Private Albert Nicholls was sitting
on his bed, hesitantly glancing at the other inhabitants of the hospital. They turned away, whispered with their friends and muttered: “Coward!” No one believed that he accidentally injured his hand — even an senior nurse.
Private went out into the air. He recalled that the hospital was located not far from the sea and, although he knew that it was forbidden, he went to the sound of the waves. At the precipice, he stopped and, thinking, glanced at the horizon — where the sky and the water united in one distant line. Somewhere in England ...
He signed up for the front after his girlfriend once again accused him of cowardice. Already half a year the world fought, and Nicholls did not hurry to the army. The glances of the neighbors could still be endured, but not the reproaches of his beloved Joan. And he volunteered, and on the last day Joan cried and asked him to stay. But he did not want to pass for a coward.
Overcoming the fear of death, he, along with the regiment, moved forward, killed, hid in the trenches. The heart made it difficult to aim, disturbing thoughts prevented concentration. He was exhausted. The last straw was a German killed by him, who died only inches from his face. And Albert decided to end this.
The army does not need people with disabilities. He does not need an army. Reassured that no one was following him, Nicholls blew up the detonator so that the explosion touched his hand.
They turned away from him, cursed him and called him a coward, but no one had any idea how hard it was to blow up the detonator, knowing that in a moment you would be left without a hand — well, if only without it, you would be disabled and crippled. At some point, he wanted to quit, but the memories of the battles gave him determination. He simply could not stand another day at the front, awaiting death.
He was quickly sentenced — shot. Neither the army nor the country do not need cowards. He does not need anyone. And fear, which lurked somewhere deep, once again broke free. Everything was in vain, he did not return home, did not see Joan ...
It seemed to Nicolls that they wanted to get rid of him as soon as possible. Sitting in a cold barn with a corporal, he did not hold back his tears and poured out all his thoughts to a doctor who skillfully hid emotions and hid his eyes in playing cards. Gradually, the private resigned himself to his fate, a strange but soothing numbness ensued. However, when the corporal, putting his hand on his shoulder, said: “It’s time to go,” despair overwhelmed Nicholls. He suddenly clearly realized that in an hour he would be dead.
He was taken out at night — so that he saw as few eyes as possible. Uniform, cap ... A coward soldier must die like a soldier. It was like a mockery. What is the point of crippling yourself if you still end up dead? It was possible to die on the battlefield — it would not be shame. And Joan could say: “Albert died like a hero.” But he is a coward, and he will die like a coward.
It seemed that only the hand of the corporal, still lying on his shoulder, makes him move. Looking in front of him, Nicholls did not even notice how the elder sister appeared.
Night, but people still a lot. When it came to Albert that the people at the car — those who would take him to the shooting, he fell off, rushed to the side, but the corporal restrained him and calmly sent forward. The Nicholls understood that tears and the incessant “No!” Were ruining the last remnants of his dignity, that he finally fell in the eyes of hospital dwellers, but made him panic to repeat: “No!” — and try to escape again.
Only when the older sister carefully put a handkerchief into his surviving hand, Nicholls fell silent. Still trembling, he looked first at a piece of fabric with embroidered flowers, then at a woman.
“Now you know what I think of you, Nicholls.”
She believed him. She sympathized with him, did not call him a coward, did not turn away and did not hide her eyes. She embroidered a handkerchief so that in his last moments he knew that at least one person in the world did not consider him a coward.
Tears continued to flow down his cheeks, but Nicholls had already gone forward, clutching a handkerchief in his hand, as if in him was his salvation.
“Polite, please,” the sister asked the soldier when he got into the truck.
He looked round. The corporal stood, looking indifferently at the car, and the elder sister was smiling. Nodding, he sat down on the bench and looked at the handkerchief given by a woman who did not consider him a coward. He was brave twice in his life — when he blew up the detonator and when he got out of the truck, which soldiers with rifles were already waiting for.
