CHAPTER SONG: "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion
The sun continued its descent beneath the horizon, the calm French terrain daring to lull Emmy into another fitful state of sleep. She sat upon the hard bench in the back of the ambulance, shielded from any enemies' sight. The rocking motion of the wheels underneath her threatened to throw her forward to the wooden floor of the vehicle.
"Are you alright back there, Ms. Hunterson?" The concerned voice of Lt. Joseph Blake emerged from the cab, the small window on the barrier separating them giving her only a small beam of shine courtesy of the headlights.
"Yes, Joe." She used the shortened version of his name, similar to how she would call Will. "I'm fine."
She attempted to keep her voice with a confident tone, but part of her knew that it was mostly pointless to pretend everything was okay.
She was more or less trapped in an era that was not her own and depending on the protection of strangers. And she had given her heart to the most noble of them!
As far her future past self she had been back to the crucial night in London was concerned, she might as well have been insane, a completely different person than she had been before meeting Lance Corporals Thomas Blake and William Schofield.
A cheerful Irish accented voice broke Emmy away from the pensive thoughts.
"Let us know if you need to stretch your legs. From what I can tell, we've been drivin' for an hour. It's gettin' darker out here." Private Seymour, who was driving the ambulance with Lt. Blake in the passenger seat, informed her in an assuring tone. Then, something changed in his voice when he next spoke in a low whisper, as though he didn't want her to hear what he was saying. "Lieutenant, you think we're a hot target for snipers out here?"
There was a long pause as Emmanuelle stiffened on the bench, her neck arched as her ears focused intently on hearing what Joseph's response would be.
"If we run into any Hun stragglers, we'll deal with them. Just remember why we're here, Private." Lt. Blake's tone of voice was also hushed, but firm, no inflection of falsehood to be heard. "We have a duty to the lady in this vehicle and a promise to keep for Corporal Schofield."
"Ya know, I saw you around her in the camp. Her Prince Charmin' must really trust you if he's lettin' ya carry her outta the med tent and to the ambulance instead o' him. Most soldiers would give ya a good strikin' to the face if he caught ya makin' eyes at his girl." Pvt. Seymour chuckled in a good natured way.
Emmy wrapped her arms around herself, a shiver racking her spine as she carefully stood upon the rumbling floor of the ambulances, grateful for the thick boots on her feet however slightly larger they were for her feet. Normally, she wouldn't appreciate the notion of men talking about her like she wasn't only just nearby, only just earlier that day having reprimanded Colonel MacKenzie for doing the same to her.
"I'm not dignifying that with a response, Private." Lt. Blake grumbled in a stoic manner, signaling the end of that conversation. "And we oughta be wise not to discuss Ms. Hunterson as though she wasn't even here. She gave Col. MacKenzie a tongue lashing earlier today you wouldn't wanna be on the receiving end of."
The tired older soldier, however grief stricken and overwhelmed he was after the shattering events of today, felt a slight smile upon his face at the memory of her standing up to the Colonel and saying what was on her mind.
If his little brother Tom had to spend his last hours alive, he was grateful that it was around Corporal Schofield and Emmanuelle Hunterson, two decent people to keep an eye on him.
Joseph turned around in his seat, leaning up toward the hatch to catch a glance at Emmy while she was on his mind, not that she hadn't been for the majority of the day and he wasn't about to voice that fact aloud.
"Emmanuelle, are you sure we don't need to stop? We still have a long way to go until we get to the hospital." He was concerned that the constant motion of the vehicle wasn't doing favors for her recovering from illness earlier that morning, having sat vigil at her bedside for reasons he still couldn't bring himself to contemplate.
"No, Joseph. The longer we stay out in the open, the more risk we have of getting caught. You're already risking enough for me by being here. I'm nothing more than an object you need to transport from one place to another, like the message Will had to get to Col. MacKenzie." She reached through the small hatch with her hand as Joseph tentatively took her hand within his.
The lieutenant's touch was gentle and reassuring, reminding her of being in his arms only a couple hours prior departing the camp as he carried her due to her injured leg. And he had volunteered to this mission of his own accord.
"I may not know much about you from your own lips Emmanuelle, but I do know that you were brave enough to get through enemy territory and save your Schofield from dying. That man loves you with all he is. And as for me, when I promise something, I never break that promise." His fingers held her hand, his lips chastely kissing her knuckles where he saw the faint scarring on her pinky and third finger.
