'In Flanders fields the poppies blow…' muttered the Doctor.
'Pardon?' inquired the man in military dress, leaning forward curiously.
'I’m sorry,' replied the Doctor. 'Did I say something?'
'Oh, it’s just I heard you saying something, and I wondered what it was from. It sounded like it was from a poem.'
'You like poetry?'
The Canadian field physician smiled. 'I fancy myself a bit of one. Not very good, mind, but I write the odd one here and there. It makes for a nice break from all of the…well, I think you know.'
The Doctor nodded and smiled. 'I’d like to see them, if you don’t mind.'
'Oh no, really…they’re not all that good.'
'Please. One old soldier to…well…another. I insist.'
'Well…if you’re positive.' The Canadian pulled a weather beaten notebook from one trouser pocket and handed it over. 'Don’t say I failed to warn you, though.'
The Doctor carefully took it from his outstretched hand and opened the cover. His eyes opened slightly wider as he read the first few lines:
'The Journal of John Alexander McCrae, Canadian and Surgeon My Thoughts and Experiences of the Great War.'
The Doctor leafed through the notebook, running a finger over the ink, touching a spot where mud had stained a page, noting the occasional ripped out, missing page, pausing where he noticed another stain that could only be…
He closed the notebook, then his eyes.
'I did warn you, sir.'
The Doctor handed the notebook back over. 'No, Lieutenant Colonel McCrae. They’re wonderful. But I think you still have one more left in you. An important one…one for the ages. It’s just not ready to come out yet.'
McCrae looked at the Doctor incredulously.
'Whatever would make you think that? I’m aphysician, not a writer! These are just…doggerel!' He paused. 'And how do you know my rank? I’m not wearing full dress, I’ve not introduced myself, and you’ve only just met me!'
The Doctor shrugged. 'Call it a hunch.' He smiled a slightly cock eyed, sarcastic smile. 'I happen to have a bit of a knack for guessing.'
'A knack for guessing,' spat McCrae incredulously. 'Knack for guessing or not…you and I both know I might not even make it out of this.'
The Doctor shook his head knowingly. 'But you might.'
'How…?'
The Doctor put one finger to McCrae’s lips, shushing him. He took his cup, filled with watered down brandy, and held it toward McCrae, who cautiously did the same.
'Merry Christmas, Dr. McCrae. There will be dark days ahead…darker than what you’ve seen here already. Darker than you could possibly even imagine,' the Doctor continued silently in thought. 'Drink up…celebrate what we have right now. It may not be much, but what you said earlier is right…it’s something.'
McCrae paused before raising his cup to the Doctor’s. 'And Merry Christmas to you as well, Mr….'
He paused briefly.
'I…didn’t quite get your name, sir.'
The Doctor smiled and shook his head. 'It’s not important. Finish that drink, Lieutenant Colonel McCrae. And go celebrate with your boys. There’s no telling how long the holiday truce will last.'
McCrae stood up, took several steps, and turned back to face the Doctor, still sitting at the table. 'Are you all right, sir?'
The Doctor shrugged, his shoulders sagging in his coat.
'Will you be all right, sir?'
The Doctor smiled, but the smile never quite reached his eyes. 'Of course. It just takes time.' In his mind, he continued the thought: Sometimes it takes more time than you could possibly imagine.
As McCrae turned back to walk toward his regiment, the Doctor slipped back toward the TARDIS. Reaching its TARDIS doors, he touched them, deep in thought. He could hear the celebrating, the singing, and the laughter. He had no idea how long this relative peace would hold, but he knew it was not for him.
Not this time, at least.
'Pardon?' inquired the man in military dress, leaning forward curiously.
'I’m sorry,' replied the Doctor. 'Did I say something?'
'Oh, it’s just I heard you saying something, and I wondered what it was from. It sounded like it was from a poem.'
'You like poetry?'
The Canadian field physician smiled. 'I fancy myself a bit of one. Not very good, mind, but I write the odd one here and there. It makes for a nice break from all of the…well, I think you know.'
The Doctor nodded and smiled. 'I’d like to see them, if you don’t mind.'
'Oh no, really…they’re not all that good.'
'Please. One old soldier to…well…another. I insist.'
'Well…if you’re positive.' The Canadian pulled a weather beaten notebook from one trouser pocket and handed it over. 'Don’t say I failed to warn you, though.'
The Doctor carefully took it from his outstretched hand and opened the cover. His eyes opened slightly wider as he read the first few lines:
'The Journal of John Alexander McCrae, Canadian and Surgeon My Thoughts and Experiences of the Great War.'
The Doctor leafed through the notebook, running a finger over the ink, touching a spot where mud had stained a page, noting the occasional ripped out, missing page, pausing where he noticed another stain that could only be…
He closed the notebook, then his eyes.
'I did warn you, sir.'
The Doctor handed the notebook back over. 'No, Lieutenant Colonel McCrae. They’re wonderful. But I think you still have one more left in you. An important one…one for the ages. It’s just not ready to come out yet.'
McCrae looked at the Doctor incredulously.
'Whatever would make you think that? I’m aphysician, not a writer! These are just…doggerel!' He paused. 'And how do you know my rank? I’m not wearing full dress, I’ve not introduced myself, and you’ve only just met me!'
The Doctor shrugged. 'Call it a hunch.' He smiled a slightly cock eyed, sarcastic smile. 'I happen to have a bit of a knack for guessing.'
