Post by Hendrick Davidson on May 13, 2010 19:28:14 GMT
Country: Dover, England
Current Time: 3AM, May 1940
Setting: A makeshift hospital in a school building in Dover.
A blissful, dark silence filled the mind of Hendrick Davidson. All the frantic sounds around him had become merely muffled at first, but now he did not even register their existence anymore. They had simply vanished and for all the young priest knew, he might have just as well been all alone. Old words, whispered in Latin, kept coming to him automatically and even though he did not realize it, his lips moved rapidly, repeating each word in a perfect, practiced manner. It was very easy for Hendrick to become lost in the prayers and litanies and they had an almost comforting effect on him. He had repeated the words so many times that he did not need to spend any effort in recalling them and falling into this trance-like state had become almost effortless to him. He was sure that if he concentrated hard enough, if he prayed fervently enough, he would have a better chance of saving the life of this young soldier. Hendrick had managed to trade a few words with him earlier before performing the last rites and he knew that the soldier had a family, a wife and a daughter, waiting for him in Birmingham. The soldier had told him that did not want to die and that he wanted to return to his family, but the doctor had told Hendrick the situation wasn't too promising - well, that much he had managed to gather from the good doctor's hurried explanation, at least.
The priest only marginally registered a touch on his shoulder and he wanted to just shrug it away. Soon the grip on his shoulder became more demanding and Hendrick felt himself being drawn back to reality more rapidly when he heard someone addressing him. Pale blue eyes snapped open and, blinking in stupor, the man glanced next to him, recognizing the tired eyes of a young female nurse staring back at him. "I'm sorry, but he's gone. Maybe you should take some rest, Father. You have been talking in Latin for the last fifteen minutes," the dark-haired woman noted in her distinctly Irish accent and Hendrick glanced at the soldier he had been praying for. He was lying peacefully still, his lifeless eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. The nurse moved in to close the dead soldier's eyes and cover his face with a piece of white cloth. Hendrick expelled a sigh, his right hand moving swiftly to form the sign of the cross before getting up from a rickety wooden chair. His muscles were stiff and his eyelids felt increasingly heavy - he had not been sleeping for a good long time and in the process, had also forgotten to eat. It was just that he wanted to comfort as many soldiers as he could and make sure that if they died, they would leave this world safe in the knowledge that something was waiting for them when they crossed that line between life and death. His attention was slipping, though, and giving the young nurse a thin smile, Hendrick nodded at her. "I didn't realize... Thank you."
It was impossible to say what the time of the day might have been - the hospital had been set up in the underground floor of an old school in fear of Luftwaffe attacks. The various doctors, nurses and medics needed light to perform operations and to sufficiently care for the soldiers evacuated from Dunkirk, so setting up a medical center underground had seemed like the safest option. The hospital ships St. Andrew and St. Julien had managed to bring back a few hundred wounded and the makeshift hospital was still bustling with action, although most of the critical cases had either been stabilized or lost at this point. Some of the patients were lucky enough to have beds, but most of them had been set down on the floor on whatever blankets and mattresses the military and civilians had managed to procure. The smell of blood hung heavily in the air and the whimpers, cries and wails of the wounded rang from the cold walls of the building.
Hendrick trudged along the small corridor between all the wounded, his feet heavy as lead, blinking more often than usually just to stay awake. The young man's blonde hair was tousled and even his usually immaculate set of clerical clothing - pants, a simple shirt and an open jacket in charcoal black - were now slightly crumbled and dusty. The white clerical collar had adopted an almost unnatural glow against the dark clothing and pairs of troubled eyes followed the priest as he made his way towards the exit. All Hendrick needed was a breath of fresh air and then he would be feeling much better. He didn't want to perform his duties as priest in a substandard manner and he was, after all, just a human being. He should not forget that he, too, had his limits, lest he fall unconscious on the floor sooner or later. He hardly wanted to trouble any of the busy medics and distract them from their task because of his own stupidity. Bringing a hand in to rub his face, Hendrick tried to clear up his head, trying not to appear quite as spent as he was actually feeling.
