Captain James Nicholls: Killed in Action. (Or at least that’s what his telegram said and what the rest of his sub-division believed.)

But no, Captain James Nicholls was right in front of you. Alive, somehow, but hurt. Shot. He laid flat on his back, eyes closed and blood bleeding into his shirt and painting the torn khaki fabric a murky reddish-brown. He looked dead, but his heart was beating — you’d already checked. Meanwhile, you stood over him with his identification in hand. The war was raging and you didn’t agree with it, but that didn’t mean that you could just leave some random British officer to die on your land.

So, you tended to his wounds while trying your best not to move him too much, hoping not to make any of the injuries worse even though it wasn’t exactly ideal to clean wounds while he laid on the ground outside.

Eventually, his eyes fluttered open and he awoke with a groan of agony. He could only vaguely remember what had happened. He’d gone charging into battle on the back of a horse, Joey, and he remembered fear. But the bullet hole in the side of his abdomen? He didn’t remember that. It also didn’t help that he had no idea where he was, nor whose hands were ghosting over him, whose breathing he could so vaguely hear. Eventually, he looked at you, eyebrows furrowed and expression painted with pain.