In Memoria
Driscoll was in the low-g break room playing, of all things, checkers with one of the new pilots. Normally, he’d be in the high-g gym fighting the consequences of the job, but Commander Kaz had ordered him to socialize with the new hires.
He wouldn’t escape game night this centicycle.
There were several other pilots at a nearby table playing a game he hadn’t bothered to learn the name or rules of, it was from after his time. One of them jumped up in excitement to cheerful calls. He ignored it all, focusing on his opponent and the board.
It went for some time, a game or two. Occasionally the pilot would have the courage to ask a question, usually about work, which he answered in his typical dull, flat cant. Eventually, from the other table, Glenn butted in, “Interrogating the enigmatic Driscoll, eh? Get somethin’ good out of him won’t you? Too boxed up and regimental that man is.” She smirked at Driscoll.
The pilot made some flustered, exasperated sounds, before—much to everyone’s surprise—he smiled and asked, “Are you seeing anyone, Driscoll?”
The whole room, save Driscoll, exploded in a fit of hollering laughter. Driscoll simply looked up at the pilot and thought…
It was close to the middle of winter and raining. The night was pitch black, what little light the stars provided were blocked by violent storm clouds. Occasionally, a flash of lightning might illuminate the landscape, but never for long enough to be of much help.
They could put up lights, but that would just draw attention. So, Burne Driscoll walked down the muddy running boards with one hand tracing the dig-in wall while the other held his helmet in place. Bumbling, blind, and soaked, he made it to his destination: the local command office, dug down from the rear trench and on the verge of flooding thanks to the storm.
He entered, via a pair of turns, to an animated conversation about tunnel digging operations cast in dim, orange light. A couple of cycles ago he might have looked at himself in horror for doing his work with all the muck he was covered in, but he didn’t have the privilege of cleanliness—not here, not now.
The Hoss looked up from the planning table and beckoned him over, wordlessly requesting his report. He pulled a sheaf of papers, the reports—all handwritten—his section had prepared, from his pack as he walked over and recited in a distant tone “Since our last report, we’ve 193 casualties. 32 have since returned to service and 74 are at or on their way to hospital.” She didn’t ask about the rest, she knew all too well. “Medical supplies are sufficient for another three days, assuming the rate of attrition doesn’t rise.”
He pinned the last page to a board in the back of the room, “Names, as usual.” It was the voice of a hollow, broken man speaking.
“Forward operations, 6th; 8th; and 10th Divisions, were hit hard. 2nd and 4th Divisions are still short on equipment and people; 12th and 14th haven’t raised any complaints besides the usual about morale and manpower.” He sighed and dropped the rest of the papers on the desk, somehow startling one of the officers there. He kept the string. “Rumors have filtered in from East along the line. They say we’re retreating soon.” He grimaced for a moment as he considered, “Give me news to oppose the notion.” It was a plead more than anything.
She stared at the wall in silence for a few moments before responding, “Jau has too many men under his purview, nerves are bound to be unsteady out East.” Burne just nodded, “You could do better by them, certainly.” He had noticed the dodge and let it be. “I’ll be off then, Hoss.” He stuffed what little mail East Region had received in his pack.
“See you next Delta shift, Driscoll.”
He paused at the threshold, “Gamma, actually; see the list.”
Back in at East Region’s medical office, Burne sat down at a his table and carefully opened a letter. It was from his wife, Marigold.
She was always in such a rush when she wrote and the ink was slightly smudged by the rain, but he could read the words. They brought a smile to his face, as they always did, and lifted his spirit, instilling much more hope than Hoss had done. At the very least, things were going well at Durray Hospital.
Nothing needed his attention until the changeover to Gamma shift, so he got his own paper and began to write a response. He was less artful and sophisticated in his writing, but she appreciated his letters just as much as he did hers.
It was still raining when his watch clicked over to Gamma shift. It had been irritatingly uneventful since nightfall, the pitch dark seemed to dissuade the enemy from attacking, and command had much the same hesitation.
Burne watched as the shift-crews exchanged kit and informed the incoming medics of who needed care and when. The thought that soon enough he’d probably be running Alpha watch like Hoss distracted him from the goings on.
He didn’t notice the dull flash in the distance, but he heard the roar whatever-it-was produced. Everyone stopped for a moment and looked around, uncertain of the strange noise, before continuing about their business.
A segment of trench a kilometer to the West exploded. There was another flash from the original position. Briefly, Burne saw the source. As he processed what he saw and drew the only conclusion he could, the color drained from his face. He yelled out but was overwhelmed by the sound of another trench segment, this one practically on their doorstep, exploding. Again, he yelled, in unison with his emergency radio, “Artillery”.
Everyone, from both shifts, scrambled to their kits. They were already flying down the trench, their medic’s flags whipping in the wind, as another shell fired.
Burne and a few others, secondary runners primarily, had left most of the other medics at the Eastern crater, trusting them to handle the scene there.
By the time they arrived at the Western crater, several more shells had been launched and landed, though they had no idea where. The crater itself was no better than the previous, simply more damp.
