HIS CARETAKER’S hands became the only proof that a world existed beyond the darkness and silence. They soothed the young soldier when he woke in a cold sweat, screaming for help. They stayed to wipe his tears and hold his hand when he couldn’t forget or stop crying.
After one such episode, the hands slowly unwound a strip of cloth encircling the soldier’s head. Dull light filtered through his closed eyelids, and fingers gently pried open one eye and then the other. A blinding light flitted between them. The young soldier yanked his face away, and the bright light disappeared, but it took several minutes and many rapid blinks to clear the tears and spots crowding his vision. He shielded his stinging eyes with an unsteady hand to take in his surroundings for the first time.
Everything appeared unfocused, like the world had been submerged in cloudy water, but the young soldier’s weak eyes could make out shapes and shadows. Dozens of medical beds, identical to the one he lay on, crowded a narrow room with a vaulted ceiling. Patients occupied every bed. He didn’t recognize the field hospital. Its stone walls didn’t match his memory of the medical hospital behind Allied lines, where he’d often visited sick and wounded comrades. His heart raced. Where was he, and who had brought him to this strange place?
He squinted, trying to focus his vision enough to see anything familiar. The frightened eyes of the man in the next bed captured the young soldier’s blurry gaze. Beefy red burns distorted the man’s features, and the young soldier wondered if he’d known the man. Had they charged across no-man’s-land together? Had he been standing near the man when the artillery shell hit?
The man spoke, but the soldier heard only the low buzzing always humming in his ears. He tried to read the man’s charred, swollen lips, but their movement was too fast and frantic to follow.
I’m sorry, he mouthed, and then turned away, shaken by the thought that the artillery blast might have left him looking just as monstrous. He reached up and touched his face. His nose felt swollen and tender beneath his fingers, and a sticky trail of small, raised bumps ran across his forehead like tiny, crooked train tracks. He focused on the fuzzy silhouettes of nurses and doctors weaving between hospital beds, checking vitals and administering drugs in the form of pills and through syringes. His anxiety eased with the care with which the medics treated their patients. No matter where he was, he was in kind, capable hands.
A prism of soft light spilled through a window behind the soldier’s bed. He lifted his arm and watched the rainbow of colors glide across his hand, and a weak smile twitched on his lips. He didn’t know where he was or the extent of his injuries, but he did know one thing. He had crossed the dark abyss. He had survived no-man’s-land, and once he fully regained his sight, hearing, and strength, he would never have to step foot on another battlefield. He would keep his promise and return home to his family.
No longer able to hold up his arm, he let it fall to his chest. A nurse rushed over, her brow lined with concern. He studied her as she checked his forehead. Dark shadows, hollowed from endless hours of caring for the injured, outlined kind hazel eyes in a soft, pretty face. Long blond hair hid in the coil of a tight bun tucked beneath her white nurse’s cap. A few strands had fallen loose and hung down her slender neck in lazy curls. She smiled when she caught him staring. He knew he should look away. It was not polite to stare, but he couldn’t stop. He was desperate to memorize every line and curve of her face, hoping it would join the others in his sleep. Praying it would bring him comfort in his nightmares.
Her lips moved. He shook his head and pointed to his ears. Giving him an understanding pat on his shoulder, she took hold of his hand. He smiled, grateful for her kindness, but his smile fell when she reached for a needle. He shook his head.
“No!” The word clawed through his throat as he pulled his hand away. The nurse turned and called out to someone. Seconds later, a doctor grabbed hold of the soldier’s arm and pinned it down. The soldier struggled to pull free, but the doctor tightened his grip. The young soldier stared up at the nurse, his eyes begging her not to put him back to sleep. With a sympathetic smile, she pressed the needle into a vein in his arm and depressed the plunger.
One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Three.
The morphine loosened fear’s grip on the soldier’s muscles and tugged at his eyelids, dragging him back into the darkness. At least this time, the soldier thought, I know I’m safe. Soon, I’ll be better, and they’ll let me go home to my family.
Comforted by this thought, he stopped fighting sleep, but before his eyes fluttered closed, they landed on a medal pinned to the doctor’s uniform. The young soldier’s drugged mind screamed in recognition of its blackened center and silver trim. He had seen it on no-man’s-land—pinned to the uniforms of the enemy. The Iron Cross.