ᴘᴀɴᴅʟᴇ & ᴋɪᴊᴀɴɪ ᴡᴡɪɪ

[Pandle]

ᴊᴀɴᴇᴛ ʀᴜʙʏ ᴡɪʟsᴏɴ

There are days we live as if death is nowhere.

It is a symphony of noise.
The Nazi planes conduct an orchestra of rogue saffron and turmeric, the blasts deafening the exposed August landscape, the turf thrown upward and dissected mid air by instruments of malicious intent. A drone of gunfire, the rake of metal on metal crashing in the world, the whimper of dying men and living men. It is nothing out of the ordinary. A wild splintering of wood and the exhausted engine as it crashes towards its doom somewhere nearby sets the dry French earth on fire, the barricade of claret storming vertically, swooning and kicking at the oncoming bombs as they are decimated above the troops, above the hospital.
Nurses run with hands full of dressings, some struggle beneath the weight of a stretcher others move carefully and with stern faces. These are women who have spent their lives under the rule of men, these are women who understand the capabilities of men's desires and see nothing remarkable in preventing the death of these wounded soldiers. The French pour in like startled rabbits, their faces burnt and the rawness of their uncovered jaw bones pearly. Janet, her pinafore straightened and her warming smile readied, throws herself into the oncoming parade of wounded soldiers.
A traffic warden she ushers the dead to the morgue and the dying to what few beds remain, those least affected with wounds to their arms or legs are placed on the floor and left with an assurance of returning aid. The stream of dying men begins to slow, clogged by the fire that rears outside the metal bunker as men attempt to fight it back, as aid arrives on the front line.

"Tilly!" Propelled into the company of the sour young nurse Janet stands at the bedside of a lieutenant, his coat pulled free of his torso he lays best chested on the sheets. Fingers tender over the gunshot Janet forks the burning metal rod into the open gush of blood, she moves it carefully inside his collar, feels the string of tendons as they give way to the burning metal, the teeth-shivering scrape of bone, the led bullet that sits snugly against the joint.
"Hold him tightly Tilly, that's it," Janet instructs as her patient comes too, thrashing and terrified in the enclosed space of the hospital. His destruction can only harm himself and the young nurse is foolish to give the soldier no answer but a glance toward Janet, there is no time to feel pity for one man, not now, with a nod to confirm the insertion of the anaesthetic they move on, toward the unending next.

...

Three days pass. Half the arrivals leave, more than a half of them toward the morgue, the lucky few deported back home to England, some unfortunates return to the trenches. To duty that calls them forward. The same duty which commands Janet to the sickness that rises like fleas from rats. The air is wet today, rain splashes in trenches and turns the topsoil to a pulp. The hospital is quiet once more, the wounded drifting from a state of consciousness only rarely. There are just two nurses on duty, nurse Janet Wilson and nurse Martha Maybroke. They drift at opposite sides with fresh dressing, each nurse blessed with experience that shows them there are more men to die from the gathered.
Janet stands at the foot of a bed, the man on the sheets has lost his right eye, the skin around his jaw burnt away, the ivory of his teeth in his ebony face contrast sharply, his lips snarling even in his dying days. His left eye is cloudy, his hair mostly burnt away, his left arm is heavily bandaged and slides at an angle from the bed. There is nothing to ease the man's pain, nothing to save him. Slowly, regretful that there is nothing more to be done, Janet moves on. The lieutenant suffering from a bullet to the collar bone. He will survive this time, Janet can see the colour returning to his flesh, slowly. He needs a new dressing. Settling into the bed side chair she uncurls the puce bandages from his neck and chest and take a rag with salt and warm water to the wound.
If he is strong enough he will wake at the intensity of the salt in his wound.

[Airmid]

Haines

The lieutenant had been lying in his bed for what seemed like forever. The morphine that the nurses were continuously pumping through his veins was starting to become his only sense of comfort. In the times that he drifted out of unconsciousness, it was the morphine that would ease the excruciating pain in his neck. Dimly, Haines could remember the stomach churning sensation of metal on bone as the nurse who had been taking care of him had extracted the metal. It gave the man a headache, and nauseated him. This only lasted for a few seconds as the morphine did it's job and relieved him of any pain far too quickly. By the third day, the pain from the bullet was starting to fade, retreating to a dull ache that only now and again would cause the lieutenant to cry out. He was starting to get used to the constant feeling of pain now. It reminded him that he was alive. Whenever he began to doubt his very existence, the wound would send him a particularly nasty wave of agony. As if it were an alarm clock or a friend. At least the throb was bearable. A few hours ago, the women had taken him off the precious morphine and he was to now take painkillers. At first Haines had contested that decision, protesting and lying, pretending that he was still in excruciating agony, however the women could easily see through his disguise and ignored his anger.

