A memory from beyond - Till Death do us part.

I used to be a healer in the British infantry during the course of the Second World War. The horror's I'd seen in the trenches had scarred my soul irreparably but none more so, than an afternoon I'd spent with a wounded German soldier, who had been brought back to our healing tents, by Captain Williams, who laid down the weak, wounded man onto my bed, and had left signaling to me that I should do everything in my power to nurse this enemy back to health. The purpose of this noble deed wasn't as altruistic as it may sound. They needed him nursed back so that he would be able to give them information about the German forces across the border. And if there was one thing the German's were known for, it was for their grit, tenacity, and the unwillingness to break during interrogations. And to say the interrogations were brutal would have been a severe understatement. It was an ordeal that you carried with you for the rest of your days. This man, whoever he was, had in store for him a miserable existence for the rest of his life. His life had ended the second they'd brought him into my tent.

I looked up at the young face, a man of no more than thirty. He had a thin moustache to complement the attractive features on his face. Blue eyes, and a set of well oiled brown hair. Despite the pain of the bullet embedded deep in his thigh, he smiled when he first saw me peering over his slumped body with interest.

"You the Dr. here ?" he asked in his thick German accent, looking at me with eyes that I'll never forget. He smiled through them, such was the depth in them. His lips were charred beyond recognition, perhaps the result of an explosion that he had only been in the distant vicinity of. 

"I am the Dr. yes," I said, going back to my supplies and finding from it a pair of scissors and a scalpel, so I could clean the wound and dislodge the bullet from the man's leg. I could hear the troops outside making a mockery of how "they'd blown a thousand Germans in two days". They laughed and drank ale, all amidst the backdrop of a horrific war, and it made me think, as I nursed soldiers inside my tent, whether these men had given up their grasp of a normal reality in lieu of a satirical take on it. One that involved making a mockery of death, as if it were an instance to be celebrated. I pitied my comrades, but knew at the same time, that most of them, if given the choice, would not have opted to be in the situation they were in.

It was a time of great financial reprieve in Great Britain. They called it "The War of all Wars". The Chinese had conquered parts of North England, namely Birmingham, Nottingham, and various other ports along the Eastern line. Military General Tuan Xi had taken over the reins of the Northern Empire, and the Southern powers were in the midst of a brutal naval war with the Russians. Lady Britain was being attacked on all fronts. Our allies had abandoned us. "Sorry, but we're sorry" had been the unspoken message from our friends across the Atlantic. Prime Minister Harrison had been left with no choice but to surrender.

We had been fighting on the Eastern front, stationed in the small sleepy town of Noa Bora on the outskirts of Germany. One of the last regiments still embroiled in the dying embers of the war we'd lost so decisively. The Germans had taken over the Greening crossing and had made inroads into Noa Bora, causing General Bridges to order a hasty retreat into the wilderness of the Bora Forest. Max had arrived at my tent on the fifth day of our arrival there, and I remember it to have been a day when I had felt a ray of hope enter the bleak confines of my mind for the first time in many days,. You could even call it happiness. It had been non-stop shell bombings and assaults one after the other, a game of tennis, with each player volleying back and forth the ball that was the sovereignty of their respective lands. And even though I was behind the lines of action, it had dawned on me one night, whilst I had been lying in my patched up makeshift bed, that what I had signed up for was a nightmare of unbelievable proportions. Once I returned, and that was certainly a big if, for the horrors I'd witnessed had done nothing to make me believe that I would see my family again, but if I did, I imagined a life of great misery and personal struggles that awaited me back home. I'd had friends die in my tent, in my arms, and even some who'd made their last words about me, and how they were lucky to have had me by their side through it all. I had watched all of them die in great distress and the lapse between my remorse and my obligation to head back to my duties was quite a short one, for it was non-stop carnage from all fronts. I'd witnessed as many as a hundred dead bodies in my tent one bloody Friday afternoon, when we'd attempted to make a hasty charge into German territory, only for them to shell us into the ground. Bodies strewn across the murky plains, lying knowing that they would rot there for eternity. I had no stomach to imagine what these poor lads must have felt when the explosions would have ripped up their fragile interiors and caused their internal parts to spray out like a fountain that had suddenly been brought to life in spurts.

