I do not own Gundam Wing. This work of fiction is based upon the poem “In Flanders Fields” by John McCrae. A full version of the poem will be given at the end of the fiction.

“The day I buried my nameless loved one…In Flanders Fields”

By Kat Dickerson

It was a cool day in Flanders, Belgium, as a young nun dressed in a plain brown habit and black veil made her way through the field of poppies. The field was littered with them… these poppies, so beautiful and genuine and nature, yet as red as the blood of the many men who had died here, in the poppy covered field known as “Flanders Field.” It had been during the First World War, or “the Great War,” as many called it that the massacre upon Flanders had taken place, with the Germans, Austrians, English, French and Americans all fighting one another.

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow…

The wind blew, rustling the thick bed of poppies as the young woman made her way, to the very center of the field. She had eyes as brown as the thick brown earth, a brown so dark it was almost black. The girl pulled off the thick black veil, revealing a tight bun of perfectly tucked and folded brown hair. Down came the tight bun as she tugged on the tiny pins, until she had removed them all from her hair. Into the dress pockets they went, into the secret holding place of the simple brown habit she wore. The rough material irritated her, itched her even, but it was what she was required to wear. It was actually a rather ugly looking kind of outfit, with its straight hems and long boxlike sleeves. It made her look like a school marm, especially with her wire-rimmed eyeglasses and no-nonsense hair fashion.

She tossed a lock of her long brown hair out of her face, growing irritated as the playful wind tossed it into her face once again. It was because of this reason that she pulled those damned frustrating flyaway strands back into the bun and relished hiding them underneath the heavy veil, for the sensation of her freshly washed hair falling upon her teeth and moist lips annoyed her greatly.

A crow flew overhead, squawking loudly, as if it had some wonderful secret that the brown-haired girl did not know. She looked upward at the crow, squinting as the sun flashed through her lenses, and frowning. Damned Filthy beast. Always flying about, sticking its ugly twisted beak into the affairs of others. Meddlesome beings, those crows. If she had a rock in her hand, she would have thrown it at that damn crow, but she did not, so the crow would live one day more.

The girl stood, with her arms outstretched and brown eyes clamped shut. She then turned several times in a complete circle, counting to ten in a heavy German accented tongue. When she had reached to ten, the girl stopped, and looking directly in front of her, made her way in that direction, pushing past the rows of crosses; pale, white wooden crosses that lined Flanders Field. The year was 1920.

Between the crosses, row on row…

The year was 1920, but the girl was remembering back years ago, to the year 1915. The war had been upon them then, and she, along with the rest of her native countrymen, had been caught up in the middle of it. She wondered, how many of her fellow men were buried here, in Flanders Field, with only a painted wooden cross to mark their final resting place. How utterly disappointing…to spend one’s life fighting, defending the honor of country and self…only to be buried in a red-poppy coated field with a nameless marker.

How depressing, indeed.

That mark our place; and in the sky…The larks, still bravely singing, fly…

She could still hear them…the screams and cries of her fellow men as they died, either by an enemy’s bullet or from being blown apart by a shell. She had only been nineteen then, a soldier with the German army. From an early age, she had been taught, almost instructed, to love her homeland. And love it she did, declaring that she would do anything, even die, for her beloved homeland.

Of course, when she had left home to join the army, that ideal of hers was still imprinted upon her mind. She impressed her superiors, who quickly began to favor her quick mind and sharp intellect. Before too long, she had become a Lieutenant; quite an impressive feat for someone of such a young age.

The girl had never dreamed that she would actually be involved in a war. But, by the year of 1915, the cruel beast called war had beckoned to a willing Germany, coaxing it to take up its arms and fight. And so, Germany, proud with the richness of its dutiful soldiers, sent its sons and daughters out, as lambs to the slaughter, the brown haired girl being one of them.

At first, she had hated it…the thought of having to take another human’s life with her own hands. Having been raised by a staunch Catholic family, the girl knew…to take the life of another human being was a mortal sin. An imprint, a blemish on a pure soul…that’s what a mortal sin was, and she didn’t want any part of that. However, in the passage of time, she learned to forget that virtue, abandoning the faith of her childhood altogether and becoming, in short, a killing machine on the battleground.

