Evacuee

This story contains graphic depictions of battlefield gore and disturbing images.

Theo's breath fogged up the window. The frost that clung to the class sprawled along its surface in crystal patterns that resembled those stitched into the ornate rug on the floor of his father's bureau. It was cold on the train—a sort of chill that numbs, that seeps into one's bones and takes a firm grip. Theo's muscles felt tight. He huddled deeper into the embrace of his tweed jacket; it brought him little warmth, but he seized whatever respite from the cold he could get his hands on.

The trees—those that survived the bombs—were scraggly and slim, much like Theo himself. A tingling sensation sprouted in the calf of his left leg all of a sudden in response. He relieved the itch by rubbing his leg against the scratchy seat. Sometimes he believed that the shell had left some of its essence behind—debris of debris. He knew it was not true, because the doctor had removed all traces of metal from the jet-like patch of abraded skin where the shard had grazed him. The other boy in the carriage gave him a strange look.

"Does your leg hurt?" the boy asked. He cocked his head to one side.

Theo's eyes widened in surprise. This was the first time either of them had spoken. They had not exchanged even a single "hello" in the three hours on the train.

Theo shook his head. "No. Not anymore. It just itches something fierce sometimes."

"What happened?" The boy leaned forward in his seat.

Theo squirmed, slightly uncomfortable. "I caught a piece of a shell from an attack."

"Which one?"

"Dunno if it has a name yet. London."

"When?"

"Two months ago come Sunday."

The boy's jaw dropped. A dark curl fell into his eyes. Theo snorted as the boy brushed it away. 

His eyes were wide and inquisitive, pleading for Theo to say more, to construct a story out of it. He knew that look—the look of a boy whose vision still swam in black and white. A boy whose world consisted of heroes and villains. At fourteen, Theo knew better. His father’s shellshock was gruesome and ugly and at night he screamed about the men he killed, crying out in German to their mothers and their wives and their children. This was no game of war played by children in school courtyards with guns and swords made of sticks.

The boy finally huffed and fell backward in his seat. He would coax nothing from Theo’s iron resolve today. 

After a minute or two, the boy leaned forward again.

“I’m Peter,” he said, thrusting forth his hand for Theo to shake.

With a slight chuckle, Theo took Peter’s hand and shook it once, firmly. 

“Theo,” Theo said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Peter.”

“Pleasure to meet’cha, Theo!”

Theo laughed quietly. 

Peter squirmed. The rough fabric of his trousers groaned against the upholstery of the train seat. Theo took pity on the poor boy, who tapped his little hands in rhythm on his thighs as his eyes darted about, examining everything in view.

“Where are you headed, Peter?” Theo’s inquiry filled the unpleasant quietness between them.

Peter’s eyes lit up. He checked the tag pinned to his breast pocket. “Dorchester. Mr. and Mrs. Barnaby.” He slapped his knees again. “But I’m from Essex. What about you, Theo? Where are you going? You’re from London, ain’t you? I’ve been to London. Your accent sounds different than most I’ve heard there. What part are you from?”

Theo’s heart was warmed by the little boy—by the unwavering joy. It drew the shadow of a bubbling laugh from his throat at the same time it tightened his throat and filled his eyes with the beginnings of fat tears.

“Wiltshire. And I’m not from London, I’m afraid.” Theo cleared his throat. “My family was visiting some old friends when my leg was injured. I live—lived in Yorkshire.”

Peter gasped. “Yorkshire! Blimey, Theo, are you quite rich?”

Theo’s face flushed. His mother, born to a family with next to nothing, had taught him to appreciate all he had and to never flaunt his wealth.

“Well—erm—yes, quite,” Theo stammered. “But—”

“Bloody hell!”

“Language, Peter!”

“Sorry. Do you have servants? Do you sleep on piles of gold? Do you eat roasted duck? Are you betrothed to a—” he lowered his voice and leaned inward “—a lady?”

Theo shuffled uncomfortably and dug his fingernails into the chilly wooden sill beneath his palm. 

Peter bounced in his seat. Theo opened his mouth to say something to the boy, to quell his fidgeting, but the view beyond the frosty window ripped the sound from his throat.

On the other side of the glass was a field—rather it might have been at an earlier time, before England was bathed in blood.

The stretch of land was torn up and the dirt was loose. It reminded him, strikingly, of the way his mother shredded fresh lettuce for supper, her humming filling the kitchen. Perhaps it was the thoughtlessness of it, Theo wondered. 

Olive green spots speckled the landscape, and Theo recognized them as soldiers’ rucksacks. Theo saw craters, large and small, as far as the eye could see.

But what was worse was the bodies:

They were everywhere, littered about like a child’s toys, some large and some unusually thin. Theo squinted and bile rose to the back of his throat. The thin soldiers were not soldiers at all, but pieces of them—arms, legs, torsos, all ripped from their hosts by what Theo assumed could only be the merciless assault of explosives. The plain was reddish-brown with blood.

Theo could not explain—he searched the vastness of his mind, scoured every nook and cranny for some justification—the sudden onslaught of screaming that filled his ears. And he could see all of them. Every footsoldier. Theo rubbed his eyes and when his vision refocused, the littered appendages seemed to animate themselves. They leapt and pranced, and the voices began to sing. Stray arms linked and twirled and severed legs danced a jig. Theo gasped as prostrate bodies floated and tramped about like ragdolls. 

He tore his gaze away and the voices grew louder. A myriad of phantom men sang and screamed and cried for their mothers. 

Fall back—

Run—

What shall we do with a drunken sailor—

Mama—

Theo, stop—

Early—

Medic—

Theo put the shell down—

in the—

HELP—

NO, THEO—

morning!

Theo opened his eyes and he was on the floor, ragged breaths sawing through his throat. The voices were silent; the bodies were still. Peter was kneeling before him.

“Theo! Are you alright?”

Theo opened his mouth to answer, but it was as though he had swallowed several mouthfuls of sawdust. He coughed and nodded.

“Fine,” he rasped. 

Peter helped Theo to his feet.

Theo’s leg itched from the wound. It was stupid, really. Theo’d found a dormant shell after the London attack.

Don’t touch it, Theo, it’s dangerous.

But he had. He’d picked it up, tossed it in his hands a bit. Then threw it behind him. It exploded on impact and a piece of shrapnel grazed the back of his leg. But it was the sheer volume of the detonation that stuck with him, and the knowledge that he could have died.

He peered out of the window again. 

Dead. So many people were dead.

Theo examined the tag on his jacket. One stop left. His father would be safe. He was an officer. His mother was busy running the house. 

But so many were dead. So many. And he was safe and sound on a train, headed to a better life.

Theo sat back down in his seat.

And he hung his head in shame.