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Remnants of smoke rolled plumes into the air. Once roaring flames had flickered and died, leaving behind the charred skeletal remains of a ripe forest. A small mercy, a small peace for the mind, as the area was now clear as far as the eye could see. Arthur found a strange solace in the jarring transition despite a longing to see the vibrant greens of French countryside again. He was able to relate to the clash of life and destruction's abrupt end. Here one day, gone the next, and all it took was a single moment. Perhaps he was simply going mad. He gave a small shake of the head at the thought. If not for a sound mind, the one thing still certainly had, still clutched onto, was his pride. He was determined to let nothing take that from him.
Overcast lay ahead, but no rain. Not yet. Not getting shot at by enemy regiments was always decent, too. See, not so bad, really. As of now. A cigarette distracted his hands as he sat in one of the last remaining patches of grass in the area of overturned and trampled dirt from the ambulance carriages, watching the gobs of smoke join the clouds over his head. He set the cigarette in his mouth and dug around his pockets for his naphtha lighter.
"Smoking again? Tsk, tsk."
Arthur's eyes went momentarily wide before he settled for a scowl. "Bothering me again?"
A giggle. Too close, singsong, "It's my job."
Arthur glimpsed over the leg of pure white suit, completely unsullied by the mud amongst the regiment's tans, before turning his head away.
“Your hands are shaking.”
“Be quiet.” If the squad leader William caught him talking to thin air again, he would run back to the base camp and tattle to their superiors.
"Can I have one?"
"What's that all of a sudden?” Arthur sniped. “I thought they were bad for you."
"I don't have lungs."
Arthur closed his eyes as he took another drag, gripping the last thread of sanity and refusing to let go.
"I would still like to keep warm."
He supposed he had to tuck that little thread into his pocket for later. Sighing, he pulled his cigarette from his mouth and held it out. There was no logical explanation for the moment now. "It’s my only one. I bummed it from one of the men."
"Thank you, Art." An eager hand plucked the cigarette from his fingers.
Arthur tucked his head toward his knees, but the stark white caught his eye again. Glowing like the embers of flames, the ‘man,’ Alfred, as he said he was, put the cigarette between his lips, just holding it there as eyes bluer than any sky flicked over the charring remains of forests. Watching, soaking in the sight rather than being appalled or even satisfied. Just. Observing. Even his fellow men in the dirt, harrowed from the things they had done, what they had to do, what lay ahead, had some degree of disgust for destroying the land, but it was a necessary evil if they did not intend to give the enemy an easy ambush. However, Alfred has always been odd. The first time Arthur saw him, ordained in white and standing in the middle of men slaughtering one another, untouched in every way, he thought he saw a ghost.
A ghost would have been less of a nuisance to deal with. Blue eyes shifted in his direction, breaking Arthur's gaze, and Arthur turned his head and coughed into his elbow.
"Ah!” Alfred said. “See? Bad."
“Shut up. It’s from the smoke.” Arthur plucked the cigarette sitting uselessly in his mouth. “Give me that.”
“Oh, and your smoke-sticks are supposed to open up the lungs, huh?"
"Are all angels usually this nerve-wracking? I could die any moment, what does it matter if I smoke and it kills me later when I could take a bullet now?”
Alfred was silent for a long moment, which was surprising. “You won’t take a bullet as long as I’m here.” The heroic façade, however, was not.
Arthur kept his face pointedly turned away as the smoke gave him some semblance of warmth. “You really have feathers in your head, don’t you?”
“What? No. They usually come out of my back.”
“Rhetorical question, Alfred.”
“I do not understand your rhetoricals and sarcasm, but I will.”
“Wonderful.” The angel was there to stay. Arthur took another long drag, because he surely needed it.
“I’m glad you think so!” Alfred said. He needed to add obliviousness to the Need-to-Know list.
“Well then. Tell me something. What do you think,” Arthur asked, “when you look out and stare at your Father’s green Earth being ravished by his creations?”
Readily, as if he was speaking of the weather, Alfred said, “Oh, you humans have always been destructive. That’s why nature was made to bounce back!”
Arthur flinched. “Could you say that a little more chipper?”
“You think I should?”
“No.”
“More sarcasm?”
“More sarcasm, yes.”
