scoot your chair back. There, good.”
“Hi Zach.” His smile is toothy and bright. “I’m shaving. Except, my right hand is strapped to me because of this silly bunch of stitches I seem to have. So, really, I’m about to slit my throat.” He grins wider. “How very nice to see you.”
Zach chuckles, settling so that he’s perched on the edge of the table facing Chris. He grabs the bar of soap, dunking it in the water, and rubbing it vigorously between his palms, building a lather. Chris obligingly tips his head back, exposing his neck and chin to the cool morning air, leaning forward to Zach’s touch in an unusual display of trust.
“So. I see you’re up and about.” Zach grasps his chin in one hand, tilting his jaw to rub suds over the left side of Chris’ face.
“Yeah. Père Louis says my leg should be fine soon. The infection is mostly better in my shoulder, but he says it’s nowhere near ready for the stitches to come out.”
Zach nods absently, rubbing the rest of the soap across Chris’ chin toward his shirt before rinsing his hands. He flips open the razor with a practiced flick.
“That’s good.” He tests the blade lightly with his thumb. Sharp. A slow, even, glide beginning at the edge of Chris’ ear and moving down along the line of his jaw, then rinsing the blade. “Hey.” His brow furrows with concentration. “I’m curious. How old are you, anyway? I mean, the first time I saw you laying in that bed, I would have sworn you weren’t old enough to have your voice drop, let alone need a shave.”
Chris looks offended. “I’m nineteen. Plenty old enough to enlist. I’m no child.”
“Huh. Really?” Zach tips Chris’ chin up, stroking the blade up from the base of his neck in clean, straight lines, before pausing briefly to look him in the eye. “I wouldn’t tell, you know.”
Chris squints down the bridge of his nose, cross eyed from the angle. “No, I’m not joshing you. Nineteen in August, enlisted the day after my birthday.” He turns his head the other way, giving Zach access to the other side of his face. “Why, what are you, some kind of old man?” He doesn’t smile, leery of the keen edge of the razor, but his eyes twinkle.
Zach snorts. “Not hardly. I’m…” He pauses, thinks for a minute. “I’ll be twenty-three next year.”
He rinses the blade, shaking droplets of water to the stones below. His thumb presses gently into the curve of Chris’ bottom lip as he leans in to scrape the last of the soap from the corner of the other man’s mouth.
“Maybe I am.” He raises his eyes to Chris’ and feels a sudden jolt. He hasn’t realized how close he’s leaned. He pulls his hand back, straightens up. Rinses the blade and dries it, folding it away before glancing back to the question in Chris’ eyes.
Zach sighs. “Old. Maybe I’m just a sad old man.”
1) O Lord, have mercy upon us: have mercy upon us.
O Lord, let thy mercy lighten upon us :
as our trust is in thee.
O Lord, in thee have I trusted :
let me never be confounded.
2) dix heures - ten o’clock
3) merci a Dieu- thanks be to God
3) éternelle accorder un repos pour eux, Seigneur,
et laisser la lumière perpétuelle - eternal rest grant them, O Lord, and let light perpetual…
4) “Puis-je avoir un peu d'eau s'il vous plait?” - “Can I have a little water, please?”
5) “Oui, bien sûr. Un moment, d’accord?” - “Yes, of course. Just a moment, ok?”
6) “Merci beaucoup.” - “Thanks very much”
7) “le basin”- the bedpan
8) “Non, non, je peux marcher!”- “No, no, I can walk!”
9) le bavardage- chitchat
10) “Ey! Paresseux! Retourne-toi au travaille!” - “Hey! Lazy! Get back to work!”
next
Artist name: tringic
Pairing: Pinto
Genre: angst, h/c, romance, AU
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~47,000
Warnings/Spoilers: Highlight to reveal. War. Death- dead bodies, shooting, etc. Blood. Religion. French. Latin. Suicide-minor character. infant death- minor character. homophobia. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. Really, truly, I mean it, ANGST AND MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH.
Summary: In the chaos of the Great War, Zach is a medic in a camp hospital in Soissons, France. When he meets an American soldier named Chris with a gunshot wound, both their lives change.
