It was April 1915. Sergeant Harry Perkins had been wandering the French countryside for some time, lost and alone. He had no idea how long it had been since he had last seen another Allied soldier. Harry was tired and thirsty, and the wound in his leg was slowing his pace, he knew it was becoming infected. Still he carried on. The sun felt intensely powerful on his skin, making him sweat and the air felt heavy and thick, closing in around him. Perhaps it was due to his growing dehydration. Sitting down on a low wall which surrounded something that before the war might have resembled farmland, Harry looked up at the sky. He tried to gauge the time from the position of the sun but couldn’t, all he knew was that it was some time in the middle of the day. He was never very good at anything like that; he had been terrible on camping trips. He opened his canteen and drained the last drops of water. He would need to find fresh water if he ever hoped to rejoin his battalion.
Sergeant Perkins had fallen behind as the troops moved out, heading to Ypres. A few days previously, during an attack, a large piece of shrapnel had lodged in his left leg as a shell exploded, killing three men and injuring god knows how many others. Harry had been lucky, and he knew it, even if it was difficult for him to believe right now. He surveyed the surrounding area. The land was so flat Harry could see for miles and miles, but there nothing but a huge expanse of fields of grass and farmland with golden corn which seemed to glitter in the sunlight, fenced off with primitive wooden barriers. To the east, he guessed about a mile, there was a grouping of trees, hardly big enough to be called a wood but enough to offer shade and cover should he need to hide. In the distance, he could see what appeared to be a small hamlet, just a small cluster of buildings, silhouetted against the bright sky. Any kind of settlement must have a water supply nearby. Harry therefore decided to head in that direction, cutting through the cornfields, and pick the small dusty road he had been following until now up again later.
Determined, he attempted to stand up, but his injured leg buckled under his weight and had to sit back down again. While he waited for his strength to return to him, Harry planned his route. He would cut across the fields and walk east as the crow flies, that way he wouldn’t risk getting lost. He should be able to find the road again if he only moved in straight lines. Eventually, he attempted to rise again, slower this time, finding his balance. He winced as he felt a burning shock of pain as the skin around the wound stretched, re-opening it ever so slightly. He bit his lip as he felt a drop of blood ooze out onto his skin, but began to walk through the pain. The more he walked, the easier it was, though whether that was due to him relaxing or just getting used to it hurting he didn’t know. As he walked, he felt a welcome fresh breeze blow across his face, cooling him down. Evening was settling in. He hadn’t seen another soul in hours, friendly or otherwise, and he certainly did not want to be caught off guard after dark, alone and injured. He persevered, resolute on reaching the village by nightfall.
The sun was firmly in the west and covered by clouds, but night had not fallen by the time Sergeant Perkins reached the first building. The remaining sunlight cast long shadows of the buildings stretching far out in front of him. His own shadow was giant in comparison to his tired, weakened form; it dwarfed him. He was impressed with himself; the village had appeared much further away from his position on the wall, and yet it seemed to take no time at all to make the journey. The village was eerily quiet and dark. He could see no light in any window nor hear any sounds of movement or life. As he rounded the buildings he had first come to, more came into view and it became apparent as to why there was no one there. They had been burnt. Civilian homes and barns, all burnt.
There had obviously once been three terraced houses on one side of the dust path that cut through the centre of the village, but now the roof of the middle house had completely fallen in, taking with it parts of the roofs either side, exposing the skeleton of the house. The front wall had crumbled, leaving a huge hole of broken brick and wood through which the terrible effects of the fire could be seen. Carpets and curtains were in tatters; the furniture lay black and in pieces and ash covered the floor. A single, lonely armchair remained by the fireplace in one of the rooms, singed but not destroyed. Perkins could not help but imagine a woman, a wife and mother, sitting in that chair, perhaps mending the clothes of her children. What could have happened to her? To all of the people who had once inhabited the abandoned village. It was war. People died every day; soldiers, civilians, men, women, children.
Harry turned away and moved further down the track. He had come for water, nothing more. More buildings like the one he had stopped at lined his path. Some were clearly the remains of outhouses and barns, others family homes. Towards the far edge of the hamlet, he came across a lone cottage, separated on all sides from the rest of the buildings. It was small, and sported a singed lattice to which a few remaining stems of ivy clung, a mere hint to its former glory when it was covered in greenery. The windows had been burnt out and blackened, but other than that it looked almost untouched by the flames. A kennel stood in the front yard, almost intact but for a panel of wood in the roof which had broken in half and caved inwards. Whether it was curiosity or his growing need to rest which motivated him, he did not know, but he was suddenly overcome with the inexplicable urge to explore the house. Before he could rationalise against it, he ventured inside.
