Chapter Text
The blow of a whistle.
Above him, a white ceiling. Not the open sky he last remembered over his head.
Where was he? It wasn't where he was supposed to be.
He couldn't move his head to check. His breath struggled to get out, felt tight in his chest. All his limbs ached, too heavy to move. The tight sheets around him pinned him down to the bed.
'Good luck, everyone.'
What came next? He couldn't recall. Everything felt too heavy, too slow. His eyelids sunk under the weight of his fatigue, pulled him back to sleep.
Something was jabbing into his armpit. The sensation was highly disagreeable and woke him up. His eyes felt heavy and his vision was blurry. Ugh. The jabbing didn't stop as he blinked to clear his vision. What sort of stupid prank he was being subjected to? His eyes focused enough to see as the jabbing finally stopped, something cold and hard resting in his armpit.
A thermometer. The nurse standing next to his bed, watching the mercury rise before looking at him.
"Good morning." Her voice sounded familiar, yet unfamiliar, like he'd heard it in a dream.
"Good morning." The nurse bent over him, the smell of soap and antiseptic hitting him as a wave. A novelty after the stink of the trenches. Her chest pressed against his arm as she peered at the thermometer. It didn't make him feel anything. Kevin was too tired to get a thrill from someone who smelt clean having her bosom pressed against him, despite months of nothing but his own imagination for comfort.
"Well, it looks like you're finally on the mend. Your temperature's broken and that was the first time you said good morning back to me. Keep up the good work, captain, and you'll be back on your feet in no time." She stood back up, smiled at him kindly. Her dark hair was neat, pinned back under her cap. She looked fresh, peaceful. None of the kind of dark circles around her eyes the field nurses had. There was no distant rumble of shelling in the background. It didn't feel like France.
"Where am I?"
"You're in a hospital, captain." Where? The question stuck in his mouth, his throat ached, felt like it'd been rubbed with sandpaper. It must have come across, because the nurse clarified, "in England." England. Not quite the blighty wound he'd hoped for, considering how sick he felt, and the pain that he was starting to register in his leg, but he was back home.
There was so much more to ask, but his brain was too foggy to pull questions together. He tried to lift himself up a little, move from his prone position. "Let me help." The nurse reached over, helped him to sit up. He was too exhausted to be humiliated by being too weak to even move himself.
He felt sticky in his sweat-soaked pyjamas. Kevin looked down, got a whiff of himself. He smelt unpleasant, but not trench disgusting. Still, a bath. A bath would be refreshing. It might even make him feel better. He struggled with the words, the nurse patted his shoulder sympathetically.
"I need a bath."
"A bath? Hmm." Her hand moved to his forehead, touched it gently. His eyes fluttered shut from her quiet kindness. Even in his disoriented state, he knew he was lucky to wake up on her shift and not with a battleaxe instead. "Yes, I think you're cool enough that it shouldn't bring back your fever. I'll get an orderly to come help you." The hand left his forehead, her footsteps went away from him. It felt too difficult to keep his eyes open, he drifted off.
"Good morning." A different greeting this time, from a deeper voice but shyer, the words awkward. Kevin struggled to open his eyes, managed to meet the gaze of the orderly. He looked back, before he moved to his side without another word. His hand gentle on his shoulder, carefully supporting him as he tried to move his legs, to swing them over the side of the bed.
The pain rocketed up his right leg, making his whole body tense before it abated. The pain throbbed, grew deeper as he gritted his teeth and tried to move it. Slowly, carefully, with a wince of agony each time he moved it.
"Shit." It was worse than his previous foot injury that had miraculously healed up well, much to his displeasure at the time. This time he wasn't so lucky. Or unlucky. It was hard to tell which through the pain. Kevin just wanted it to stop. The orderly picked up the walking stick he'd brought with him, pressed it into his hand without judgement. The support helped him up onto his feet, the orderly still holding onto his shoulder as he got onto his feet. Wobbled around like a newborn fawn. An injured one. Easy pickings for any passing predator.
Slowly, with great effort, with gritted teeth and more swearing he had to apologise for—at least it wasn't in front of the nurse—he started to walk. The pain shot up his right leg, making him stumble. The orderly was with him for the whole way, the long walk to the bathroom. Ready to guide him along when he stumbled. Still silent, in a way that Kevin was starting to appreciate. He couldn't cope with one of those cheery people now, telling him to keep his chin up, that worse things happened at sea. One of those thoughtless morons who thought life was just one great game, and oblivious to anyone else's pain.