Alfred tipped his head back and sighed. According to him, angels did not have lungs, so this was simply for the melodramatics. “There’s a big storm coming. Heaven and Earth alike are calling it The Great War. A fight so great that there is no other way to describe it. Lots of people are going to get hurt.”
Arthur stared distantly at the embers of wood and ash. “Why don’t you help them, then? You’re a guardian angel, aren’t you?”
A huff. Alfred smacked his palms to his knees. It made a sound. Arthur must have been hallucinating it. “Oh, I’d certainly love to do that, but no. Humans need their free will, and we can’t interfere with that. It would mess up all sorts of jigs. Like a ripple. So, we have to throw in a suggestion, a thought, a feeling here and there and hope for the best. Even if you are destructive, there are always others that work to remedy that.”
Finally tearing his gaze from the destruction, Arthur turned his head, earning the attention of the bluest eyes. Whatever that hint of emotion was, for an angel to have and understand sorrow and guilt, crumbled to a soft smile that should have not been there either. Alfred should not express himself so freely. He should not even speak to Arthur. Yet he did. Arthur was going to say something, but the thought had eluded him, so he wound up staring like some sort of speechless fool.
“It’s okay,” Alfred said. “Just seeing that you’re doing good is more than enough-”
“Good? What good am I doing slinging a rifle around?”
“You're protecting this group of healers, aren’t you? That’s noble in itself, I think. Healers need to be protected.”
“It’s...a resupply.”
“You still take it seriously.” As-a-matter-of-factly, “I even saw you feeding some of the horses.”
“They need to eat, too.”
Alfred shrugged, grinning broadly now. A little slice of Heaven in the dirt. “Just as important as the rest. Just as good. You’re trying. That’s what matters most in my eyes.” A suggestive jump of eyebrows. "Trying.” Arthur was tempted to blow a puff of smoke in his face, just for giving him a dizzying thought. “So you’re doing good, and I’m here to see it. Almost like I’m lucky.” Their shoulders shook together as Alfred chuckled beside him. “Luck. That’s another human thing. Of all the angels, all the humans, all of the Earth...I am here...seen and heard so freely when it simply doesn’t happen. Not usually. Nothing I heard of. We speak in whispers, but to speak to you face to face...maybe...maybe this was intended for us. Maybe you’re just special, Art. Maybe I am lucky.”
Arthur turned his head away to put out his cigarette. The smoke must have been getting to his head. He coughed again, growing warmer with the dying fires. Wind. Crackle of burnt branches. Men talking amongst themselves. He was silent.
“Arthur?” Alfred prompted, and it was a human thing to do.
“No,” Arthur finally said. “I believe I’m the lucky one in this regard.”
Alfred was silent for more than five breaths. Arthur glanced over, but he was gone. Gone without a trace, save for a single white feather resting unsullied in the dirt tracks from the convoy. The only hint that Alfred was ever there—his voice wasn’t madness echoing through Arthur’s mind. A hand reached out, imperfect and shaking, and grasped the quill. Forgetting about his thread of sanity, he let the feather be the only thing that ground him to this world, proof that there was still something beautiful in the world in the middle of the pit of fire and a fragile future.
He tucked the feather into his breast pocket to keep his sanity company.
“Oi!” Came the yell to snap the men out of their slump. “No time for napping, lads.”
Arthur let out a last sigh to pull himself and his gear together. One of the blokes came around the truck, rolling his shoulders against his load. “Did you hear that, Kirkland?”
“Ah, shush.”
“Look, your arse left an implant on the grass.”
“Don’t the horses have to be hitched?”
“Already done!”
“Hmph. Smug bastard.”
“All right, boys!” William—their squad lead whom they stubbornly called Bill—shouted, trying to be tough, “Less yappin’, get to walkin’.”
Arthur took the back of the ambulance, walking in pace with the rear right wheel. To the tune of boots kicking the pebbles of the barren road and buckles and haversacks jostling in beat, he thought of luck and sarcasm and obliviousness and small green buds poking out of old ash. He could be left to his own thoughts for several hours.
After a time, a fellow soldier, Thomas, came up to Arthur’s side, and he could not say the same for him, “We’re not far from the village now. Probably be there by nightfall. I’m glad to get back to the others. Been out here too long. Too quiet.”
“Sometimes that’s a good thing,” Arthur said.