Disclaimer: in case the fact that it's set a hundred years ago didn't tip you off, THIS IS FICTION. ENTIRELY MADE UP. NOT BASED IN REALITY AT ALL. and yeah, i'm not getting paid either.
A/N:
Part 1: to my amazing artist, tringic , OMG THANK YOU. to my fantastic betas, 1lostone and rainbowstrlght, THANK YOU SO MUCH. for all the cheerleading, correcting, suggesting, dissecting. THANK YOU. also to emmessann, who stepped in at the last minute to hold me accountable for all my loose ends, THANK YOU. to medea_fic , for being all around awesome and listening to me whine. and last but not least, to garden_hoe21 and 13empress for nobly keeping me on task when i wanted to do was read fic and pretend i'd never signed up.
Part 2: this is a historical AU. most of my historical knowledge is either much earlier or much later, so I tried to research as much as possible, but, in case you didn't know, WWI is kind of a huge topic! i'm sure that there are historical inaccuracies, so if you see them, feel free to point them out. but please know i did try to stick as close as i could to authenticity.
likewise the french. i have studied french, but not in many years, so i'm quite sure that there are errors, whether of vocab or syntax or usage. please feel free to point them out.
Part 3: the fanmix was made by rainbowstrlght , and is amazing! hooray! additionally, if you're interested, while i was writing i listened to a lot of Arvo Part (esp his Te Deum) and also to Eric Whitaker. Tallis, Britten, and Tavener were also along for the ride.
Part 4: HAPPY BIRTHDAY amerasu1013 ! here bb, i tied a ribbon on it and everything! happy reading!
Link to art: http://tringic.livejournal.com/19447.html
Link to mix: http://rainbowstrlght.livejournal.com/199245.html
October 1917
27th oct 1917
rained today. lots. cold, drizzly rain. the church itself is dry enough, though damp, but when i went to get bread from the corner, i got wet all through. bodes ill for the pneumatics.
had a letter from ma saying that she’s well. joe, too, last she heard. mrs. whiteside up the street said to say her daughter sends her regard. that girl. golly. paris is not far enough.
had a new batch of soldiers come in from the front today, mucking up the floors with their mud and blood and tears. mostly not too bad- shrapnel wounds, gunshots. they’ll live.
or they won’t.
there’s at least one yank. françois pointed him out. unconscious, and in frenchie blue, so who knows why he thinks he’s one of mine. kid looks all of 15. when he wakes up, if he wakes up, then. then. we’ll see.
29 oct. 1917
monday again. not that it matters, not here. our work flows on different tides.
saw a hospital boat last night on the Aisne- all lit up. lights for the red cross, little green fairy lights all over the rest of it. lovely, really. floating through the dark like that.
off-loaded some patients onto it in the afternoon- gilles, who likes checkers so much, and jack warren, who would sing hymns on sundays. bunch of others. i expect i’ll eventually forget them all, or try to.
most, anyway.
so-called yank hasn’t woken up yet. fevered. he’s been shot in the shoulder, nothing complicated, but didn’t get cleaned fast enough. also, seems to have dragged his leg on something- has a nasty gash on his right calf, also slightly infected.
françois has decided that he is my patient. God knows why. In case he wakes up and really is a yank?
he sleeps. i wait.
30 oct. 1917
still raining. had been so nice. indian summer, we’d call it at home. don’t know what they call it here- don’t really have indians. warm, sunny, bright even though the shadows are getting long. at least the rain has gotten rid of the flies, they were making the patients crazy. hard to swat flies with your arm in a sling, and they do love the blood.
the coughing has gone up as predicted. we’ve got enough blankets for the time being, but other than that there’s not much we can do to keep the boys warm.
it’ll be a long winter.
planning to sleep on the ward tonight- someone should stay up and take tea to the coughers, and fr. louis has done it the last two nights.
so-called yank still out. am honestly surprised he’s lasted this long- wound is definitely infected. oozing, red. he must be fresh off the boat to have an immune system this strong. i may not have the full proper training of some of the others, but i’ve seen enough to know when it’s bad. more than enough.
still, jury is out.
30 oct. 1917
actually, is probably the 31st now. i can hear père louis reciting the Te Deum in the corner. he told me once that technically it is only required to recite the Te Deum at Sunday Matins, but he figures at this point we can all use all the prayers we can get.
can’t argue with that.