Deep down he knew exactly who he was thinking of. Melchett.
It was only when he arrived in the bathroom, a stool pulled up for him to sit on as the orderly ran the bath, that he started to notice his surroundings through the haze of pain and exhaustion. This wasn't the kind of blank hospital bath he was expecting. There was too much marble and the claw bathtub would have cost him several years' salary alone. It was some sort of country house, some Lord so-and-so doing his bit for the war effort by letting his house become a hospital. If he wasn't so sick, he might even enjoy being in here. It was the fanciest bathroom he'd even been in.
The bath was hard work. Getting in, getting settled, washing himself. The presence of the orderly didn't embarrass him, he'd been in the army too long to be embarrassed by just being naked in front of strangers. Army baths quickly shocked out any squeamishness. The only embarrassment he felt was when he needed help with washing his hair. His arms were too weak to manage it, muscles worn out from his fever. The orderly stepped up, silent again, worked the shampoo into his hair for him without him needing to ask for it. Disinterested fingers in his scalp, yet still more human than most touch he'd experienced in the past year.
It was like being a person again, instead of just a soldier. Human contact, even from the professional hands of medical staff. It had been too long. It was embarrassing to feel overwhelmed by the touch of strangers, who were just helping him with nothing else to it, but he did.
The jug of water poured over his head to wash the shampoo out helped distract him. The struggle to get out of the bath, how hard it was to pull himself back up out of the water. The orderly helped him there too, no need to ask. His hands reassuringly certain as he helped him up. That human touch again. The pain was a distraction too, just like how hard it was to get into his fresh pyjamas, to go back up the long corridor to his bed. The immediate problems he had, instead of a longing for some kind of real human contact again.
For Doris. Just even her hand on his arm again would be enough. Just like when she'd guided him through a crowd on his last leave, after taking a show in town. His treat. Anything for her.
Recovery only intensified his longing for Doris. The longer he could stay awake, the more he thought about her. Unlike the brief flashes of memory he had after going over the top, the gaps in them became more obvious as the days passed, he could remember her clearly. He wanted to remember her too, unlike France. Kevin still wasn't well enough to read, or write, despite the vague promise of letters to read from Sister Lewis.
Out of all the nurses who came after her, to poke and prod at him, she was still the kindest one. Professionally detached but wished him well, unlike the striking indifference, or the one nurse who seemed to actively dislike him, enjoyed making him try walking and then berating him when he couldn't. She was reliable, not a sadist. She was someone he could ask to help him with this tricky task.
"Could I ask you to do me a favour?" The question made her pause and pull back from adjusting his pillows for him sharply. "I want to write to my parents, and my girlfriend. Could you write it for me?" Her suspicion faded, replaced by a smile.
"Certainly, Captain Darling. Are they long letters? If so, I'll have to come back after my round."
"Just short ones. To let them know how I'm doing." She took the letter paper left on the bedside cabinet for him, pulled over a chair to sit down next to his bed while he considered what to say. For his parents it was simple. A brief update that he was awake, doing better, on the mend with nothing for them to worry about. He didn't have to think hard about it, reeled it off to Sister Lewis who wrote it down faithfully.
The letter to Doris was more tricky. More heartfelt. Difficult to share with anyone else, even with someone who'd been kind to him like Sister Lewis had. He thought about it while she addressed the envelope to his parents, folded the letter up neatly and put it inside. Still thinking about it when she was ready, pen hovering over the next sheet of paper.
"Ready when you are, Captain Darling." Usually it was so easy to start, the endearments rushed out of his pen without thinking. All the warm thoughts he didn't have space for in his day to day survival on the front-line. Despite all his thoughts of her the past few days, it was still hard to know where to start.
Of course, with her name. The best place to start.
"My Beloved Doris," he glanced over at her to see her reception, but she didn't blink, writing it down without hesitation. It gave him the confidence to go on, knowing that she wouldn't start laughing at him. "My deepest apologies for my lateness in writing to you. Finally recovered enough to start getting up out of my bed. I think of you constantly and you cheer up my recovery like nothing else." A break while he tried to get the next words ready. They were so important. He should have asked last time he was on leave, not like this, but he'd been a fool. Not even realised how badly he wanted to until he was on his way to that trench, about to face certain death after dodging it for so long.