Her marksmanship was unlike that of any other, for she sought out her targets and hit them, with unyielding grace and precision. She began to enjoy the kill, hungering for the opportunity to lodge a bullet between an enemy’s eyes. Her soldiers feared her, calling her “Lady Une,” Une being French for “one.” And Lady Une she was, for whenever she was on the bloody grass of the battlefield, it was hers, she alone claiming the greater of the spoils. Any who opposed her were shot, more often than not, at her own hands. And she loved it…

Loved the sound of a man pleading and begging for his life right before she took it. Loved hearing the sounds of a widow’s shrieks as she realized her husband wasn’t returning home to her. Loved the sound of a now fatherless child’s cry in the hazy, dark night.

She loved being Lady Une; assuming this identity of a cold-blooded killer…

Until that night…

That night…in 1915…when she would meet the one responsible for her undoing on the bloodstained grounds of Flanders Fields…

The night she met him…

Scarce heard amid the guns below…

The night was like a huge cloak, enveloping the sounds of gunfire and blasting beneath it. Lady Une dashed about the field in the manner of a panther, examining the dead and wounded. There was no excuse in leaving enemies alive, not in the slightest. So, she had left the safety of the trenches to seek out the wounded…those who already lay dying…in order to take their lives from them.

Her men did not fear for her life, but rather, treated her bloodthirsty carousing with indifference. One must remember: this was war, and only war has the ability to warp the mind, to tear the innocence and sanity from someone as ordinary as a young girl and replace it with bitter hatred.

That was exactly what war had done to Lady Une, this brown haired young woman who had discarded her true self, the human part of her and had joined together with a demon; the demon called hatred. She hated those men, bloodied and dying on the battlefield, hated them because they had been the reason for her being obliged to be here. Here, in this muddied and stained field, which reeked of blood and death; of the rotting of corpses.

But, none of that mattered now. She had become one with the master of hell, obeying his wishes and bringing more death and spilling more of the precious blood of God’s creations upon the earth.

We are the dead. …

She made her way through the piles of bodies, kicking them out of her way with angry disgust as she passed. Some of them were mangled, their skin blown from their skeletons. Others were quite intact, with even Lady Une having difficulty telling if they were actually dead or just in a deep slumber.

Some of them were still alive, a condition which Lady Une quickly took care off, riddling their broken and bruised bodies with bullets. She would smirk at her handiwork, then bound off with sinister joy to find the next victim, once again pawing through the stacks of bodies, like an old crone digging through someone’s hand me downs. She paused to brush her bangs from her eyes, growing annoyed that her findings were growing low in number.

These dying men, soaked with their own crimson blood as well as that of their comrades and enemies…Lady Une never gave them a second thought. She never wondered where they had come from, who their family was, what they had done for a living before joining the war, and especially…. not their names. No, that would make it too personal, would destroy her demented hunt that she cherished so.

The night blazed on, riddled with gunfire and explosion, but that did not deter Lady Une from her macabre scavenger hunt, but made it all the more exciting. The thrill of knowing she could die at any moment, along with the men she had killed, was all too great…a savage rush that she longed to feel. When it was over, when another man lay dead at her feet, she went out again…in search of that demonic high…

She fell flat upon the ground, dodging shellfire once again, and crawling, her eyes level with those of the dead, staring into glazed pupils and eyeless sockets. The beautiful stench of maggot-eaten flesh was fresh upon her senses…and she loved it…treasured it…

The mud beneath her squished and seeped into her uniform as she drug herself across the all but destroyed field. It was then that she noticed something moving out of the corner of her eye. She cocked her head to one side, as a cat does when it is about to pounce upon a helpless rodent. Ah, yes…

Another.

She smiled, her eyes narrowing into tiny slits as she ran the tip of her tongue over the roof of her mouth.

Short days ago, we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow…

The victim twitched, his aching body deciding whether it was to live or die. Well, she would make that decision for the poor wretch, who lay crumpled in a melted heap. This one…she should imagine slitting his throat would be the perfect means of disposal. As she slid her hand, blackened with caked mud, into her uniform jacket, the man stirred. He groaned, turning his broken body over to face her.

