Page 34 of The Moonlight Healers

She wanted only to rest, to stop kneeling beside dying men. But then, out of the corner of her eye, Helene caught a flicker of movement. A man, a dozen or so meters away, so close tothe water that his feet were covered by the rising tide. He was almost completely still, but whenever a wave washed over his legs, he twitched.

When she reached him, there were no obvious wounds on the soldier’s abdomen or chest, no signs of major trauma, just occasional moans as he stirred. She shifted him carefully onto his back, her hands tingling, but there was nothing visible there either, no bloodstain even in the fabric of his coat.

His eyes were closed but his eyelids moved rapidly, as though he were dreaming. As Helene’s adrenaline slowed, she really looked at his face, something she had avoided with the others. His skin was pale but not ashen, his cheeks still pink. He had thick, wavy brown hair and dark, long eyelashes. His features were round and soft, almost childlike, but he was tall, nearly six feet, with broad shoulders, as though his face hadn’t quite caught up to the rest of his body.

“Where are you hurt?” she asked, her fingers finding a bounding, energetic pulse in his wrist. She inspected his legs, and this time a dark bloom of crimson on his right leg caught her eye. She felt the fabric behind his knee, soaked from the waves, and searched until she brushed a piece of something sharp and metallic protruding from the skin.

Relief washed over her. He wasn’t dying. He was hurt, wounded, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed in a hospital. She rummaged through the medical kit Cecelia had given her for a bandage. She knew enough from watching her mother to apply a basic dressing. Her hands shook as she pulled it out, clumsy in a way they hadn’t been for the last few hours.

As she tied the tourniquet above his knee, she eyed the beach ahead of her. It was quieter now, with groups of mostly uninjured men and a dozen or so on stretchers in the direction of the large seafront casino. Before the war it had been a grand destination. Now it stood like an uncaring monolith, blank and empty and blackened by smoke.

“Who are you?”

Helene jumped and found the soldier staring at her as he tried to lift himself up.

“Christ,” he said, wincing. “Still here then. Never going to get off this godforsaken beach, am I?”

He spoke in fluent French, the words easy, but his accent was unfamiliar.

“I tried to pull it out, you know.” He looked down at his wounded leg. “They kept telling me to wait, the German medics, said they’d get to us eventually, although not as politely as that. And I thought I could just do it myself.” He grimaced as he propped himself up on his elbows. “I gave a little yank and that’s the last thing I remember.” His eyes, pale silty gray, nearly the same color as the channel, met hers. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Though his wound was minor, it felt impossible that he could be speaking to her, that such a thing as conversation could exist in this space. “I’m sorry, what was your question?” she managed, her voice sounding very far away.

“Who are you?” he asked.

But she was gripped by dizziness. She held a hand to her temple to fight it.

“Here, drink this.” Something hard and cool was shoved into her hands. “There’s only a little left. But it’s something. Come on now, drink a little.”

Helene fumbled with the metal top of the canteen and took a long drink of the lukewarm water. Her mouth and throat were so dry she could barely swallow. She resisted the urge to gulp the last drops, wiped her mouth, and returned the canteen to him.

“Thank you,” she said. “And I’m a nurse.”

He was watching her closely, his gray eyes reflecting the sun. “And I do speak French. You’re not hallucinating.” He smiled. “You’re not the only ones who do. I’m from Montreal.”

Helene shook her head. “Of course.” She leaned over to examine his wounded leg again, remembering why she was there. “You need to be seen by a surgeon.”

“So it seems.”

Helene straightened and searched the area for a soldier who could transport him to the medical tent, but there was no one nearby. “They’ll just need to remove the shrapnel. Maybe some sutures. You’ll be fine.”

The boy winced at that and lay back down. “I look forward to my convalescence in a prison camp.”

Helene didn’t know how to respond. He wasn’t wrong. She had seen countless men that day marched off at gunpoint, had heard the stories of what happened to captured paratroopers, sent off to the same work camps or prisons as her uncles, or worse, executed in cold blood.

“I’ll go and get help. They’ll need to bring a stretcher. Get you to the medical tent.”

He sat back up abruptly and gripped her wrist. “Please don’t.”

She tried to ignore how soft his palm was, how smooth his skin. She wanted to be professional, clearheaded. “You need medical care.”

“Didn’t you just say you’re a nurse?”

“Oh, no. I mean, yes I am. But like I said, you need a surgeon for this, someone to remove the shrapnel.” She looked around again for transport. “I’m only supposed to be doing triage.”

To her surprise, the corner of the soldier’s mouth twitched. “They finally send us some nurses but ones who are useless. Wonderful—I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “You should know that I can be an idiot. I’m sure you’re a wonderful nurse. All of you. My leg just hurts is all.”

Helene reached for her medical kit. “It’s fine. But I do need to get you some help. That wound will get infected. It’s wet and filthy.”

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