"I know Will loves me; he's expressed as much with action than with words. Â If I twisted my ankle, he'd tend to it like I'd broken my whole leg. He said that I was brought here for a reason. That I was meant to save him as he did for me when we first met." She reached with her other hand and grasped tightly onto his hand still holding hers. "If I told you everything about myself, you'd throw me out of this car and leave me to fend for myself."
Joseph shook his head, chuckling slightly at her words.
"Emmanuelle, I already swore on my brother's soul that we'll get you there, still breathing and heart beating. As a soldier, I'm honor-bound to protect you as an innocent caught in this hell. And honor is the foundation of God-fearing humanity." He lightly pressed another swift kiss of platonic oath upon her scarred fingers. "And no more talking of such degradation about yourself. That's an order."
His coy smile brought a bright smile to her lips and she opened her mouth to reply.
Before she could, the sudden shattering of the driver's window destroyed their lighthearted banter. A terrified scream erupted from her aching throat, already dry from thirst. Brain matter stained with blood of the now assassinated Private Seymour doused the front of Lt. Blake's uniform and splattered Emmanuelle's pale face. Seymour slumped down against the steering wheel, a bullet lodged through his skull in a quick and painless demise and exiting through his ear.
"Get down, Emmy! Get under the bench and don't move!" Joseph yelled to her, the playful nuance in his voice vanished from only seconds before.
Lt. Blake heard the shrill screams of the petrified woman under his protection echo through his pounding head. The paralyzing sensation of fear threatened to make him freeze in a panic as he ducked down into his seat, struggling to keep one of his shaking hands onto the steering wheel. Only then did he remember that Seymour's now cooling corpse had its foot stuck on the pedal.
The chaos of raining bullet shells around Joseph kept him on hyperactive high alert as he battled both with himself to go instinctive self-preservation mode and with this nightmare of a situation he was trapped in with a dead comrade and a frightened young woman who was the only living link remaining to his little brother.
He needed to protect her not only out of a volunteer mission, but because it was the humane thing to do. As the high pitched ringing in his ears decreased into a monotone pulsating of numbness syncing with his erratic heartbeat, Joseph found himself able to focus as the firing of bullets ceased.
Slowly raising himself from his crouched position on the ambulance floor, he cautiously reached over and opened the driver's side door, pushing out Pvt. Seymour's lifeless body onto the tall grass. However unceremonious the action seemed, it was the only way the Lieutenant could think of to keep the vehicle under control for both his and Emmy's safety.
Her screams had dissolved into a soft whimpering sound.
"Emmanuelle, it's gonna be alright. Just focus on my voice. Â Everything's gonna be fine. Â We're gonna get out of here."
He yearned to charge out into the moonlit field and hunt down the shooter, be they a stray German or traitorous deserter from his own side. But he wouldn't risk Emmy's life with suck reckless behavior. It would do little but allow him to blow off steam from the losses he would continue to grieve from this morning and if he also was killed, she would be left stranded with no line of physical defense.
Only when he placed his booted foot onto the gas pedal did he realize Emmanuelle's shouts of alarm had also been silenced.
Joseph dared himself to turn his head toward the hatch, his shaking hands clutched onto the steering wheel as though it would keep him tethered to the driver's seat and from charging outside into the open air similar to how he led most of his men into a slaughter less than a day ago. His own voice sounded foreign to him as he croaked out Emmanuelle's name, praying that she remained unharmed.
"Emmy!" He used her nickname he had heard Schofield use towards her. His heartbeat continued to pound, drumming against his ribcage as he awaited to hear her feminine voice. "Emmanuelle, talk to me! Are you hit?!"
Lt. Blake heard no response from the back of the ambulance as a moan of dejection emerged from his throat, holding back from screaming into the night of silence before him.
She had to be alright...She had to be... If there was a merciful God above him, then there would be no more bloodshed for today.
Tomorrow would open another opportunity to add more names to local obituaries, condolence letters and nameless graves.
His frazzled brain urged him to keep driving, and to question how the hell a shooter would be hiding in an open field with no trees around...
Probably using the advantage of being under the cover of night, easy enough to stay concealed from plain sight, and the tall grass blades adding to that fact.