“Sometimes. Not when you’re out in the middle of this kind of shite. Nurses burn the world to nothing. Imagine that. It’s a shame we gotta do all this.”
He would have shrugged, but he was carrying over 20 kilograms. “It will grow back.”
“You think?”
“Of course. That’s what nature does.”
“Hmph. Don’t you seem chipper?” Thomas goaded lightly. “What’s got you in high spirits?”
Arthur snorted, keeping his chin up and face ahead as a smile crept onto him. “You’d never believe me if I told you.”
His comrade hustled a bit to keep astride. “Try me.”
“I have an angel on my shoulder, a pretty little thing following me around lately, looking out for me and treating me tenderly.”
They exchanged a glance, and Arthur broke into a grin as his fellow soldier let off a hearty laugh. “That’s something!”
“You asked.”
“You think I’m pretty?”
Arthur jumped at the third voice and rapidly turned to face the sudden appearance of Alfred at his side, beaming with the sort of light only an angel could exhibit. “I-”
“Bet she keeps you ‘company’ during the night, eh?” Thomas smirked.
“Wha—no!”
Alfred’s smile dropped, replaced with a pout. “You don’t think I’m pretty?”
Arthur grunted, giving the straps across his chest a good yank. He mimicked their faux leader, “'Less talking, more walking.'”
His comrade let off a few more chuckles and drifted, becoming a nuisance to someone else. Alfred easily kept pace, unburdened with anything except crossed arms and a pout. Arthur let out a huff and kept his eyes on the road. “I didn’t know angels worried about that sort of thing. What are you doing here again so quickly, anyway?”
“Oh, I was, um, scouting ahead.” Arthur gave a side-eye as Alfred held his arms out and stepped on the stones with purpose, like a mechanical doll. A child’s thing to do. The angel hadn’t ceased to surprise him just yet. After several paces, he slapped his arms down at his sides, walking ‘normally’ again. “You should be careful blabbering about me to your men.” Wink, “Don’t want them to think you're lunatic, do you?”
“With you around?” Arthur couldn’t resist an opportunity to tease, “It’s already too late for me.”
“Step lively!” An order from the head, “I want to sleep in a bed tonight!”
A weary but determined fix rippled through the convoy. Heavy boots hit the ground, each a different note to the same song. Even Alfred played along. The mountains were close but when they were taking it step-by-step, the world wound up being a much larger place. It took them hours just to see the beginnings of the wrecked village in the distance. The day went on, and Arthur began to worry that they would have to bunker down for one night more, and thus burn more forest just so they wouldn’t get ambushed. Not to mention the relief and meal breaks. As the sun’s chariot moved impossibly fast across the early autumn skies, it dawned on the convoy that perhaps they had lingered a bit too long that morning and would be suffering for it well into the night. Arthur shot Thomas a foul look for his earlier yammerings. His chipper attitude doomed them all.
At the behest of Bill, they marched well into dusk and into the night skies. Strange shadows, darkness—the convoy must have been in the same mindset: keep quiet while the leader was most concerned about making up for lost time. Several more kilometers down the stony path, a brave soul voiced his complaints, “I truly need to use the loo.”
“There aren’t any loos out here,” Bill retorted. “You have to piss in the bushes like the rest of the animals.”
Another soldier spoke up, “It’s been several hours. Even if we go straight, it will be well into midnight when we make it there.”
Bill started to openly bicker with the men, and Alfred looked over. “You should say something.”
Arthur balked, “Me? Why should I?”
“Just do it.”
“No!”
“Say something.”
“It’s autumn!” Bill finally bellowed, his patience having worn thin. “The sun goes down early anyway. Stop giving me your sob stories and march!”
They indeed marched. It was abso-bloody-lutely awful, no way around it. Each step was a whine, a cry from the men. The darkening skies whispered again, “Arthur.”
Arthur glanced at Bill presiding over the group from his steed, the piss-less chap, then to Alfred with a warning look. “If I get strung up by my boot ties from my superior, I’m plucking out each and every one of your feathers.”
Alfred grinned at this. “Sounds like a deal."
Arthur huffed, and slowed to let his comrades pass him. He walked as close as he could to Bill’s horse (they gave him a horse, only to puff out his arrogance and pride), though the others nearby gave him odd looks. “Knackered soldiers are poor soldiers.”