On a positive note, the new tablets that he drank with some water had a nice side-effect. They sent one off to sleep not minutes after ingestion. Of course Haines had been rather terrified to sleep, for fear of seeing his friends dying in convulsing and dying in a burning death, but it seemed that he was not going to dream that again. Instead he either dreamt of Charles, huddled in a corner, clutching his face as the mustard gas burned him, or he would dream about, strangely enough; Timothy. Just thinking of the sixteen-year-old sent Haines into a whirling spiral of depression. The soldier was only a boy. A boy who had lied about his age in order to join the army in the hopes that he would achieve eternal glory. The private had told Haines about it, during a particularly nasty storm, when there had been nothing else to do. Haines had brushed him off, even praising the boy for his eagerness, but now... Now that boy was most likely dead. It was ridiculous. How stupid could the lieutenant have been, letting the private join his ranks. And now his life had ended before it had even begun. Haines could remember, that after he had started retaliating, Timothy had been on of the first to follow by example. But the only weapon the young boy had been allowed was a simple hand-gun. What a stupid weapon. It would never have been able to protect him. And it had been Haines himself that had issued the boy with it, saying; "Boy, you are not old enough to carry something as strong as my MK2, here, have this hand-gun..." and that was it. The lieutenant just wanted to crawl into a hole and stay there forever. He should have died really. And now he had to tell the child's' family that their precious son was dead. Habitually, Haines rubbed his blinded eye to alleviate the itch that was now becoming more and more irritating each day.

During one particularly deep nap, Haines dreamt about what happened. Only this time, he and Charles had switched places. He was the one who had been exposed to the Hell-Gas, and it was he who was curled on the floor just blistering to his death. He could feel the presence of Charles rush over to him and shake his shoulder, sending wave after wave of searing heat throughout his body. However something was different in this scenario. Charles bent down and placed a hand on Haines' neck in order to manipulate his head, turning it sharply so the two eyes met. This of course sent the lieutenant down a road of eternal and burning Hell, causing his eyes to clench shut, as an agonised but broken gasp left his throat. The man's amber eyes flew open, and like a flash, Haines gripped the wrist of the person causing so much pain to flow through him. Eyes open but unseeing, Haines used all his strength to still the hand, before closing his eyes and panting heavily so as to get his breath back. Beads of sweat rolled down his temples, spreading the muck and blood on his face further as they went.

Panting a few times, Haines turned his head to the side, the tendons holding his head in place, bulging and throbbing as they mirrored how stressed and scared he was. Still unconsciously gripping the hand, the lieutenant looked up and focused his blurred gaze on the nurse who had been cleaning his wounds. It was the same one from before. The one who had actually taken the piece of metal out from his neck. Just the memory, caused the man to cringe. At least it was out now, and the man through his pain, was grateful. Still breathing heavily, Haines released her wrist and stared at the nurse. It wasn't as if he was really seeing the woman, he was just looking. Her figure gave his mind something to focus on, and having another human being so close was comforting. After a few tense seconds, Haines looked away and up to the ceiling blankly. He would let her do whatever she wanted without protest now that he was awake. The lieutenant cleared his throat, wincing at the burning and dry sensation that came with it, however did not speak.

From the corner of his eye, Haines finally observed the clean, but tired looking nurse. Hazel eyes widened for a moment before returning back to normal and looking away.

[Pandle]

ᴊᴀɴᴇᴛ ʀᴜʙʏ ᴡɪʟsᴏɴ

Breathing is the first note of music

Scrawled in calligraphy ink is the name Lieutenant Harley Haines and beneath that, tied with string, is the soldier's medical record. The dog eared pages make for an interesting short story, one Janet has already begun to learn, the transcript of war playing in her mind alongside Glenn Miller's musical sensations. The records of a dancing girl and wounded man merging seamlessly behind her glazed eyes.
One accident previous; blinded as a result. And now as companion to his wound he has a serious neck wound. His aim will be inaccurate, his strength diminished for at least a month. He'll be refused for active service, if he's lucky he'll be sent back to England the day Janet declares him fit for travel.
But is he really so lucky? The future spy has observed the cruelty of men wounded in action, witnessed the devastation they face when their name is brought back onto the roll. And what a shock they'll face to return to Blighty. Is it really worth it? These men who left the country in a state of pride only to return and find half of London bombed, the children gone. Sent to the country. Evacuees.
"Evacuees." Janet slips the word over her tongue, rolls it between her lips, and shudders. Simultaneously Haines' fingers curl cruelly into the nurse's palm, clenching as a baby to life.
She accepts his gaze calmly, her steady pulse throbbing in his touch, her unblinking eyes hold his quivering pupils as they contract and settle. His grip loosens, falls away completely, he turns away. Shakily breathing out Janet finishes the dressing and lingers, one tip still brushing the singed fibres of his abdominals.
"Lieutenant Harley?" Without trepidation the woman plunges, she must know if he can hear. The record transcript records heavy shelling at his attack. Men have lost their hearing before under less serious circumstances. It would be no surprise. But it would be the end of his service. "I'm nurse Wilson, how do you feel? Please, be honest Lieutenant, I can help."