He had blue eyes…the most beautiful blue eyes she had ever seen. They were the color of fresh ice, clear, brilliant, stunning. She had seen thousands of pairs of eyes during her moments on the killing field, but never eyes such as these. They captivated her, and for the first time since her first kill, Lady Une hesitated…

“Hey,” the man gasped, “Hey…”

He was an Englishman. She could tell this, not just by the language he spoke, but rather, from the accent in his voice. Well, despite his nationality, she knew what was about to happen; the whining pleas, desperate promises, and frantic begging. He would no doubt promise her wealth, security, intimacy, anything, for his pathetic life. It was good that he began this soon enough. She had already lost too many precious seconds being engulfed in those arctic blue eyes anyway. This brought her back to task.

“Hey…” He continued, “Have you…come to kill me, then?”

The thrill of knowing she would soon having him pulling upon her uniform coat with his torn hands possessed her, as she wiped her knife clean with her shirttail. Her lips parted into a crazed grin, like that of a cannibal, eager to devour flesh…human flesh…

She needed not have said anything, for he could discern the look on her darkened face. Yes…it was almost here…the screams, the begs…

But, they never came. Instead, the man smiled, closing his eyelids and hiding those stunning blue eyes.

“Very…good, then…” He mumbled, “I have been…waiting patiently for you…”

She stopped in her tracks. What…what the hell? Was he not afraid, terrified of losing his life? Did he not fear dying in such a brutal an inhumane matter? He was mad…had to be…for he was lying terribly wounded on the ground, with a knife pointed toward his throat.

“What are you…waiting for?” He continued, “Go on, then…and do it…quickly…”

Despite his annoying calmness, the man had a point. She had to do away with him in a hurry, for all of this damned hesitation would earn her a bullet through the skull. That surely would ruin her game…her lovely bloodthirsty sport.

Lady Une held the knife up to his throat and pressed slightly. It would only take a second, and then he would be choking on his own blood. All it would take was one swipe…one slice…

But she couldn’t do it. At the very moment, the time to claim her rewards, she faltered, her hands shaking and dropping the knife on the wet soil. Damn it! She crinkled her brows, angry with herself for being…so…so…weak…

“Hey,” the man mumbled again, “Hey…”

At first, she glared at him, and then soon became absorbed in examining him again. He had quite a handsome face, with chiseled features, prominent eyebrows and a beautiful nose. It seemed as though his hair was a honey brown color, but it was so dirty, she could not tell. Just the arrangement of his features interested her, for she knew he could not be a common man. No…not with that facial structure…he had to be of a higher class…

In fact, he was beautiful altogether… the type of men women would cling to, throwing themselves at him by the dozens. She was sure he had broken many hearts in his time, had loved and been loved. She, too, would have loved him if she had never…

No.

He was just another body waiting to release its soul. He meant nothing to her, and would mean nothing once she carved his throat and was done with it all.

“Hey,” he gasped again, “You can’t…do it, can you? That’s…all right…but do retrieve someone…who can…and bring them here…”

What in the blazes was he saying? Good God…the man lay dying on a field, in a place far away from his homeland, and here he was, begging the enemy, to kill him. How pathetic…and yet…how unusually noble…

He winced, grabbing his stomach, a stream of blood covering his hands and running through his fingers. Lady Une, without thinking, looked at his wound. The man had been shot, in the stomach, one of the worst places to be hit. She imagined his entire insides were quivering with pain at that moment. She wondered, what it must have felt like, for that man, to know he was going to die at any moment, thousands of miles from his family, his friends, his country…

She gasped as he suddenly grabbed her arm, clamping down tightly on her gentle flesh. He stared at her intently, piercing her with those hauntingly beautiful clear blue eyes.

“Hey…” He mumbled, “Don’t…worry about getting someone…I’m done for…just stay here…stay here until I die…to keep me company…”

For whatever reason, she did as he asked, nodding blankly, as if she were in some sort of daze. The man sighed and smiled, loosing his grip on her arm and dropping his hand back into the trampled mud. The sound of shellfire behind her sent a chilling reminder of where she was, and she quietly lay on the ground, beside the dying Englishman. After a few moments, the shellfire ceased, but she knew it would be briefly. She pulled herself from the ground again, leaning over the man and staring down at him.