Current Time: 3AM, May 1940
Setting: A makeshift hospital in a school building in Dover.
A blissful, dark silence filled the mind of Hendrick Davidson. All the frantic sounds around him had become merely muffled at first, but now he did not even register their existence anymore. They had simply vanished and for all the young priest knew, he might have just as well been all alone. Old words, whispered in Latin, kept coming to him automatically and even though he did not realize it, his lips moved rapidly, repeating each word in a perfect, practiced manner. It was very easy for Hendrick to become lost in the prayers and litanies and they had an almost comforting effect on him. He had repeated the words so many times that he did not need to spend any effort in recalling them and falling into this trance-like state had become almost effortless to him. He was sure that if he concentrated hard enough, if he prayed fervently enough, he would have a better chance of saving the life of this young soldier. Hendrick had managed to trade a few words with him earlier before performing the last rites and he knew that the soldier had a family, a wife and a daughter, waiting for him in Birmingham. The soldier had told him that did not want to die and that he wanted to return to his family, but the doctor had told Hendrick the situation wasn't too promising - well, that much he had managed to gather from the good doctor's hurried explanation, at least.
The priest only marginally registered a touch on his shoulder and he wanted to just shrug it away. Soon the grip on his shoulder became more demanding and Hendrick felt himself being drawn back to reality more rapidly when he heard someone addressing him. Pale blue eyes snapped open and, blinking in stupor, the man glanced next to him, recognizing the tired eyes of a young female nurse staring back at him. "I'm sorry, but he's gone. Maybe you should take some rest, Father. You have been talking in Latin for the last fifteen minutes," the dark-haired woman noted in her distinctly Irish accent and Hendrick glanced at the soldier he had been praying for. He was lying peacefully still, his lifeless eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. The nurse moved in to close the dead soldier's eyes and cover his face with a piece of white cloth. Hendrick expelled a sigh, his right hand moving swiftly to form the sign of the cross before getting up from a rickety wooden chair. His muscles were stiff and his eyelids felt increasingly heavy - he had not been sleeping for a good long time and in the process, had also forgotten to eat. It was just that he wanted to comfort as many soldiers as he could and make sure that if they died, they would leave this world safe in the knowledge that something was waiting for them when they crossed that line between life and death. His attention was slipping, though, and giving the young nurse a thin smile, Hendrick nodded at her. "I didn't realize... Thank you."
It was impossible to say what the time of the day might have been - the hospital had been set up in the underground floor of an old school in fear of Luftwaffe attacks. The various doctors, nurses and medics needed light to perform operations and to sufficiently care for the soldiers evacuated from Dunkirk, so setting up a medical center underground had seemed like the safest option. The hospital ships St. Andrew and St. Julien had managed to bring back a few hundred wounded and the makeshift hospital was still bustling with action, although most of the critical cases had either been stabilized or lost at this point. Some of the patients were lucky enough to have beds, but most of them had been set down on the floor on whatever blankets and mattresses the military and civilians had managed to procure. The smell of blood hung heavily in the air and the whimpers, cries and wails of the wounded rang from the cold walls of the building.
Hendrick trudged along the small corridor between all the wounded, his feet heavy as lead, blinking more often than usually just to stay awake. The young man's blonde hair was tousled and even his usually immaculate set of clerical clothing - pants, a simple shirt and an open jacket in charcoal black - were now slightly crumbled and dusty. The white clerical collar had adopted an almost unnatural glow against the dark clothing and pairs of troubled eyes followed the priest as he made his way towards the exit. All Hendrick needed was a breath of fresh air and then he would be feeling much better. He didn't want to perform his duties as priest in a substandard manner and he was, after all, just a human being. He should not forget that he, too, had his limits, lest he fall unconscious on the floor sooner or later. He hardly wanted to trouble any of the busy medics and distract them from their task because of his own stupidity. Bringing a hand in to rub his face, Hendrick tried to clear up his head, trying not to appear quite as spent as he was actually feeling.
