CHAPTER ONE.   IN THE FLESH?

SHE STARED AT HER BLOODY HANDS. They didn't quite feel like her own anymore. It was almost like a stranger controlled them as her eyes watched them move. Wrapping these wounds was procedure, muscle memory. Day in, day out, she saw eighteen to thirty men and wrapped their wounds - big and small. All the men knew her, and most prayed to their gods they wouldn't have to see her. Her calloused hands were less than desirable to the common man and her intolerance towards their sexual comments could sour any mood.

Tears had begun to build up in her eyes as she looked over the now deceased body of Lance Corporal Ronald Taft. Dark blood dripped from the metal operating table in the middle of the tent. Her heart wrenched and her hands curled into tight fists. You should've done more, she thought to herself.

A hand reached up and gently squeezed her shoulder. "We did all we could." The soothing voice of Nurse Amelia Vickert spoke from her right. Her white nurses apron was stained a light brown from the dried blood that had spattered onto her.

"Maybe we could've-"

"It's too late for that." Amelia cut her off, shaking away any doubts in her mind. They had done all they could do. "People die, Mags. God called him home." She made her way out of the tent to change her uniform.

Mags kept her eyes on the corpse in front of her. Her mother had always taught her that the Lord worked in mysterious ways, and their job was to put their trust in him. That was bullshit, she thought to herself. What god would allow this? Maybe this war was proof that they had free will? Or maybe it was all part of an omnipotent being that was moving them like pieces on a chessboard.

Two soldiers entered the tent. One grabbed the top two corners of the sheet underneath the body while the other grabbed the bottom two corners. They picked him up inside the sheet and carried him out of the tent, leaving Mags completely alone. With a quick sniffle, she began gathering the surgical equipment up. Placing all of the tools on a small tray, she carried it over to the small and rusty sink. She rubbed her nose with the sleeve of her blue nurses gown before turning the sink on.

The water was cold and had a yellowish tint. With a soft huff of air, she grabbed the scalpel and ran it under the water. The shakiness of her tan hands made it difficult to keep the utensil underneath the soft stream of water. Curses slipped through her lips in frustration at herself. Blowing a piece of dark blonde hair that fell out of her bonnet out of her face, she dropped the scalpel on the sink. "Shit," she hissed as her still bloody hand ripped the bonnet off of her head.

"Nurse Winters," a deep voice called from the entrance.

Her entire body stiffened as she turned to face the man in front of her. Shifting under his gaze, her hands clasped together in front of her. She mustered a friendly smile. "General Erinmore, what can I do for you?"

"I need you to come with me, Miss Winters." His dark eyes glanced down at the blood still staining her hands. "Clean yourself up first."

With a fierce nod, she rolled the sleeves up on her dress and began scrubbing her hands underneath the stream of the freezing water. What could the general want with her? Was she in trouble? That couldn't be, she hadn't done anything wrong - as far as she knew. Maybe she was getting to go home. As much as she loved being a nurse, she had wanted nothing more than to go home and hug her mother and kiss her sister's forehead and argue with her brother relentlessly. She didn't even know if her brother was safe. He had joined the 2nd Devons shortly after joining the godforsaken war and he stopped writing letters long ago.

Shaking her head, she turned the tap off and grabbed one of the towels on the table next to her. After drying her hands, she straightened out her stained apron and left the tent. Just outside the tent, General Erinmore waited with his hands clasped in front of him. "Follow me, Nurse Winters."

"Nurse Winters sounds so... formal." She nervously giggled, scratching her left arm gently. Her footsteps were quick and barely enough to keep up with the man's long strides. The silence between them grew even more awkward. Glancing around the gray and bleak surroundings, Mags swallowed the lump that formed in her throat. Her black boots squelched in the mud as they descended into the trenches.

The soldiers surrounding her sent confused stares as she followed the general. Drawing her bottom lip between her teeth, she diverted her gaze to her boots. "In here." General Erinmore spoke, stepping to the side to let her enter the bunker. Two young men in 8th Division uniforms watched them enter the bunker with their brows furrowed. "Gentlemen, this is Nurse Margaret Winters. She will be accompanying you on your mission."

"I'm sorry?" Mags spoke with wide eyes. "What mission?"

"Lance Corporals Schofield and Blake here are going to the 2nd Devons near Écoust." General Erinmore explained, motioning towards the two young men in front of her. "You will be going with them. This will be a dangerous mission and they'll need a nurse."

"You see," Mags began, her left thumb digging into the skin of her right hand, "when I became a nurse, I didn't quite expect to be going on dangerous missions."

"Miss Winters, you see death every day. If you are unprepared for this mission, perhaps you shouldn't be a nurse in this war."

A soft glare settled in her soft blue eyes. "With all due respect, General, I know how to take care of myself."

"Then why are you so hesitant on this mission, Nurse Winters?"

