Post by Nicholas Ealing on Jun 11, 2010 21:51:42 GMT
Marguerite Boussemar leaned against the reception counter, apple in one hand, ballpoint pen in the other. She was a young French nurse, pretty and capable, who spent most of her time saving the lives of those who made a living by taking them. It was frustrating work; she looked after the wounded soldiers, nursed them back to health, only for them to be hurled back onto the front line the second they got discharged, to get blown to bits all over again. It was hard work, often exhausting and fruitless but she felt she had a duty to the Allied soldiers unlucky to find themselves in St Marcellin’s Hospital, Lower Normandy.
For the first time she could remember in the past six months, no one was dying in the immediate vicinity and this made an exceptionally refreshing change. Now she could dwell in glorious, fabulous boredom, waiting at reception for anyone who saw fit to enter the double-doors of the foreboding building.
Like the two men approaching her now. They were both U.S officers, both tall and both reasonably weather-beaten but the similarities ended there. The first looked older and more confident, with a cheerful twinkle in his eye and a spring in his step. Strong, rugged-looking and charismatic, he was clearly in charge. The second, younger figure walked somewhat nervously behind him, smiling awkwardly at the nurses who crossed his way. Marguerite was a good Catholic girl but she couldn’t help blushing when she saw the younger man approach: he was undeniably a handsome young man.
The older figure seemed to be all too aware of his friend’s way with women and smiled knowingly before addressing the nurse. “Good morning, ma’am.” His voice was made up of a smorgasbord of accents, a strange mixture of clipped Home Counties, lyrical Welsh and smooth Californian.
“Good morning, officers.” The nurse bobbed uncertainly.
“Lieutenant Nicholas Ealing,” smiled the first officer, tipping his cap. “3rd Armoured Brigade. And this is my friend and colleague, second Lieutenant Dalton.” The younger man smiled pleasantly, distracting Marguerite for a second, as Lieutenant Ealing continued. “We’re here to see the girl.”
“Of course,” said Marguerite. “We wondered when someone would...pop in.”
Nicholas smiled at the British term, noting that the girl had learned her English from the British rather than their American allies. “Follow me,” she said, placing the apple down on the desk and gesturing for the officers to follow her down the wards. “She was half-dead when your men brought her in,” she said, sounding surprisingly conversational. “She hadn’t eaten for days. As for the hypothermia...” Marguerite smiled. “It’s a miracle she is alive, Lieutenant. Doctor Boullin says he’s never seen anything like it. Can’t understand how she’s managed to hold on.”
She stopped suddenly and with a deft flick of the wrist, pushed the door slowly open. “She’s a fighter,” she said brightly.
“Yes,” said the Lieutenant slowly. “Yes, I suppose she is.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” said Marguerite politely. “Lieutenant Ealing. Lieutenant Dalton.”
"Richard-“ began Dalton.
“Time and a place, old boy,” said Nicholas cheerfully, pushing him through the doorway. “Time and a place.”
The room seemed impossibly lonely. There was a single bed in the far corner and on the bed a tiny, tiny form. The officers moved forwards. Nicholas, as tradition decreed, smiled. “Hallo, Heidi,” he said softly.
For the first time she could remember in the past six months, no one was dying in the immediate vicinity and this made an exceptionally refreshing change. Now she could dwell in glorious, fabulous boredom, waiting at reception for anyone who saw fit to enter the double-doors of the foreboding building.
Like the two men approaching her now. They were both U.S officers, both tall and both reasonably weather-beaten but the similarities ended there. The first looked older and more confident, with a cheerful twinkle in his eye and a spring in his step. Strong, rugged-looking and charismatic, he was clearly in charge. The second, younger figure walked somewhat nervously behind him, smiling awkwardly at the nurses who crossed his way. Marguerite was a good Catholic girl but she couldn’t help blushing when she saw the younger man approach: he was undeniably a handsome young man.
The older figure seemed to be all too aware of his friend’s way with women and smiled knowingly before addressing the nurse. “Good morning, ma’am.” His voice was made up of a smorgasbord of accents, a strange mixture of clipped Home Counties, lyrical Welsh and smooth Californian.
“Good morning, officers.” The nurse bobbed uncertainly.
“Lieutenant Nicholas Ealing,” smiled the first officer, tipping his cap. “3rd Armoured Brigade. And this is my friend and colleague, second Lieutenant Dalton.” The younger man smiled pleasantly, distracting Marguerite for a second, as Lieutenant Ealing continued. “We’re here to see the girl.”
“Of course,” said Marguerite. “We wondered when someone would...pop in.”
Nicholas smiled at the British term, noting that the girl had learned her English from the British rather than their American allies. “Follow me,” she said, placing the apple down on the desk and gesturing for the officers to follow her down the wards. “She was half-dead when your men brought her in,” she said, sounding surprisingly conversational. “She hadn’t eaten for days. As for the hypothermia...” Marguerite smiled. “It’s a miracle she is alive, Lieutenant. Doctor Boullin says he’s never seen anything like it. Can’t understand how she’s managed to hold on.”
She stopped suddenly and with a deft flick of the wrist, pushed the door slowly open. “She’s a fighter,” she said brightly.
“Yes,” said the Lieutenant slowly. “Yes, I suppose she is.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” said Marguerite politely. “Lieutenant Ealing. Lieutenant Dalton.”
"Richard-“ began Dalton.
“Time and a place, old boy,” said Nicholas cheerfully, pushing him through the doorway. “Time and a place.”
The room seemed impossibly lonely. There was a single bed in the far corner and on the bed a tiny, tiny form. The officers moved forwards. Nicholas, as tradition decreed, smiled. “Hallo, Heidi,” he said softly.
