As you slowed to land, the plane started to sway hard, and your attempts to keep it straight with the rudder was draining. You leaned forward on the stick perhaps a bit too hard, the jolt as the wheels hit the grass crashing through you, and the next thing you remember you were propped up, hanging in your chair by the line around your waist. Out the windscreen was just grass: you'd gone nose-in, burying the prop in the dirt. At least you hadn't flipped over.
"
You alright? Can you move?" somebody called, and you could hear voices, footsteps, hands against the canvas. You glanced over to see a young French mechanic looking up at you, concern etched on his features.
"I got shot..." you muttered, but nobody responded. You were too quiet. "
I am shot, I don't know if I can stand!"
"
Alright! Hang on. We are going to right the plane and get you out. You're going to be alright!" the voice replied, and the whole world swung around as they pulled the tail down.
"
Where are you hit, boy?" somebody asked.
"
My leg, it hit my leg. Ankle, on my, um..." Why couldn't you remember the French for
right, it was such a basic word but it was evading you.
Droite. "
Right, right ankle!"
Hands gripped you as you unclipped your safety belt and pulled you over and out of the cockpit, laying you down on the grass. A mechanic dropped to your leg and starting pulling off your boots, but another pulled him roughly away by his collar.
"
Leave it for the doctor, idiot, his puttees will slow the bleeding. Just wrap a bandage around it," he instructed, and a white bandage was wrapped around your leg. Hands wrapped around your knees and shoulders to lift you up a moment, then you were being carried on a stretcher toward one of the farmhouses. As you crossed the field, you saw one of the other Nieuports on the side of the field, canvas torn to tatters, an enormous dark red stain down the side, and you briefly wondered how the pilot had managed to land it.
You were dropped on a table inside one of the rooms, and through the thin wall beside you, you could hear somebody sobbing and screaming, surrounded by dispassionate voices. The one crewman left with you winced visibly and stepped out, apparently willing to leave you alone if it meant getting away from the sound. There was a short, muffled conversation, and the door to your room opened again to reveal a new figure. A woman in a white dress, hat, and apron, with a red cross stitched into the front and on the arm. You thought for a second she might be an angel, and your mind cast back to that stupid conversation with Captain Fournier. At least you were going to be found out by another woman. That was probably safer.
She set down a bucket and scrubbed at her hands a moment, then looked over you.
"
Stay calm. Doctor Brassard is handling another patient, but this doesn't look too bad... wait, are you one of our Americans?"
"
I speak... I speak French," you explained. She nodded, pulling aside the hasty bandage and looking at your leg, then drawing out a pair of scissors.
"
This doesn't look too bad, you might be lucky. Don't worry, they're for your trousers," she assured you, then started cutting up the leg of your pants. That was, in fact, what you were afraid of. She pressed her hand against the outside of your ankle and asked if it hurt (you couldn't tell, which she told you meant your bones were likely not broken) the carefully pulled away the fabric, keeping pressure on your leg.
"
I won't say you are lucky, nobody who gets shot is lucky, but this could have been much worse. It has not hit bone or tendon, just gone through the muscle. You will likely recover well," she said, a constant, even patter as she pulled the fabric away. "
I'm going to give you a painkiller, morphine, alright?"
You were pretty sure nurses weren't supposed to do that, but from the sound of things in the other room, they were letting standards slip a bit. The scissors ran all the way up the side of your trousers, and you put a hand in the way to stop her almost by instinct. With a look of exasperation, she pushed your hand away.
"
I'm a nurse, I've seen it all before. You can trust me," she said, sounding simultaneously stern and reassuring. "
What's your name?"
"
Mar... Martin," you stammered.
"
Martin, you can trust me. Do you trust me?"
You were too weak for it to matter either way. You moved your hand away, leaned your head back, and tried to put it all out of mind. Tried to pretend this wasn't happening, that you'd never been so stupid and selfish. She said nothing, didn't seem to react in any way. There was just a sharp pinch against your upper thigh, and almost immediately the pain started to drift away. The nurse moved down to your leg, still keeping up a reassuring patter, none of the words reaching your conscious brain.
"I'm sorry..." you mumbled pointlessly. You can't remember what she replied.
---
You remembered snatches of the day, a doctor coming to look at your leg, being moved, but at no point did anyone say anything to you. When you came to, the sky outside the window of whatever room you'd been moved to was already growing dark, and you called for some water from one of the men sitting nearby. He left, and returned a moment later with a woman in tow. The nurse from before.
"
Thank you, Corporal, can you give us a moment's privacy?" she asked the man, "
Medical information." The soldier smiled and left, and she pulled a chair over and sat beside you.
"
What's going on?" you asked, still worried about voicing any specifics for some absurd reason.
"
Nobody knows," she responded seriously, taking your hand. "
You are very, very lucky, but nobody knows."
"
The doctor..?"
"
Has had a long day. I'll be changing your bandages, the only thing we have to worry about is sutures in a few hours, so..." She paused, drawing something out of a bag. A pair of drawers. "
I stole this off the wash line. Um. I don't know, stick a sock in it. He won't look too closely."
You couldn't help but laugh nervously, and she clapped you on the side of the head for it.
"
This isn't funny! You're a damned idiot, what possessed you? This isn't even your war!"
"
I've lost two cousins..." you explained, and she leaned back in her chair as though the weight of it all were pressing her into it.
"
I've lost a brother. So's half the fucking country," she said bitterly, the bedside demeanour gone, but she dropped the issue. "
This isn't some grand frontier adventure, this isn't you pretending to be a cowboy. You understand?"
You didn't know how to reply to that, so you just stayed still. She threw her hands up in exasperation and looked away, clearly fed up with you.
"
You'll likely recover fine within the month. What are you going to do?"
"
... go back into the air," you said, as if there could be any other possibility. "
If there's still a war."
She nodded, sighing heavily.
"I
hope there isn't, but if so... you come to me for everything. I'll keep it all quiet. You need to be careful," she said. "
And for the love of God, don't fuck any of them."
"
I wasn't going to," you assured her.
---
When does Maria get cleared for action again?
[ ] The shallow wound leads to a quick recovery. She is in the air for August 1st, the tail end of the German offensives.
[ ] A normal recovery time sees her in the air for August 12th. Even that short time has been enough for air warfare to change.
[ ] A complication and infection delays recovery until September 1st. New machines dominate the skies.
