Paul

October 31, 1915

Somme, France

Nurse Clara's Private Writings

I took down the crucifix that hung above my bed today. What a meaningless little trinket it seems in this foreign land, in this strange and hideous hall of hell. I felt guilty when I did it. Please understand that. I did it anyway, but I nearly felt I would cry. Yet, why today? Of all the days there are, marching before the last like tiny toy soldiers, why did I take it off the wall today? What was the fateful straw that broke the camel's back? It was this: I watched a fifteen year old boy die today because his father and pastor back home both told him to lie about his age so he could join up, be a brave boy, a man, and not miss all the fun.

A father.

A pastor.

His father.

His pastor.

Fun? Fun?? DON’T MISS ALL THE FUN, PAUL!

I wonder, did the Man on the Cross hear Paul’s whispered, frantic last words (“You’ll tell my Pa I did good, now, won’t you? You’ll tell him I was brave, and did him proud, right? Right?!). Can He know how poor, sweet Paul, fifteen year old Paul, died? Was He watching when the shell exploded next to him and blew off nearly half his body as easily as I once blew dandelion fluff from its stem as a little girl?

Is He there when the Germans advance, stand over our men’s trenches, and bathe them with fire, the dragon’s breath of a flamethrower, baptizing them in an inferno? Can He hear the enemy laugh at the writhing, screaming men who die before the raging heat of Lucifer's throne?

Does He still know me, Clara, His daughter, a witness to horrors no one should witness? Does He know that my experience with Paul, the little boy not yet old enough for a drink, has made it near impossible for me to dig myself out of war's profane and foul quicksand made up of coagulated blood, unimaginable injuries, and a hope that is now hopeless?

I write my family once a week, twice if I’m able. And I lie to them.

I tell my daddy that, yes, I am learning so very much! - then, a vision of Dr. Beauchamp instructing me on how to hold a man’s intestines inside his body in order to stitch his belly closed, flashes through my head, and my pencil falls to the ground with stuttering clicks like gunfire in the distance.

I assure my mama that, yes, I am very safe, as I look down at my hands to see them tremble in time with each bullet shot, each shell exploded, each cannon fired; and that, yes, they feed us very well here, as I watch as my meagre rations slip, so elegantly, into near nothingness, along with my waistline.

And I regale my two younger sisters with stories of dances in foreign French theatres, of delicious food that tastes of butter and of cream and all good things. And, of course, of gallant, handsome soldiers who fall at my feet and profess their love for me – I don’t tell them that any soldier who has ever fallen at my feet has been one who was mere seconds from the Reaper's eternal grasp.

I put the crucifix in my drawer, slammed it shut with all the strength I had left, and wept, as if frightened of some unnamable emptiness inside of me that has only just now been revealed; a dark, tangible thing like long black fingers crawling towards you in the night.

I ran through the frost across the little overgrown footpath to the old vicar’s house that is now used as our chapel since the church has been taken over by l'Hôpital de la Somme.

I open the rusty doors. Pastor Carlisle was at the altar and I told him I needed to make a confession. He led me to the makeshift confessional he had set up months ago. I sat down on a hard wooden chair and was grateful for the piece of worn white cloth that fell between us, hiding us from one another.

In my franticness to get to the chapel, I had sought only for Pastor Carlisle to assuage my guilt about taking down our Savior's likeness from the wall and hiding it in my dresser. But - and I should have known this, being a nurse and all - nothing ever goes according to plan.

I ended up telling him everything! I told him how I praised the war when I volunteered to come. I told him how certain I was of victory and celebration, and limitless joy. I told him how palpable my excitement was on the ship from Canada to France. I spoke of how I scoffed at bulletins and radio announcements that spoke illy of the war. I informed him of the pride and self-importance I felt being a part of something so vast and great, a nurse in the War to End All Wars. Then I told him, in a broken way, that failure was never a thought that crossed my mind at all.

He stayed silent as I took a rattling breath.

In a quiet voice I continued and told him about all the lies I’d written to my family because I could not bear to tell them of the raw and morbid things I’d seen.

And on and on I spoke until I was all but spent.

But then, at the last, I spoke of Paul. I told him how that boy was the final nail in the coffin of my innocence, my final defeat in thoughts that this war was good. I told him... I told him... and I told him everything, especially Paul's last words and how, no matter what happened to me for the rest of my life, I would never forget them.

I could hear the pastor breathing evenly from the other side of the curtain and was, at the same time, hoping he would speak soon and hoping he would stay quiet forever in his condemnation. I have written down what he said to me to the best of my ability because it felt very important at the time and I wanted not to forget a thing.

He said, “What a great and terrible thing it must be to watch, before your very eyes, a human walk into eternity; at once it must be both a humbling and a fearsome thing. But, dear daughter, I am sure you would agree that it’s no good going to pieces, now is it? You cannot possibly help anyone that way. You’ve got to take control of things before things take control of you.” He said this not with even a hint of chastisement or haughtiness, but rather matter-of-factly and with the deepest notes of empathy.

“I know you are only a young girl, but the soldiers need you to have an air of motherliness about you; a warmth, a calm, a loving and safe disposition. For all you can do is preform the task set before you. In victory, or in Paul's most certain defeat, that is all you can do.

“I know deeply of the carnage you witness and the tension you feel and the grief you experience. For I, too, have stood near dying boys’ cots while giving them their last rights. I also know, deeply, how hard it is to hold onto faith when what you see day in and day out would cause anyone to go mad. But you haven’t gone mad, dear daughter. Remember that. You haven't gone mad. You are strong and capable and exceptionally brave, and these soldiers are lucky to have a nurse of your fortitude caring for them.

“Go forward knowing that you are enough, that you are worthy, and that your feelings and actions in this world beyond the pale are valid and deserve to be heard.

“You are cherished among the Heavens, daughter of God. Lay down your burdens at His feet for a time so that you may rest. I bless you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” I heard him rise and was confused.

“But what of my penance for lying to my family and dishonoring the crucifix?” I called out to him.

“Dearest daughter," he said with such gentleness it brought tears to my eyes, "you have committed no sin.”

I went back to the dormitories that afternoon and placed the crucifix back on the wall above my bed.