"Danny no! Danny stop it, stop it Danny," snow twists in the air as it stumbles down onto the grass, the dark smear of the moon in an abyss of navy clouds scarcely thrusting light onto the grand house. An Indian Summer blasts out, carried through the lower floor of the home and stumbling like a drunk out to the young couple.
"Come on Ruby, sweetheart," Danny swung his fiancee around, the heels of her red shoes slushing in the gravel of the manor drive.
"Danny you promised not to tell!"
"I won't, sweetheart I swear by it,"
"People will wonder, stop it." Her face ablaze with intense joy she lands her voluminous lips on her lover.
"Can you blame them?" He grips her, his hands spilling with the cascades of her hair "for wandering about us? Oh Ruby, we shall be wed by New Year! And a baby!"
"Danny!"
The couple laugh and sway to the music as Christmas snow twizzles around them.

There are always ways of knowing, especially for a woman who has been with child. A nursing lady can read the body better than she can read the patient. What is another hurt, broken body to someone who has brought fresh life into the world and taken it away just as easily.
Janet knew when she had miscarried, knew the firmness of her belly was infection not a second, surviving, child by miracle. But she'd not asked for help. Not made a notion of her knowing signs and said nothing.
"I want to help you."

[Airmid]

Haines

For a few minutes after the nurse had spoken, Haines remained silent, his throat seemed to swallow up any noise that he wanted to convey. If he was honest, he'd to been listening to her, instead using her voice and figure like a handle onto reality. If anything, he just wanted to really go back sleep, however did not want to seem rude by ignoring her. On the other hand, the lieutenant could not care less weather or not he hurt her feelings. Instead, his auburn eyes studied her intently. Scrutinising everything about her. Her tired face. Red lips. Curly hair. When was the last time he had actually set his eyes on a woman? Probably when he had been introduced to Darline, General Taylor's wife. And she was neither pretty nor ugly. Just in between. Eventually, the lieutenant looked away before clearing his throat.

"Pleasure to meet you Miss Wilson" came the croaky and almost whisper-like reply. "My name is Haines Harley" the man introduced, completely unaware that she already knew his name, and had actually spoken it. He'd just not been using his ears properly. However, his eyes narrowed coldly at her last statement, causing the man to turn his head away from the woman, before scoffing sarcastically. She wanted to help him. Timothy had wanted to help him in his barracks and looked where that had got him. Dead, that was where. Charles had wanted to help him, and now the man was either dead, or burned for life. Every time the man blinked he could see the curled up and somehow tiny figure of the larger man, against the sagging and muddy walls of his trench. He could also see Timothy, desperately using his terrible and weak hand gun in order to protect himself. Damn. Why had he issued the young boy with such a pathetic weapon again? Like a jolt of electricity, Haines remembered that he had some company, being nurse Wilson.

For a moment, the soldier contemplated saying something cold and sarcastic about her wanting to help. Perhaps hurt her feeling enough for her to go away. Haines was a big boy, he needed o help. Especially from a small and helpless looking woman like her. What could she possibly give him, that he couldn't give himself?! The lieutenant even opened his mouth, ready to tell her to just leave, however something tugged at his stomach, stopping him from speaking, instead letting out a loud exhale. "Do you really think you can help me?" Haines pondered quietly, before turning his head back up to face the nurse once more "You can help me by letting me out of this place, darling" he continued, a cocky smile donning his features, which then disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.

Haines cleared his throat, coughing up some bloody phlegm which he quickly swallowed, not before pulling a face of pure disgust. The soldier then looked down his fairly bloody body. His torso bare from when the nurses had taken his coat away. Speaking of which, where was his old Air Force jacket? That piece of clothing had been everywhere with him. It almost had a personality of its own, to the point Haines had had a few half-sane conversations with the thing. His frowning eyes scanned the room in order to spot the coat, however gave up after a few seconds. It seemed he would have to find a new one. Slowly, Haines turned his attention back to the nurse "In answer to your earlier question; I'm fine" the lieutenant concluded, managing a half smile, before the muscles connecting his lips to his neck began to ache.

[Pandle]

ᴊᴀɴᴇᴛ ʀᴜʙʏ ᴡɪʟsᴏɴ

They're two dumb fish whose eyes close in a filmy dream

August sits in the moisture of the French weather with hostile glances at both parties; it cares for neither the Nazi's nor the allies. It is disgruntled by the bombardment and invasion of the fighter planes, it rolls hungrily over the landscape to consume revenge of its own. Soon enough the weather will turn from a summer rainfall to a winter ice and 1942 will thrust in the place of 1941. How the world will change. Janet would be free to migrate into the heart of the German occupation and settle into the enemy government. Women were able, are able, and Janet felt the tug of her future pull inside her breasts whilst she observed her patient. This air force lieutenant who has wandered into the front line, a stray, confident only in his own self pity. She could see it in the creases of his young face, the masked agony, the hidden emotions struggling to dominate in his mind.
Haines was nothing new nor exceptional, he was a man like every other in the ward, hurt, vulnerable. It was Janet's duty to heal him, stabilize him at the least, for his deportment back to Blighty. Nothing else. The heavy hammering of precipitation on the corrugated roof top was the only real sound in the hospital, everything was muffled by the thick dampness. It invited itself into the underground hospice and swept through the tunneled bunker, whistling and chortling as it skipped around the sleeping and the waking bringing chills to their bodies. How many had died because the health care here was too poor. Too many. Always too many.
In London the hospitals are worse, they are too full to hold the patients, they send them home to their wives or to lovers, sometimes to nobody at all, with word that someone will come around with medication. The midwives turn into the surgeons on the move, police men become educated doctors of science, politicians into medical examiners.
England and its allies were losing. The evidence was everywhere, in every grave, in every home. The absence of children in the cities, the loss of all men from every inhabited village or country town, the women left behind to the bomb raids and the disease. The rations of food so poor that malnourished, starved women will never conceive a child again. And out here on the front line which is retreating rapidly toward Spain at the hands of the malicious Germans.

