Work Text:
France, November 1916
Martin pulled the small stool as close as he could to the unenthusiastic pot-belly stove. A couple of nurses, one registered, the other a VAD, walked past, deep in conversation. The registered nurse gave Martin a brief nod and the VAD imitated a salute. Martin saluted back.
He sighed and looked around the field hospital. It was one of the more hastily constructed, more shabbily built ones. The walls were thin enough that Martin could hear the footfalls of the soldiers outside. The roof was corrugated iron, and the rain falling hard was so loud Martin barely could hear himself think.
A fellow soldier hobbled past on a pair of crutches and his leg in a cast. “Ward duty?” he asked.
“Yes,” Martin replied, but left it at that.
The other soldier only nodded and hobbled on.
For a while, Martin just sat by the stove and let himself warm up. Then, when the nurses from before came by again, this time in the other direction, he took out the Bible he’d brought. It was the largest book he could find; perfect for a makeshift desk.
Martin smoothed out a thin sheet of paper on the Bible’s cover and began to write.
“My dear Sammy,
I hope you are well. I am currently on Ward Duty. A grisly business. Should you not be fully aware of what ‘ward duty’ entails, I’ll explain quickly. It’s on the whole one of the more unexciting jobs given to a vampire soldier. We wait around the most sickly invalids & should one be on the verge of expiring we attempt to turn him. I’ve had to try on a good dozen men since my own turning but it has never worked so far. I don’t know if I want it to work.
By now, I have become rather used to my new existence. My new unit is formally the Second Shropshire Vampires but our sergeant has jocularly dubbed us the ‘Miniature Commonwealth Army.’ The nickname is quite fitting, we are a very eclectic bunch from all over the Empire. I am a white Englishman, but we also have a black Londoner, a black West Indian, a Hindu, an Irishman, & a Chinese Canadian. We come from all classes, too: from a factory worker to a minor aristocrat, we have it all!
My new sergeant himself is Australian. His name is Finnegan & he is quite a cordial fellow (and his accent is so jolly!) He greets everything & everyone with a smile & often a good-natured joke. I was very apprehensive to join a new unit & as a completely new man (so to speak) but he has done his utmost to welcome me & allay my fears.
I had at first feared that the other vampires & I would not have much in common, but with a nudge from Finnegan, the Canadian & I, a young man named Tobias Zhuang, have become good friends over a mutual interest in literature. Whenever Tobias finishes a book, he gives it to me & I of course return the favour. He is a clever fellow & discussing literature with him is quite stimulating & can banish even the most drudgery of days. I still wish it were you I could talk to, though.
The others are good lads, too. Manish, the Hindu, has a wonderful singing voice & Simon, the Irishman, can make any object into a passable set of drums. Thus we spend a lot of evenings in billets singing and even dancing.
Finnegan really is the glue that holds this motley crew together. He has the gift of listening to anyone with real interest & always knows exactly what to say & do to give comfort where it is needed. He talks to us & knows us all & makes sure that everyone gets along. He coaxes our interests, wishes, passions & thoughts out of us with little more than a few precise questions & then suggests who in our company we would get along well with, as he has done with Tobias & I. We joke that he would make a very good matchmaker.
Nobody in the regiment mentions that we know Finnegan has nightmares or that we noticed he rarely receives mail & never gifts. But we all make sure to share with him our cigarettes, sweets &c. arriving from home. I know several of my comrades asked if their families could not manage an extra pair of socks next time, as Finnegan’s toes are poking through his own. I myself have asked Mater to knit a scarf for him & Victoria to send a book I think Finnegan might like. Victoria promptly sent the book & has told the local comforters who have taken it upon themselves to ‘adopt’ soldiers who don’t have anyone to supply them with anything that might make a soldier smile, if only for a little bit. I sure hope it will make Finnegan smile.
Other than ward duty, us vampires are sent out on No Man’s Land after battles to comb the casualties for anyone still fit to be turned. I’m sure you’ve seen our units at dusk. Before I was turned, I thought it haunting to watch, these lone figures roaming no-man’s-land in the blue light of dusk. Sometimes, one would stop and kneel down; I always looked away when that happened.
Now I am one of those figures. There are attempted turnings every time but there rarely are any new vampires & the few times there have been they were sent away immediately.
Only the other day, when I was out there, ears pricked for any faint sounds of life, I spotted figures much closer to the German side than they had any business being. I was about to call out to them & only then did I realise that they were so close to the German side because they were German. A small band. Scattered individuals. Looking for survivors. And every now and then, one stopped and knelt down.
I looked away.
As I came to hospital today to report for ward duty, I happened upon a group of German POWs. Some were quite battered & I asked matron if these chaps should also be turned if the opportunity arises. She looked at me quite scandalised & barked of course we would not provide Jerry with immortal soldiers. I was cowed but angry; for is it not our duty to treat those we capture humanely? And should it thus not be our duty to make efforts to preserve their life?
I can see you smile as you read this, Sammy. And while I acknowledge that my youthful adoration of the German Romantics has not waned it has little to do with what I consider basic concern for my fellow human beings. If we treat them in our hospitals we may as well turn them should the time come.
But all my hours are taken up with thoughts of Sarah. I miss her dearly. I wish she knew how to knit, then she could make me a pair of gloves & I could imagine myself holding her hand as I wear them, or a scarf that could be an embrace. Wouldn’t that make this entire ordeal easier to bear? Wouldn’t you like such a thing from your sweetheart?
The coals in the stove are getting low. I should restock the fire and stretch my legs for a while. Do write back as soon as you can, Sammy & I hope we shall meet each other soon again.
I remain, without question, yours. Martin.”
Sitting up and rubbing his stiff neck, Martin reread the letter. The paragraph about how the regiment was worried about Finnegan gave him pause; should he take it out? Finnegan would be the one to read his letter if it were pulled for inspection. Martin had procured one of the green envelopes designating private correspondence, but he had heard that some sergeants opened those, too.
With a resolute shake of his head, Martin decided to leave the paragraph in. Trust, this war had taught him, was a two-way street. Finnegan trusted him; he would trust Finnegan.
To a certain degree, at least. Sammy would probably be exasperated that Martin had gone to the lengths of acquiring a green envelope and still hid his true feelings for him behind a feminine pseudonym. But the very idea of putting his feelings for Sammy into clear words someone else might read made his heart beat quicken. There were censors other than Finnegan, after all.
“Private?” One of the nurses approached, harried. “We need you.”
“Yes, of course,” Martin replied. He put the letter carefully between the pages of the Bible, laid it on the stool, and followed the nurse to do his solemn, vampiric duty.