The front door gave way with a gentle push. The inside of the house was dark, though a few beams of fast-fading sunlight strained through the windows, illuminating small areas of floor, casting shadows. The air was thick, dank and smelled damp and smoky, like a bonfire extinguished by the rain. Looking into what had once been the parlour he found walls and upholstery blackened by soot. A china cabinet stood next to the fireplace on the opposite wall. Its glass was smashed and many little trinkets lay in pieces on the floor amongst dust and lumps of charcoal. He moved onwards, testing the stairs in the hallway. They still seemed to support his weight so he started to climb, leaning on the banister, using it to support his weight, giving his injured leg a rest. About halfway up, the banister suddenly gave way, causing Harry to fall, almost over the edge of the staircase. Being wooden, it had been badly damaged by the fire; it was a miracle it had not crumbled sooner. The fall could easily have been far worse, but the excruciating pain the impact had ignited in Harry’s leg was almost unbearable. He rolled up the leg of his trousers to examine the wound. Before, it had been crusty with dried blood and fluids, the skin around it had a yellowish tint, and the blue veins had been showing through clearly. His leg was in much the same state as it was, but it now bled badly again and from it seeped a terrible greenish pus. The force of the fall had pushed the shrapnel further into his leg. He needed a doctor and he needed one soon, or else he would fall victim to infection, which he knew all too well could kill him.
Harry forced himself to his feet and continued to climb, quietly murmuring to himself with the pain of each step. When he reached the top, he found he could reduce it by putting most of his weight on his right leg and limping slightly. He was battling a desperate yearning for sleep, and needed to find somewhere to rest. He had resumed sweating profusely, drenching his uniform so badly that it seemed no water could possibly remain inside him. He wondered momentarily whether this was a start of a fever caused by infection such as he had seen many times, but quickly pushed it out of his mind. Thoughts like that wouldn’t help him. Four doors faced him on the landing. He picked one at random and opened it to find the remains of a charred bed frame in the centre of the wall to his right. The leg at the foot of the bed nearest to him was broken, so it sat lopsided and drooping glumly towards the door. The wardrobe doors had been flung open and the remains of various articles of clothing were strewn across the room in patches with blackened edges, as though someone had tried to pack in a hurry, perhaps attempting to escape. The cottage was, after all, slightly apart from the rest of the village. Its unfortunate occupants may well have had time to run from the fate which Harry feared had befallen their friends and neighbours.
Closing the door on this particular miserable scene, he moved along the landing, trying a different one this time. Opening it, he found the remains of a beautiful children’s nursery. The amber glow of the last bit of daylight streaming through the charred curtains illuminated a white rocking horse knocked onto its side, its painted smile still grinning inanely at him from the floor. Its mane and tail had been singed by the flames and were now black and brittle. The wooden runners at its feet were blackened, and Harry doubted that, had he righted it, it would have held its own weight, never mind that of a child. The remains of a destroyed childhood littered the floor. A burnt doll’s house by the window mirrored the devastation of its larger counterpart. The tiny white fixtures, which some toymaker had painstakingly crafted, were now burnt relics of more peaceful times. Although the house itself showed little scarring on the outside, the burnt walls, windows and doors of the front of the doll’s house emulated the true desolation the fire had wrought inside the main building. It was such a small thing, yet somehow it seemed more tragic than the destruction of the entire village. Harry felt ill at ease just looking at it, as though, had this small piece of the village survived, he would have felt better. He took a step further into the room, but his foot landed with a crunch on the face of a china doll left behind by a child in the panic, fracturing her face. He stooped to pick her up, stroking the black curls of hair on her head. She was small, small enough for her body to fit comfortably in the palm of his hand, while her skirt fell below his palm and her shiny face looked up at him from beside his outstretched thumb, one eye forced half shut by the weight of his foot. He lightly fingered the crack which spread from the centre of her forehead to the bottom of her right cheek, with a little bit tearing away towards her left eye. He lifted her to his face. Her dress smelled like smoke.
He left the nursery to its ruin, but took the doll with him. In the next room he found a bed that had survived well enough for him to sleep on. He hauled himself up onto it, dumping his pack on the floor beside him with a thud. He knew he should continue his mission to find water, but he was sweating even harder now, yet he felt so cold. The cool evening air blew through the window, sweeping up the ashes and swirling them around in the air before dropping them slowly back to earth. He lay on his back, holding the doll to his chest, stroking her hair. He fell asleep stroking her hair.