The trench walls had splintered and allowed dirt to collapse in, burying the worst of the carnage. Of those still in the quick, very few were well off. Most people were laid against what wall remained, bleeding and barely conscious. The running boards would be thoroughly stained red if it weren’t for all the rain.
Burne and the rest of the medics got to work immediately, assessing and treating what they could, all while the periodic dull thud of the firing of artillery shells filled the air.
Burne was tending to a young man—Gaston Emerald, by his tag—with some bandages, he was better off than most and so had been left for later. He was asking the soldier questions, assessing if he was concussed or otherwise injured in unseen ways, when a dim whine lodged itself in his conscious. It wasn’t wind, it was too uniform and off-putting to be.
Those of the injured that could, cried out with terror. To his credit, Gaston only stared at Burne, eyes filled with dread and said “Another one.”
Momentarily, he was confused; unsure what the soldier meant. His gut dropped when he realized. Should he run? What direction? Where was the shell coming down on? Do they risk mounting the caved in section? He could carry one of the injured, as could the other medics and some of the soldiers, but there weren’t enough to carry all the immobile. A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind as he tried to answer his own questions, suffocating under the increasing whine of the shell.
It landed in nearly same spot as the last one, just East enough to land where there was still trench. Everyone had been moved away from there, being tended to in a turn in the trench, but they were close enough to be thrashed.
Burne saw remarkably little, one moment he was lifted, thrown at a wall, and enveloped in darkness.
He wakes up wrong. He has the distinct impression everything should be hurting, yet he feels none of it. He has some difficulty moving, his body is numb and littered with ghosts of pinpricks. Most worrying of all: his eyes are open and yet he can see nothing.
He lies there for some time, trying to move. He succeeds in propping himself up a little ways but stops upon realizing he’s tugging on leads.
Somewhere, he hears a door open. It sounds close enough to be for his room, so he turns to where he believes it’s located. An unfamiliar voice begins in a jarringly cheery tone, “Mr. Driscoll, how good to see you awake. You had quite the, ah, experience.”
He recalls being thrown against a wall and wonders just what followed that. The idea causes some of the pain to momentarily realize. Bizarre.
He tries to speak, to ask where he is, but only succeeds in producing a trembling whine.
“It’s alright, don’t speak. I’ll let Marigold know you’re up.”
The voice leaves before the full impact of their words settles in. The realization he was in Durray Hospital hits him like a brick; a commotion of excitement and worry filling his mind.
The door opened again after a few hours. By then his vision had improved a tad, permitting him a vague impression of the room and its lighting. At the very least, he could make out the shape of a person in the doorway.
Shakily, a kind and familiar voice asked “Burne? Love?”
It was Marigold. A wave of elation and relief and… hope washed over him. Coarsely, he managed a quiet “Honey.”
She moved to the edge of the bed, allowing him to see her in relative clarity. She sobbed when they locked eyes, confusing Burne. “How- know?” he managed to croak out.
She moved back and stared at him with confusion, “How? Burne, your eyes-“ she was cut off by a choking sob.
“I can’t see too well; everything’s… blurry and dim.” He struggled with the words.
Her face shifted to concern, “Honey, your eyes… they’re gray. The fact you can see at all is a wonder.”
He deflated a bit, “Ah…” She looked at him, unsure if he really comprehended what she said, “Guess I’ve those genes.” His heart had stopped for over five hours, allowing the color in his eyes to dissipate beyond recovery.
Gradually over the next days, his sight returned. His strength recovered and the pain faded, though never quite disappeared, as he began to stand and eventually walk. In a few dozen centicycles, he was helping about in the hospital, making himself useful while awaiting new orders.
When the time to leave came, he struggled to find adequate words.
“I’ll be back Marigold, soon hopefully. Ideally not in the same way as this time.” He coughed out a weak laugh.
“As long as its not a letter from W.O., I’ll be fine.” There was a glint of pain and uncertainty in her eyes that said otherwise, but by unspoken agreement he ignored it.
He smacked his head, “How could I forget! I had written a reply to your last letter, it was still in my dungarees when…” He trailed off, not wanting to relive the night, again.
“It’s alright, we’ve had plenty of time to talk these last couple days. Go out there and do what you do best.” They smiled weakly at each other, not wanting to part, but knowing they were needed in different roles.
“I love you honey.” Feeling he should say more, he added “I’d crawl through hell for you.” It was wholly insufficient, but it would have to do.
“I know Burne, you already have.”
He returned to the front in the spring. The initial return brief was short and given in a rather well put together command office, one of the walls was even boards instead of dirt.
“Welcome back, Driscoll. Nothing can keep an old dogger away, can it?”
“Much as it upsets me, this is where I’m of the most use.”
She frowned slightly, “If you don’t want to be here, I won’t make you stay. You know that.” There was a fragment of doubt in her voice.
He responded almost instantly, “Just being sentimental, Hoss. I’m here until the end.”