"I wanted to wait until I saw your lovely face again, but I can't wait until I see you again, my love. I can't imagine my life without you in it, you are my light. Will you marry me? Will propose with a proper ring next time I see you, but please say yes." He faltered, knew how he wanted to conclude but still struggled to say it to a stranger. Her pen scratched against the paper, writing down his words, until it stopped. Waiting for him to continue. "Please come as soon as you can. I love you with all my heart. Yours always, Kevin." The silence as she finished writing, as if he hadn't just asked her to write a proposal for him, unnerved him. "Was that alright?"
"I think so. I'm sure she'll say yes to such a sincere proposal." She neatly addressed the envelope, blotted the letter dry before folding it up and placing it inside. No seal. It still had to go through the censors first, something Kevin preferred not to think about. He knew how judgemental censors could be. He'd been one.
"I hope so. Thank you." She tucked the envelopes into her pocket, gave him one last smile before going on with her round, onto the next sick man to help. Too late for him to take it back. His heart was out on the line. Surely she'd say yes? Yet he couldn't help but worry.
It was at least something to think about that wasn't the bloody pain in his leg. Or the war.
The next day after breakfast, Kevin picked up the bundle of letters again. This time the letters didn't swim and stayed in a stable formation. He could read "Captain Kevin Darling" on the envelopes. Finally! Despite asking her to write his proposal down for him, asking her to read his letters out for him as well was too much. His mother loved to put mortifying memories in her letters that he'd rather forget and Doris' words read out by another woman felt wrong.
He sorted through them, savouring the anticipation of opening them. Letters from home were always the highlight of his day, a reminder that the life he so desperately wanted to return to still existed in the mud and death around him. Despite the safety of the hospital, it was still somewhere he didn't want to be. He wanted to be home. He divided them up into piles, assessed the handwriting and postmarks.
He recognised Doris' handwriting immediately, the delicate cursive of the D in 'Darling'. Just one letter from her. It was post-marked with the same date as when he went over the top, over a month ago. He put the other letters aside. They could wait. Kevin eased the envelope open, drawing it out. He unfolded the cream paper, caught the first line under the date.
'Dear Kevin,'
Not how she usually started her letters. A spasm of fear in his stomach made his eye twitch. His gut knew exactly what was about to follow, he'd read enough of other people's letters to know by now, but his heart protested. She wouldn't.
'Dear Kevin,
I hope you are safe and well, and keeping dry. I take no pleasure in writing this letter, but I feel that telling you the truth is the best course of action, even in these difficult circumstances. To delay any further would be unnecessarily cruel.'
Bloody hell, she would. She had! On the very day he went over the top.
'I think it is best if we end our relationship. The war has changed so many things, and it's changed us most of all. When you were last home, I hardly recognised you as being the same man I once loved. I hardly recognised the woman I was back then either. I think you would be happier with someone who loves you as you are now, instead of with someone who just misses who you were before.
With fondest wishes for your safety and your future,
Doris'
His hands shook as he put the letter down. He'd always thought that heartbreak was one of those silly metaphors, not a physical thing. Stupid him. It was completely literal. It felt like she'd reached into his chest, pulled his heart out and smashed it in front of him. It was every bit as much a physical pain as the ache in his leg.
'With someone who loves you as you are now, instead of someone who just misses who you were before.'
It hadn't been enough for the war to steal years of his life and his health. It stole whatever part of him Doris had loved too. The war, the army, Melchett, they took and took and took from him and then threw him at the German machine guns to make sure they finished the job. What had he got out of it? Nightmares, an eye twitch to go with his nervous stammer and a limp that the doctor reckoned might be permanent.
His head dipped down. He'd lost the only thing that mattered, the one thing that'd kept him going despite all that. The idea of a home to return to, where nothing had changed, where everything would be the same again.
A home where he would be married to Doris. Married to...oh no.
The proposal. It would be on its way, if not already in her hands. He scrambled up the bed, winced and slid back down from the pain of his leg. There was enough time for the morning post, if he could write a quick postcard, just something to lessen the shame of proposing to her a month after she'd left him. The man in the bed next to him turned, gave him a stare as Kevin tried to get up.