“Louder, Art,” came the encouragement only Arthur was privy to.
Arthur felt his face and ears burn red, frustration curdled with embarrassment as he wailed, “I think I’m about to piss down my leg! Then you lot will have to smell it all the way to the village!”
Bill groaned and yanked on the reins, “Bloody Hell, Kirkland. Fine!” He gave the call to stop. “Get this forest cleared out first before you plug your faces with food and run off to do God knows what!”
One would think recess has been called. “Let’s go lads! Burn her down!”
A fellow soldier shot ahead, whimpering as he clutched himself and dove into the foliage for relief. Arthur sighed and tried not to shake his head too much as Bill muttered what he was thinking, “God save these sorry bastards.” Arthur was more eager than he thought to shed the bulk of his own gear by the caravan and took a step to the forest, but he sighed as he caught sight of the horses. They ducked their heads and nudged his pockets, tattling on his spoiling them and he chuckled, hushing them softly as he unhitched them to graze, “I’ll bring you something good when we get back to the village. Promise.”
Arthur then lumbered toward a spot he did not see anyone head towards for his own privacy, his legs swishing in the grass, and he listened to its song before it would be singed to nothing but ash. Night would come to take the dusk skies. There was something regal about the thought of relieving oneself while the world was razed in flames. Delightfully chaotic. Sometimes a gentleman had to appreciate the art of destruction. It would grow back.
Unfortunately, he had to go now before it would go up in smoke. Perhaps next time.
Arthur glanced around and cussed as he realized he forgot an accelerant for this fire. Luckily (there was luck yet again), he remembered his lighter and to button himself up. He pulled it out of his breast pocket, looked at the size of it, looked at the size of the forest, and decided to swallow his pride to go back and ask for a flask of alcohol. There was no way he was spending his meager leisure time igniting leaves with a little lighter. He turned around, made sure he was all buttoned up again, because it happened once and that was enough, and lumbered toward the silhouette of the caravan.
As soon as his back was turned, the wind came in a sudden and violent gust, buffeting his hair and uniform. Arthur grunted and stumbled a few steps, understanding that Mother Nature may be reasonably furious at the group but-
Hands clamped onto his shoulders and panic bled into the wind, “Arthur!”
“Motherfuck-!” Arthur seized a human arm and whipped the body over himself and threw them into the grass. A figure of white glowed against the darkness, arms and legs spread wide on the ground. Alfred looked reasonably shocked. His eyes flickered around, as if the impact scrambled what brains an angel would have before he locked on with another squawk, “Arthur!”
“Stop screaming like that! What the Hell is wrong with you-”
Alfred sat up, hands flailing as he righted himself, “You need to get away from here. Now! There’s—there’s people nearby. Soldiers. Not ours. They’re going to see the fires!”
“What?!” Arthur glanced around like he could see anything besides the night sky. “Why didn’t you say anything? Are they enemy soldiers?!”
“Sheesh, Art, I just noticed it, that’s why I didn’t say anything until now. Come on, think.”
“A little hard to do that right now-”
They both flinched as the convoy whooped as the canopy of leaves erupted into embers. “Oh no! It’s too late. You have to warn them!”
Arthur spun around and darted back to the carriage, tripping over the dips and divots in the dirt and flailing his arms over his head like a madman. “Oi! Hey! Hey, hey! There’s…! Oh, Hell.” They would not hear him. Enemy soldiers, right in the forest right at the time they stopped. Luck had run out. Ah, bugger. He ransacked his pockets for his torch. Damn it all because they already were damned! He charged forward, flicking on his torch and tapping the Morse key—thrice dots, thrice dashes, and thrice dots again. Then again, and again.
S-O-S. S-O-S. S-O-S.
Arthur yelped at the sound of gunfire. He was close enough to the convoy now to shine on his shocked comrades’ faces and hear someone yell, “Get your arses back here! We’re being ambushed!”
“Shite,” he hissed and knelt beside the truck, running his hands over what he hoped was his own supplies as the others’ boots hit the dirt in a crescendo of panic.
“Arthur, your light!” Alfred’s voice was somehow the loudest of them all, “They’re aiming for your light! Turn it off!”