Miserere nostri domine, miserere nostri.
Fiat misericordia tua,
Domine, super nos, quemadmodum speravimus in te.
In te, Domine, speravi:
non confundar in aeternum.
so-called yank’s fever has been rising all night. i had françois help me clean his wounds earlier. had some rotgut gin mme. bauchard up the street brought down a week ago. been using it here and there. could peel paint with the damn stuff. had françois hold him down, and washed his shoulder real good. at least got it so it doesn’t smell. his fever’s been going up ever since- it’ll either break soon, or he’ll be dead by morning.
hoping he wakes up at least long enough to give a name.
i hate it when they’re unidentified.
31 oct. 1917
so-called made it through the night. fever broke around dawn. i’d been keeping cold cloths on his head, since most of the others had been sleeping well. thought i’d try and help him out. all of a sudden he just relaxed, sighed. thought for a moment he was gone, but then he smiled in his sleep and i could tell his temperature had dropped.
merci a Dieu.
i need sleep. must be nearing dix heures. here comes jean and sr. marie-claude to take over.
31 oct. 1917
church is busy tonight. All Hallows Eve. the cemetery behind the church is full of women with flowers, with holy water, with hands and faces and voices and tears. tomorrow is a day of obligation- the main church will not be opened, since it is full of dying men in beds, but the side chapel will be. mass will be held on the ward by père louis for all who want to participate. also, turns out john simpkins with the cracked skull was working toward being rev. simpkins in the lutheran church, so hey, something for everyone.
something comforting about All Hallows Eve. know that’s not how it’s supposed to be, but I’ve always thought so. candles, voices, prayers. surge of faithful humanity bearing us all along. who needs faith with so many to have it for you?
éternelle accorder un repos pour eux, Seigneur,
et laisser la lumière perpétuelle
Zach jumps nearly a foot at the touch of a hand on his sleeve, pen skittering to blotch across the page.
“Puis-je avoir un peu d'eau s'il vous plait?”
So-called Yank is awake at last, Zach thinks with satisfaction. Though his French is flawless. Perhaps Francois is wrong after all.
“Oui, bien sûr. Un moment, d’accord?” Zach unfolds himself from the chair, stretching his stiff muscles as he stands. He leans to the side, hears his neck crack. There is a cup on the floor from earlier- he had been wetting the lips of the unconscious patients, So-called Yank among them. He grabs it, and makes the brief trek across the cold flagstones to the end of the ward. Looks like the rain barrel is running low- he’ll have to make sure to tell Marc, so a fresh one can be rolled in. At least the never-ending rain is good for something.
Zach returns, handing the boy the cup carefully. He is still weak, and his hands tremble lightly. He drinks slowly, clearly resisting the urge to drain the cup immediately. He’s well-trained, whoever he is.
“Merci beaucoup.”
His voice is rusty with disuse, and his hair is short cropped, sticking up all over his head. It’s filthy enough that it’s hard to tell the color, but it’s certainly fairer than Zach’s own, he thinks. Blue eyes, surprisingly luminous in the dim light of the sparingly rationed electric bulbs. He finds himself wondering what color they would be in the sun. Cerulean? Azure? Cobalt?
Zach is absorbed enough in examining his waking features that he nearly misses the increasingly desperate expression forming on the boy’s face. “Ah,” he asked quickly, “le basin?”
A flush rises swiftly in the boy’s pale cheeks. He ducks his head in embarrassment. “Non, non, je peux marcher!”
Zach rolls his eyes. “Like bloody hell you can. You just woke up!” he mutters impatiently. Honestly, who cares about modesty after being in a trench for weeks? Bedpan in hand, he turns just in time to see the smile that crawls swiftly across the boy’s mouth.
“You’re an American! I had no idea!” The boy’s excitement is obvious and catching.
Zach lifts the sheet and situates him, meeting his eyes and allowing a slow grin in response.
“So you are a Yank after all. François was right- that’s why he assigned you to me, you know. He thought you might be.”
The boy’s grin is contagious. Zach can feel himself giving the first genuine smile he remembers using in weeks. He replaces the pan under the bed, and reaches for a basin and cloth from the nearby cart. “Here, sit up, if you can, carefully.”