There was a postcard on the other man's bedside cabinet. Close enough to reach without getting out of his bed. That'd be enough. He stammered the question out.
"That postcard—how much?"
"I paid a halfpenny."
"I.O.U.?"
"Fine." Kevin reached out of the bed, leaned far enough over to pick it up. He flipped it over as he got it. His blood went cold.
A nurse kissing a recovering soldier in his hospital pyjamas. The cloying caption read 'not in the prescription'. He'd hoped it'd be a photograph of a local landmark, or a crude joke, or even one of those ghastly postcards with doe-eyed children on it. Not some romantic image on the reverse of a message telling her to disregard his proposal. It just seemed sadistic. Too late to get another card, it was almost the time the post was collected. Any further delay would just add to his humiliation.
'Dear Doris,
Please disregard my previous letter, only just read your last letter. Apologises. Enjoy the rest of your life. Kevin.'
His hand hesitated at the end. He wanted to add a post-script. Something about if she changed her mind and wanted him back, he'd be waiting for her. That he'd always love her. God, it sounded pathetic. Would he take her back?
His pride said no. His heart and cowardice said yes. His pride won out as he put his pen down and stuck down the stamp. Sister Lewis was approaching, the one person he could trust with this task.
"Could you put this in the post, please?" He offered it to her, didn't let his eyes meet hers as she took it out of his fingers. He'd crack under her sympathy.
"Of course." He watched her hand put it away in her pocket, the same one that yesterday had carried his hopes and dreams in it. He hoped she'd be kind enough to not read the postcard until she was out of sight, not to mention what she saw on it afterwards.
"Thank you." He reclined back in his bed, shut his eyes as she walked away. He felt crushed, hopeless. The ache in his heart was unbearable. Now what? He'd survived, by some miracle, only to find out he'd already lost what he survived for. It felt like another joke at his expense. A braver man might wonder if it was worth living. Kevin knew better, he'd cling onto life at any cost. Still. What kind of miserable life was it going to be?
That evening he made himself go through his other letters, the letter from Doris neatly folded back in its envelope at the bottom of the stack. He shouldn't keep it, but he couldn't bear to get rid of it. The last letter she sent to him. Their last tie to each other.
His attention to the other letters was cursory. Letters from his parents about what was going on at home, and as he went through them, best wishes for his recovery. A letter from his old school master that another one of his classmates had died. Some military letters that should have been directed to whoever Melchett's new dogsbody was. Obviously he was an idiot, whoever he was, since he couldn't even do something as simple as redirections correctly.
Lastly, a letter dictated by Melchett, copied down by his new assistant. Not just an idiot, it appeared, but incapable of writing too. His handwriting was atrocious, which might be a mercy considering how the parts he could read disgusted him. The disgust was both at Melchett—that old bastard, sending best wishes after cheerfully sending him off to be killed—and at himself. All the things he'd done, he would have done anything, anything at all, for someone who hadn't appreciated it in the slightest. In the hospital bed that Melchett had put him in as much as the Germans who'd actually shot him, where he could scrape to have some pride and not have his immediate survival on the line, it didn't feel worth it.
With a noise of disgust he tore up the letter, like he wished he could have done with Doris' letter too. At least Doris had cared for him, once.
Despite his broken heart, the rest of Kevin was healing. Every day he got stronger, the strength started to return to his muscles. The cough eased off. The fatigue drained away. His leg still hurt, the limp remained, but he started to walk, slowly, hobbling along with his stick. Not for long, not very far, but independent of any orderly or nurse helping him along. An improvement.
Still, it was enough to stop him having to go back to the front-line soon, or possibly ever. It was the blighty wound he'd been hoping for since he arrived in France and realised he was a coward who only cared about surviving. Despite this, he was miserable. No goal to drive him, either of survival or going back to his old life. His old life was gone. No sudden change of heart from Doris, like she sometimes had changed it before. This time her decision was final. Even a sob story about his injury wouldn't move her.
He'd considered trying the sob story anyway. Seriously considered it, even got halfway through a letter to her on the very subject before thinking better of it. Humiliating himself further wouldn't make her love him again. He'd ripped that up too, thrown it away in embarrassment and frustration. Maybe if he had something else to think about apart from his broken heart, it might be better. Recovery alone wasn't enough. Or trying to think of a future with another woman, someone else to marry and set up his own home with.
