Sergeant Worrall's Watch.

Sergeant Worrall floated into and out of consciousness as the
morphine gradually reduced its iron grip. In lucid moments, the details
of the crowded ward were only too clear: a jumble of assorted beds,
packed in wherever space could be found; the lofty, peeling ceiling and
unfamiliar religious artefacts that still adorned the bare plaster
walls.

He could hardly move: when he attempted to turn his head, the pain shot
down to his toes. At least, he told himself, it meant that they were
still there. A cocoon of bandages obscured one eye, and he heard rather
than saw the movement of the medical staff between the beds.

There were some English girls, but not proper Nightingale nurses -
mostly well-spoken young ladies doing their bit and learning as they
went along. Most of the staff were either sullen RAMC conscripts (many
of whom had only volunteered for this dismal task to escape the rigours
of front-line duty) or motherly local women. Most of these had little
grasp of English, but that minor failing was of little consequence.
They brought food, spoke gently to the terrified, comforted the dying;
dabbed the sweat-soaked brows of lads straight out of school as their
lives ebbed away, calming their final moments with soothing
incomprehensible lullabies that were secretly meant for their own sons
and husbands far away at Verdun.

Away to Worrall's left, out of his limited field of vision, a boy
yelped. Whether this piercing shout for help was caused by his pain or
by some sudden horrific discovery, no one knew and few cared; none of
the stoic patients would have chosen to be incarcerated in that squalid
outbuilding. A gruff voice from a neighbouring bed, from some older
man, silenced the pitiful wailing.

God, Worrall sighed, why can't the selfish little devil bear his agony
in silence like the rest of us?

Ted Worrall was going to leave that awful place alive, he knew it. Many
didn't; the morose stretcher bearers came for them in the early
morning. as the unseen blackbirds began to sing in the courtyard
outside, and removed the still figures without a sound. No-one watched
the grim ritual, for superstitious fear of being taken next. Within
hours, the beds would be stripped, briskly re-made and re-occupied as
if the previous unlucky occupant had never existed.

But Ted had his watch, his lucky charm, and he would walk out unaided.
He kept it clutched safely in his hand, for fear of it being taken as
he slept. He knew the reputation of the RAMC - Rob All My Comrades -
only too well.

He hadn't sought the watch, hadn't expected to find it in such gory
circumstances. The barrage had been creeping forward as his company had
occupied the village, clearing the shattered ruins house by house with
Mills bombs and bayonets. Worrall had killed his first enemy that
morning: maybe his only enemy, and certainly the only one he was to see
that close. Close enough to catch the dank stench of death in his
nostrils. He'd been leading his platoon forward, in the absence of his
fallen officers, when a scuffling sound behind a splintered wall had
stopped him in his tracks. He'd frozen, lobbed a grenade over without
thinking. Dazed and temporarily blinded, he'd woken to find the mangled
corpse being dragged off him.

When he'd recovered his composure, Worrall had shared his corporal's
water and examined his victim. A balding man in his forties, the German
probably looked more terrifying in death than he ever had done in life:
his watery blue eyes were wide open, his pulped nose trickled blood.
His mouth was half-filled with earth, and that, somehow, seemed more
chilling than the man's more obvious injuries. As the churned mud
beneath the corpse turned crimson, Worrall noticed something bright and
metallic clasped in what remained of his right hand.

The limp corpse had no further need of the watch, and Worrall eagerly
prised it from its faltering bloody grip. It was a pocket watch,
stopped at the precise moment that the grenade fragment had smashed the
mechanism: on its back was an inscription in Gothic script which none
of the Englishmen could translate. There was a name, a date -
02/14/1892. Worrall didn't need to know, didn't even want to know, what
it all meant; and he instinctively slipped it inside his tunic.

From that day onwards, Worrall's grisly souvenir had never left his
person. His comrades had frequently joked about the useless watch,
asking how it could possibly bring him luck when it had so clearly
failed its rightful owner? Worrall generally shrugged off this ribbing
with a smile, arguing that everyone needed some kind of lucky talisman
in that hell-hole. He'd come through, hadn't he? And indeed he had,
surviving untouched until the random long-range howitzer shell thunked
into the firestep of his support trench and left him helplessly
surveying the distant ceiling of the temporary base hospital.

