Their first conversation took place at such a wretched and scribbling time. By the time he was pulled from the ground, Arthur Kirkland had lost some consciousness. The palms of both his hands had been bloodied by the stone and grit of the coarse foxholes in which he had been repeatedly bombed at close range by air strikes for several days, and his entire uniform was covered in large puddles of blood. When the bare skin brushed against those bloodstains, one could even feel the temperature there.
But it wasn't his blood. Five minutes ago, a soldier who had been shot through the belly by a machine gun bullet had died in his arms. As his own hand finally left the dead body that could no longer possibly have any heartbeat, Arthur thought, in a trance, that if he remembered correctly, the boy had just turned twenty last month.
Arthur could barely stand before he felt someone roughly holding him up by the waist and back. A young face suddenly appeared in front of him, and Arthur Kirkland was shocked by the blue eyes that came so close together, seeing his own bewildered face in the other man's pupils.
The soldier's open and closed mouth seemed to be explaining something to himself, and he looked hoarse, but all Arthur Kirkland could do was keep shaking his head - the intense ringing in his ears filling the world around him prevented the Englishman from hearing anything.
The young soldier led Arthur to a rock just outside the Place de l'Arrangement, bent down and patted his face before turning back to the battlefield once more, where there were still more badly wounded casualties to be moved. Arthur stayed leaning against that rock watching his running back leap off and disappear into the battlefield. The Englishman looked back behind himself as if he had been awakened. Not far from him, body after body of wounded men were being brought up from below and arranged on the dirty, flat ground after the storm, reminiscent of worker ants carrying food, eerie and desperate.
Screams, groans, and the thick stench of putrefaction mingled with the sticky, unbreathable earthiness of the rain-soaked air, instantly filling Arthur Kirkland's nostrils like bursting smoke bombs, and irritating migraines that made him retch and want to vomit.
What the hell was that smell?
Remembering his duty with a jolt, he stumbled over and dropped to his knees to rip off the jacket of the nearest soldier who was still howling in agony. Arthur stiffened for a second at the sight of the blood-soaked severed section of his lower arm, then mechanically pulled out the roll of bandages from his carry-on bag and quickly and numbly pressed his hands against it to plug the stumpy wound that was still spewing blood outward. It was only then that Arthur realized that his hands were shaking uncontrollably from the fear of overload.
Everything was too desperate.
What the hell is that smell? Arthur Kirkland thought, sitting on the muddy ground, his turquoise pupils reflecting the gray sky over the battlefield.
The fierce battle had been fought from daylight until evening, and it was a day later, under cover of reinforcements, when the whole army finally retreated without incident to a new makeshift camp.
They had suffered heavy losses in the last battle. Seriously wounded soldiers who lost the ability to fight will be transferred to the rear of the field hospital to receive treatment one after another, and because Arthur himself was not seriously injured, so just as a military doctor with the car to go to the hospital to receive the replenishment of the quota of pharmaceuticals, sulfonamide powder and bandages and other spare parts, and then once again folded back to the front line.
Before leaving, Arthur Kirkland stopped a young nurse at the door of the field hospital and asked her for half a box of matches to light a cigarette. As Arthur took the box of alms matches, that nurse noticed his constantly shaking palms. She glanced at the slim, gloomy English soldier before her, as if to inquire. But Arthur avoided her glance and thrust his palms back into his pockets. He turned away eagerly and hastily and hopped into the jeep for the return trip.
The path that connected the center of the town to the countryside had been completely shattered by tank and artillery fire, and the Englishman hunkered down in a corner of the compartment and lit the last cigarette in his trouser-pocket cigarette case. His right hand, in which he held the cigarette, was still trembling with the swaying of the carriage, and Arthur looked gloomily at his palm, and with his left hand went to grasp the wrist of his right hand with extreme force.
Of course Arthur Kirkland knew something was wrong with him. He was a doctor himself, and knew that the problem lay less in trauma and more in his failing and sensitive mind.
There was almost a bruise under the skin between his right wrist that he had pinched out, and Arthur tried desperately to suppress it, to pretend that everything was normal, but his hand only trembled even more, as if it were an indictment of his rudeness and stupidity. Arthur clenched his fists, and he suddenly cursed, then hammered that injured hand violently into the steel fender of the truck behind him.
The pain was as severe as he wanted it to be, traveling down the nerve centers to his brain. Arthur slumped backward, closing his eyes to feel it, while realizing - once again - that it was all for naught.
The Allied ranks were given an extremely valuable respite at this encampment, and all the soldiers breathed a sigh of relief, intending to rest as much as they could during this time, trying to forget for a while the bitterness of war. When there was no fighting at the front Arthur did not have much serious business to do. He wasn't the type to mingle eagerly with bystanders, and more often than not, he tended to keep to himself.
One afternoon, Arthur was leaning against a dead tree with his legs bent, looking down at the lens of the camera hanging from his chest. Just then, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Arthur's reaction was half a beat slower, and he hesitated for a moment before slowly turning his head back.
A tall American soldier stood beside him looking down at him from top to bottom, his face hidden in a large white patch of light caused by his backlit stance. For a moment, Arthur Kirkland did not know how to react, and it was not until the man standing called his name a second time that he came to his senses.
The flaxen-haired Englishman narrowed his eyes at the sudden appearance of the soldier, taking a moment to make sure he was actually accosting him. The other man crouched down, the rifle behind him crashing to the ground. As he lost altitude, the specks of light disappeared, and Arthur finally got a good look at his face: the other man was a fairly young white male, and though his cheeks were stained with charred dust particles, his beautiful sky-blue eyes still made him look handsome and sharp, and alive.