Kevin knew his odds were bad. He hadn't been swimming in girls before the war, and that man was already gone. Replaced by someone even less satisfactory, according to Doris, and now he might have a permanent limp too. What kind of woman was going to settle for that?
Sometimes, when he could look behind his own misery, he wondered what happened to his company. From the silence around him, from the way nobody had mentioned them to him, he assumed it must be the worst. His own memories were no help, only brief flashes without context before he woke up in this hospital. The thought of being the only survivor of the company that went over together was dire. They might have been annoying gits—especially Blackadder—but they didn't deserve to die.
He wanted to know. He didn't want to know. Ignorance might be a blessing, to not know if they were among all the other dead men he'd known. It left a door open for just a little while longer.
"You're well enough to come off the ward now." Sister Lewis delivered it like it was good news, which it was for her. Kevin hadn't died and was well enough to leave her care. The orderly adjusted the wheel chair he'd brought for him, to move him onto the next stage of his recovery. "You'll be in recovery now. You'll have a lot more freedom there, I think you'll enjoy it." When she said it, it sounded simple. It sounded plausible that he might like being moved into a different room with a new set of strangers. "If you keep working on your physical therapy, you might get more movement back in your leg than you think. Keep your chin up, captain. There's plenty of hope for you yet."
The tone of her voice said she wasn't just talking about his leg. It was obvious she'd realised what had happened with Doris, that this was her polite way of telling him he'd get over her. It didn't feel like there was much hope, despite his likely escape from going back to the front-line, but it'd be churlish to argue. Better to show gratitude for all she'd done for him during his time on the ward instead.
"Thank you." Kevin was well enough to get himself into the wheelchair, his belongings placed into his lap as the orderly wheeled him away. This one was older, more talkative. Kevin tuned his chatter out as he examined the corridors instead, something to distract him from the embarrassment of being wheeled about like an invalid. The long, red runners along the wooden floors that the chair pulled at. The illustrious ancestors staring down at him from the walls as he invaded their terrain, a terrible commoner. The stuffed birds everywhere, all of them with a mildly shocked expression. It seemed fitting. He'd be shocked too if someone shot him and then stuffed him to display in a hallway. Poor, stupid pheasants.
The nurse met him at the bottom of the house's great stairs, as he slowly made his way down them. Despite the orderly insisting he could get the chair down, he didn't want to try it out and get dropped. The steps were wide and low, they could be taken slowly. By the time he reached the bottom he was in agony, but Kevin made it.
"Captain Kevin Darling?" In too much pain to say 'yes', nodded as the orderly hauled the wheelchair down the stairs behind him. "I'll be taking you to your new room." The orderly moved his belongings out of the chair, held onto them as he sat back down in it gingerly.
"Ready to go, Sister Burnett." She nodded, trotted ahead of them as he was pushed along behind her.
"This is the recovery unit, you'll be here until you're fit to be discharged. It's all officers here, mostly captains like yourself. Each morning there's breakfast, then check-ups and treatments. After lunch there's any additional treatments you might need, otherwise your afternoon is free. Wednesday and Sunday afternoons are when you're allowed visitors. Then we have dinner, and lights out at 11 o'clock sharp. Patients are encouraged to explore the grounds of the house, but I'd discourage you from the village, even with a day pass. It's horribly low class. Any questions?"
It was too much to take in at once. Kevin was sure he'd missed something but didn't want to ask when he saw the look on Sister Burnett's face. It wasn't a real invitation, more of a challenge she didn't want him to take. He missed Sister Lewis already.
His new room was some sort of function room converted into a dormitory. Walnut chairs were pushed up against the wall, facing the metal framed beds against the opposite wall. The head boards were rubbing the duck egg blue paint off the walls. One of his new room-mates was there, rummaging through a bag on another bed, as the orderly showed him his bed, put his belongings away for him before taking his wheelchair away. The other man snatched the cigarette packet out of the bag, gave Kevin a nod and a quick "good afternoon", before leaving the room.