He leans forward to help ease the boy to an upright position. The clench of teeth against the discomfort is obvious, but he makes it with only a brief gasp of pain. Zach casts a critical eye over his shoulder- the bandages had been changed the night before, and are not showing any fresh staining. They’ll hold for a bit, he decides- there are no red lines showing underneath them, and the stench of infection is mostly gone.
“So. Talk,” Zach declares, glancing at the boy from the corner of his eye. “I haven’t heard another Yank talk in… God, I have no idea how long. Months.” He lifts the cloth from the steaming water, wrings it out.
“Well…” the boy laughs briefly. “What do you want to know? I mean, this isn’t how I usually make someone’s acquaintance. Making le bavardage seems a little… odd?” he laughs again.
Zach smiles to himself as he pushes the boy’s shoulders forward to reach the middle of his back with the cloth. “Well, let’s start with a name. You do know you’re unidentified, right?” He leans around to see the boy’s face. “Francois knew you were American, I’m not sure how, but that’s all we knew. You came in dressed in Frenchie blues, no tags, no letters.” He dips the cloth again, swishing it through the basin.
“Chris.”
Zach blinks.
“My name is Chris. I was - I am with the First Division. Came over here… well, I guess I don’t know when. I don’t know what day it is.”
“It’s the thirty-first of October.”
Chris chuckles again. “Halloween? That’s a laugh. I guess that means…I’ve been over here nearly a month. We put in to shore on the third, at Calais.” He rubs a hand through his hair, grimaces. “I don’t… I don’t really remember what happened.”
The cloth has become grey with grime. Zach rinses it a third time, raising it to Chris’ uninjured shoulder, rubbing past freckles with firm strokes down to his elbow.
“I can’t really tell you anything” Zach frowns pensively, scratches at the edge of his jaw. “We got a passel of soldiers in late one night, all kinds. Lot of Tommies, some Frenchies, one Jerry and the odd man from Oz. And you. There must have been some shooting, some shelling. You got shot-” he gestures pointedly to the bandages “-in case you hadn’t figured that out. You also cut your leg on something, and banged your head. Or had your head banged for you. But I don’t know any details. Our information is always spotty at best.” He looks down at his hands, knuckle deep in the cooling water. The distortion of the water makes them wavery, knotted, old. “You were lucky.” A glance at Chris’ face, and he looks older, solemn, as men do when faced with their own death. Zach looks away, chews his lip, blinks. “Oh. And I’m Zachary.”
The sun is warm on his neck as Zach rolls his head loosely to and fro. The massive kettles in front of him bubble greasily, and the belching fumes make his eyes sting even though he’s upwind. Still, at least it isn’t raining. He tips his head back and closes his eyes, letting the sun’s heat play across his face.
“Ey! Paresseux! Retourne-toi au travaille!”
Zach squints open a reluctant eye open to see Francois laughing at him from the edge of the courtyard. He grins lazily, and bats a hand at Francois’ general direction.
“Ahh, get lost. I’m working, I’m working.”
One last stretch, then he reaches resignedly for the large wooden paddle. In a previous incarnation it had pulled loaves from large ovens in the patisserie in the Rue de Jean D’Arc, but now it is cracked and dark with service as a laundry paddle. Three enormous kettles in front of him froth with lye, instantaneously killing the myriad lice, fleas, bedbugs, and other nasties that live on all the wounded men when they first arrive. It is an arduous and never-ending battle, but one that PèreLouis never gives up on, and Zach finds himself in whole-hearted agreement. It is hard, frequent, back-breaking labor to clean the sheets and towels and bandages for this many patients on a weekly basis, but it is absolutely necessary. It keeps the men as comfortable as possible, it cuts down on disease outbreaks, and it also helps keep the staff as parasite free as possible, for which Zach is endlessly appreciative.
He shoves the paddle in deep, pushing the sodden linens around in the pot, the boiling water slopping messily to hiss on the fires below. The day is cool with a hint of a breeze, but the air near the kettles is sweltering. Zach wipes sweat from his forehead with his shirtsleeve, and feels his face split into a smile as he catches a glimpse of a familiar figure settling into a chair under the eaves.
