Wind at Dawn (Noble Things)- June 1918
3rd june, 1918
more refugees on the roads. word is that the americans are coming en masse, and the krauts are making a last surge in advance of their arrival. a few have recommended that we keep moving, as we are not that far south of paris. we’ll see.
been doing some doctoring here and there- mostly children with cuts or colds, the occasional sprained limb. mostly the people are stressed, tired, and malnourished. fuck all I can do for that, besides advise them to rest.
still have my stethoscope that marc gave me, back when i first showed up at l’hopital. comes in handy.
was a very pregnant lady through yesterday- elisabet. C had to go quickly out back, he was laughing too hard. she’s tiny, truly small, and the way she came waddling up the path… well, i could hardly blame him. she must be as big around as she is tall. not a waist, per se, but rather an equator…
wanted an exam, told her I knew v little about human pregnancy, more about les chats, or bullet wounds; she didn’t care, made me take a look. should come any day. or hour.
eating is getting better. fruit coming in on trees, garden starting to put out veg. C is beginning to put on muscle again. was beginning to worry about scurvy, for both of us.
8th june, 1918
elisabet still enormous. i worry about her falling. and then i worry about her rolling…
well. at least it’s flat around here.
mostly.
word on the roads is germans pressing south, and flu creeping in. not much- just bits, here and there. it’s early yet, but come fall…
hell, even come the first cold snap.
life is… unbelievable. is the only word i can come up with. there is the constant terror of potential bombing, even though we are at some remove from the front lines. that could always change. somehow, in the back of my mind, i know we’re never really safe.
but.
but.
i wake every morning with a roof over my head. there is more and more good food every day. all this, and…
i never appreciated simple pleasures until the war- always wanted more; more time, more success, more anything, everything. now?
now all i want is this, and i have no idea how long it will last.
The knock comes as day is breaking, a solid pounding on the front door that rattles the downstairs glass. Zach wakes instantly, reactions trained from years on a sick ward, and crosses to the window under the eaves. It’s Michelle, Elisabet’s sister; he can make out her blond head in the moonlight, and that can mean only one thing- Elisabet.
“I’ll be right down!”
Her head turns, and she nods at him, her expression calm, but intent. He pulls back in, shutting the window quietly and striking a match, the sudden sulphuric flare bright in the dark room.
He lights the candle on the bedside table and fishes under the side of the bed, coming up with one sock and a handful of lint. He shakes the sock out and pulls it on, lifting his pants from where they hang over the back of the chair and stepping into them, belting them at the waist before fumbling into his shirt. His boots are on the far side of the room, but his other sock…
Chris rolls over in bed, mumbling incoherently and tossing an arm across his eyes against the candlelight. His bare chest is cream in the yellow light, flushed with the heat of sleep down the line of his sternum and up his neck. He turns again, pressing his face into Zach’s pillow and smiling, and Zach feels his heart expand as his mouth curves involuntarily. He is unspeakably beautiful like this, Zach thinks, a godlet dropped to earth by the careless fingers of Aphrodite herself, and he spares a moment to stare unbelievingly.
He locates his other sock at the foot of the bed, and yanks it on, following quickly with his boots. He blows out the candle and leans in close, pressing his face to Chris’ in the still dark. He rubs his nose into the hair just at Chris’ temple, inhaling deeply and tracing his lips across the verge of skin just above his ear. Chris wakes enough to raise a hand, pulling Zach’s head down and kissing him sleepily, mouth warm and loose, fingers loosing their grip as he slides back into unconsciousness.
Zach eases his arm back down, leaning forward one last time to kiss the end of his eyebrow and whisper.
“Je t’aime, mon cher. Back soon.”
Mathilde gives a jaw-cracking yawn from the foot of the bed, and Zach heads out, slipping down the stairs and out the door as the moon begins to set.
By the time he arrives at the encampment, Elisabet’s labor is nearing its end, a fact which both alarms and relieves him. It’s not her first child; that one stands waiting outside the tent, shifting nervously from foot to foot with all the stoic dignity a seven year old can muster up. There’s a three year old, too, somewhere, Zach knows, but he hasn’t seen her since the first day he met them all. In any case, they are not his current concern- their soon-to-be brother or sister is, and so he allows Michelle to usher him in.
He washes thoroughly and gives Elisabet a cursory examination, but there’s little for him to do but wait. Michelle is there as well, holding Elisabet’s hand while she grunts, and it’s not long before Zach can see the fuzzily matted top of a head appearing between her spread legs.
A few more moments and it’s all over, and Zach is holding in his hands a perfectly formed infant, holding his breath as he counts fingers and toes, swiping a finger through the mouth and turning it over to coax a breath. The child is large and strong, and he howls in sudden outrage at the abrupt sensations of cold and air, expressing his displeasure in no uncertain terms. Zach laughs in relief, handing him to Michelle to wrap in a towel while he ties the thread and cuts the cord.