A bullet tore through the carriage. The convoy retaliated with their own shower of metal. The horses whinnied, one of them rearing as a soldier tried to soothe them. Arthur ducked around and yanked on his backpack the straps with shaking hands, “Can’t even take a piss in peace.”
Another soldier ran up and pressed against the carriage with a warble, rushing to reload, “This is just a medical supply. We don’t have enough firepower to beat back a full-scale attack!” A bullet fell to the ground.
A meager side-glance, and Arthur grabbed his rifle and gave his magazine a yank. Ten bullets. Full house. Click. “We’ll try our best,” he said, then realized how mad he sounded. So optimistic. So Alfred. “Better than doing nothing!” He shoved from the convoy, spitting under his breath, “All right, little angel. Let’s go about hoping, shall we?”
“Let’s go!” Bill whooped as Arthur dove past him. “Shoot at the bastards already!”
Half of the woods were aflame. Smoke. Rapid gunfire. It was the loudest thing, drowning the world in glints of metal and bullet shells. Knees, elbows, Arthur kept low. “Don’t look up,” the heavens whispered when the bullets lessened for the slightest moment. “Keep going.”
Another barrage. Arthur flattened himself, grunting at the thought of a shell tearing through his tin hat like a careless turn of the page. Just breathe, just breathe in, although it was so loud he felt as if he were floundering just from the sound. Men were running amongst the trees, their bulky silhouettes against the flames. He could see them now, their shapes. Gunfire. One fell. Arthur tried to keep his eyes forward. He readied his rifle, and ripped half of a cartridge worth of bullets through the grass. Out.
“Roll, Arthur, roll, they will aim right where you are.”
Arthur heaved. Heavy. The world was pressing on his back. Darkness. Suffocating. Loud. This must have been some kind of Hell twinged with luck. He gasped as bullets whizzed by his head. Right where he was a moment ago. Lucky, lucky him. One more roll should do it. Heft, he landed in the dirt and immediately aimed again. Last bullet. A figure dashed through the forest. Arthur hit where they were going to be, and they went down.
“They’re running.” It must have simply been a reaction borne of fright.
Arthur grunted as he ripped out his magazine and stuffed it again. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be doing that, angel!” Click. He heaved again, rolling, and crawled toward the blaze.
“There is no harm stating the obvious—hey, what are you doing?”
“Some of our men are still in there!”
“Arthur, no!”
“If you’re going to protect me, then do it!” Arthur spat behind himself and carried on. Elbows, knees, elbows, head down against the heat so strong it glazed over his face and baked his eyes. He was the last drop that overflowed the vase. If he hadn’t complained, they would still be on the road. Maybe they would have peacefully bypassed the enemy. Maybe now wasn’t the time for maybe. Trapped against the forest, unable to make a dash without risking a raze of bullets, it was either burn or be shot. It was not a fate he would wish upon his mates, and he could do something about it. “You’re not the only one that gets to be a savior,” he whispered harshly. Whether or not Alfred heard it, so be it.
First soldier. Arthur glimpsed over his sweat-sheened face, eyes closed and head lolled to the side, recognizing the man as Frank. He latched onto the straps of his bag and shook. Bullets were still coming. “Oi!” Nothing. He stuck his fingers to his neck. Again, nothing. Frank was dead. He ducked away to cough, the grimace on his face not only from the smoke burning his throat and crawled to flee the mass of the heat. It may very well be Frank’s final resting place, but it sure wouldn’t be his and whoever else he was able to come across.
The bullets had nearly subsided. The convoy seemed to have caught on and paused on their onslaught until one soldier ripped and a few others would follow. Arthur kept his head low, but couldn’t see anymore of his own nearby. There were at least several that had gone into the forest. Perhaps a few (beside the one casualty) had managed to flee back to the convoy, or they were still in the forest...whilst it was doused in flame. He didn’t want to think about that. In, out, in...out! He shoved forward, crawling parallel to the source of the first gunshots. The fire was enough to catch any extremities in the grass: a glimpse of tan cloth, a glint of metal of a rifle or helmet. Arthur stilled, tensing as a cough erupted closeby. He swiveled, muzzle pointing toward the spot, and pulled himself forward.
A tan uniform. Arthur drew close and raised his head in the slightest to see Thomas turn his face and squint. His chest racked in a cough and he groaned out, “Kirkland?”