No. Janet's duty wasn't to heal the wounded, it was to give them hope.
"Well Mr Haines Harley the honour is mine," quietly leaning back in the wooden cup of the chair Janet Ruby Wilson held Haines' scrutinising raiding gaze and pondered what thoughts flickered through his mind of her, of his life. "It isn't often we get to see pilots down here." She notes as an afterthought despite his disgruntled array of mix-matched prepositions. She would have to decide if he was suffering from post-traumatic stress, if he was it would be the final punctuation to his career. She hoped she would not have to make such a notation on his records. He was being considered for great things in the war, the effort needed men like Haines if the allies wanted to win.
"By my honour, Lieutenant, I will help you to return." Janet turned to collect the dirty bandages in her hands "you've made remarkable progress, you have a strong will Lieutenant Harley." Her mouth opening to say more she found her encouragement drowned by the sudden apparition of Colonel Jenkins.
He was the only man in the whole of France aware of Janet's future with the German's, the only one who could possible give her away. But he would not, surely? Marching forward Janet found herself moving automatically to meet the British man, his clean shaven face recently washed and shaved, his beaming green eyes hooking onto Janet in her nurse uniform with sly agreement; he did not approve of women aiding in the war effort.
"Colonel,"
"Evacuate the hospital immediately, reports have come in, the enemy is advancing, the first trenches are down, get them out, we have the cars ready outside."
This was it. This was the beginning of the take over. The last land in France was about to be taken by the German's, we were retreating into Spain. The passage into England was open, it surely only a matter of time before the Germans took ships and planes to the homeland.
"Yes sir," the hospital was already being invaded by Private's and Lance corporal's ordered to assist in the transition. Janet moved toward Haines, her face hiding the truth of her emotions. She was to be a spy, she could not let news be read from her features.
"We're leaving Lieutenant, can you walk? I can call for a stretcher if you rather, here, let me help you."

[Airmid]

Haines

The lieutenant managed a longer and more genuine smile at the nurses comments, the corner of his ash-covered eye crinkling up as his skin folded. The young man nodded at her words, grateful to hear them. At least she was staying positive. Perhaps in that stressed and overworked mind of hers, she had enough hope for the both of them. But then again, Haines pondered, that was her job. However, when she mistook him for being a pilot, his expression turned slightly dark. At least if he'd been a pilot, he would have died, rather than be stuck in this hospital. Useless. In the Air Force, if one was going down, one would try to take out as many enemy planes as possible. Haines had seen far too many of his colleagues perform that tactic, and he himself had nearly died previously avoiding German planes taking the same measures. But no. There was no point thinking about what could've, or should've happened to him. Instead he would have to wonder what was next for him. The lieutenant wondered for a moment. He was supposed to have been promoted to colonel, at some point in the future, however Haines reckoned that was not about to happen now. Now that he was, well useless. Would they send him back to England? No- Haines would never be able to bear the look of disappointment on his parents eyes, when they found out the cause of his leave. Perhaps if they did force him back, Haines would trick them into thinking that the only reason he was back was because he was on holiday, then leave after a week and live somewhere else, whilst saying that he had been called back for duty.

The sudden and frantic movements of nurses beginning to take action once more, caught the mans interest just as Nurse Wilson went to meet with Colonel Jenkins. The lieutenants eyebrows creased in confusion, as men were being carried off in stretchers, or carried on the arms of other soldiers out of the medical centre. Then he heard it; First Trenches are down. That had been his trench. The one he'd so desperately attempted to defend. There had only been a few Germans! How could their entire trench have gone down?! Or had backup just not arrived as quickly as he'd hoped. In any case; he had failed his job as one of the lieutenants miserably. Now he was never to be promoted, as he had failed to protect so many. Staring up to the heavens, Haines prayed. He prayed that God would be kind and just kill him now. What good was he, if he was so inept at his job...?

Haines' attention was however then caught, by Miss Wilson, who moved back over to his bed. The lieutenant eyed Colonel suspiciously, and for a moment the two mens eyes met, however the higher ranking man just nodded his head. For some reason, Haines already did not like him. The man reminded him to a snake, silent and scheming, ready to strike at all times. The man unnerved him. Nurse Wilson's voice drifted like smoke into his consciousness as she explained what they were doing. Reluctantly, Haines turned his head to meet her gaze, and indicate that he was listening. With a wave of his hand, the man dismissed her offer of help. "I am fine Miss Wilson" He insisted, before sitting up in his bed and wincing at the shooting pain through his body. "It is my neck that has been wounded and not my legs" The man continued, before sliding out of the safety of his mattress, and gingerly placing his feet on the cold tiled floor. Due to his lack of clothing, covering the top half of his body, he could not help but shudder as the cold wind stabbed and licked at his stomach and chest. It was no matter. Haines had, had the unfortunate experience of being in the trenches during a particularly fierce winter. Even with four layers of clothing, he had barely gotten any sleep from the intense cold.

