Ink of Ages Fiction Prize

In the Land of Heroes

Lemnos, November 1915

The chapped skin of Nancy’s hands burned as she sank the shovel into the rocky ground. Her back already hurt from the endless day of nursing, and it was going to hurt more if the struggle of the first two inches was any indication.

Beside the grave was Missy’s body, the sheet that wrapped her brindled form glowing in the snatches of moonlight. Wrapped up as she was, Missy’s bulldog body looked like that of a small child, and the thought brought a lump to Nancy’s throat. 

Missy had been a sort of child to the boy who’d brought her in. The boy who made her swear not to put Missy in the pit with the other dogs. 

The boy whose tongue and half his jaw had been blown away so that he’d had to write, shakily, on a notepad so that she could understand. 

Missy doesn’t like other dogs, he wrote while the doctor that triaged him made arrangements for his care, Don’t make her go with them. 

As long as she lived, she’d carry the image of his ruined face, his earnest brown eyes that pleaded not for himself but for the dog that lay motionless across his lower body. From the state of her, Missy might have taken the hits that would have finished off the boy the way his facial injuries had not. He seemed to know it, too, as he dropped the notepad and made a jerky grab for her hand.

Nancy would carry the guilt at the revulsion and horror that seized her chest as a mangled gargle spouted from his throat when he thought she might refuse. She stepped back, and swore to herself it was to minimize the chances of him getting an infection, and not because she was frightened.

“Of course not,” she said, and afterwards she was always amazed at how calm she’d kept her voice. “Don’t you worry, she won’t go to the pit.” 

Of course, the boy had to be separated from his dog, Nancy chastised herself for her fear, and put her hand over his as he gripped the short fur. She remembered marveling at how strong his grip was, as if this small insistence was the thing bolstering him to life. 

“I promise,” she whispered, loathing the part of herself that had recoiled as she marveled at how young he was, “I’ll give her a proper burial.”

His hand relaxed, and Nancy moved quickly to heft the bulldog’s body from the stretcher before someone could unceremoniously dump her. 

Missy was already stiff, and Nancy wondered how long the boy had waited like that, with his dear companion kept warm by his feverish body. Evacuations from the peninsula could take a long time. 

It wasn’t fair, but it never was. 

His brown eyes never left hers as the orderlies carried him into the surgical tent, and Nancy nodded as he disappeared into the canvas opening. The smell of gunpowder and smoke clung to the dog’s fur, and Nancy hurried to put that smell as far away from herself as possible.

The burial could not be done immediately. Nancy had to finish her shift. There were other soldiers who needed care first, so Missy’s body waited behind the tent where Nancy slept with her companion nurses, none of whom made a fuss. War brought out strange requests, and they’d all seen their share. It was merely Nancy’s turn.

Which was how Nancy found herself bone-tired and shivering in the icy wind as she attempted to give the beloved dog the goodbye she deserved. 

The girls in her tent would be enjoying their evening ritual now, Nancy thought, pausing to breathe. There would be tea, and they’d read over their letters and gossip. Someone would have a magazine, and they’d pass it around and debate the fashions and products until they couldn’t keep their eyes open anymore. Then they’d slip into their beds, and try not to dream. 

They’d be snug and cozy, while Nancy was out in the gusty hills with her too-thin jacket. Someone had told her that the island was sacred to Hephaestus, the ancient god of fire, and she not-so-secretly thought he might have chosen a warmer home base.  

Below her, dotted around the harbour, the homes of the island’s inhabitants glowed with light. Nancy had few interactions with the Lemnians, she was too busy at the hospital to explore the island, but she was always astonished by the kindness they showed when there was an extra cask of wine, or local delicacies to be shared. The ones who had been at the hospital the longest spoke fondly of the local help in establishing the hospital spot and setting everything in place.

Thud, she drove the shovel back into the ground, and tried not to calculate how long the task was going to take. She’d been on the hilltop for nearly an hour, thinking to find a pretty spot beneath the stars for Missy to lie, and all she had to show for it was a few shallow inches. She’d never been a quitter, but the thought was tempting. 