Arthur tucked his rifle aside. “Aye. Right here.” He glimpsed him down. A stain of red came from the man’s side, blood welling past his fingers which were clamped tightly against the wound. Thomas’ rifle was discarded to the side of him in his effort to slow the bleeding. Despite the light from the flickering flames, a warped grimace could be made out on Thomas' face—no doubt due to the wound. “Can you walk?”
“Ah. Didn’t think of it-” Thomas fell away into a coughing fit.
“It’s all right. We’ll get you back to the convoy-” Arthur froze again. Footsteps in the grass. He swiveled around, clamping a hand on his gun, but it was too late. A stranger held a rifle right at his head. A bayonet trembled in shaky arms. Horizontal handle. Outdated and undoubtedly German. The man’s eyes were wide, wild with fright. He squeezed the trigger. Arthur twitched. Click. Click. He looked up. The enemy soldier yelped and twisted around, fleeing with a shout.
Arthur was left understandably breathless. Alfred was beside him, holding his hand out with purpose. Like a lawman stopping a carriage. Like a witch casting a spell. He lowered his arm and slowly turned his head, speaking unusually quiet against the crackle of flames, “Go, Arthur. Go back to your convoy.”
“I...you…”
“It’s okay.” A hint of a signature grin lifted one side of his mouth. “It’s muddy. The gun jammed. That’s all.”
Out. Shaky. Arthur swallowed and nodded. His voice was barely there, “Yeah. Lucky me.”
A hint of surprise glimpsed across Alfred’s face, and his hand came out again. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. Nothing. Then a graze of fingertips against his jaw. A palm cupping his cheek. A sigh so close to his lips. Arthur’s eyes cracked open, and there was nothing but Alfred. For a being cold to the touch, he was undeniably warm. Must have been the fire. The sun. Everything well in the world. That beautiful blue gaze bored into his own, dizzying him, stealing his breath, until he turned away. Arthur sucked in air and coughed, getting nothing but smoke. With a deep furrow in his brow, fist clenched at his side, Alfred whispered, “Go,” but it could have simply been the wind.
Arthur gave his head a shake, mouth and lungs too full of smoke to even think to try to respond. Alfred, so close, so warm, the smoke—he patted around and leaned over Thomas, sliding an arm around him to pull him to sit. A groan, but he was still conscious. Alive, at least. “Come on,” he wheezed, “we’re going back to the convoy. We’re going to be all right.”
“Agh. Ah, I’ll take your word for it,” Thomas winced as he leaned heavily on Arthur’s side. Arthur braced his leg in the grass, adjusting, and took a step forward. Another, and another. Slowly, with the heat of flames and the eyes of Heaven against their backs, they made it across the field. A couple of nurses rushed forward. Arthur passed him over with a nod, not saying anything else as they knew what to do best. Yet another thing—a medical convoy. Thomas would be in their care. What gracious luck. When he glanced behind himself, there was no figure of white against the onslaught of flames, but just like the heat from the fire, the angel’s touch lingered against his skin.
“Kirkland!” Someone boomed. Arthur flinched. “What the hell are you doing?!” Bill stepped forth, goading with his arms out. Arthur snapped a sarcastic salute. “Don’t give me that. Quit dallying and get this mess sorted out. Oh, uh, good to see you’re still alive. Now, get to it!”
“Yes, sir.” Arthur then dropped his hand. Looked around. Soldiers picked up their bags and distributed them back to their owners. A couple stayed on the ground. He told some of the men, “I saw Frank laying out there, by the forest. I thought I saw someone else, but I’m not sure...”
“Aye. That could’ve been me. I saw someone flashing their light. I never ran so fast, even in training.”
Arthur mused, deciding not to gloat, “Don’t let anyone else hear you say that.”
They shared a jostle before separating. Some went to fetch the dead, while Arthur went around the carriage to check on the horses. Another was already there, making sure they were in good hands. They exchanged a nod. “How are the lasses holding up?”
“They’re all right. Little spooked.”
“Understandably so,” Arthur said. One of the horses bent her head and nudged at his pockets. He scratched her behind her ears, silently promising again to give them something good as soon as they reached the village.