So when I say I had been happy when we had made inroads into the forest, it had been my inability to express my utter elation at the weakening of our position. My high-hoping self had expected a swift retreat to the Port of Bron, from where we'd board vessel No.23 back to the shores of Margate, where we'd be given a hero's welcome from all men and women present to usher their war-heroes back. Instead, they'd brought a soldier back to my now empty tent- which for the first time in days, had had a chance to breathe.

"Isn't always this quiet, is it ?" he asked me as I wedged the scalpel in between the edges of the bullet wounds, as he sat there quietly grimacing, the pleasantness on his face ever-present. I looked up at him and for the first time, I smiled back, a sad smile, as I replied, "No, it isn't. "

As the bullet made its way out rather tediously, the soldier finally allowed himself an expression of pain, wincing as I held the object in my hands, showing it to him as if it were a prized token. "That's what got you", I said to which he laughed and shook his head. "No sir, that is not what got me. It was my friend, Engels, whose stupidity is the reason I am here. He was supposed to be the look-out, make a signal to us if he spotted a march incoming, but alas, he shut his eyes for a moment and your troops sprang upon us with great ferocity. Engels got me, sir. The damn bastard"

As he lay on the nursing table, which is what it really was, I don't know why I kept calling the flimsy structures "beds", he turned his neck around to look behind him through the narrow opening of the tent. "You are not safe here," he said to me with an air of genuine concern. He turned around and faced me, looking into my eyes as he spoke. "The Forest, it is being watched by stealth bombers from above. They patrol the forests at night. Your General has made a tactical error. "

I remained silent, not knowing what reply I could proffer for the tactical deficiencies of our General. I instead asked him his name. He closed his eyes and breathed heavily, as he answered in some amount of pain, "Max, sir. Max Kirchoff".

"You know, they're going to do lots of very unpleasant things to you, Max" I said looking at him sympathetically, as he attempted to roll over on the table, but reverted back to his original position cursing out loudly, as I rushed to keep him still.

"You've lost a lot of blood. That leg of yours, it's no good anymore I'm afraid."

The German looked at his wounded leg and chuckled to himself. "Had to be the right one. You know, my mother always told me that I was no good with my right. I used to play football with my friends, on Sunday evenings, outside my house. She used to watch, me and my little brother Joachim, as we played with the bigger kids who used to bully us all the time. "Kick them back", she'd say to me, as they hit and fouled us like crazy. My right leg was no good even then. We just took it. Joachim was a fighter though. I wonder where he is"

He closed his eyes and asked for a glass of water. I assented and brought it to him, as he gulped it down in one go. "Is he fighting alongside you? Joachim ?", I asked taking a seat next to him, as the troops outside made merry another grim joke, involving three murdered German women, who they'd shot from afar the night earlier.

"I apologize," I said to him before he could answer, and he waved his hand at me. "It is okay, Dr. We do much of the same in our camp. It is a part of war. Anyways, Joachim, yes, he is in the naval division. Probably headed to attack your southern shores as we speak"

It was my turn to wave the hand. "Part of war". Max smiled at me, and it came to my realization how charming a young man he was. His soul was unsuited to war, not that I knew what made a man a good soldier. But there was something about Max Engels that said to me that this man was worth saving. He was far too good to die, here, for this senseless war that a few politicians sitting on their high chairs had decided to wage. The more he spoke, the more it painfully sunk in, how in a day from now, he'd be in an isolated cell somewhere, lying withering in pain, but refusing to give up his information. I exhaled softly, going back to sponge his wound with some herbal medicine that they'd taught us in pharmacy school to have incredible soothing effects on open wounds.

"Feel better ?" I asked, and he didn't have to reply. His body cooled off immediately, as his muscles relaxed, as I wiped the wound carefully, not pressing too hard upon it. There was a sudden moment there when I felt compelled to speak to him, man to man, not as foes, but as two people connected via an unknown bond that I could only describe as the consequence of plain old humanity. I spoke quickly as he lay there in silence, allowing me to attend to him without much fuss.

"Look, you must get out of here. They're going to torture you. They will break you and you will never have the chance to go back to your family. If you care for them, you must agree to take my help and escape from here. There is a way. But you must allow me to help you, Max. I want to help you"

He looked up at me with his expressive blue eyes, now examining me with curiosity, as he asked plainly, "Why do you want to save me, Dr ?"

