Chapter Text
The thick fog hung over the muddy trenches of Flanders. The cold was slowly seeping into everything around him. All the soldiers had already gone to their hiding places and were probably getting ready for bed, with the trembling feeling that tonight would not be their last. How would he bring tomorrow? Would they live to lie down in uncomfortable sleeping bags tomorrow?
It was a little different for Thomas… He came from home. He just had tea with Captain Crawley in a nearby shelter. How nice that was. It was as if he had almost escaped the swamp of eternal mud in which he had sunk for the past two years. He didn't think he would ever get away with it. It was so nice, it made him feel really alive. It was as if he had returned to a past life that had nothing to do with it. He was just a servant then, but from the current point of view it seems as if he were a high-ranking member of society. He wanted so badly to get out of this muddy hell that produced only sorrow, suffering, blood and death. He had seen as many deaths in the last two years as he would probably never have seen in his entire life in a normal situation. But that was not the problem.He had not only seen it, but participated in it. Ever since he had been sent to the trenches, how many young boys had left their families to be here, they had taken their last breath in his hands, how much of their blood was still soaked in his uniform. To how many of them he had to explain that they were lucky to return to their loved ones, while covering up the fact that they would be disabled for the rest of their lives because they had lost a limb.
He had repeated this lie so many times that he had already believed it. But it couldn't happen to him. Medical teams were rarely the enemy's target. Even in this monstrous experience called "war," there had to be at least a little humanity and shelling out of people who were helping others. Is it? Just the day before, his comrade was shot between the eyes while they were carrying a wounded man to the hospital. After all, he was the only survivor of that experience. Was that his punishment? Let everyone around him die, and let him sit and watch and survive. No. He couldn't spend more time here. He had to get out. The meeting with Captain Crowley should have paid off, but it didn't. He would not help him.Thomas was alone again, as he had been all his life. He had to go home… Although he really didn't have a place to call home, even England itself was a solution at this point.
Thomas could not sleep tonight. After going to bed, a light nap took him to Downton. The last place that was his roof. It was another luxurious world, lit by thousands of reflections of huge chandeliers, old thick carpets on the floor, plants that enlivened the rooms, furniture that silently witnessed the many dinners and parties of nobles. He was not like that. He was just a servant - the first footman. It was not a high position, but it was achieved with great difficulty.He saw himself in the elegant livery that showed his low rank. This garment was so refined, luxurious, expensive. He was waiting to take the prepared food from Mrs. Patmore and take it upstairs. Taking the stairs, he walked past all the servants' quarters, up the beautiful but cold stairs, through the green door, to the landing where Mr. Carson was waiting to strike the gong. Instead of the expected copper sound, he heard the distant whistling of bullets. The dream was gone… He was on the straw mat again, the gas lamp illuminated the walls of earth… he was again where only death lived.
Thomas looked at his uniform soaked in blood and mud. This could not go on any longer. He couldn't burn in this hell anymore. Why did death not come for him, but always miss him? In his own mind, he would not wait for the end of the war… In fact, there was an easier solution to why he had to wait for it. If he also got injured to save him in any way from here… but how to do it? If it was too obvious, they would send him to a military court and then to prison, that was not a decision. He dug the lighter out of his pocket to think as the fire of his cigarette counted down his time.
That was his decision. He naively raised the lighter over the trench. What could have happened… and even he dont achieved anything, at least he have tried… With a low whistle the answer came by air. Thousands of knives pierced the flesh. He felt the warmth of blood running down his arm. How much it hurt, oh, how much it hurt… He quickly pressed it in his other hand to reduce the pain, but that didn't help, he could feel his legs slowly tingling. He could feel himself breaking his teeth from squeezing so he wouldn't feel the pain… but it didn't go away… there wasn't a part of his body that wasn't trying to counteract… that was the end… that would be the last…He felt the mud smearing from the trench wall on his woolen uniform again. Would that be the last thing he would feel? He could no longer hear the whistling of the night shootout. He could not hear the screams of the archers in the distance. He was losing consciousness… he shouldn't have lost consciousness… he shouldn't have lost consciousness… that would have been the end… he shouldn't have fallen asleep…. How many times had he repeated this. How many dying boys had he told… now it was his turn…
"Don't fall asleep, boy!" Stay awake! We will help! ”Said a voice in the distance. Someone was pressing his hand… what was going on . Someone was leaning over his face .. who was he? ...
He closed his eyes for a moment. The next time he opened them, he was called by someone not to lose consciousness, but he didn't know who. He could focus now. Only the starry sky was above him. The fog had spread, the clouds had receded. Above him were only the stars. What a nice last sight. The starry sky, strewn with small white glittering dots, gathered so many dreams of hope, love, affection and sorrow… they were all he had… Everyone he loved was waiting for him there…