After a few seconds of getting his balance back, the soldier turned to face the nurse once more. "You should help someone who actually needs it, Miss Wilson" the lieutenant insisted, a light smile donning his features. Without waiting for an answer, Haines turned away, brown eyes scanning to see where everyone was heading off to. "It was a pleasure meeting you Miss Wilson" The young man finally said, before weakly following the rest of the crowd and the privates that had been drafted in, in order to direct patients. For a brief moment, Haines hoped that Timothy was one of the privates there, however brushed that desperate thought away before it could really make itself at home. Easily, the lieutenant was able to leave the building, before shivering violently in response to the outside world. The wind was almost like fire, the way it burned his skin from it's chilling bite. This was ridiculous. It was summer, for God's sake! Why had it turned so cold, why now at least?! A private ran up to the lieutenant and guided him to a van that had some room, by roughly taking hold of his shoulder. Of course the man had gripped the shoulder that had the bullet wound near it, causing the wound to open and blood to soak his bandages. Haines grunted in pain, however said nothing. There would be no point it raving about his injury now, he would need to get some assistance later.

Haines vainly hoped that Nurse Wilson would be the one to help him again. She made the centre feel much safer and less frightening.

[Pandle]

ᴊᴀɴᴇᴛ ʀᴜʙʏ ᴡɪʟsᴏɴ

We are all just children fighting for the best toys for the best playground. Look what it is doing! -no. No. It is not a permissible thought, if it should even gain a minute cincture in the brain it would dominate, it would destroy. Such thinking is the beginning of fear. Fear is the brightest of storms, it is the shape of the boundaries while knowing none for itself. It is the greatest of enemies, always waiting inside of us, climbing and mounting in the stomach, growing rapidly like a disease on the sense of unknowing. Inflamed by the darkness and sounds, by love, by hate.
The all knowing enemy of fate.

"Lieutenant-" Janet cannot defy the soldier, not so openly as to his face before an audience no matter how it might pain them later. But she had never meant for insult, never given cause for grief or rebuke. She had worried only for his strength. Men's pride is easily bruised, a lesson not taught but learnt. Perhaps this was the beginning of her education, a window into the face of men, how vital the information would prove to be in Germany for men are not so different from one another.
Haines is shuffling away and nurse Wilson knows not to stand and stare after a patient who is proving his capabilities and courage by getting on with it. She ought to do the same. There are bedded men unable to be as brave or proud, who are counting on a nurse or a soldier to get them out of the oncoming disaster.
She moves. Rapidly crossing over the slabs toward a gentleman, a Captain Thomas Campbell of the fifth regiment, who lies in a state of unconscious relief. His chest was torn open by shrapnel, the cuts slicing his face into three, his jaw, the left side up to his right eye socket, and his right cheek. His left ear is missing, the skin pulled tightly over the wound and stitched. He will never serve again.
But he could live. With the assistance of an unnamed private Janet rolled the Captain onto a stretcher and carried him out of the bunker. Pelting rain was driving downward in horizontal sheets, the wind flapping at the canvass of the waiting cars, the mud slick with blood and dropped positions. Without a glance at the environment Janet and the private loaded the Captain into the nearest truck and withdrew. The private vanished in a throng of soldiers to enter a vehicle she could not blame him, he was seizing his chance for escape. In the storm a sudden violent drum blasted as fighter planes swarmed over head, the allied planes heading out toward the enemy. It would take an hour by road and foot, by air? Minutes. They had just minutes to evacuate.

They wouldn't make it.

And the Colonel stood with a smug grin plastered onto his jaw. He must have known sooner than this that the front line were falling. He held back the news. He'd done it intentionally so the record of deaths would add to Janet's. A service record would never look good with so many deaths on her hand. She had to make a choice.
Go on to Germany and be abandoned there for ever with a blood stained record that nobody would rectify on know the truth about, or stay and risk dying, but dying a hero of sorts. There was no choice to it.
In the pouring rain the signals to go were being given, trucks were already pulling out, their tiers sloshing in thick canvass of mud. More were coming, not all would stop. The air raid could be heard, the bombings, the shooting. How long left now?
Dragging her proud, sharp eyes to the Colonel's she shook her head.
"Go! Go!" Someone was yelling.
"Go!" uttered Janet as she turned back toward the bunker and the remaining men unable to get out in time. "Go!" The colonel didn't hesitate, he leapt into the nearest car and abandoned her.

