it takes and it takes | a story

“Nurse?”

The whispered word went almost unnoticed by Adelaide Lawrence. She rose from her desk where she had been ripping up sheets to be reused as bandages and searched for the speaker. 

A low rattling cough. “Over here, miss.”

Adele wove her way through the cots that lined the walls, leaving hardly any narrow space for walking through. Stopping at a bed in the corner of the room, she glanced quickly at the file hanging from the metal frame.

Maximus Weber. Found in no-man’s land. Suffered an injury to the head, lung, and right arm.

Underneath, the polite scribble of nurse Williams was etched into a margin: Will not survive. Keep comfortable.

She would try to remember his name, she thought. Though with the soldiers constantly coming in and going out it was impossible to keep track.

Adele tightened her white bandanna and seated herself next to the dying soldier.

“What can I do?” she murmured. “Would you like water? Another blanket?”

His lips tightened—the only part of his face she could see. The rest was hidden by bandages, neatly wrapped over his forehead and eyes. 

“I-I,” he stammered, licking his lips and trying again. His English was stilted by his native accent. 

“I can’t write left handed. And—” he jerked a chin to his right side helplessly.

Adele glanced down at the sheets. His left arm was tucked behind his head, propping him higher on the pillow. His right sleeve was pinned to his shoulder. Missing.

“Of course,” she assured. “Can I write for you?”

“Danke. A letter, please?”

Adele pulled an old envelope out of her pocket. She would write it here first, copying it later onto proper writing paper. Not that it would ever be sent. However hard she tried, these enemy soldiers were never allowed to write home. They received the cast-off bedclothes, the leftover medicine, the worst bunking conditions, and the unwelcome greeting of rain plinking onto their noses from the holes in the worn down roof.

“Tell me what to write,” she said, her pencil hovering carefully over the envelope.

“Write a letter to my mother,” the German rasped. “Tell her, tell her,” he coughed again, his body stiffening as he gasped for breath. Adele placed a soft hand on his arm. 

“Breath,” she murmured. “It’s okay.”

He recovered, taking a rattling breath. 

“Tell her,” he repeated, “to keep Alfred at home. And-and tell her to ask the Reverend to pray for me. Lord, I know I ain’t gone be here much longer. I ain’t ever gonna get back to the field, ain’t never become a doctor. But maybe at least I can have a chance at a second life. So ask him, ask him to pray for me.”

Adele swallowed, carefully placing the letters in neat rows, arranging them into sentences, filing those into paragraphs. Max had tucked his cheek against the pillow, his breathing was slower; soft puffs through his cracked lips.

“Is that all?” she whispered.

There was no reply. Finally he spoke, not moving a muscle.

“There were posters. Fliers. Brochures. Everyone telling us that this war would be for the greater good, that it would be over in no time, that it was a great honour to fight for our country. Ya know what it’s like to see everyone around you disappearing onto boats and trains, all heading to face the enemy?”

“Yes,” Adele whispered. “They took my little brother. He was so excited to leave. Looked a sight, too, in that uniform. But he’s positioned at the front. I live with my heart in my throat every day, wondering if I’ll ever get a telegram saying he’s gone.”

Max nodded, his face contorted in pain. 

“It’s hard for the women-folk too, that’s something else they never told us. Having to see their brothers, fathers, husbands, beau’s—leaving day after day.”

His words faded into coughing again. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he slowly turned his face in her direction. “They must’a forgot to tell us that we might haft’a die for our country too, not just fight for it. Bullets seem a little nicer when they ain’t coming your way.”

He lapsed into silence again. Adele tore a corner off of the envelope with her fidgeting. Her throat was aching with trying to fight back the tears. She had been writing on the front of the envelope, but now she turned it around.

Adele Lawrence

Her name, in confident capital letters, smack in the middle of the sheet. She missed hearing it shouted over the house, over the yard, over the street. She missed the familiar nickname—no one called her Adele here. Just Nurse, or Adelaide, or Miss Lawrence. She brushed her fingers over them, glancing at the return address.

Harrison Lawrence.

The soldier had been still. She shook his shoulder gently. 

“Is that all you wanted in your letter, Max?”

“Letter?” he said, mouth slack, voice hollow. His hand grasped for hers. “Yes. A letter. Tell my mother, tell her, tell her I’m sorry. I miss her.” His face suddenly crumpled, appearing more like a ten-year-old boy than a soldier. He probably was only a boy, Adele thought, her heart breaking. She reached for his hand.

“It’s alright. You’re not alone. You’re going to be okay.”

False hope. But Adele still fought to believe it, to make it true. Maybe she could save him. Maybe he could go back home, see his mother, his brother Alfred. Maybe he could talk to his Reverend himself. Have another chance at this life.

“You rest,” she said firmly. “Sleep now.”

Max slumped further into his pillow, not moving as she tucked the blankets higher around his shoulders.

“Are you warm enough?” she asked. “Max?”

He shrugged, fighting against another cough.

“Can I get you anything? Water?”

He shook his head.

“Well, I’ll get your letter to your mother,” she promised. “Rest.”

Later that day, Adele sank into her desk, placing a crisp piece of writing paper in front of her. Beside her sat Max’s letter. She would write it out, she promised, as soon as she was finished with her own letter. Her pencil hesitated a moment over her paper, then began furiously scribbling.

Harrison,

Harry. Remember how I used to call you that? You hated it. I can still picture your face scrunching up, angry that Adele was a nickname I was fond of. I miss you. More than ever. I met another German soldier today. He was so young, so frightened. I wrote a letter for him. He told me about his mother, about how he wanted another chance. He was nice. They all are nice—every German soldier that comes through. It makes me wonder how it could be possible—that you are there fighting for your life against these men, while I patch together what you’ve failed to destroy. I don’t blame you. But I can’t find it in myself to blame them, either. He’s gone, Harry. That soldier I told you about—Max. He died this afternoon. I couldn’t do anything to save him. His lung was punctured, he had lost his arm and extreme amounts of blood. I worry for you. Tell me you’re safe. Write back. I miss you.

Affectionately,

Adele

“Miss Lawrence?”

Adele glanced up. Nurse Williams was standing in front of her, a crisp piece of yellow folded in her hand. Adele froze. 

“It’s for you, love.”

She offered the envelope. Adele couldn’t reach to take it. She met the other woman’s eyes, shaking her head, eyes filling with tears.

“No,” she begged. “No. Please, don’t make me read it.”

“I think it would be best for you to know,” the nurse replied. Her eyes were soft. She tore the telegram open, placing it upright on Adele’s desk.

“Don’t go,” Adele pleaded. “I don’t think I can read it alone.”

Her shaking fingers reached for the letter, turned it to face her. She scanned the words. Her hand shot up to cover her mouth.

Nurse Williams reached out and gathered Adele into her arms.

“There, there,” she murmured. Her chin rested on the top of Adele head. “Lord,” she whispered brokenly, face turning to the sky. “How many more must go?”

The letter drifted through Adele fingers, dropping silently onto the floor.

Regret to inform you,

Your brother, Pvt. Harrison Lawrence, died the 4th November in Stationary Military hospital, France. Personal belongings shall follow.

(inspired by the song I Can’t Write Left Handed, John Legend and the film Testament of Youth (which y’all should go watch right now k bye)