Word count; 2,109
Frances
— January 17th, 1945. Displaced Persons Camp, Belgium-France border.
My body welcomed the fresh, crisp air as I inhaled. Unlike the stillness of my dreams, or the sullenness of Bastogne, birdsong twirled throughout the air, alongside the muffled sound of voices going about their daily lives. My eyes took their time to adjust to the bright light of the early morning.
I was on a bed - one of many - sheltered by a large sheet that had been converted into an open tent. Nurses and doctors worked their way around, disappearing off to other similar structures, carrying basins and cloths and supplies. Crates were here and there, acting as work surfaces for the medics. To my right, another bed with another soldier, bandaged everywhere. Briefly, I struggled to remember what brought me here.
Each and every muscle ached, comforted by the lack of movement but frustrated that I ever exerted myself in the first place. My head tossed gently to my left, the straw pillow caressing my cheek. A medic sat on a wooden stool nearby, leaning with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together around a leather band bearing the cross. Instinctively, he looked up.
"E-Eugene?" I whispered.
Unsure whether to be shocked or delighted, he smiled. When I tried to move, he darted up, pressing his hands to my collarbone to keep me down.
"Whoa, whoa." He smiled more. "It's all right."
Hundreds of queries flashed through my mind, yet my voice wouldn't allow them to escape.
"You're all right?"
My lack of answer had him reaching for his canteen, pressing the neck of the bottle to my lips so I could sip some of the water within. An uncertain memory flashed through my mind; another doing the same thing, maybe. Elsewhere.
"Where am I?" I croaked.
He glanced around, "A field hospital. A DPC, just off the border of France."
I nodded, trying to gather my mind. Meanwhile, Eugene returned to his seat, somewhat expecting for there to be nothing more from the encounter.
"How?"
His brows furrowed, "You can't remember anything?"
Some things.
"That's okay." He said assuringly. "It's the trauma. Your mind is shoving out all things ugly."
I savoured the sentence; the last I could remember was the church, a medic finding me on the floor.
"You." I said after a while. "You carried me. To the street."
He flicked through his own memory, wondering when this was. Then, he realised: carried me from the church, put me down, only to return and find me gone. That was just over two weeks ago.
"That's what you remember?"
I nodded. He smiled again, somewhat disappointingly.
"Was there more?"
His head bobbed, "A lot. But that's okay."
A group of soldiers waltzed by the front of the shelter, catching my eye. Oh, yes. There was a lot more. My heart fell.
"I remember." I said, not realising tears were already swelling in my eyelids.
After all, I still wore the shirt of another.
"Do you want to talk about it?" He noticed my sorrow.
"I don't know." I shrugged pathetically. "I can't remember enough."
YOU ARE READING
𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; band of brothers ✔
Historical Fiction𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 "You're either with me or against me, you choose." To Dianne, fearlessness never had a meaning, all because she never had to use it. Up until the paratroopers were involved. [Completed]