“You’re German…aren’t you?” The man said weakly.

“Yes,” Lady Une replied. This was the first time she dared speak to someone who lay at death’s door on the body-littered battlefield. Her voice sounded foreign, as if it belonged not to her, but to someone she did not know…to a stranger…

“I thought…so….” The man said, giving her a tiny smile, “You have…the most…beautiful brown eyes I have ever…seen…”

Brown…was that what color her eyes were? She had not taken a good look at herself in a mirror for so long, she had forgotten. Yes…she remembered now…they were brown. Deep, dark, chocolate brown. She had her mother’s eyes, eyes that her father adored, remarking how brown eyes were the loveliest, because they were the most consistent…the truest of hues, never changing or altering their shade.

“Take…your glasses off…” the man pleaded, “So I can…see your eyes more clearly…” She hesitated at first, then calmly pulled the tiny wire-rimmed lenses from her face, resting them gently upon her leg. He smiled again, putting his hand, caked with dried mud and bitter blood, against her cheek bone, She sat completely still as he continued to explore her face, trailing his dirty finger over her cheekbone, her nose and over her lips. She smelled the Belgian soil underneath his fingernails, tasted the blood that had hidden itself in his fingerprints.

“Your hair…” he continued, “How long… is it?” She shook her head, being completely unsure herself, for she had worn her hair back, into a tight bun since she was fifteen years old. When she washed and groomed it, she had never paid attention to the length. Now, as this fading Englishman lay before her, she began to wonder herself, absentmindedly removing the pins and tossing them aside, to be lost in the darkened mud.

The rich and thick brown locks she had forgotten about for so long cascaded down her back and over her shoulders, almost touching the ground she knelt upon. She had not imagined it was this long; had she really been so absorbed in her hellish life that she had not even noticed how long her hair had grown?

“Beautiful…” the man said, reaching forward and running his trembling hand through the cinnamon brown locks, “Absolutely…beautiful…”

She closed her eyes, regretfully enjoying his touch, taking pleasure in the sensation of the slight tugging at her scalp as his fumbling hands gently pulled through her hair. What…what was this man doing to her? What was this she was beginning to feel…this emotion…completely unknown to her?

“Why are…you here?” the man softly whispered.

“I’m a soldier,” she replied with a tone so void of any type of emotion that it startled her. Was that really her voice? That hollowed out husky sound? “Why are you here?”

“I was drafted…by my country…to serve in this bloody war…” he mumbled, “All of my friends…are dead. My mother…died while I was away…my sister is dead…and so, here I am…a mass of nothing…in Flanders Fields…”

“Why did you not go home?” Lady Une said quietly, “You could have returned…for your mother’s sake…”

“Honor…” he said quietly, “It was for the sake of honor that I stayed…Look here…” he reached his shaking hand into his uniform jacket and pulled out a tarnished necklace. He held it in the palm of his outstretched hand, beckoning for her to come closer. She leaned over to see that it was a medal, a saint’s relic, rather, that he was holding out to her. Of course, having not been a practicing Catholic for quite some time, she didn’t recognize the saint imprinted on the aged metal.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It is a Saint Benedict medal…” the man murmured, rubbing his thumb as furiously as possible over the tiny medal, doing as best he could to wipe the caked dirt and blood from it. “My mother gave it to me…before I left…it was blessed…by the local priest…to fend away demons…and so I’ve worn it round my neck this entire time…never once taking it off…”

Lady Une leaned over, staring at the tiny medal. It was perfectly round…about the size of a penny, with beautifully detailed inscriptions upon it. But still…this tiny piece of silver was supposed to thwart demons? Doubtful. But, it was a charming fairy tale nonetheless.

“I wanted to become a priest…” He continued, his tone growing weaker, “Or a Franciscan…do you know what those are?”

She nodded her head. Of course she knew what the Franciscans were. They were the religious order devoted to living the life of Saint Francis of Assisi, in complete and utter poverty. They were easy to spot, as they wore plain brown habits, often with brown sandals. Their female counterparts, the Poor Clares, founded by Clare of Assisi, also wore brown habits, with long, black veils.

“I see…” he mumbled, “Are you…Catholic, then?”