The man, apparently noticing his own measuring gaze as well, smiled graciously at Arthur before speaking again, "I shouldn't have misspelled your name correctly. My name is Alfred, Alfred Jones, of the 101st."
"......" Arthur opened his mouth, and with those brilliant blue eyes, he finally recognized the young man in front of him as the American soldier who had rescued him from the trenches a few days ago. But even so, Arthur still didn't know how to respond to him for a moment.
But Alfred didn't seem to mind his hesitation, and instead raised his chin towards the camera in Arthur's hand and said in an exaggerated tone of voice, "Can you take a picture of me?"
Arthur was taken aback and looked at him uncertainly, "What did you say? I'm not a journalist."
Alfred touched his sideburns, "Wow, isn't that your camera?"
Arthur followed his line of sight to the Leica camera in his arms. He lifted the machine, rubbed his fingertips over the shutter button and shrugged, "It's a trophy, I picked it up off a body across the street when I was still in North Africa."
Alfred blinked as he swung around Arthur before sitting down next to the Englishman.
"I saw you reading the paper the other day," Alfred said, "and they were talking about that bridge, with a picture of it."
The blue-eyed young man's mention of the paper brought Arthur Kirkland back with a jolt. The photograph Alfred had been referring to, which he had picked up from a rock by the pallet while sorting through airdrop supplies two afternoons ago, was obviously an old newspaper, already covered with various dried brown stains. And the subject of the photograph to which the Americans had referred was a stone bridge that was not very long. In the picture, the bridge is flanked by trucks that are transferring wounded soldiers from positions in front of them, and by German prisoners of war being escorted by soldiers, while the main characters in the middle of the bridge are young Allied soldiers carrying their equipment and guns and striding forward in formation.
Arthur, who was not involved in the battle, could only understand from the accompanying text on the back of the picture that this was the only link between the towns of the fallen area and the Allied rear supply depot, ten miles away and deep inside the German encirclement. Lacking ammunition, supplies, and bad weather conditions, the Allied soldiers fought German infantry and bombers to the death along this bridge for two full weeks. Finally, with the support of the tanks that finally arrived, the bridge of life was successfully captured.
The young soldiers in the photo were undoubtedly ignorant of the fate they were about to meet. When Arthur saw that photo a compassion like no other hit him.
The recruits in the photograph had just landed from training camps in their homeland and, after a brief respite, would continue on to a new battlefield dozens of miles away in Europe. In a few hours, they will see for themselves, with their own eyes, what a truly brutal and grueling war is all about.
Arthur read all the reports in that newspaper, then carefully folded the morning dew-stained paper a few times and put it into his jacket pocket.
Arthur Kirkland hadn't realized that it was all in Alfred's eyes. But obviously more shocking to him than that was how on earth Alfred had found out that he had taken the newspaper.
Alfred, watching Arthur's long silence, simply sat down cross-legged in front of the Englishman. The silver dog tags hanging from his chest slipped out of his unbuttoned shirt collar as he did so, and Alfred took the steel helmet off his head and held it in his hand and tapped it, drawing Arthur to look at him again.
"I was on that bridge at the time," Alfred explained to him thus, "so I kept the paper too, because I liked the picture - yes, the one you picked up was mine! the one you picked up. It was put on that rock because I accidentally spilled coffee on it, and all I could do was spread it out there in the sun. But I was still lying in the hospital when those reporters arrived to take pictures of our company."
Alfred glanced at his mouth and made a deliberately wry face, "What can I say, I almost thought I was going to have to say goodbye to my left hand."
Arthur choked out a cough as he was caught off guard, and he looked over at Alfred's frowning face, surprisingly not a hint of embarrassment could be seen in his expression. The American looked up frankly to meet Arthur's surprised gaze and smiled at him again, "Can you understand? It just doesn't make sense that everyone is in that group photo at the end of the paper and I'm the only one not in it! Those reporters, didn't they even think to come over to my hospital room to take a separate picture of poor Alfred, the hero of the bridge? Or for me to send back to my brother on the other side of the battlefield to show off."
Arthur looked at him and couldn't help but curve the corners of his mouth slightly, "Apparently that was their fault."
Alfred turned to Arthur and narrowed his own eyes in satisfaction, "It seems we agree on this?"
The green-eyed Englishman spread his hands at him, "If you want to fire them, sure, I can grudgingly vote in favor."
The American froze for a second, then suddenly burst out laughing. He reached out of his own accord and slapped Arthur Kirkland on the shoulder, "Guess what? I got my ten bucks."
Arthur couldn't understand what he was saying and subconsciously asked back, "...... What ten bucks?"
Alfred touched the tip of his nose: "Never mind, it's just a small bet. My brothers - they didn't think you'd want to do that with us, something like ...... well, playing cards, dice, some jokes and such. You know what? You seemed a little too unapproachable earlier. So we made a bet that whoever got the Englishman to tell the first joke would win ten bucks."
After hearing him, Arthur Kirkland looked like he was a little offended, his green eyes scanning up and down the young man in front of him, "You made a bet with me? Really?"
Alfred whistled before grinning again, "Who knows?"
Arthur wasn't sure if this request from Alfred came from his intention or if it was just limited to a ...... bet. The American still insisted that he wanted Arthur to take a decent picture of him, and even after Arthur informed him that he didn't have any extra film in his camera, Alfred still had no intention of giving up. The American proceeded to ask him a few more dodgy questions, in full display of his curiosity. Before the Englishman could give an answer, Alfred was called away by his officer. Before leaving, the young man, whom he had met for the first time, continued to give himself glances, and Arthur saw him make a sign to himself, which he read as meaning "you owe me one".