There was no point in waiting outside for the bombers to reach them. Turning she dashed down the mud steps into the narrow doorway of the bunker. This was the front line hospital that had withstood gunfire and shelling. Would it survive German conquest? If the bombs did not blow the shelter to smithers would the Germans take them as hostages?
Would this be the end of living or the end of survival?
In their beds men looked gravely toward the remaining nurse, their eyes cloudy with oncoming doom. She couldn't abandon these men who could only watch. Abandoned by country but not by Queen.
Hurrying toward the vacated beds Janet hurried to push them up against the door way, any barricade she could put between herself the possible entrance of Germans was better than nothing. A pale was coming down somewhere nearby, the distinctive thrum in the air as a magnificent piece of machinery became a cropper couldn't be mistaken.
Pulling the beds with occupants still in down to the far end Janet grabbed a hold of the mattresses and yanked them from the bed frames with gushes of apologies to the soldiers lying wounded on top. The gun planes were nearing.
There was one small back entrance still left to them. She could leave. If she ran now she could hide somewhere, perhaps make it over the border in three nights time. She was calculating as she worked the metal posts apart from one another, into canes the men could hold if forced to walk. Into poles that could be used to beat Germans with.

The shelter sat in silence.
Time came as a constant. No Germans. No bombs. She couldn't imagine what was going on outside the bunker, couldn't picture the destruction or the thousands of Germans that had invaded the front line and pushed over the other wise. That were now pitching up and tending to their own wounded. The Germans who had taken on glance at the hospital and the tire tracks and thought it empty and worthless. They would climb in for the night, the high ranking officers would use the beds for sleeping, not for the wounded.
Janet would have to wait until nightfall before meeting a German.

[Airmid]

Haines

He should have known. It was so obvious. The Germans were attacking, and they were not about to let many of the retreating cars escape. Fortunately, the lieutenants particular van had been one of the first to leave, speeding away, uncaring if it rocketed over stones, and causing the passengers whiplash. All the driver knew was that he had to get away. Haines could see out the back, as other vans began to light-up, some being over-run with Germans, others getting bombed intensely. The man looked around at the shell-shocked and vacant faces of the men in the car with him, as they watched the action unfold. Perhaps Nurse Wilson would not help him anymore then. It had been selfish of him to think, and hope that she would make it out. The man had only spoken a few sentences to her. That was the thing with war, one shouldn't really make friends or develop relationships with another person so heavily involved in the war, for this precise reason. Not that he was heavily involved, but he liked her. She'd actually managed to make him feel safe. Still with his hand pressed firmly to his neck, Haines leant his head back against the cold metal surface of the van and closed his eyes.

Transport. Haines' biggest enemy and ally of sorts. If it moved, he would fall asleep. The rocking motion simulated his nurse rocking him to sleep, sending the man into a blissful state of unconsciousness. In this case, falling asleep was not a good thing. The lieutenant needed to keep pressure on his wound. Haines wasn't trained in any medical area, but some instinct deep inside him, told the soldier to put pressure on the bleeding area. From the corner of his eye, the man could see the sticky blood oozing through his fingers, occasionally building up enough pressure and bursting in an energised squirt. To his slight amusement, they would occasionally spray one of the soldiers in the van with him, who would then pull a disgusted face and wipe their eyes. One of them gave the lieutenant a pitying glance, however Haines ignored it. He was fine. That oaf of a soldier had, yes, opened his wound again, but not particularly bad.

However, Haines attention and eyes landed on a familiar face. It was that Colonel from before, only he was sat in the front passenger seat, lighting up a cigar, before presently exhaling the wispy smoke towards the driver. Said man frowned, before waving the smoke away and focusing on the road. The Colonel laughed before smacking the driver on the shoulder in a jolly fashion. Again, the driver ignored him. Haines frowned suspiciously, before climbing over the tired and sitting bodies of the soldiers in order to poke his head through the small window that was between the front and back of the van. "Colonel!" Haines called, having to shout over the unhealthy roar of the engine, which was spewing out smoke and diesel as it ran from the chaos. Said man, heard and turned halfway in his seat in order to face Haines. "Ah- Lieutenant!" He replied, sending the man an all-too-happy nod of approval. "Sir, do you happen to know is Nurse Wilson escaped?" Haines shouted, his voice feeling a little horse. The Colonel smirked before raising his eyebrow "Yes-" He began, before stopping and shaking his head fake sadness. "I told her to get out, even tried to force her to get out, but she was having none of it" He continued, his voice becoming shaky as if, an immense grief had settled over him "She instead pushed me out the door and locked herself in! I think all the injured and dying soldiers finally snapped her little head" The Colonel finished, shaking his head regretfully.

Haines was unable to find any words to reply with, just staring into the distance until the Colonel had, had enough and turned away. She snapped? But the woman had seemed so cool-headed and professional? It really did not make any sense whatsoever. But the Colonel would not lie, would he? He was a colonel after-all. Haines sank back down into his new seating place, and leaned his head back up against the metal side of the van, before tipping his head up and sighing. Perhaps if he had not had so much pride, she would be in the van with he and the colonel now. Or perhaps not.

That was the thing with war. At some point it would get to everyone.