"It's Sergeant Worrall, isn't it?" Major Linford asked. A gaunt, remote
regular, he seldom found either the time or the necessity to
communicate with his patients. Only on his weary way from the theatre
to his mess had he found time to pause.

"Yes, sir. Worrall, 2/6th Derbyshire Light Infantry."

"Mm., Princess Victoria's. Where are you from, Worrall?"

"Matlock, sir."

"Ah, nurse," Linford said. Unknown to Worrall, they'd been joined by
one of the English nurses. "Everything satisfactory?"

"Sir," the nurse replied.

"Well, Worrall, you've copped what some of the lads call a blighty
one."

"I'm going home?" Worrall gasped, tightening his grip on his beloved
watch. A blighty one, everyone's dream.. He couldn't believe his
luck.

"Not immediately. There may be more operations if that splinter starts
to move. Then, convalescent treatment somewhere pleasant. But yes,
you'll be home soon enough."

"My eye.." Worrall asked suspiciously.

"The bandages will come off in a few days," Nurse Pemberton
interrupted. "Blast and fragments caught the left side of your face.
There'll be scars, but hopefully they won't be too bad. Your sight is
safe."

"Thank God," Worrall breathed. His eye had been a constant worry, as
he'd seen more than one blinded comrade sent home and he couldn't
imagine how they'd manage.

"I know Matlock," Linford mused. "Went walking round there back in
nineteen twelve."

"Yes, sir. I don't have much time for walking myself, what with work
and all."

"What do you do for a living?" Nurse Pemberton asked kindly. She'd not
been out in France long enough to develop a thick protective
skin.

"Oh, I work for a boot and shoemaker, miss," Worrall announced proudly.
"Phelps and Farrar, we cater to the gentry and all. Riding boots,
everything. Mister Phelps, the boss, he reckoned I was mad to go
joining up when the army is going to need all the boots it can get. I'm
a good bootmaker, miss. Can't wait to get back to it."

"I understand. And do you have a sweetheart waiting for you?"

"Yes, miss." Worrall blushed under his bandages. "Molly, she's in
service with a doctor. I've got her letter somewhere.."

"It'll be with your kit, don't worry."

"I must be off," Linford mumbled. "keep your chin up, Worrall. And I'll
see you in the morning, Pemberton. Captain Harrison will be
assisting."

"Sir. Now, Worrall, is there anything you need?" Pemberton asked.

"Miss, I can't move too well. Can you just show me my watch?"

"Your watch?"

"It's in my hand, miss."

"Oh.. Is this the one?" Nurse Pemberton showed Worrall his prize, and
he smiled contentedly.

"Is it silver, miss? It looks valuable."

"Oh, quite probably. It's taken a beating, though, rather like you.
I'll just place it under your pillow. You know what it's like in
here."

"Indeed I do, miss. And thank you."

"Now, maybe I'd better give you some more of this.." Worrall tensed as
the thick needle went in, then drifted away. As the figure retreated,
he tried to drag himself back to consciousness and shout after her.
There was something he needed to know, something important.. No words
came, and he slumped back into his pillows.

Nurse Pemberton hurried off; threading her way between the beds,
gratefully bursting out of the fetid, heavy atmosphere, out into the
refreshing evening air. As she walked briskly back to her quarters,
past the ragged flower beds, a pair of heavily-laden motor ambulances
growled past. A driver called out cheerfully, and she waved back.
Passing the taciturn young soldier standing guard over the nurses'
dormitory she scuttled into her room and flung herself down onto the
hard, narrow bed.

Why is it like this? she asked herself. Why is this wretched man, who's
still convinced that he's going home in one piece, so bothered about
his pathetic, mass-produced watch? It'll never work again, and it's
brought him precious little more luck than it did its original owner.
Some day, maybe tomorrow, he'll ask why his damned watch is under his
pillow when he can still feel it in his fist.. Then, I'll have to tell
him gently that he'll still feel his arm for days. Amputees often
do..