LIKE STEEL || Tommy Shelby

I. EVERTHING CHANGES

- EVERYTHING CHANGES -

January, 1916

As shells dropped and gunshots rang through the French hills, a bead of sweat ran down Roseanne King's brow. Despite the frigid coolness of the makeshift medical tent, her cheeks were flushed pink.

"Pass me the sterile bandages, Jennifer," she shouted across the noise of groaning men and bullet fire.

The small, shaking, girl ran through the slippery mud and placed a new roll of fabric into Roseanne's hand. She did not even have time to flinch at the blood that stained her fingers.

The man she was trying to save had been blown apart by a hand-grenade. Even if she worked as fast as she could, he would be lucky to keep any of his limbs.

Her teeth were clenched so tightly that she swore one day they may shatter. She tied a tourniquet around his forearm and then stitched up the wounds in his abdomen, working as quickly as she could. The alcohol she used to clean the gashes stung her hands, but she just shook her head and continued; she did not have time to be in pain anymore.

Her fingers were frozen by the time she finished, the tips purple with cold.

She did all she could do and moved on to the next man down the row.

She did this for the months to come, focusing only on the next person who she would try to save. They had told her when she came to the Somme that the battle would only last a few weeks- a month at worst. But it had been three months and neither side showed any sign of backing down.

As the snow on the front finally thawed, mockingly beautiful wildflowers began to grow on the French countryside.

Every man that passed through the medical building had his own reasons for being there. Most of the time, they blurred together in messes of gory injuries and looks of pain on young faces.

The sun had barely risen before Roseanne was in the tent, prepping for yet another day of stitching and bandaging.

The early morning light cast a pink glow over the camp and without realizing it, a small smile appeared on the woman's face. It was quiet- she had forgotten what quiet was. She had forgotten how nice it was.

It only lasted until the first men began to come over the hill.

The first man was carried in and laid on a cot. He was tall, but his shoulders were hunched. He looked like all the other tunnellers that had made their way to her. He must've been digging all night.

Blood covered his whole shirt, so when she took it off, she wasn't shocked to see not only a bullet wound on his shoulder, but a stab wound opening up his abdomen.

Instead of him screaming or resisting the needle that she sewed him up with, his bright blue eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. He whispered gently, repeating names and commands that were hammered in his brain.

"Drink this, soldier," she muttered, handing him a half empty bottle of whiskey. "I need to get the bullet out."

He just nodded gruffly, swigging from the bottle once, and then again. Slowly but surely, he finished the bottle before she dug her tweezers in to his shoulder.

He cried out, his voice croaking from overuse. He cried out again and again as she dug farther in to his shoulder. He began to bite down on his lip, masking his shouts. She had never- not during any of the hundreds of times she had removed bullets- seen a man with that much restraint. He whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut.

As she searched for the bullet, she put aside her fascination with the soldier on the bed in front of her. She had helped plenty of men, but there was something different about him that she couldn't shake.