Heartsong, Chapter 6: Let Me Be Enough
I heard the commotion at the other end of the hospital tent — would’ve had to have been bloody deaf to miss it — but didn’t rush over straight away. I had my own set of patients to attend to, and was right in the middle of dressing a shrapnel wound to the leg when I heard raised voices. Marthe had that section, and I knew she could handle herself, so I barely cast a curious glance in that direction before reassuring my patient that I was almost finished.
“I understand that you are upset, monsieur, but I cannot allow you to—”
Suddenly there was a great crash and a metal clang, and that brought me abruptly to my feet. Violence against nurses was unfortunately all too common, especially when soldiers were delirious from infection or analgesics. If she needed help restraining someone, I was strong and capable.
“What’s going on?” I called, already halfway down the aisle when I saw a soldier on his feet, hands braced on Marthe’s shoulders, though I couldn’t tell if he was holding onto her for balance or trying to harm her. Breaking into a run, I called out again, but Marthe only turned to glance at me imploringly.
“I am ‘aving a ‘ard time understanding ‘is accent,” she explained as I reached them.
Scowling, the patient lapsed into perfect French and told her she should have said so. Marthe blinked in surprise, but had barely begun to apologize when I cut in.
“I’m rather good with accents. Tell me what the matter is, soldier.”
“I need to get to the surgical tent,” he explained in what was, to Marthe’s credit, quite a thick Highland brogue. At once, my heart softened by a degree, as it always did when I met a Scot. “My friend was badly wounded by an S-mine, and I need to see him. Please. They’ve no’ let me leave this bed and it’s been three days now.”
Subtly, Marthe touched my arm and managed to direct my attention downward from the soldier’s beseeching face to the bandaged, amputated knee hanging beneath him. It seemed the poor fellow’s friend hadn’t been the only one struck by the goddamned Bouncing Betty. They were horrific death machines, time-delayed by four seconds before springing into the air and discharging hundreds of bullets and shrapnel right at waist level.
“First thing’s first, I need you to sit down,” I told him kindly but firmly, and before he could even draw a breath to object, I pointed out, “If you rip open your stitches, the doctor won’t let me take you anywhere. Let me get a look at that leg, and then we’ll try to find out more about your friend. Agreed?”
The Scot looked for a moment as though he might cry, but nodded in resignation and sank slowly back down onto his cot. As I knelt in front of him, assessing the white linen bandage for blood, Marthe and I spoke quietly and agreed to swap assignments. It was clear that this man was not dangerous, only desperate, but it was always better if we could keep the tent peaceful; we were already asking these poor chaps to heal in a field hospital miles from home, so the least we could do was avoid disruption.
“What’s your name, soldier?” I asked as I began to unwrap his bandage to check the sutures.
“Lance Corporal Murray, ma’am.”
“First Lieutenant Beauchamp,” I returned, and glanced up with a weak flicker of a smile. “But you can call me Claire.”