Was she Catholic? How was she supposed to answer that question? She couldn’t very well pour out her life story to him, for he hadn’t time for that. Wait…why in the hell was she still bothering with this annoying man, anyway? He was ruining her game…her pleasurable task. Yet, she could not pull herself away from him, becoming more and more enthralled with him at every breathy word he uttered.

“Yes,” she finally said, “I am.”

“Splendid,” He said, “Then, you…know the prayer of Saint Francis?”

She shook her head. Those old prayers and incantations meant nothing to her, and she could remember none of them. Why should she? It wasn’t as if she would actually need the damned things anyway. She couldn’t even begin to explain which was the new and which was the Old Testament, really.

“Oh…I see….” He said. For the first time, his expression changed from unnaturally pleasant to that of a more thoughtful natured one. He then shook his head, the smile returning. “Well, then…I will…recite it for you…”

Was he going to preach to her now? Amidst the carnage? This was the last thing Lady Une wanted to hear…a damned prayer on the battlefield. The battlefield wasn’t a place for prayer. It was a place of death, of killing…of bloodshed. What good did a prayer do when you were lying sticky in your own blood? What purpose did it serve? Well, she had wasted enough time listening to his pitiful ramblings…God only knows why…so she might as well let him rattle off the silly prayer as well.

“Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace…” He began, his tone soft and warm, “That where there is hatred, I may bring love….”

Love? What did that word mean, anyway? She was sure her father and mother had loved her, though they had often been strict with her. But, real love? What was that? Lady Une didn’t know what true love was…she had hated for so long…

“That where there is wrong, I may bring the spirit of forgiveness…” he continued, “That where there is discord, I may bring harmony…”

Forgiveness…harmony…yes…those were familiar words as well. She remembered hearing her mother speak of them, urging Lady Une, even as a young girl, to always remember those words. Forgiveness. That was something Lady Une could not do. She could not forgive this cruel war for doing this to her…wait…for doing what to her? What had it done to her? Hadn’t she always been this way…seeking the thrill of the hunt and relishing the surge of the kill? She had…hadn’t she? No…no…she hadn’t….

Long ago…there had been a little girl…an innocent little girl with large brown eyes, with a soul as pure as Heaven itself. What happened to that little girl?

“That where there is error, I may bring truth…. That where there is doubt, I may bring faith…” The Englishman went on, every so often coughing loudly.

Truth…the brown-haired girl craved the truth as to who she really was. Was she a cold-blooded murderer, or was she an innocent child, merely trapped inside a demon-possessed soldier’s shell? It was hard to tell…especially now, when she had killed so many and had hated for so long. And faith…where was she supposed to place her faith? In the blackened mud of Flanders Field, where the men were dropping dead like flies all around her? Where the smell of the corpses and coagulating blood slithered round her?

“That where there is despair, I may bring hope... That where there are shadows, I may bring light….” His voice was becoming smaller, weaker.

Oh yes, despair. Was that what it was called, this feeling that she was falling, falling into a world darkened beyond repair? Into the shadows, the shadows of her past sins which attached themselves to her insides and had sucked the little girl…the innocent brown-eyed girl away? Was despair what those ravenous shadows were called?

“That where there is sadness, I may bring joy…Lord, grant that I may seek rather to comfort, than to be comforted…To understand, than to be understood…. To love, than to be loved….”

A shell exploded in the distance, sending Lady Une falling to the ground once again. The sound of the shell’s explosion frightened her…terrified her. She had really never been afraid of shellfire…well, not since she had first enlisted. Now, as she felt the atmosphere of this gruesome scene attack her, she began to panic. What was she doing here? Why was she lying here, in a muddied field, next to a dying Englishman?

She didn’t understand, was clueless, as to what her purpose in being here was. Her father and mother had not abused her; her peers had not treated her cruelly as a young girl. So, why was she here? What reason did she have to hate? What was her argument for shedding the blood of so many innocent victims?

The memories of her lovely childhood, doting parents and happy classmates filled her mind. She had been seduced by evil. And now she was evil…evil in the flesh. And she hated herself for it, hated herself for the people she killed and hated herself for becoming the viper that she now was.