[Pandle]

ᴊᴀɴᴇᴛ ʀᴜʙʏ ᴡɪʟsᴏɴ

She stood with her back to the wounded, center of the aisle, bolding facing the prop of bed posts that held them captive. The Germans were at the door. The pummels of their guns slapping the metal with dull thuds, the sensation flooding the empty hospital, echoing, spiraling, intense in its attack on their ears. Make or break time. Do or die.
She had shed her nurse uniform, changed instead into the air force coat, the fibres of dark navy blue stained with flecks of mud and pockets of dried blood. It was Haines' coat. It smelt of him. Janet had filed the warm cologne of the soldier into her mind, it swam in her nose now. She had done all she could. She had dragged the wounded into the morgue and attended their wounds as best as she could. She had dived under the eye of the enemy to get the wounded out of the grounded bunker and managed it unnoticed.
But now they were banging at the door. They had to know someone, something, was inside for the entrance to be barricaded. Janet was relying on the very thoughts. Standing as the central figure she felt the ache of nerves inside her chest. She didn't need to fake the fear that sprawled over her face, that jumped into her eyes and fingered her lips.
She just had to remember her training. Three years and this was what it came down to. A bluff.

The door gave way at last, a small sliver of candle light blasting through the gap followed by the dazed German soldiers, surprised to have yielded open the door after so many hours of its tight locked fit. They stumbled in, five of them, in silence. They had their weapons gripped and aimed, they could squeeze the trigger, shot her from existence right now.
No one moved. A harsh rasp came from behind them, it was thick, not German, Russian. A Russian general appeared and joined the younger men in gawping. Janet could feel her cheeks burn with embarrassment, her automatic retreat stumbling, daft. She was a fawn on ice, sliding backward from the entrance of the enemies.
In a sudden spit of German Janet found one of them men speaking directly toward her.

What to do? She understood him perfectly, she could answer him in fluent german with an accent to match. She could act the German lady. Or she could be British and hope they would take her for entertainment rather than shoot a hostile woman.

What to do?

He ask repeating the question, his temper rising, his gun sinking deep into his shoulder as he took aim, Janet could glimpse the curve of his finger around the trigger, the slow squeeze of the digit. This was it. Time to choose.
"Nein! No!" She screamed out. The men paused, their eyes drinking her in, their thoughts registering. She'd yelled out in two languages, enemy languages. What was she? Who was she? They shared glances, pondering what to do. But Janet knew what she wanted, she wanted to get outside, she had to.
Dropping to her knees the coat flapped open, exposing the bare flesh of her stomach. She had shed her uniform to look like a captive, keeping it would have ruined her future as a spy, keeping it could have seen her shot. Losing it left her in nothing but her underwear, she was thankful for Haines' coat now.
Her pleas and tears worked. The soldiers, German or not, were still men. They were not totally heartless. This was a woman they were facing, not a French, American or British soldier with a weapon drawn. A crying woman.

...

She sat with an arm slung around her shoulders and cigar smoke streaming into her eyes. She wasn't dead, not even hurt. She considered it a miracle. They'd taken her out and kept guns trained on her in the beginning, but somewhere higher in the ranks a remark was made, a remark that wouldn't it be nice to have a woman around?
Janet could hardly protest to their treatment, they'd not killed her. She had to remind herself of the fact frequently, had to clamp her mouth shut to stop the agonised begs from erupting. Alive. Alive. Alive. The chant wove into her fabric. Escape. Escape. Escape. The warning flashed. Night would be her cover, all she had to do was get away. Three nights. That was what she had judges it to be in the bunker, three nights on foot from here to the next fall back. But what if the Germans had gone even further than here? What if this wasn't the new front line? Of course it was.
Why would the push further? There was a new no-mans land, that was all. And she had to cross at night when gunfire would be intermittent and random, when the chances of mustard gas would be low, where even pilots couldn't see her.

What of the wounded men? Easy. She had dressed those she could in German uniforms and smuggled their weapons to them in the morgue. Nobody checked the mogue. Ever. If she could escape back to the allies then she could let them know of the men, she could save them.

The darkness was settling over the country, the coldness of the storm was wild, it was intense and burning. Janet suppressed a shiver, she was frozen. She would die if the weather stayed this way, she would crawl into some ditch in the dark of night and never move again. No! No that couldn't happen. She had to return Haines' coat.
The German troops were retiring into their bunkers, into the trenches they'd already spent the day digging around the bunker and out into the field away from the road. She would have to stay near the road if she didn't want to get lost. Her window was small, tiny, it was the blink of an eye and a turn of the head. Janet seized it.

...

The middle of an August night. The road was on fire, the final retreat of the allies had been to blow up the road. It was still burning, the heat rolling into the fields in great waves. It made the air orange and eerie, it shed light over the darkness, light to see the enemies by, light for her to be seen by.
She kept low, the final boarder would be heavily guarded, two nights and days of crawling on her belly in nothing but an old coat, she was filthy, exhausted, starved. On the verge of tears. But here she was, the final stretch. Unseen thus far. She could do it. The last stretch.