Withholding a growl frustration to himself and Pvt. Seymour for not keeping a better eye on their surroundings, he shouted again desperately to the back of the ambulance.
"Emmanuelle, if you don't say something now, I'm gonna stop this damned car and come back there myself!" He found himself threatening against his better judgment. And he hated himself and the world for it.
Silence except for the rumbling of the truck sounded in his ears. Then, the engine groaned, and smoke billowed from the front of the cab.
Lt. Blake was no automobile mechanic, but he knew that wasn't a good sign. He pushed the gas pedal harder, willing for the vehicle to persevere to their destination.
And it slowed, with the tires stopping and the engine rumble sputtering to a pathetic wheeze of final effort. Only when he activated his torchlight could Lt. Blake see the numerous bullet holes decorating the surface of the hood containing the engine...
Tears of exhaustion and anger flooded his eyes and poured down his cheeks as he buried his face into his bloodied hands, the events of the prior twenty four hours at long last pushing down on his shoulders and hoped to bury him in melancholy.
The nausea overtook his need to sob like a little boy as the rancid bile ascended up his throat like lava from a volcano. He quickly leaned outside into the grass and vomited, the smell of death permeating the fabric of his uniform and staining in blotched spots on his skin. He sank to his knees in the overgrown field of green and hung his head, closing his eyes.
Pull yourself together, Lieutenant. Now is no time to mourn. You have a mission to finish and an innocent life to keep safe.
A voice in his head very similar to Tom's invaded his subconscious as his eyes opened again. His brother's name was on his lips, but he couldn't gather the resolve to say it aloud. Doing so would cause him to have a full breakdown right in the position he was kneeling in.
He would not surrender...
His wobbling legs managed to support him as he stood up, leaning on the open ambulance door and he stepped carefully through the grass, hoping to keeping his balance together and he held his breath in preparation for what he was about to see in the back of the ambulance.
Whatever condition his fair female charge was in, he could only beg her forgiveness along with that of William Schofield's...
.
.
.
"Emmy... it's over now. The danger is passed and you've survived yet again."
Lance Corporal Thomas Blake held her close again in his arms. Despite being deceased, he would always find a way to comfort her in spirit whenever she had doubts.
"Tom, another soldier is dead because of me. Private Seymour is dead! I didn't know him long, but Will trusted him and your brother to protect me when he couldn't anymore. He probably had a family, parents and brothers or sisters! Maybe a wife and kids! If I had never come here, none of this would be happening!"
One of his hands stroked her long brown hair that had now been loosened from the leather tie she'd been using to hold it back.
"I may not have been in the army as long as Joe or Scho, but I know that soldiers die protecting those in danger. None of what's happened tonight is your fault, Emmy. All that matters is getting you to safety and access to proper medical treatment."
The younger man continued running his calloused fingers through her tangled tresses of hair as she leaned her head against his shoulder. His heart clenched with an aching as she released a gut-wrenching sob. She wasn't even certain her tear ducts could produce any more water to spill from her eyes she had cried so much since arriving to this earlier quarter of the 20th century.
"Tom...can I ask you something as a friend?" She inquired in a soft whisper, sniffling back more tears as she leaned away from him.
"Anything." His baby-blue eyes focused on her face, waiting for what she needed from him.
"Why is there a picture of me in the year 2020 in Will's metal tin? How did it get there? And why is it dated for next year on...?" She paused before saying the exact date, the day officially declared as the end of the First World War, November 11th 1918.
Tom sighed, his eyes staring down at the non-existent ground beneath them. As though he was thinking about how to answer her... His hands rubbed her upper arms in a soothing way before taking her face in between them to look into her stark green orbs.
"All I can say is that God works in mysterious ways with time and fate. And Scho was telling the truth when he said he didn't know how that photograph of you came to be in his tin box." His thumb wiped away a tear smudging her cheek.
"And...you know about the picture of the woman who looks like me in a wedding dress, dated from Christmas next year in 1918? Why do I look like her? Is that woman meant to be me? Does that mean I don't get to go home?"
"I don't know, Emmy, I really don't." He took her into his arms again, hugging her close to him in a protective embrace, not knowing how much time he had left to be in her subconscious state while her body remained in shock. "All know is that when I saw you at the London Museum looking at that history book, and that ring from the picture in the gift fit you...it just made it harder to believe that it wasn't you, Emmanuelle Julia Hunterson from the future past."