“You’ll regret those words, especially with your assignment.” She sighed, clearly not wanting to continue, “You’ll be running Alpha shift, like me. See the current shift lead, she’ll teach you the drug regimen and consequences.”
For a multitude of reasons Burne scowled. He chose the least mean response, “You won’t?”
“Not my field. ‘Sides, she can give you a less sanitized version, imagine you’d appreciate that. And I need to update you on enemy action. Rumors that Selene’s taken notice of our situation seems to have Karowitz spooked.”
Somehow, this provoked a smile, “Last we spoke you dismissed rumors, and here you are talking about—of all things—the Universal Accord getting involved.”
“I’m inclined to believe this one, considering we’ve been trying to get an entreaty to them since before the war started.”
He made a slightly dismissive grunt. “Very well. Standard meet time I presume?” She nodded. “See you in a few hours, all drugged up.” He made to leave the room.
“Oh, and Driscoll?” He looked back. There was something strange in her eyes, a hope and passion he hadn’t seen since the war started, “We held the line.”
Alpha shift treated Burne about as well as anyone. He started having day-terrors by 43 hours but managed to discard them within another 50. Everything about him slowed erratically as it unwillingly adjusted to the constant wakefulness, wanting desperately to rest.
The lingering pain produced some difficulties, sporadically recrystallizing and dragging on his conscious. He merely clamped down on his mind and suppressed it, dismissing it full-fat and answering anyone who asked: “It’s not pertinent at this time.” When his hands developed a permanent shake, he agreed to retire from incisive medical duties and anything requiring a steady hand.
By 200 hours–just short of seven days–his condition appeared to steady, new complications had stopped appearing and the major issues faded away. The fighting had resumed by then, giving him plenty to do and worry over.
He fell into a steady rhythm of dashing to headquarters to deliver reports and spending the time between trips in the infirmary, tending to the injured. He found it comforting at least, in some ways it reminded him of before the war.
He discovered his hair was turning gray hours before he realized he couldn’t recall his wife’s face. The No-Sleep fog dulled his response slightly, at the least making him consolable.
He always kept an image of her on him, but it was little help. Though he could look at it and recognize her, he couldn’t fit what he saw into the memories he held so dear. Always, the Marigold in the image seemed disparate from the one in his mind.
A low wail broke out, filling the valley with its call. It was the alarm. It was joined in concert by siren bells all along the trench as the wail rose and shifted to a cry. Occasionally, they faltered ever so slightly; even the noise boxes were growing weary.
Burne rose from where he lay, not actually asleep—the No-Sleep saw to that—but wanting to allow his body to rest. He had been down for only a moment, quite literally, hoping to take advantage of a brief lull in responsibilities. No such luck; after all, rest kills the weary.
The war dragged on to the end of spring, through the summer, and into the clement autumn. The enemy becoming more aggressive, desperate perhaps, as the seasons passed. Late one day, Burne walked into the command office with a series of clanks, various materiel and equipment clinking together as they swung on his pack, affixed for quick access. He gave his report in the typical cold, dry fashion, oblivious to the pain on the Hoss’s face.
When he finished, “Thank you, Burne. Got some mail for your folks, it’s big news too.” Only then did he notice her look, “There’s also a letter here for you specifically as well. It’s from War Ops.”
The statement seemed to slice through the haze the No-Sleep had burdened him with. There was no good reason for someone as low as him to get a letter from so high up. He was truly at a loss for words.
“Where– is it?” She seemed unsteady, never had he seen her so… defeated, “Top of the pile, I would read it first chance.”
Cautiously, he approached the stack of papers, took the top letter—addressed to him from W.O., just as she said—and opened it. His stomach dropped as he read the opening; he was shaking violently by the time he finished reading.
Durray Hospital had been destroyed; little more than rubble remained. Among the deaths, those too far gone to have any chance of recovery, was his wife, Marigold.
The next day Burne demanded a rifle and attempted to relinquish his medical staff’s flag. The Hoss, valuing his abilities in his current position higher than his absent shooting skills, simply declined. He pushed the issue, becoming angrier with each refusal.
He quit trying when, after a particularly nasty outburst, he realized the Hoss had fear plastered over her face. Later that day, it would occur to him that he had never seen her scared before. That hung on his conscious.
The winter, slightly drier than the previous, passed without major incident, as did the majority of the spring. As it drew to a close, the C.V. Tranquility dropped into orbit, having made the slow journey from Accord space with its burrower drive. Their Entreat had been received.
The Tranquility sent down supplies and diplomats and saw to Karowitz Planetary’s arrest and dismantling. The war was over in a matter of days; such is the nature of the Accord.
He pushed the memories away, not wanting to relive any more of the past. If he were a different man, he would have sighed. But he was himself, so he said plainly “I’m married.”
The whole room looked to be in shock. No one had expected that answer, certainly not the pilot he was playing against. Slowly the room collected itself as eyes darted around the room, unsure of what to do next. Finally, someone called out “Well, who?”
Ever so slightly, he frowned—though no one saw it—before he spoke, “My work, naturally.”