It’s an ideal birth; the placenta is delivered quickly and easily, and Elisabet, though exhausted, is fine. The baby is named Jean-Luc in short order, and he settles into contented existence at his mother’s breast without event, so Zach decides to go be unnecessary outside instead of taking up indoor space.
He’s contemplatively smoking a cigarette when Michelle calls him in again, so he rubs out his smoke and stands, rinsing his hands in the nearby wash basin before re-entering the tent.
Michelle pushes him over to the bedside where he stands awkwardly, not wanting to disturb, until Elisabet looks up at him with a beatific smile.
“Merci, Zach. Merci beaucoup.” Her eyes are wide and lovely with happiness, and he can feel himself blush under her regard.
“Ce n’est rien, Madame.”
“Non.” She shakes her head, still smiling, and pulls the corner of the blanket back from the sleeping face. “Voici. Il est parfait, n’est ce pas?”
His face is scrunched and red, his fingers squeezed into tiny fists, but Zach knows instinctively what she sees, and reaches out to run a finger down the puckered cheek. His fingertip is huge and rough against the delicate skin, worn and scarred with tiny lines, and he watches in wonderment as Jean-Luc’s mobile face responds to his touch.
“Oui. Il est parfait.”
13th juin, 1918
three days. three days he’s been in this world, drawing breath, moving limbs. a matter of hours, and yet so much more than that.
and yet, what does his existence change? nothing, on the greater plane. the germans still advance. the seasons still change. night turns to day turns to night turns to day turns to night again.
and yet.
and yet, here is new life, untouched, unblemished, poised and falling across the brink of innocence into humanity, moving inexorably forward into childhood, adulthood, death.
it is truly a miracle, that we were all once so- naked and helpless, with no ability for the smallest things. only to eat, to sleep, to wail in distress. not even to hold our heads.
and yet.
and yet one day, he will be as we are now, grown and standing upright. talking, laughing, fighting.
i held him in my hands, so new, and knew the face of God.
17th june, 1918
news is bad. germans have advanced, and the allies have lost many. when will the advance cease? how many will yet die? will the lines hold?
who can say?
should we run?
perhaps.
20th june, 1918
discussed leaving w C.
fought about leaving w C.
he is all for staying, for letting the germans come, and… and what? shooting them out of the upper windows? with what guns? fending them off with kitchen knives? for how many minutes?
it is ridiculous.
we will be captured, i said to him, we will be either taken prisoner or executed outright, i said, and then who does that help? certainly not me or you, and not the others who may need us either.
we should fight, he says, we should go join back up and defend ourselves, take some of them with us if we have to go.
but we do not have to go, i reply. there are better things for us to do. escort michelle and elisabet and the children, for one, take them to safety. i’m a doctor, not a soldier, i said.
i’m a soldier, not a civilian, he shot back.
he is not healed. he is not strong enough. he limps, and cannot run. he is not fit, and he would be taken prisoner again. i said this to him, watching the heat rise in his cheeks.
and what of it, he asked, how many other unfit men and boys have already died? how is he any less fit for the grave than they?
i told him i would kill him myself before i let him go again, and left him in the fields.
it took all night. i thought i would die, strangle on my own heart as it caught in my esophagus. i thought he had already left, and i could not breathe, not sleep, not speak.
he came to me with the wind at dawn, no apologies, just the reassurance of hands, of lips. he will not go.
not now.
The day is well underway by the time the little caravan departs. Chris has banged together a cart from some pieces of wagon left in the shed, and fashioned it with handles so that it can be either pulled or pushed by one or two persons at a time. It’s a rather clever piece of work, Zach thinks admiringly. Certainly Elisabet and the toddler seem well pleased with it.
The older boy is determinedly planning to walk with the adults, and Jean-Luc is too small to express an opinion, but Michelle and Elisabet are all approval, and Zach smiles to himself as Chris visibly basks in their praise.
Mathilde is grumpily perched in the top of Chris’ rucksack, scowling her green-eyed scowl at any who dare approach, and Zach feels a pang as he looks back at the farmhouse which has been their temporary home.
He weeded the garden that morning, hoping it will feed whoever needs it. Maybe they’ll come back, in a week, a month.
So much depends on the outcomes of things over which they have no control.
The group rallies, and without really realizing it, begins to walk. Westward and south, heading for the sea, hoping to find shelter somewhere the fighting will not come.
He’ll miss it, he thinks, catching Chris’ eye and smiling, but for the moment, he has everything he needs.
1) Je t’aime, mon cher - I love you, my dear one.
2) Ce n’est rien, Madame - It’s nothing, madam.
3) “Voici. Il est parfait, n’est ce pas?”- See, here. He’s perfect, is he not?