“For it is by self-forgetting that one finds….It is by forgiving that one is forgiven.... It is by dying that one awakens to Eternal Life….” He finally finished, and pleased with his words, turned to Lady Une, giving her another smile.

“Eternal Life…to die…is to receive that?” Lady Une murmured aloud, not fully realizing she was speaking, “To die…is to be free…”

She felt the Englishman’s hand reach out and take hers. He gave her another stare, with his pale and dying face radiant with a presence…a presence so unfamiliar to her. Hearing the firing cease, Lady Une sat up once again, looking over the man. He smiled at her again, rubbing her hand gently.

“You remind me…of my sister…” he said quietly, “She was very beautiful…just as you are…” He quickly loosed hold of her hand and with all of the strength he had left, yanked the Saint Benedict Medal from around his neck, then pressed it into her hand. “Take this…” he murmured, “And…always remember me…this poor Englishman who was grateful…to see the most beautiful sight he had seen in an eternity…as he lay dying…on a muddy Flanders Field…”

Lady Une was speechless. Beautiful? Her? This man, this handsome Englishman, had considered her to be the most beautiful thing he had seen before passing into death’s eternal rest? It was an act of kindness and compassion so great that it moved her so…melting that iron heart and releasing the fresh, soft one held prisoner inside.

Loved, and were loved….

The sun began to rise…slowly and majestically, painting the sky a marvelous pale yellow, the clouds swirling about, creating esoteric shapes. It had been so long…such an eternity…since Lady Une had even noticed the sun, much less paused to watch a sunrise. She stared at the sky, her heart becoming lighter as the weight of her evil past began to fade away. She looked back to the Englishman, to share the sunrise with him…

But he was already dead.

His eyes were closed and his lips slightly parted, into the most angelic smile she had ever seen. It was at that moment that she wept, wept like a tiny child at the death of an Englishman…an enemy soldier who had touched her heart, though she never even once asked his name.

And now we lie…in Flanders Fields…

The horrifying sound of explosions and gunfire frightened her. She began to run, as quickly as she could, and as far away as she could, the screaming sounds of men killing one another overtaking her. How had she been able to stand this, this…hell on earth…for so long? It was agonizing, crippling, hearing the shrill screams of humans as their flesh was cut off of them, or as their limbs were blown to shreds.

She wasn’t aware of how long she had run, or how far. All she cared about was getting away…where she couldn’t hear those dreadful sounds; witness those terrible sights. Why had it been quiet until now? Why had these sounds ceased when she had been with the Englishman?

It was then that she realized, the sounds had been happening the entire time she had been with the dying man, even as she spoke to him, and even as he passed away at the fragile sunrise. They had always been there, as loud as ever, but her mind had simply blocked them away…forbidding the vulgar noises to interrupt her sweet, precious encounter with the beautiful Englishman.

The Englishman.

Oh, no…she’d left him…in the fields. How could she have done such a thing? She should have taken him away. No. He was dead, and she was already…

Where was she?

Lady Une looked around, noticing that the fields were gone and she was at the edge of a small clearing of woods. Where in the hell had those woods come from? Surely she would have noticed it before. Without giving it another thought, she ran into the woods, diving beneath the foliage and mud. She lay there, quietly, with the sounds of the battle hovering in the distance.

Then the smell…the putrid smell of death…engulfed her, and she began to vomit. It was so disgusting, so foul, that she almost could not bear it, for it singed her nose and burned her throat. She was sure she were going to die as she choked and gasped, trying to rid herself of that smell…that horrible odor…how could she have ever loved that…that…vile stench…

Take up our quarrel with the foe…

Lady Une jumped up from the ground and began to run again, still not knowing of what was going to happen to her. She hurried past objects, some of what could have been houses and buildings, but she didn’t know for sure. Finally, her legs betrayed her, and she fell headfirst at the foot of an iron gate. She rubbed her head, realizing she must have hit it on the gates.

Moments later, several figures appeared at the gates. Lady Une looked up, half dazed, to see three or four women in long, brown dresses standing over her. No…those weren’t dresses…were those habits? She couldn’t tell, for her vision had suddenly become blurred, the images of the women above her being no more clear than as if she were gazing through a fogged over window. She could hear them mumbling as they stooped down, putting soft, warm hands upon her.