The revelation suddenly hit her with the meaning of the bride in that museum photo...
"There were cherry blossom petals in the wedding veil... Will had told me in the camp about how you and Joe would pick them from your mom's orchard every year. If there isn't a coincidence from there, I don't know what's true and false anymore."
She recalled how Tom had also presented her with a branch from one of the chopped down blossom trees planted near the farm house she'd been found in...
She pressed her hands to her mouth in bewildered disbelief. Then, she no longer felt Tom's protective arms shielding her. He was fading away again...
His departing words left her to ponder before awakening again into the cruel reality of night.
"Scho is your first love. But he won't be the only man to love you."
Everything went black...
.
.
Emmy's head pounded as she struggled to open her eyes. Her ears were ringing.
How long had she been out again? Had she hit her head?
Cold water dripped onto her forehead. Gentle fingers stroked the sweaty skin of her temples and forehead. She recalled how Tom had revived her back at the farmhouse in an all too similar fashion...
Then, she remembered suddenly where she was again. Pvt. Seymour had been shot in the head, the resulting gore smattered all over her face...
Joseph...!
Gasping in a panicking fit of hyperventilation, she shot up from her sitting position. She nearly bumped straight into the soldier in question who leaned back just in time before their heads had collided with each other.
"Emmanuelle, thank goodness." The relief in his voice concealed his tired breaths as he hovered over her.
"Joe," Her voice was a husky rasp as she spoke his name. She battled the vertigo tormenting her equilibrium as she slowly sat, propping herself up with her elbows. She also noticed that she was no longer on the wooden floor where she'd been hiding under the bench before blacking out from distress, but she had been placed to lay upon it, her head cushioned on the burlap sack that he been her pack of supplies.
Glancing over to the side, she noticed that the pack's contents had been emptied, spilled onto the ambulance floor in a hurry, but not by her.
Without speaking her question to him, she gave Lt. Blake a look and he knew exactly what she was asking. Â The front of his worn uniform caked with dried blood and his handsome face slick with mist courtesy of the fog outside.
"I found you under the bench, I was terrified when you didn't answer me; I thought you'd been hit by one of those damned bullets." Joseph wrung the wet rag he'd been using to dab her head, although he ached to take her into his arms as she had embraced him back at the camp when Schofield has told him about Tom dying.
She looked into his vibrant blue eyes, so uncannily like Tom's that she wanted to laugh with joyful incomprehension. She only nodded and allowed him to continue.
"You were bleeding a little from the head, you might have hit it while you were hiding under the bench and you weren't conscious. I put you on the bench and did what I could to tend to you." His eyes diverted from her face watching him and down to the St. Christopher medallion adorning her neck. A small smile crept upon his lips. "I guess God really must have a plan for you to make it this far."
Emmy recalled Thomas' words from her subconscious vision. Her fingertips ran across the small round face of the medallion. Her eyes closed and for one split second, she felt Will's gentle hands caressing her shoulders as he strung the trinket's chain around her neck as he had gifted his family heirloom to her.
Lance Corporal William Schofield was her love, no doubt existed within her... and he had expressed as much reciprocation in every touch and kiss.
But as she looked into Joseph Blake's eyes, she felt her breath hitch as two of his fingers twirled away a stray piece of brunette hair from her cheek, the contact of flesh as tender as though her skin were as fragile as the cherry blossom petals in her winter wedding trousseau...
Then, voice behind them interrupted the calm of intimacy between them. Lt. Blake immediately stood up and saluted at the figure outlined by the moonlight slowly giving way to the now approaching dawn. Rather than feeling fear, Emmy heard the gruff voice that gave her another sense of familiarity, someone who she had met only briefly, but had shown her nothing but courtesy and concern for her well-being. He had even provided her his own coat for warmth and modesty.
She recognized her forgotten guardian angel as his darkened silhouette became clearer within her eyesight and he hoisted himself into the ambulance.
"My dear, you seem to have a knack for finding yourself in our path." The captain from the caravan truck back at the farmhouse who had given her and Will transport with his own unit. Emmanuelle immediately regretted not even getting his name when they first met. "Although I won't begrudge that you seem to have misplaced my coat I leant you. And I also take it that you were not truthful when you stated to me that you were a nurse when I found you with your Lance Corporal protector."