He was alone. It was the first time he'd been truly alone since he'd woken up. No nurses, no orderlies, no other patients. It felt strange, peaceful. He limped over to the window, his walking stick thumping against the wooden floor when the Turkish rugs didn't dampen it. Outside it was early winter, the trees bare, the ground muddy and littered with leaves. The difference from France was striking. No blasted trees, holes dug by shells, none of the quagmires from the constant wear of trucks and horses that could sink a man if he wasn't careful. Kevin leaned against his stick, watched the wind wave the branches of the trees, despite the ache in his leg. Until now he hadn't looked outside, either in bed or being moved around for a purpose. Finding that the world still existed like he remembered it from before was a pleasant surprise.
Something to think about that wasn't Doris, or his future.
He turned away from the window, went back over to his bed. He started to unpack his bag, for something to do, to make it nice and neat for his stay here. Some clothes he didn't recognise, with a note tucked inside them. 'With courtesy, from the Women's Collection for Officers'. He checked the labels, felt the pyjamas carefully. That was silk, the real stuff, not the cheapo artificial kind. He'd have to take these with him, they were far too valuable to leave behind. He folded them up precisely, stacked the clothes neatly on the bottom shelf of the cabinet. It looked organised. Just how he liked it.
The other items he recognised, either saved when they took them off him or from the dugout he'd left them behind in. Old letters, his kit, the bits and pieces he'd acquired over the years, the spare stationery he'd borrowed. The tobacco tin he kept his keepsakes and diary in. The painting of the South Downs on the front was scratched, starting to fade. Doris had picked it specially for him, sent it during his first month away. They'd been on holiday there in that glorious summer of 1913. They'd walked the Downs together, coming back to the Bed and Breakfast with her, light in heart if heavy in his steps. Kevin had promised to take her back once the war was over.
He opened it carefully and saw Doris staring back out at him. Her blue eyes were serious in a way he'd never noticed before. He always thought it was love in them, now he realised she was possibly already falling out of love with him by the time of this photograph. Even after she'd got it taken at his request, to send it to him after he'd lost the photograph of the two of them together in that dug-out collapse. He shut the tin sharply, shoved it back into his bag.
Enough unpacking for now. He'd go take a walk, see what was going on in the house. Even the pain in his leg wasn't enough to stop him. It was time to explore that freedom he was promised.
The hallway was empty as he shuffled out into it. A good start, it gave him the privacy to take his time and walk as slowly as he needed. The marble tilted floor with its diagonal white and black pattern, the echo of his walking stick as he walked along it. It seemed so long, so empty compared to upstairs. None of the stuffed birds here, lots of marble statues instead like the ones they had casts of in the art room at school.
He paused to look at the art, which was much more interesting than the old ancestors upstairs. A mighty sea battle, the sea churning as the British fleet fought...whose flag was that? The Dutch? Probably the Dutch, they always used to fight them at sea. Or was it the French? Maybe it was Trafalgar? He should know this, he always got top marks for History at school. His history master even commented on how excellent he was at recalling lists of battles and monarchs.
Footsteps approached him from the direction that led to the front door of the house. He ignored them as they stopped. It was the noise of disgust that made his head turn to see who it was.
"Oh god, not you again. Haven't I suffered enough?" Edmund Blackadder. Blackadder, looking very alive and healthy, not at all dead and buried in a cemetery somewhere in France, with a sneer on his face.
"I think you'll find that's my line, Blackadder." He didn't have to think about it, the sparring came back to him instantly. Years of practice, of being constantly undermined by this sneaky bastard who refused to respect his authority. Not even the surprise of finding that he was still alive could undermine it.
"Now Darling, that's not very nice."
"That's Captain Darling to you!" Blackadder ignored his protest, started walking in his direction as he returned fire.
"But what can I expect from a man who's shot himself in the foot again? I've heard of desperation, but surely this is a bit much?" Condensing and sarcastic as ever. It'd almost be reassuring if he wasn't so infuriating.
"What's wrong with you? Cracked again? Have you finally evolved beyond wearing pants on your head and having pencils shoved up your nose?" Blackadder passed him, gave him a withering look that made Kevin think he was spot-on. Trust Blackadder to still be trying to fake he was mad to get out of it.
"Don't overdo the limp, they might realise you're faking it." Kevin sneered back as Blackadder continued on his way, disappeared up the corridor with a casual wave behind him. Bastard. Still alive, and still an absolute bastard. He felt furious.
He felt alive.