'A knack for guessing,' spat McCrae incredulously. 'Knack for guessing or not…you and I both know I might not even make it out of this.'
The Doctor shook his head knowingly. 'But you might.'
'How…?'
The Doctor put one finger to McCrae’s lips, shushing him. He took his cup, filled with watered down brandy, and held it toward McCrae, who cautiously did the same.
'Merry Christmas, Dr. McCrae. There will be dark days ahead…darker than what you’ve seen here already. Darker than you could possibly even imagine,' the Doctor continued silently in thought. 'Drink up…celebrate what we have right now. It may not be much, but what you said earlier is right…it’s something.'
McCrae paused before raising his cup to the Doctor’s. 'And Merry Christmas to you as well, Mr….'
He paused briefly.
'I…didn’t quite get your name, sir.'
The Doctor smiled and shook his head. 'It’s not important. Finish that drink, Lieutenant Colonel McCrae. And go celebrate with your boys. There’s no telling how long the holiday truce will last.'
McCrae stood up, took several steps, and turned back to face the Doctor, still sitting at the table. 'Are you all right, sir?'
The Doctor shrugged, his shoulders sagging in his coat.
'Will you be all right, sir?'
The Doctor smiled, but the smile never quite reached his eyes. 'Of course. It just takes time.' In his mind, he continued the thought: Sometimes it takes more time than you could possibly imagine.
As McCrae turned back to walk toward his regiment, the Doctor slipped back toward the TARDIS. Reaching its TARDIS doors, he touched them, deep in thought. He could hear the celebrating, the singing, and the laughter. He had no idea how long this relative peace would hold, but he knew it was not for him.
Not this time, at least.
He slowly walked in, the doors closed automatically behind him, and
he slowly walked over to the chair he had placed next to his gramophone.
It was old fashioned to be sure, but he had once found some beauty in
the graceful curves of the horn…and oh, how it sounded. He sat there,
deep in thought, before carefully selecting a disc of black vinyl from
the rack under the device. Placing it on the spindle with the care of a
surgeon…of a Doctor…he gently lowered the needle to the record’s
surface. A quiet crackle was soon quieted by the sound of violins in B
flat…several measures…before the lower strings came in. He admitted to
himself that he personally preferred the choral version, but who was he
to argue with Samuel Barber when he said Arturo Toscanini’s conducting
of his Adagio in 1939 was the genuine article?
He closed his eyes, losing himself in the emotion wrought large in the
music. For the first time in a long time…since long before he felt
forced to use The Moment…the Doctor felt something other than regret,
even as the tears fell unbidden from his eyes.
He felt hope.
'Sir? Lieutenant Colonel McCrae?'
He looked up into the face of one of his fellow surgeons. 'Yes, what is it?' He already knew the answer, but still awaited the report.
The surgeon looked down at his superior, lines in his face prematurely ageing him. 'More wounded just in from the front, sir. You’re needed, Sir…desperately.'
McCrae closed his notebook, sighed, and offered the other surgeon’s hand to assist him up.
Dark days did in fact follow on from that unofficial truce just a few months previous. Just over three weeks into April, the Germans hauled over 5700 90-pound canisters of chlorine gas by hand to the front on the fields of Ypres and opened them, hoping the winds would carry the toxic gas across the line to the French side of the line. Nearly 6000 French troops died within 10 minutes of asphyxiation or lung damage. The toll would rise in the days ahead…6000 Canadians alone died or were wounded trying to hold the gap until the 3rd of May. McCrae knew there was still so little he could do…but he could do something. The rest of the poem would have to wait until later…there were men who still needed care. Who still needed his care.
Yes, the poem would have to wait.
But McCrae knew how this poem would end.
written by
He felt hope.
~~~
MAY 3, 1915
Lieutenant
Colonel John Alexander McCrae stood, tears in his eyes, as the final
eulogies for his friend Lieutenant Alexis Helmer were read. More than a
friend, he had been McCrae’s student before the Great War, and here he
was, just another in an endless line of young men consigned to the earth
as the machine of war continued its seemingly endless grind across
Europe. He was only 22, this Alexis Helmer, with the rest of his life
ahead of him. Like so many others his age and younger, destiny had cut
his thread far too soon.
McCrae sat on a bench nearby, his head in his hands. Seemingly from
nowhere, a few barely remembered words came to him. Scrambling for his
notebook as he looked about the field of crosses before him, he roughly
scribbled out a few lines:
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below
'Sir? Lieutenant Colonel McCrae?'
He looked up into the face of one of his fellow surgeons. 'Yes, what is it?' He already knew the answer, but still awaited the report.
The surgeon looked down at his superior, lines in his face prematurely ageing him. 'More wounded just in from the front, sir. You’re needed, Sir…desperately.'
McCrae closed his notebook, sighed, and offered the other surgeon’s hand to assist him up.
Dark days did in fact follow on from that unofficial truce just a few months previous. Just over three weeks into April, the Germans hauled over 5700 90-pound canisters of chlorine gas by hand to the front on the fields of Ypres and opened them, hoping the winds would carry the toxic gas across the line to the French side of the line. Nearly 6000 French troops died within 10 minutes of asphyxiation or lung damage. The toll would rise in the days ahead…6000 Canadians alone died or were wounded trying to hold the gap until the 3rd of May. McCrae knew there was still so little he could do…but he could do something. The rest of the poem would have to wait until later…there were men who still needed care. Who still needed his care.
Yes, the poem would have to wait.
But McCrae knew how this poem would end.
written by