I averted my eyes, making it seem I was attending to his wound. "I don't know. I don't know", I said and I really didn't. "Call it hope, faith, some stupid wishful thinking that the world deserves to be rid of this violence. I don't want you to die here, Max. Die if you must elsewhere, not in my tent. No. I've had far too many of you perish in here"

There was a cold silence that engulfed the tent for a few minutes. He spoke nothing, and I took my place on the chair next to him, taking off my coat and pinning it against the back it.

"You remind me of my father, Dr," he said finally, getting up slightly and as I rushed to usher him down he held up his hand. "No, no, it's okay, I am fine". I sat back down on my chair dutifully, as he stood up and attempted to balance himself precariously on the till of one leg. Satisfied, he sat back down and looked at me, again with those same expressive eyes that spoke a thousand words without him having to say much. His soul was pure but in pain, his eyes spoke about the truths he had guarded so preciously within him. He was a delicate man, was Max, and I'd felt happy, that they'd brought him to me. I smiled and asked, "What is your father like ?"

"Mean, nasty, you best not cross him if you know what's best for you. But he has a heart of gold, the old man. I love him to death. If I ever get out of here, I will make sure to tell him about you. The Dr. I'd met in Nora Bora."

"The Dr. I'd met in Nora Bora". For the first time in about six months, I had felt a connection to a human being that I hadn't felt before. I wished to go up to him and embrace him, but for some odd reason, I restrained. He must have sensed what I was thinking. And feeling.

"Thank you, Dr," he said nodding his head. "You saved my life. I will never forget you. Thank you".

A tear rolled down my eye, but I masked it by turning around to straighten my coat as if it's placement were a hindrance to my comfortably seated butt cheeks. When I turned around, Max was smiling at me, knowing all too well what had gone on behind the curtains.

 It was at that same moment that the footsteps neared the tent with loud thumps. We both turned towards the opening, waiting to see who they belonged to. It was Captain Williams, who walked in looking all important and sure of himself. He regarded me and the captive, who he was surprised to see in relatively better condition. I stood up to address him.

"Dr. Brown. How are we doing ?" he asked in that irksome pretentious manner of his that I had not grown fond of despite having heard the same sentence for about the thousandth time. 

"Good. I've removed the bullet out of his thigh, there's been blood loss, but nothing that can't be healed with some medicine and rest. "

"Yes, well, that is why I'm here. We've gotten orders from above. No more prisoners. The war is over. We have done it, Brown. We're going home. "

I smiled, elated at the onset of this delightful news. But for some reason, I sensed a strange emptiness in the man's voice. He regarded both of us with great scrutiny. He shook his head.

"No more prisoners," he said, taking out his pistol and squeezing the trigger in Max's direction. The bullet pierced his forehead and came out the other side, in the scope of a millisecond, during which, the figure fell down onto the floor, his eyes open, staring up into oblivion.

"That should be alright then," said Captain Williams, wiping his pistol against his khaki trousers, and heading out of the tent in a casual manner, reaching for his cigar as he did so.

I sat down in my chair and looked at the man on the floor, whose eyes even in death seemed richer than most. I stood up and went over to him, but then came back to my chair, sat in it, and wept. I would weep for a long, long time.

The vessel touched Margate on April 23, 1945. I stepped off the container, to the sight of my wife, who was waiting for me with little Russell in her arms. I ran up to her and hugged her tightly and then kissed the little boy on his forehead, my little boy. The next month, I resigned from my post as a healer for the British Army. There was little else for me to do. I was a man without credentials now. Healing was all that I had known my entire life. But what was the point of healing, when death seemed to stare you in the face with such odd regularity? It made me think of how in keeping with a paradox, my job had led me to encounter the grimmest aspects of human life more often, rather than the 'healing" I was tasked with carrying out.

I remembered Max when I went to the beach with Russell and Andrea. In the distance, I could see a young man walk towards me, and once I saw him coming, I knew I had to walk towards him. It was Max. And I saw him that evening as the sunset took over the beach, engulfing us in its brilliant glory. I knew it was all but an illusion. Max was somewhere far away. But deep down, I knew he'd never leave me.

To Max,

My friend from Noa Bora.