What Charlotte Said; W. Schofield

3.

A helmet was an unlikely murder weapon, but effective nonetheless.

"Here it is," Madeline handed her a doughboy helmet that had an American eagle embellished on the front.

Charlotte grazed her hands along the rim of the steel basin, hesitating over a prominent dent in the middle.

"He killed him with this?" she asked, setting it down on the paraphernalia table.

"That's the story."

Rain pattered in a sparse, yet rhythmic pattern on the canvas roof. It had only let up in small amounts since yesterday's storm.

"What'd they do with him?"

"Discharged, I suppose," Madeline furrowed her brow then waved it off.

Charlotte eyed the helmet on the table for a moment, she rose her fingers to her lips in a curled fashion then spoke again, "Why did he do it?"

"Apparently, he caught the other man deserting," Madeline's charcoal pencil scraped along some parchment. She was noting which boys had taken the medication for trench fever and which ones skipped. Charlotte stayed silent. Not uncommon to have deserters the day before a battle. Some men just couldn't take it as well as others.

"Nevermind that, Lottie," Madeline looked up from her paper and smiled lightly.

"I wasn't minding it in the first place," she murmured, leaning against the table. Her stomach groaned and growled; it had been nearly two days since she last ate. Same for everyone else, practically starving to death. "Need me to deliver anything to the boys?" She changed the subject. "food?" she looked at madeline through her brow-line.

"Actually, could you deliver some of these immunities to the mess tents?" Madeline held her clipboard up to show a long list of names.

"Yea."

"only to the ones who aren't marked." her freckled finger drew quick lines over the charcoal.

"Right,"

When Charlotte heaved herself off the table, she could hear Madeline prodding at her from behind. Back out into the clearing, the weather was haunting, teasing a taste of rain with dark drapes of clouds and dancing winds that bit and nipped at cheeks with haste. Boys were smoking fags and sleeping. It was still early morning, only about 5:00 by the light grey-blue hue of the sky.

"Morning," grunts and mumbles followed.

It was a long walk to the men's mess tent. Take a right at the charts tent, walk like your going to the trenches then take a left. Few of the nurses had been there, mostly it was for handing out laundry and antibiotics. Pass the charts tent, chatter and grumbles rose, strategizing. Pass the machinery and weaponry. Men checking out new rifles, more ammo, new pouches. Ahead is the entrance to the trench, slowly going deeper. Take a left; now at the tables, gambling, smoking and stories. The mess tent, loud and in constant toil, the very sheets of its walls seemed to sway.

She wanted nothing more than to be out of the rain, it made the white of her apron into grey and washed out her appearance in every way possible.

When approaching the flap, Charlotte hesitated, as if the flap would burn her if her skin made contact with it. Finally she pushed the flap open to see many men, sitting on beds, reading letters, talking to one another and combing their hair.

"Pardon me -- I just need," her eyes darted to the paper in her hands, "Gibson, Beaufort and knox." Charlotte asked the nearest soldier. He looked at her with a gruff expression and a raised eyebrow then he pointed three men out. The first was just across from him.