"I-" She stopped, glancing at the two men who watched her intently. Glancing down at her boot clad feet, she took a deep breath. You lose your temper too often, her mother would tell her with a pointed finger. After their father had passed away, all of the Winters children had become drastically different people. Her brother had once been a bright and hopeful young man, and her sister had once been cheerful, now they were all dreary and hopeless. The war hadn't quite helped them become anymore upbeat, either. "I suppose, sir, sending two men and a woman on a mission by themselves sounds like a suicide mission."

"Is that what you suppose, Miss Winters?" General Erinmore glared harshly at the nurse. "Then perhaps I should step down and let you become general. How does that sound? Do you suppose that would work in your favor?"

With clenched fists, she shook her head. "No, sir."

"Then perhaps plans are best left to the men."

With a deep breath, Mags dug her fingernails deeply into the palms of her hands. Her jaw clenched tightly as she glanced towards the two soldiers that watched her with wide eyes. Red hot blood flushed her cheeks a dark pink at the embarrassment she had just been subject to. The general broke down where they would be going, but Mags refused to listen. All she needed were her supplies and a change of clothes. Maybe they would give her a soldier's uniform. A dress wasn't any good sort of outfit for someone about to go on a battlefield.

Oh, God, she thought, I'll be on a battlefield. She didn't even know how to fire a gun. Her mother had taught her that diplomacy was the way of ladies and that fighting was for boys. A pair of tan clothing was held out to her. "Here is your new uniform, Miss Winters. If you're to be on a battlefield, then a dress isn't what you need." General Erinmore spoke, glancing between her and the pair of clothes one of the soldiers held out to her. "Boys, escort this young lady back to the medical tent to gather supplies and head out immediately."

"Just us three, sir?" The taller soldier asked as they neared the entrance of the bunker.

"Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne, he travels the fastest travels alone. Wouldn't you agree, Lieutenant?" The general spoke before waving them off.

Behind both of the men, Mags followed. The men argued as they made their way through the trenches - though she couldn't quite focus on their words. Her thoughts traveled miles a minute. What if they didn't make it back? What would her mother think? Would she cry and mourn more than she did their father? Would Alex and Liz make it back and mourn her too? Or would they meet the same fate as her?

"I didn't catch your name, miss."

Her gaze snapped up to meet that of the taller soldier. "Margaret Winters. And you are?"

"Will Schofield and this is Thomas Blake." The taller one gave a soft smile as he held his hand out. Tucking the clothes under her arm, she shook his hand with a gentle smile. The group fell silent once again as they made their way to the medical tent.

As they approached the blue tent, Mags made her way inside, leaving the boys outside. She was quick to strip off her dirty apron, stained blue dress, and black boots. Sliding the trousers on gave her a foreign sensation. Her mother had forbid trousers for the girls, stating it unladylike and unsuitable for women. Pulling on the white undershirt, she quickly slid the tan button-up over the undershirt. After buttoning each button carefully, she pulled the tan socks on, pulling them over the legs of the trousers. She slid the tan jacket over the button-up. Her black boots were the last thing she equipped.

After dressing, Mags grabbed a large pack and began stuffing whatever medical supplies she would need. One feature that seemed to help her in the war was that Mags was a pessimist. Going for a simple walk in the park? You could trip over a rock and shatter your kneecap. Grabbing groceries? Someone could just come up and snatch you without a second thought. She was paranoid, and her mother hated that. Ladies shouldn't think such negative things, her mother would say with a roll of her eyes.

A soft sigh escaped her lips as she continued stuffing bandages, gauze, wrappings, and the like into her pack. She approached her personal pack on the floor and began looting through it. Pulling out articles of undergarments and socks, she tossed them to the ground. A small stack of photos lie at the bottom of her pack, staring up at her and burning holes into her hands. Her fingers wrapped around the photos, pulling them out of her pack. The first photo in the stack was a family portrait. Her frowning mother, her stern father, her happy siblings, and her. It never ceased to amaze her how much Alex looked like their father. Their broad shoulders, the creases on their foreheads, their expressive blue eyes, and their deep brown hair. Both Mags and her sister were given their mother's deep honey hair that was thicker than straw and longer than hair needed to be.

"Are you ready?" The shorter soldier, Thomas Blake, asked, poking his head into the tent. "We need to leave soon."

"One more moment, I promise." Mags mustered up as much of a smile as she could. Blake nodded with a small smile before returning outside of the tent. She stuffed the photos into the inner side pocket of the tan jacket of her uniform. Cramming her hand back into the pack, she began fishing through it. When her fingers scraped against a familiar cardboard box. A smile grew on her lips as she pulled the box of Redford's cigarettes. She quickly pushed the box into the left outer pocket of her jacket, along with a small box of matches. Tossing the pack over her shoulder, she made her way out of the tent. "All ready, boys." Her toothy smile was enough to put a genuine smile on the boys' faces.

The group began making their way back to the trenches. The two men in front of her began to argue again as they made their way down into the trenches. A deep sigh tumbled from her lips. This was going to be a long two days.