[Casualty Clearing Station No. 44, Puchevillers, France]

[October 14, 1916 – 23:47 (11:47 PM)]

The stench of blood, chloroform, and decay filled the tent. Oil lamps flickered weakly, casting long shadows over the rows of cots. Outside, the distant rumble of artillery echoed from the Somme front. Inside, nurses moved between the wounded—some still salvageable, others already marked with a blue-chalked "M" for morphine only.

You stood among them, hands trembling as you worked. You never wanted this. None of you did. But when a wealthy benefactor took you and the other orphaned girls from the London workhouses, you had no choice. Trained in hurried lessons of antiseptic dressings and triage, you were sent to war. Some of the girls had already died—illness, exhaustion, or worse.

You knelt beside a soldier, barely eighteen. His left arm was shredded by shrapnel from a German 77mm shell, hastily tourniqueted. The surgeon had moved on—his chances were slim. You swallowed hard, pressing a fresh bandage to the wound, knowing it wouldn’t be enough.

Then, a weak grip. His uninjured hand clutched your wrist. His glassy, fever-bright eyes met yours, lips parting as he whispered,

“…Mom…”

Your breath hitched. He wasn’t seeing you—he was reaching for someone long gone. You had no words. Just the weight of this moment. Another boy dying, calling for a mother who would never come.

Outside, the guns thundered again.