by James Thornton

Created on: July 10, 2009

Thomas lay dying on the wooden, blood stained slab. He was on his back and stared up past the nurse hovering over him to fix his gaze on the black splotches on the tent's canvas ceiling. The pain was gone now and he was getting sleepy. Staring at the splotches kept him awake. He knew when he drifted off into slumber he wouldn't wake up again. He prayed silently to Jesus for forgiveness; clutching the small silver crucifix with his right hand near his heart. Each beat felt weaker than the one before. His left hand was over his belly where he had been hit. The doctor had given him a bandage and had told him to press on it. His bleeding had slowed from a gush to an ooze. Thomas knew was bled out. His arms and legs were numb. He couldn't feel them anymore. Staring at the splotches had also helped him ignore the moans and screams around him. A man on the table next to him had had his lower left leg sawed off. He still screamed about excruciating pain in a leg he no longer had.

"What's your name," he asked weakly as he shifted his gaze from the splotches to the nurse's face. She smiled down at him, but wore it like a mask in an attempt to hide her sorrow and pity.

"Sarah," she replied in a near whisper, "my name is Sarah."

Thomas summoned his remaining strength and held the cross up. "Can you send this to my wife? Her name is Abigail. Abigail Stewart-in Summit County, Ohio."

"Yes. Yes I will. I promise." She took Thomas' hand and felt his grip on the cross go limp. He smiled his thanks and closed his eyes. She held his hands for a few seconds after she knew he was gone. She momentarily ignored the surgeon's pleas for help as she prayed that his soul was now in heaven. She untied the cross and tucked it inside her bloodstained leather apron. She resolved to mail it to the soldier's wife as soon as possible...

George Jenkins rubbed his thumb over the small shiny cross and prayed silently for protection. The whistle would blow any moment now and they would be going over the top. The trench was filled with thousands of men and stretched in both directions for tens of miles. His ears were ringing from the artillery; incoming and outgoing. Dirt occasionally showered him when an incoming shell detonated yards away. Small pebbles made clinking noises on his helmet. He gripped his rifle tightly with his other hand around the stock and feared he might snap it in two. The cross reassured him.

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