“Oi, Jean!” He catches the attention of another staffer, and waves the man over, “your turn!” The man grimaces, but takes the proffered paddle wordlessly from Zach’s hand. Zach claps him gratefully on the back, and turns to lope across the grass toward the shade.
Chris is sitting before a table, a basin of water, a bar of soap, and a mirror in front of him. There is a look of intense concentration on his face as he carefully unfolds a razor and grasps it firmly.
“Hey- what are you…” Zach stares, watching in puzzlement as Chris awkwardly changes his grip on the handle again. “Oh. Ohh. Here-” He reaches out firmly and takes the razor from Chris’ hand. “Here. Scoot your chair back. There, good.”
“Hi Zach.” His smile is toothy and bright. “I’m shaving. Except, my right hand is strapped to me because of this silly bunch of stitches I seem to have. So, really, I’m about to slit my throat.” He grins wider. “How very nice to see you.”
Zach chuckles, settling so that he’s perched on the edge of the table facing Chris. He grabs the bar of soap, dunking it in the water, and rubbing it vigorously between his palms, building a lather. Chris obligingly tips his head back, exposing his neck and chin to the cool morning air, leaning forward to Zach’s touch in an unusual display of trust.
“So. I see you’re up and about.” Zach grasps his chin in one hand, tilting his jaw to rub suds over the left side of Chris’ face.
“Yeah. Père Louis says my leg should be fine soon. The infection is mostly better in my shoulder, but he says it’s nowhere near ready for the stitches to come out.”
Zach nods absently, rubbing the rest of the soap across Chris’ chin toward his shirt before rinsing his hands. He flips open the razor with a practiced flick.
“That’s good.” He tests the blade lightly with his thumb. Sharp. A slow, even, glide beginning at the edge of Chris’ ear and moving down along the line of his jaw, then rinsing the blade. “Hey.” His brow furrows with concentration. “I’m curious. How old are you, anyway? I mean, the first time I saw you laying in that bed, I would have sworn you weren’t old enough to have your voice drop, let alone need a shave.”
Chris looks offended. “I’m nineteen. Plenty old enough to enlist. I’m no child.”
“Huh. Really?” Zach tips Chris’ chin up, stroking the blade up from the base of his neck in clean, straight lines, before pausing briefly to look him in the eye. “I wouldn’t tell, you know.”
Chris squints down the bridge of his nose, cross eyed from the angle. “No, I’m not joshing you. Nineteen in August, enlisted the day after my birthday.” He turns his head the other way, giving Zach access to the other side of his face. “Why, what are you, some kind of old man?” He doesn’t smile, leery of the keen edge of the razor, but his eyes twinkle.
Zach snorts. “Not hardly. I’m…” He pauses, thinks for a minute. “I’ll be twenty-three next year.”
He rinses the blade, shaking droplets of water to the stones below. His thumb presses gently into the curve of Chris’ bottom lip as he leans in to scrape the last of the soap from the corner of the other man’s mouth.
“Maybe I am.” He raises his eyes to Chris’ and feels a sudden jolt. He hasn’t realized how close he’s leaned. He pulls his hand back, straightens up. Rinses the blade and dries it, folding it away before glancing back to the question in Chris’ eyes.
Zach sighs. “Old. Maybe I’m just a sad old man.”
1) O Lord, have mercy upon us: have mercy upon us.
O Lord, let thy mercy lighten upon us :
as our trust is in thee.
O Lord, in thee have I trusted :
let me never be confounded.
2) dix heures - ten o’clock
3) merci a Dieu- thanks be to God
3) éternelle accorder un repos pour eux, Seigneur,
et laisser la lumière perpétuelle - eternal rest grant them, O Lord, and let light perpetual…
4) “Puis-je avoir un peu d'eau s'il vous plait?” - “Can I have a little water, please?”
5) “Oui, bien sûr. Un moment, d’accord?” - “Yes, of course. Just a moment, ok?”
6) “Merci beaucoup.” - “Thanks very much”
7) “le basin”- the bedpan
8) “Non, non, je peux marcher!”- “No, no, I can walk!”
9) le bavardage- chitchat
10) “Ey! Paresseux! Retourne-toi au travaille!” - “Hey! Lazy! Get back to work!”
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