A love that never leaves

Chapter 9: I don't do that now

Late June - December, 1942
London, England

Night time in the hospital is peaceful.

Every bed is taken, housing occupants with injuries ranging from broken bones to missing limbs. During the day, a steady stream of chatter and cries of pain will fill every nook and cranny of the sterile hospital, but at night, silence reigns.

Beside a small metal table, she dumps out a basket full of clean clothes. Picking each individual strip, she stretches out the wrinkles, smooths them down, folds it in half, and rolls it into a tight ball. Each bundle goes carefully into the empty basket. Her fingers find a rhythm and the basket begins to fill.

Stretch. Smooth. Fold. Roll.

Out in the rows of sleeping soldiers, the occasional squeak of a bed spring pings as a patient shifts, trying to get comfortable. There's a disgruntled sigh of failure and the place grows quiet again.

On and on she works, until she hears it.

From the rows of broken men, comes a whimper. The sound of a child holding back tears. It is so lost, it cuts to the bone.

She knows that sound.

Slipping back into the ward, she walks silently through the rows of beds, passing men with shattered limbs, men drowning in plaster casts, men who's faces have been scorched away. There in the corner, she finds him. Locked in sleep, his head thrashes back and forth, terrified whimpers pushing past his lips. Bending over him, she sees tear tracks streaking down his cheeks, a sheen of sweat glistening across his forehead.

Tugging a clean cloth from the starched pocket of her pale blue dress, she runs it down his face, wiping away sweat and tears. Still, he makes those hurt noises, and she hears the words "no, please, no, sorry, sorry, sorry," in a panicked whisper.

Out of habit, she glances over her shoulder, but no matter. She is alone with nothing but the soldiers and their nightmares for company.

As she's done so many times before, she can help.

So, she does.

Placing perpetually cold hands on his face, she hums softly, hushing him. The broken whispers stop, but fat tears still leak from his closed eyes. Closing her eyes, she concentrates on what she finds, feeling the strangeness of warmth tickling her palms, no more than a mere second -

Instantly, the tears stop. Still fast asleep, the man sniffles and those hard lines carved into his face relax. In sleep, he looks so young, and really - isn't he? No more than eighteen. Cursed to live in a time when men his age are dying in bunkers and battlefields.

Navigating around the clean white beds, she goes back to work.

The tragedy, is that those dark memories will haunt him all his life, but at least tonight, thanks to her, he finds solace in a dreamless sleep.

Sometimes these small acts of mercy, they are enough.

*****

Late one night, she sits at the front desk filing patient reports. Absorbed in the task, she doesn't hear the man approach until he clears his throat.

"Excuse me, miss."

Looking up, she sees a tall, lanky soldier. Curly black hair frames a broad forehead and deep brown eyes. Dressed in a crisp military uniform, she sees the Lieutenant insignia on his shoulder. Clutched in his right hand, is a knobby cane, and with his left, he doffs his hat and tucks it under his arm.

"I'm sorry to startle you." His accent holds a hint of east London. "I'm here to retrieve yesterday's patient files. Would you know where I might find them?"