“She’s hurt, Mother,” One of them said, resting her hand upon Lady Une’s side.

“Yes,” another voice replied. It sounded like a much older woman. “And quite badly at that. Hurry, now…and bring her inside.”

She felt herself being lifted off of the ground, as if she were being carried off by a colony of ants. The sky, so beautiful above her was the last thing she remembered seeing before passing completely out.

To you from failing hands we throw the torch; be yours to hold it high…

Some time after her awakening, Lady Une was told she had been rescued by an order of Poor Clare nuns. At first, she had thought of it to be a cruel irony, but, after hearing of what had truly happened to her, could barely believe any of it.

At one point, she had been shot, somewhere in the side. It had not been a terrible wound, but it was deep enough, and the nuns, in awe of her being able to even walk with such a wound, pressed her with questions of where she had come from. In an attempt to save herself from being handed back over to the German army, Lady Une began to speak furiously in French, a language in which she was superbly fluent, telling the nuns she had actually been a prisoner of war, and had stolen her fatigues from a dead soldier. They had taken pity upon her, calling her by the only name she knew to give them: Une.

It seemed almost ridiculous, that she be stuck with a name she had cherished for so long, yet now despised.

And the Englishman…

Whatever had happened to him? What had become of his poor body…his beautiful remains? Had they been buried or were they still lying about the Fields of Flanders?

What was even more astounding was what the nuns had told her next. When she told them she had run from the fields, where the battles were taking place, they had looked at her with such bewilderment, shaking their heads. They explained to her that she must be mistaken, that she had not come from the fields she spoke of, but Lady Une simply held to her tale, insisting she had come from those fields.

“But child,” The Mother Superior had said, “If what you say is true…

“Then you have run for ten miles…”

If ye break faith with us who die…we shall not sleep…

Lady Une lived with the nuns from that day forward, caring for them and soon becoming one of them. The Great War ended in 1918, just after Lady Une had taken her final vows. This was a process that was not normally so hurried, but with the worries that the war could drag on for even longer, the process was sped up. She was given a new name; a new identity.

Lady Une was now Sister Marie Sainte Une of the Passion, a Franciscan Nun and Child of God.

She never knew why or how she was able to run those long ten miles from the fields to this monastery, only that she had been able to for a purpose, a purpose that had not been revealed to her yet.

But… her past continued to haunt her, with the memories of the dead Englishman coming to haunt her night after night. After a series of frightening nightmares, she finally confessed to her Mother Superior, the same wise woman who had saved her three years before, that she was not actually French, that she was German and that she had once been a merciless killer. She begged and pleaded with the Mother Superior to send her away, to turn her back over to Germany, where she would be tried as a traitor.

The old woman would simply not have it.

“My dear child,” she mumbled as Lady Une, now known as Sister Marie Sainte, sobbed against her, “I knew of your true identity from the moment you appeared on my doorstep. The Almighty Lord has never ceased to bless me, showering me with true discernment. I did not condemn you then, and I do not condemn you now. If you have truly repented, as I can see that you have, then your soul is pure once again.”

“But, Mother,” Une cried, “I have no rest at night. The Englishman…. he haunts me and grasps me in my dreams.”

“Well, then,” The kind old nun murmured, her green eyes radiating with precious love, “You must go to the Priest. He will know what to tell you…”

And so she did go to the Priest, bursting into the tiny confessional and spilling her entire story, once again, receiving kindness. He explained to her that she had suffered enough; that her past sins were now corrected, but she was still not satisfied…

It was then that the idea came to her; what her penance should be.

“Father,” she gasped, “Let me return to Flanders Fields.”