In the midst of the soldiers hustling and bustling, trying to sort out themselves and the convoy, Arthur calmly moved along, grazing soldiers, keeping his head high. He was just shot at, fire licked at his back, and almost ended point-blank. Almost dazed, he pretended to wonder why he wasn’t more concerned, but knew exactly why. Guardian angel. He could scoff at that, but a bloom of—dare he say—fluttery feelings came over him instead. Maybe he let out a little sigh.
Within the hour, they were moving again. Arthur wanted to check on Thomas, but had to keep with the convoy. Everything would wait until they joined the others. Then perhaps he could have a moment to himself to think. To let himself feel. To sleep in some semblance of a real bed. Or a pile of blankets. Something else besides dirt.
It almost didn’t seem real when they reached the village. Only two casualties—three if someone counted a bullet through one of the emergency treatments of gassed cases within the medical carriage—and Thomas’ bullet wound, now stabilized. The group nearly collapsed in relief in the care of the base camp, seeing their old comrades and all having a different perspective to the same story to tell. Arthur would keep his own to himself.
Later on, the shock still hadn't set in as Arthur slipped into the building designated for the sick and injured. Perhaps he was simply too weary to feel shocked. If it was possible. Many things happened that day that he thought were impossible. A nurse gave him a hard look as soon as he slipped inside. No funny business. Arthur gave a nod and scanned the cots for a certain somebody. After everything, Thomas picked up his head upon approach, still alive and aware and awake. The luck was contagious. “Kirkland,” he rasped. “What are you doing here?” He almost managed a grin. “Come to pay me a visit?”
“That I did. How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine as a peach, thanks for asking.” Thomas shook with a chuckle, and immediately groaned in pain. “Oh, hell, never mind all that. I have to thank you while you’re still here. So...thank you.”
“Of course. I wasn’t going to leave a fellow man to die like that.”
“Ah, I don’t think I’d blame you, if I were honest. Shite was happening all over the place. The fires. Shoot out. I didn’t even know the bastards were sneaking up on us. You must have given them a fright.”
“Oi.”
Another laugh. Another wince. “I don’t…” Thomas squinted, staring at the ceiling as if he tried to see something. “Might be the morphine, might be me just hallucinatin’, but there was someone there, right? Someone with us?”
Arthur tensed. “Someone…”
“That’s right. One of those rotten Krauts. Had a gun pointed at you and everything. He didn’t shoot. How come…” Thomas wondered aloud rather than posing a question. He blinked, no longer seeing what he tried to decipher, and fell into a yawn.
Arthur let his shoulders relax. “No, you remembered correctly. One of them was there. His gun was jammed. Or he ran out of bullets. I...I don’t know. I try not to think about it.”
Thomas subtly nodded. His eyes were closed. It made Arthur more tired. “Damn lucky, Kirkland. Must’ve had a guardian angel by your side.”
“That’s that,” the nurse called, spooking Arthur enough to jump. “The man is buggered. Leave him alone.” A nod, “You get some rest before I find you here, too.”
“Aye, sir,” Arthur half-heartedly saluted before taking his leave. Most of the village’s buildings were ransacked and some were partially destroyed and unusable, but the soldiers found a center of communal buildings to hold themselves in. Besides, it kept everyone close, and he was too tired to eye the houses in the distance, to have a bedroom of his own again. He found his cot amongst a row of others, his supplies kept neat with his backpack just beside the frame. He wanted nothing but to fall back, to lose himself into the blanket, but sat to work off his boots at the very least. Back at the village. Alive. Relatively unscathed. Miracle after miracle.
Arthur laid back, blinking at the shapes of shadows from some lanterns still on and flickering over a quiet game of cards, another one reading, a few whispering to each other. Alive, alive and well, as well as one can be. Another flutter came over him. He cupped his own cheek, holding, warm, then trailed to his lips, almost as if he could feel Alfred’s breath against him again. It happened. He remembered. If it was a dream, a daze from the gunshots and smoke, then it was all a dream. Running from home, joining the army before he would get drafted, the training, the fighting, the gunshots, the crawling, the fire. Alfred. To his soldiers, he was incredibly lucky. To Heaven, he was something to protect. To himself...he would take that day by day.
For now, for today, for tonight, Arthur had an unusual sense of optimism. Another day, another night, and he can stave off hopelessness with his battlefield guardian angel.