With her hands dusty and sore, she thought of her father, who’d often said that rough hands were the sign of a job well done. Of course, he mostly meant this as a jab to her. She’d been awfully preoccupied with her looks and soft hands in her youth, using her pocket change to buy every lotion and salve that promised smooth skin. If her father could see her now, he might be proud of how her character had evolved. Nancy, on the other hand, missed the girl she had been a year earlier.

Another lump rose to Nancy’s throat. Back home, in Queensland, her father had begged her to stay. “You have all the time to see the world,” he’d said, “Wait till this mess is over, and I’ll take you myself.” 

Nancy thought she’d known better. Her father was a shopkeeper, his paycheck enough to feed, clothe, and house their family of five. Her sisters were still in school, her mother growing frail from illness, and the likelihood of him taking her anywhere seemed impossible. 

So she’d volunteered, thinking to see the world and prove her place in it was meant to be bigger than the life her family had picked out for her. 

On days like these she wondered why she didn’t listen. Why she wasn’t content with a life that didn’t include mangled boys and their dead pets. What had she proven to herself? Only that there was more pain and anguish than she could possibly have imagined before. 

Now her dreams were filled with the deaths of a million boys and young men. 

The shovel hit a rock, and the skin over Nancy’s taught knuckles split, sending a burning sear up her hand. With a curse, Nancy screamed, and thrust her shovel deep into the ground so that it stood upright, a memorial to her spirit. With one hand on her knee, she squatted and took in the damage to her hand. It wasn’t deep, but then, a hundred shallow cuts could be worse than a single deep one. 

Nancy had had more than her share of cuts, and they’d finally knocked her down. It was too much. The ground was too hard, Nancy too tired. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, unsure if she was speaking to the boy, the dog, or herself. Her throat was tight as she swallowed past the lump there, and repeated softly, “I’m sorry.” Her gaze was on her shovel, the wind a roar in her ears that drowned out everything except the staccato of her heartbeat. 

She was so engrossed in her misery that she didn’t see them approach. 

Another shovel joined hers, then another. Nancy looked up as a woolen shawl was draped around her shoulders, smelling of the evening tea that was part of their rations. The smell of her cozy evenings filled Nancy’s nose as she looked up into the faces of her companion nurses. The ones who tended and fought alongside her. The ones who should have been nestled away in bed.

“We figured you could use a hand,” one said. 

Another joked, “It’s a nice night for a stroll, anyway.” 

A laugh bubbled up in Nancy’s chest, halfway unhinged from her exhaustion as someone chafed her shoulders to warm her. She leaned into the warmth, and watched as the grave emerged from under many shovels. A tin mug was shoved into her hands, and she drank greedily, feeling the life seep back into her limbs as she swallowed the hot tea. 

“Farewell and adieu to you Brisbane ladies,” someone began, and the others took up the song, their shovels finding a natural rhythm as the song progressed. 

Gratitude rose in Nancy’s chest, more soothing than any tea. When the chorus came around, she joined in –

“We’ll rant and we’ll roar, like true Queensland drovers—” Her shovel was back in her hand as she sang gustily, a renewed spirit helping ease the ache in her shoulders and back as she joined the other diggers. 

When they finished “Brisbane Ladies” they began another song, and another, voices filling the spaces around them before being snatched into the night by the wind. 

When Nancy deemed the grave deep enough, they all stepped back, and shovels were laid aside. The hush was soft as Nancy lowered Missy into her resting place. 

“Thanks for looking out for our boys,” she said, thinking of the boy’s grip on Missy’s fur. “You did your job well.” 

“Hear, hear,” someone said, and there was a murmur of agreement all around. No, they hadn’t known Missy in life, but they’d all seen the dogs that hung around the soldiers. The light such dogs brought that cut through the never-ending pressure, the unknowable future. They knew how important such creatures were to their boys. 

Covering the grave was quick work, and Nancy smoothed the top, rolling a heavy rock into the center the way her father used to for their own dogs back home. 

Job done, Nancy reached out a hand, and someone helped her up. For a moment, they all stood around the small grave. 

Then someone mentioned a tin of biscuits that would go well with a fresh pot of tea, and the small troupe picked up their shovels and turned towards their makeshift home. Their arms tangled through one another’s as they put the day’s work to bed.