4) Oui. Il est parfait - Yes. He is perfect.
next
more refugees on the roads. word is that the americans are coming en masse, and the krauts are making a last surge in advance of their arrival. a few have recommended that we keep moving, as we are not that far south of paris. we’ll see.
been doing some doctoring here and there- mostly children with cuts or colds, the occasional sprained limb. mostly the people are stressed, tired, and malnourished. fuck all I can do for that, besides advise them to rest.
still have my stethoscope that marc gave me, back when i first showed up at l’hopital. comes in handy.
was a very pregnant lady through yesterday- elisabet. C had to go quickly out back, he was laughing too hard. she’s tiny, truly small, and the way she came waddling up the path… well, i could hardly blame him. she must be as big around as she is tall. not a waist, per se, but rather an equator…
wanted an exam, told her I knew v little about human pregnancy, more about les chats, or bullet wounds; she didn’t care, made me take a look. should come any day. or hour.
eating is getting better. fruit coming in on trees, garden starting to put out veg. C is beginning to put on muscle again. was beginning to worry about scurvy, for both of us.
8th june, 1918
elisabet still enormous. i worry about her falling. and then i worry about her rolling…
well. at least it’s flat around here.
mostly.
word on the roads is germans pressing south, and flu creeping in. not much- just bits, here and there. it’s early yet, but come fall…
hell, even come the first cold snap.
life is… unbelievable. is the only word i can come up with. there is the constant terror of potential bombing, even though we are at some remove from the front lines. that could always change. somehow, in the back of my mind, i know we’re never really safe.
but.
but.
i wake every morning with a roof over my head. there is more and more good food every day. all this, and…
i never appreciated simple pleasures until the war- always wanted more; more time, more success, more anything, everything. now?
now all i want is this, and i have no idea how long it will last.
The knock comes as day is breaking, a solid pounding on the front door that rattles the downstairs glass. Zach wakes instantly, reactions trained from years on a sick ward, and crosses to the window under the eaves. It’s Michelle, Elisabet’s sister; he can make out her blond head in the moonlight, and that can mean only one thing- Elisabet.
“I’ll be right down!”
Her head turns, and she nods at him, her expression calm, but intent. He pulls back in, shutting the window quietly and striking a match, the sudden sulphuric flare bright in the dark room.
He lights the candle on the bedside table and fishes under the side of the bed, coming up with one sock and a handful of lint. He shakes the sock out and pulls it on, lifting his pants from where they hang over the back of the chair and stepping into them, belting them at the waist before fumbling into his shirt. His boots are on the far side of the room, but his other sock…
Chris rolls over in bed, mumbling incoherently and tossing an arm across his eyes against the candlelight. His bare chest is cream in the yellow light, flushed with the heat of sleep down the line of his sternum and up his neck. He turns again, pressing his face into Zach’s pillow and smiling, and Zach feels his heart expand as his mouth curves involuntarily. He is unspeakably beautiful like this, Zach thinks, a godlet dropped to earth by the careless fingers of Aphrodite herself, and he spares a moment to stare unbelievingly.
He locates his other sock at the foot of the bed, and yanks it on, following quickly with his boots. He blows out the candle and leans in close, pressing his face to Chris’ in the still dark. He rubs his nose into the hair just at Chris’ temple, inhaling deeply and tracing his lips across the verge of skin just above his ear. Chris wakes enough to raise a hand, pulling Zach’s head down and kissing him sleepily, mouth warm and loose, fingers loosing their grip as he slides back into unconsciousness.
Zach eases his arm back down, leaning forward one last time to kiss the end of his eyebrow and whisper.
“Je t’aime, mon cher. Back soon.”
Mathilde gives a jaw-cracking yawn from the foot of the bed, and Zach heads out, slipping down the stairs and out the door as the moon begins to set.
By the time he arrives at the encampment, Elisabet’s labor is nearing its end, a fact which both alarms and relieves him. It’s not her first child; that one stands waiting outside the tent, shifting nervously from foot to foot with all the stoic dignity a seven year old can muster up. There’s a three year old, too, somewhere, Zach knows, but he hasn’t seen her since the first day he met them all. In any case, they are not his current concern- their soon-to-be brother or sister is, and so he allows Michelle to usher him in.
He washes thoroughly and gives Elisabet a cursory examination, but there’s little for him to do but wait. Michelle is there as well, holding Elisabet’s hand while she grunts, and it’s not long before Zach can see the fuzzily matted top of a head appearing between her spread legs.
A few more moments and it’s all over, and Zach is holding in his hands a perfectly formed infant, holding his breath as he counts fingers and toes, swiping a finger through the mouth and turning it over to coax a breath. The child is large and strong, and he howls in sudden outrage at the abrupt sensations of cold and air, expressing his displeasure in no uncertain terms. Zach laughs in relief, handing him to Michelle to wrap in a towel while he ties the thread and cuts the cord.
