Play@YSDC

Pombal sat back on his crate and looked at Joe. ”One arm? Two arms? Still godless heathen!” he said.

“Aye, well you’re right, sure enough,” Joe replies with little conviction.

He drains his mug before handing it back to Pombal with a nod of thanks.

“Savages the lot of ‘em. Now, I must take my leave and rest my weary head: long day tomorrow I dare say. Thank you for an interesting evening.”

Back in his attic bedroom, Joe found a tin cup, a flask of tea and jam sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper on the storage locker by his bed. A raw onion had been perched carefully on top…

Sitting on the bed, Joe whispers a prayer of thanks (for it never pays to be ungrateful). Then he unwraps the sandwich and tucks in, leaving the onion to absorb any germs (as they are said to do).

Sandwich eaten he sits back a little, cradling his mug of tea. Reflecting on the weirdness of the evening’s events and still perturbed by the ‘praying’ ravens, he quietly hums a hymn to himself and starts to unwind.

The hospital was quieter when Joe emerged from his room. The light was failing, the orderlies were securing sacking at the windows to block out any lights and the nursing staff were settling the patients for the evening.

An orderly looked puzzled when Joe asked about a chapel, but then gave him directions to a small room near the rear door. It looked like a former boot room, cramped and small. Tucked behind the door was a fairly small wooden shrine with hand-painted triptych panels, with flickering candles in front. The shrine was completed by an effigy of the Virgin Mary and a rather battered looking gold monstrance.

Spot hidden, please.

[6] = 6
Spot hidden 25 d%: [ 6 ] = 6

As Joe crosses himself before the effigy, something catches his eye.

Joenoticed that a symbol had been scratched into one panel of the triptych, deep enough so that the lighter wood beneath the painting could be seen.

The symbol comprised a circle, an angled line and two parallel lines connected by a curved line.

“What’s this?” mutters Joe to himself.

Intrigued, he compares the symbol to the subject of the paintings.

The paintings were of a typical triptych scene, showing the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. There wasn’t any obvious link between the paintings and the crudely carved symbol.

Joe frowns. Does the symbol ring any bells? If not, he’ll dismiss it as graffiti and retire for the night.

Rolling to see if he recognises the symbol. An INT (70) roll perhaps?
[56] = 56
Symbol recognition d%: [ 56 ] = 56

The symbol wasn’t familiar to Joe and with the sky starting to darken, it was time to turn in. He walked back through the hospital - the moans of the wounded and the disturbed mostly a murmur now - and retired to his bed in his attic room. Even the Jerries seemed to have taken the night off, with only sporadic gunfire disturbing the peace.

Can I have a POW roll, please?

[11] = 11
POW 75 d%: [ 11 ] = 11

Joe begins to nod off.

Wednesday, 11 June 1918. 6.30am.
Field Hospital No.5, Coupru, Northern France

Joe slept soundly, despite the occasional rumble of an artillery barrage from the front, until one shell - whether fired by accident or design - screamed overhead and exploded some distance away.

Once the noise of the explosion died away, he could hear the sound of the hospital staff moving around and the patients starting to stir.

It takes all of Joe’s nerve not to flinch when the shell screams overhead (and not to reach for a bottle afterwards).

Performing his ablutions as best he can given the primitive circumstances, he dresses and heads for the makeshift chapel to make ready for Morning Prayer.

Joe passed a number of stretchers in the corridors. It seemed that a number of patients hadn’t made it through the night. The one-armed Indian orderly was knelt by one, sewing the shroud shut single-handedly.

In the shrine, in front of the panel with the scratched symbol, were sat half a dozen small urns with earth inside.

“What the devil is this?”

Somewhat bemused that someone would leave such things lying around in his chapel, Joe begins to move the urns away from the shrine, placing the on the floor near the door.

“These can’t be people’s ashes, as the poor folk are being sewn up and buried and I’ve yet to see an incinerator,” he mutters to himself as he works.

Although Catholic, Joe has seen enough urns to know that these don’t contain human remains. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear that they were filled with soil.

Intrigued (if still rather annoyed), Joe inspects the urns and the soil inside them.