COWARD
With adjectives
Private Albert Nicholls was sitting on his bed, hesitantly glancing at the other inhabitants of the hospital. They turned away, whispered with their friends and muttered: “Coward!” No one believed that he accidentally injured his hand — even an incredibly affectionate, but laconic, senior nurse.
Private went out into the fresh air. He recalled that the hospital was located not far from the sea and, although he knew that it was forbidden, he went to the sound of the waves. At the precipice, he stopped and, thinking, glanced at the horizon — where the sky and the water united in one distant line. Somewhere in England ...
He signed up for the front after his girlfriend once again accused him of cowardice. Already half a year the world fought, and Nicholls did not hurry to the army. The sidelong glances of the neighbors could still be endured, but not the reproaches of his beloved Joan. And he volunteered, and on the last day Joan cried and asked him to stay. But he did not want to pass for a coward.
Overcoming the fear of death, he, along with the regiment, moved forward, killed, hid in the trenches. The pounding heart made it difficult to aim, disturbing thoughts prevented concentration. He was exhausted. The last straw was a German killed by him, who died only inches from his face. And Albert decided to end this.
The army does not need people with disabilities. He does not need an army. Reassured that no one was following him, Nicholls blew up the detonator so that the explosion touched his hand.
They turned away from him, cursed him and called him a coward, but no one had any idea how hard it was to blow up the damn detonator, knowing that in a moment you would be left without a hand — well, if only without it, you would be disabled and crippled. At some point, he wanted to quit, but the memories of the battles gave him determination. He simply could not stand another day at the front, awaiting death.
He was quickly sentenced — shot. Neither the army nor the country do not need cowards. He does not need anyone. And fear, which lurked somewhere deep, once again broke free. Everything was in vain, he did not return home, did not see Joan ...
It seemed to Nicolls that they wanted to get rid of him as soon as possible. Sitting in a cold barn with a corporal, he did not hold back his tears and poured out all his thoughts to a young doctor who skillfully hid true emotions and hid his eyes in playing cards. Gradually, the private resigned himself to his fate, a strange but soothing numbness ensued. However, when the corporal, putting his hand on his shoulder, said: “It’s time to go,” despair overwhelmed Nicholls with incredible force. He suddenly clearly realized that in an hour he would be dead.
He was taken out at night — so that he saw as few eyes as possible. Uniform, cap ... A coward soldier must die like a soldier. It was like a mockery. What is the point of crippling yourself if you still end up dead? It was possible to die on the battlefield — it would not be so shameful. And Joan could say: “Albert died like a hero.” But he is a coward, and he will die like a coward.
It seemed that only the hand of the corporal, still lying on his shoulder, makes him move. Looking in front of him, Nicholls did not even notice how the elder sister appeared.
Night, but people still a lot. When it came to Albert that the people at the car — those who would take him to the shooting, he fell off, rushed to the side, but the corporal restrained him and calmly sent forward. The Nicholls understood that tears and the incessant “No!” Were ruining the last remnants of his dignity, that he finally fell in the eyes of hospital dwellers, but made him panic to repeat: “No!” — and try to escape again.
Only when the older sister carefully put a handkerchief into his surviving hand, Nicholls fell silent. Still trembling, he looked first at a piece of fabric with embroidered flowers, then at a woman.
“Now you know what I think of you, Nicholls.”
She believed him. She sympathized with him, did not call him a coward, did not turn away and did not hide her eyes. She embroidered a handkerchief so that in his last moments he knew that at least one person in the world did not consider him a coward.
Tears continued to flow down his cheeks, but Nicholls had already gone forward, clutching a soft handkerchief in his hand, as if in him was his salvation.
“Polite, please,” the sister asked the soldier when he got into the truck.
He looked round. The corporal stood, looking indifferently at the car, and the elder sister was smiling. Nodding, he sat down on the bench and looked at the handkerchief given by a woman who did not consider him a coward. He was the bravest man in the world twice in his life — when he blew up the detonator and when he got out of the truck, which soldiers with rifles were already waiting for.
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