She smiled for what felt like the first time in an eternity and laughed in relief.
"Captain Smith, sir." Lt. Blake approached the superior officer. "Now she's finally awake. I wanted to wait and be certain that she knew you. I didn't want to make a change of plan without her consent. It seems we have no choice, but I need to know what your men say is true. That they've met Ms. Hunterson and would do her no harm."
The captain looked down to the woman sat upon the ambulance bench. His cane clutched in one gloved hand, he reached down the other to her with a warm fatherly smile. Emmy reached up and placed hers within his grip, her smile widening.
.
.
Meanwhile, back at Schofield's own battalion, the trenches he had left behind were still there and nothing seemed to have changed since he had left a day ago.
Yet, he felt everything had. Sergeant Sanders who had originally approached him and Tom about the consulting with General Erinmore had thankfully presented empathy when he found out about the younger soldier's death but pride toward Schofield when he had informed him of the mission's accomplishment.
Despite his body's exhaustion, he couldn't find himself sleeping soundly since returning to his own unit. Having no task to keep him occupied than trying to keep his head together, he found himself resting against the same tree where he and Tom were called upon that fateful day with the orange fire of the dawning sun breaking across the horizon.
His body was relatively pain free, but his heart and soul were yearning for his love. But in that longing for her, he felt something he had not recalled feeling in so many years...
He felt happiness and anticipation for his leave.
And it was all because of Emmanuelle, an American girl with a past he wanted to know more about, but he knew that it was painful for her to retell to him. He wanted to know what more other than this war he could protect her from...
Throughout the night, he had prayed for her safety and to hold onto his trust to Joseph Blake to guard her in his absence. He was without a doubt a very good man with the same qualities as Thomas...
The only concern he had about her staying with his sister in Surrey was that the more he saw her in such a setting was that the secret desire he possessed would grow for her to want to stay...
But he solemnly made a silent vow to himself that he would never say the words to her... She could never know and he would not place such pressure upon her shoulders...
Please stay...with me... My heart broken from you not being here would kill me more than any bullet or bayonet...
He blinked back the oncoming tears from his eyes and his trembling hands removed the tin tobacco box from his uniform tunic.
He had to look upon her face again, something to keep him somewhat sane.
Her picture graced his sight, the colors striking in the morning sunlight. Her beaming smile made him breathe out a sigh of contentment, however fleeting the feeling was. He recalled confessing how she deserved to be happy and feel cherished every day... and he would show her as such when he spirited her away to Surrey.
Feeling inspired, he placed the photograph of her against his leg as he pulled out two spare parchments of paper from the tin on his other leg to use as a surface to write on with his trench pen.
Being especially mindful not to blotch the black ink, Schofield penned each word with care to make it legible, as though he were a poet selecting the exact words to convey his feelings, each ink stroke written with a new energy resuscitated by a mixture of fear, grief and passionate adoration.
To my dearest sister,
Molly, words cannot express what I want to say in this letter. Everything that's happened since I last wrote you, most of them are too horrific to recount. But, I can tell you about one in the form of a radiant woman... All the things I want to say about her to you would take more than the available space I have to write on this paper. She...she's beyond what words can describe. Her spirit, her goodness towards others...
Schofield looked down to his musings on the paper, glancing between the words inked on the parchment and the picture of his lady as he continued writing. And a smile spread upon his face as he imagined them together on the train home, away from this hell. She would sit by his side, healed from her injuries, looking out the window in wonder at everything she was seeing, enchantment overcoming her anxiety about meeting his sister and nieces.
However uncharacteristic it appeared for him, William Schofield dared to hope that she just might foresee a chance of feeling at home in Surrey once they were away from France and the chaos that had accompanied the journey of their discovering mutual affection for each other.
For the first time since his enlistment in the army, he felt excitement at the prospect of going home.
"I hope you're watching over her, Tom." He whispered into the cool morning air as he looked up from his letter at the golden sunrise.
He didn't expect a response, but he could definitely feel a mysterious presence in the same spot where Thomas Blake had lain in the grass nearby him that morning of April 6th. His late comrade's voice floated through his ears, whether by Schofield's own imagination or divine communication from Heaven above, he knew not which.
"Always will, mate."