It’s an ideal birth; the placenta is delivered quickly and easily, and Elisabet, though exhausted, is fine. The baby is named Jean-Luc in short order, and he settles into contented existence at his mother’s breast without event, so Zach decides to go be unnecessary outside instead of taking up indoor space.
He’s contemplatively smoking a cigarette when Michelle calls him in again, so he rubs out his smoke and stands, rinsing his hands in the nearby wash basin before re-entering the tent.
Michelle pushes him over to the bedside where he stands awkwardly, not wanting to disturb, until Elisabet looks up at him with a beatific smile.
“Merci, Zach. Merci beaucoup.” Her eyes are wide and lovely with happiness, and he can feel himself blush under her regard.
“Ce n’est rien, Madame.”
“Non.” She shakes her head, still smiling, and pulls the corner of the blanket back from the sleeping face. “Voici. Il est parfait, n’est ce pas?”
His face is scrunched and red, his fingers squeezed into tiny fists, but Zach knows instinctively what she sees, and reaches out to run a finger down the puckered cheek. His fingertip is huge and rough against the delicate skin, worn and scarred with tiny lines, and he watches in wonderment as Jean-Luc’s mobile face responds to his touch.
“Oui. Il est parfait.”
13th juin, 1918
three days. three days he’s been in this world, drawing breath, moving limbs. a matter of hours, and yet so much more than that.
and yet, what does his existence change? nothing, on the greater plane. the germans still advance. the seasons still change. night turns to day turns to night turns to day turns to night again.
and yet.
and yet, here is new life, untouched, unblemished, poised and falling across the brink of innocence into humanity, moving inexorably forward into childhood, adulthood, death.
it is truly a miracle, that we were all once so- naked and helpless, with no ability for the smallest things. only to eat, to sleep, to wail in distress. not even to hold our heads.
and yet.
and yet one day, he will be as we are now, grown and standing upright. talking, laughing, fighting.
i held him in my hands, so new, and knew the face of God.
17th june, 1918
news is bad. germans have advanced, and the allies have lost many. when will the advance cease? how many will yet die? will the lines hold?
who can say?
should we run?
perhaps.
20th june, 1918
discussed leaving w C.
fought about leaving w C.
he is all for staying, for letting the germans come, and… and what? shooting them out of the upper windows? with what guns? fending them off with kitchen knives? for how many minutes?
it is ridiculous.
we will be captured, i said to him, we will be either taken prisoner or executed outright, i said, and then who does that help? certainly not me or you, and not the others who may need us either.
we should fight, he says, we should go join back up and defend ourselves, take some of them with us if we have to go.
but we do not have to go, i reply. there are better things for us to do. escort michelle and elisabet and the children, for one, take them to safety. i’m a doctor, not a soldier, i said.
i’m a soldier, not a civilian, he shot back.
he is not healed. he is not strong enough. he limps, and cannot run. he is not fit, and he would be taken prisoner again. i said this to him, watching the heat rise in his cheeks.
and what of it, he asked, how many other unfit men and boys have already died? how is he any less fit for the grave than they?
i told him i would kill him myself before i let him go again, and left him in the fields.
it took all night. i thought i would die, strangle on my own heart as it caught in my esophagus. i thought he had already left, and i could not breathe, not sleep, not speak.
he came to me with the wind at dawn, no apologies, just the reassurance of hands, of lips. he will not go.
not now.
The day is well underway by the time the little caravan departs. Chris has banged together a cart from some pieces of wagon left in the shed, and fashioned it with handles so that it can be either pulled or pushed by one or two persons at a time. It’s a rather clever piece of work, Zach thinks admiringly. Certainly Elisabet and the toddler seem well pleased with it.
The older boy is determinedly planning to walk with the adults, and Jean-Luc is too small to express an opinion, but Michelle and Elisabet are all approval, and Zach smiles to himself as Chris visibly basks in their praise.
Mathilde is grumpily perched in the top of Chris’ rucksack, scowling her green-eyed scowl at any who dare approach, and Zach feels a pang as he looks back at the farmhouse which has been their temporary home.
He weeded the garden that morning, hoping it will feed whoever needs it. Maybe they’ll come back, in a week, a month.
So much depends on the outcomes of things over which they have no control.
The group rallies, and without really realizing it, begins to walk. Westward and south, heading for the sea, hoping to find shelter somewhere the fighting will not come.
He’ll miss it, he thinks, catching Chris’ eye and smiling, but for the moment, he has everything he needs.
1) Je t’aime, mon cher - I love you, my dear one.
2) Ce n’est rien, Madame - It’s nothing, madam.
3) “Voici. Il est parfait, n’est ce pas?”- See, here. He’s perfect, is he not?
4) Oui. Il est parfait - Yes. He is perfect.
next