[Airmid]

Haines

Seven days had gone by. Seven days since he had been evacuated from the medical centre. It had not taken the small group long to find a base filled with allies. Haines had even been treated for the old bullet wound, and he was able to walk confidently again. All that remained from the mess, was some bandages wrapped tightly around his left peck and up the neck a little. Now and again, it would give the lieutenant a little bit of jip. A shooting, stabbing pain causing the man to wince and remember that he was still unfit for duty. Also, within that time, the lieutenant had made a new friend, by the name of Xavier. He had been gravely wounded in another scuffle with the Germans and had needed one of his legs amputated. The man had a rather morbid and sick sense of humour; taking great delight in telling Haines about how he had been half conscious when the nurses had been forced to amputate his leg. Xavier said he could recall the sickening grind of serrated metal against the bone of his leg, followed by the dull crunch that followed when the saw had passed through. He would also remember how; he had not made a noise, thus causing all the nurses in the room to fall madly in love with him. Haines was fairly sure, that the last part was a bold-faced lie, however did not really want to dent the soldiers smugness. The two soldiers beds were side-by-side, meaning they talked long into the night in hushed whispers; mostly about their experiences with the war and what they had seen. They both shared the fact, that most of their old friends were dead, in common, which was a good thing, Haines thought. It meant that they could understand and talk to each other. But the two were similar in that, they tried not to dwell on the past, and instead wonder what was going to happen in the future. Haines told Xavier about his fears of being sent home, and Xavier told Haines his fears of home. About how; the sudden change from the fast world of the war seemed scary. How; when he and his friends had joined, they swore to themselves that they would all leave for home together.

It also became painfully obvious to the lieutenant that Xavier was suffering from severe post-traumatic stress disorder. He'd heard of the disease, but had never had the opportunity to really see what it did to a man. It would strike at the most distressing times for example; Haines would be sleeping, quite peacefully, and a hand would suddenly grab and clutch his shirt, as if holding on for dear life, thus electrocuting the lieutenant awake. The hand obviously belonged to the traumatised man, who after a few seconds of silence would begin screaming like Haines had never heard a full-grown man scream before. Not that it was particularly girly, it was just so full of terror and desperation that the lieutenant was struck dumb the first time it had happened. The nurses on duty, of course would rush in and wheel his bed away, and after a few minutes the yelling and crying would die down, and the man would be placed back to his rightful place on Haines' right.

On the third day, around mid-afternoon a man dressed in a smart black suit, hair slicked back and a smug and fake smile donning his features walked in. Around him, photographers were snapping photographs, blinding nearby patients with the flash, and sending smoke puffs after smoke puffs into the air, causing some of the patients with weaker lungs to cough a little. Behind the confident man, was Colonel Jenkins who now and again gestured to various soldiers and muttering words to the clean man. The noise woke many of the soldiers up, including Xavier, who looked over grimly at the sight, before turning to Haines. "Politician..." The amputee grunted as if the word burned his mouth. Haines raised an eyebrow, before leaning forwards and nodding in the politician's direction, "Why would a politician come here of all places?" The lieutenant questioned, as he watched the suited man, lean over the bed of a particularly bloody soldier and loudly shout some words of encouragement as the photographers scrambled to write down everything he said. Xavier laughed dryly "To make himself look better" he explained, "The public love nothing better than a politician who care about the poor injured soldier" Xavier finished, accentuating the last part of his sentence as if it were the most disgusting thing he had ever heard of.

The group finally made their way over the Xavier's and Haines' bed, and were immediately blinded by bright flashes as the camera's took pictures of them in their beds. "Ah-" Colonel Jenkins exclaimed, moving over to Haines' bed, said lieutenant immediatly stood up to meet the Colonel before giving a stiff salute, "Oh come now lieutenant" Jenkins scoffed, sending a light hearted salute back "There is no need for formalities here!" the rattie man continued, before turning to the politician who seemed to have only eyes for the half-naked soldier "What happened to you, young man?" The older gentleman demanded, his eyes sliding over the bandages covering Haines' torso, "I- I was shot in the collar bone sir!" Haines immediately answered, sharply. The nameless politician nodded with a grunt, before turning to the camera's and plastering on an obviously fake smile "Well soldier, this country thanks you" The edgy gentleman announced, before roughly pulling Haines to his side, and turning to face as many camera's at once. The photographers seemed to suddenly go crazy, shouting at each other to move, or just pushing each other over, as they desperately tried to get a great picture of the two. "This is going to be on the front page of every Sunday newspaper, son" Came the sudden but harsh voice of the man next to him, causing Haines to gulp subtly, before it continued "So try to look as if you're enjoying yourself!" It finished with a snake-like hiss. Caught off-guard by the whole thing Haines would only smile charmingly and pretend to find the politicians jokes funny.

Almost as soon as the whole thing had started, Haines was by himself once more. Xavier had been reading a playboy magazine very obviously, and seemed to engrossed in the whole thing. Haines just didn't have the heart to pull the man out of his daze for a little chat. Slowly, the lieutenant made his way over to the cold and severe looking window, before looking out. At least the sun was shining brightly. Seven days he had been in this place, and not doing something. And Seven days he had not heard any sign of that nice Miss Wilson from before. He'd asked about her a few times, but none of the nurses seemed particularly interested in his questions about the woman, or if any stopped to listen at all, they had no idea who she was. Regretfully, Haines knew he should've asked Colonel Jenkins as it would be he, who would hear any sign of the nurse if there was one, however stupidly, Haines had missed that chance.