War Torn Ch. 01

I gripped the handle of my valise tightly as the train began to pull away from the platform. Glancing down the corridor, I could see men, women, and children reaching out the windows toward loved ones left behind. Turning my back to them, I stumbled toward the first empty compartment in sight, and quickly slid the door shut behind me. The commotion outside had brought back memories of the day when I, too, said goodbye to loved ones as my train rolled away.

I pictured my mother's face as I had last seen it, lines etched on her brow, having already agonized over my sister's departure to America weeks before. Her grey eyes had been misty, but she shed no tears. My father had stood beside her. His bushy mustache and neatly combed hair shone silver in the early morning sun. They had each taken a turn embracing me, before the conductor helped me up onto the steps of the train carriage. My father had kissed me once more before handing me the rich brown leather bag which held my things. He stepped back as the conductor guided me to my seat. I had strained to see out the window, but to no avail. At the first cloud of steam, my mother turned her back and walked away into the crowd. My father had lingered for a moment, and then followed her. That had been three years ago.

...

Absorbed in memory, I did not notice the train gaining speed, or the door slide open to allow a young soldier into the compartment. Only when his heavy canvas rucksack hit the floor did I look up. He had stooped to rummage in his sack, and I quickly took note of his appearance. He wore a grey-green wool coat, and dusty brown leather boots. His trousers were tucked into the boots at the knee, and I could tell from the stiff way he bent his left leg that he had been wounded. After two and a half years caring for soldiers with the Red Cross Society, I felt qualified to identify a battle wound when I saw one. Absently, I wondered if this young man was returning to the Front, or whether his travels brought him home on leave. My own brother was in the training camps now. God only knew whether I would see him again.

Having finished his search, the soldier sat heavily beside me on the bench, a small piece of chocolate in hand. He stretched his legs in front of himself and let them fall open in a relaxed manner as he settled himself. The rich scent of his chocolate filled the compartment and my stomach grumbled. It had been ages since I'd eaten anything half so nice as Schokolade. The rough wool of his trousers brushed against my knee, and I glanced at him with annoyance. These young men had been too long with their own kind, forgetting the courtesies of civilian life, I thought. He moved his leg so that it no longer lingered against my knee, but I could feel him watching me and gauging my reaction. I had determined to ignore him and turned my head to see the fast-moving countryside out the window when he spoke.

"I haven't come across many nurses traveling by themselves," he said, in a low, calm voice.

"There aren't many nurses who willingly transfer from a nice city hospital to the Front," I replied.

"I understand why. I'm coming from hospital myself. Shrapnel injury, you know."

"You're on leave then?"

"I was supposed to be out for a fortnight after hospital. They wanted me to return home to the family and reassure them that all was well. But the day I was to be released, a letter came from my mother. My father's sister died and left her farm to him, but he isn't well enough to travel there. So I was given compassionate leave to make sure all the affairs are in order. I think it'll be six weeks before I've got to report back."

Suddenly intrigued, I turned toward him, slightly confounded by his openness. In my experience, it often took soldiers days or weeks to become trusting enough to share personal stories. This young man was unhindered by the fact that I was a stranger to him, and even so, was friendlier than any single person I had met in years. I looked him over with curiosity. His hair was sandy brown and wavy, cut close to his head. He had a square face with a strong jaw line, and heavy brows framed dark green eyes. His face was pale and drawn, but the fine lines etched around his mouth told of an historically warm and merry countenance.

"I am glad to hear that you will have some time to recuperate. Will you be staying at your aunt's farm?"

"Yes! And it is lovely. I haven't been since I was a boy, but I and my sister spent the summer holidays there most every year. I expect I won't be climbing as many trees now as I did in those days." He gestured to his wounded leg and laughed. "I always said I'd stay at that farm forever if I had someone to share it with. But I supposed we'll have to sell it. There's no one to take care of it."

He began to tell me of the decline of his father's business, his mother's weak nerves, and his brother-in-law who had been killed just a day after arriving at the Front. It was the story of every German family since the start of the war. He spoke for nearly an hour, and as I listened I tried to imagine how my own family got on. Surely my parents were struggling to manage their shop in the wake of inflation. Certainly they were barely scraping together enough money to buy a bit of bread or cheese. I imagined them sitting in their threadbare parlor, waiting for news of the children who had all but abandoned them. My eyes grew misty thinking of my family, but I held back the loneliness and despair that welled inside me. I turned my head away, wiping my eyes under the pretense of pushing an unruly curl out of my face. Just then, the train began to slow.

"Which station is this?" I wondered aloud.

It was enough to break the conversation, and turn it to a safer topic. He stood and walked to the window, then pivoted to face me once again. I expected him to announce the name of the station in answer to my question, but instead he appeared to be closely observing me. At first, I ignored him by pretending to be interested in the commotion of passengers outside. After nearly ten minutes, I could feel his gaze upon me still. I glanced up at him and caught his eye.

"You are very pale. Have you eaten?" He asked.

"Not much. But it was sufficient." I replied.

In truth, I had not eaten for at least a day. The loaf of bread given to me by the nuns on my departure from the hospital had been meant to last the two day journey, but I had given half of it to a beggar girl in the city. I could not account for the other half, but I assumed it had fallen from the pocket of my coat on the long walk to the train.

"Come, I'll buy you something in the dining parlor."

I protested, embarrassed that I appeared so frail to a stranger. He did not press me, and I was grateful when he returned to his seat. I could feel color in my cheeks, and I was determined not to engage with him again. The train began to groan and rumble away from the platform. I closed my eyes and wondered if he would disembark at the next station, or whether he would be my companion for the duration of my journey. We sat in silence for the next few hours. The sun had set, and the dusky light that filled the compartment put me at ease. Slowly, I let myself pass from consciousness.

...

When I awoke, I was warm and comfortable. For a moment, I thought myself to be in my childhood nursery, snug in bed under the glow of the gas lamps. As I came to myself, the sights and smells of the train ushered in memory and realization. In that same instant, I sensed the closeness of the little room. His shoulder had become my pillow. I could feel the scratchy wool of his uniform against my cheek, and suddenly my right arm burned with the warmth of his body touching mine. I flinched and felt the color return to my cheeks. Pulling gently away from him, I glanced at my reflection in the dark window. Behind me he dozed softly, head resting against the back of the seat. He was by this time sporting the dark shadow of a beard, and I had to admit that he cut a handsome profile. I watched him resting peacefully, thinking of all the young men around the world that would not be at peace this night. I wondered what it would be like to sleep on the Front. Would it be the same for nurses as for soldiers? Surely not. I tried to imagine being awakened by enemy artillery, but I could not think of what artillery sounded like. My imagination overtook me, and I closed my eyes once again.