“What?” He said, tugging on his gray beard, “To the fields? To the war gravesite? Sister, whatever for…”

“There was a man, Father, A good man…” she hurriedly explained, “I was with him as he lay dying on those fields. He was an Englishman, with a desire to be a Priest. It is because of him that I am here today, kneeling in this confessional, a Poor Clare Nun.” She stopped for a moment, as tears fell down her face, “I…never even knew his name, Father…nor did I know where he was laid to rest. I want to go there, Father…every day…I will walk…alone…and visit each grave there, until I have visited them all…”

“Dear Child,” The Priest sighed, “Such a heavy millstone that you tie round your young neck. There are thousands of graves in that field…you’ll never have the time to visit them all…”

“Time,” Une interrupted, “Is something I have a lot of, Father. Please…for my soul will never find rest until I am allowed to do this…”

“Very well, child,” The Priest answered, “Very well. And this, for your past crimes and sins, will be your penance; to visit the white crosses that mark the graves of those who fell upon Flanders fields, in search of your unnamed Englishman. May God grant you peace and wisdom as you set forth, to correct the wrongs you have committed against yourself. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost…” He made the sign of the cross, then quietly slid the confessional screen shut.

And so, from that day forth, Sister Marie Sainte Une of the Passion would walk the long ten miles every day to Flanders Fields, where she would remove her veil and allow her long brown hair to blow free in the wind, just as the Englishman had bade her do those years ago, that night on the battlefield.

She would go to the center of the field and spin herself round and round, then walk in the direction she stopped, making her way to one of the many white crosses scattered about the field of lush poppies.

Somewhere…buried beneath those poppies…was the body of her beloved Englishman, the man who had freed her loving heart from its steel cage of hatred and had given her a new purpose in life. Since coming to the fields every day, her life’s mission was now clear: she would live her life for that Englishman, joining the order he would have joined, living life as he would have lived it. Yes, that was her new reason for living…to bring life…and not death, as she had once taken so much joy in doing.

She would be like the poppies, flowers that can lie on the ground for years, only sprouting when someone roots up the ground. Such was the fate of Flanders Field, the ground that had been rooted by the struggles of the men who were either free, living their lives in peace, or who were buried under the blanket of thousands of poppies.

Yes, she had been like those poppies, laying on the soil until she had been released, by the simple love and compassion of the Englishman.

The afternoon was beautiful, with the breeze blowing her beautiful hair to and fro as she walked, once again, down the rows of white crosses. She finally stopped, choosing one of the white crosses, and knelt in front of it. She reached into the neck of her habit, pulling out the Saint Benedict medal, which she had worn around her neck every day for the past five years. Then, with her voice calm and the tears running from her eyes, she recited the same speech she had recited every day since she had started coming to the fields; a collection of words she would continue to recite until she had at last visited every grave in this red-blanketed field.

“It has been five years since we last met. I hope that you have been pleased with my life, for it is not mine, but yours that I now live. Everything you said to me, though at the time it was said I did not understand, is completely clear now. I thank you, for your kindness, for your warm smile, for your courage…and for your love. Your beautiful spirit was what rescued me from my own darkness…and for that…I shall always, and without falter…

“Love you.”

She silently mumbled a set of prayers, one of them being the Saint Francis prayer the Englishman had uttered just before he passed away, then slowly rose. Quietly she removed a small stick of black charcoal from her pocket and made a tiny mark, just on the side of the cross, to signify that she had, indeed, visited this particular grave.

It was now time for her to leave the field and to begin her long walk back to the monastery, as she had promised to do, placing the veil back on her head and tucking the beautiful brown hair beneath. Before she left the field, rich with the blowing poppies, she turned, taking one more glance at the cemetery.

Yes, he was here…somewhere in this field…her beloved Englishman was here. And it was a beautiful resting place for him, too, beneath a rug of gentle poppies. She wiped the tears from her eyes, and dropping the Saint Benedict medal back into her habit, she took one last look at Flanders Fields.

It would be a long journey, visiting these graves day in and day out, each time she left, wondering, if it were his grave she stood over, or someone else’s.

The crow flew over her again, cawing at her, but she ignored it, making her way out of the fields and back onto the small dirt road that would take her back to the monastery.

Maybe one day, long years down the road, their ancestors; the Englishman’s and Lady Une’s would meet again. Perhaps they would fall in love and receive a better destiny…a brighter future.

Yes, perhaps…perhaps…

Sister Sainte Marie Une, for some reason, deeply within her heart…though she could never express it in words…knew…once her penance had been paid…

That it would surely come to pass…

Though poppies grow…in Flanders Fields…

End

“In Flanders Fields”

By John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Beneath 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

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved, and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.