In January, Dora Taylor thought that 1916 was going to be a good year. Sure, the world was engulfed in war; but she'd just gotten married to a wonderful man, and it seemed like the end of the war was near, and soon Britain would be all back to normal again.
By July, she knew better.
She'd remember the date for the rest of her life: it was July 16th. By most accounts, there was nothing particularly interesting about that day. Dora had slept in and had just been cooking herself a late-morning breakfast when the postman delivered the mail. She'd remembered wondering with a mostly passive interest if it was her dear Tommy, writing to her from France; more likely, she figured, it was just from her mother, asking yet again about how life was like in London.
She had waited until she had finished with her breakfast, then she had gone back to her bedroom, changing out of her nightgown and into a daytime dress. While she missed Tommy so much, being able to take her time in the morning was one thing she enjoyed about having the whole house to herself. Only after all that, did she finally go outside to get her mail. She smiled at the envelope as she brought it back in; it was stamped with the seal of the British Army, so it must have been a letter from her husband.
When she opened the envelope, however, the smile quickly disappeared from her face. Dora read the neatly printed letter, horrified.
Dear Mrs Tommy Taylor,
I am sorry to inform you that your husband, Mr Tommy Taylor, was killed in action in France on May 3rd, 1916. I know no words of mine could possibly comfort you in this tragedy. He was a great man and a great soldier, and I know he was proud to serve his country in war, despite being just married. We currently do not have any details surrounding his death, but please be assured that he died honourably, in the service of King and country--
The grim letter went on, with the stamp of the King and the signature of an officer she didn't particularly care about neatly adorning the bottom. She stared at it in shock; trying to wrap her mind around the news, unable to believe that Tommy was really dead.
She sat down, stunned, staring at the letter. They'd barely been married for more than a couple months when he'd gone off to fight in the war, but she thought he'd eventually come back; and in that time, she'd even grown to love him. She'd tried to never think about the dangers that Tommy would have faced in the war, telling herself that it would be okay for them. But it wasn't okay.
Dora just kept staring at the letter. And then she cried.
Two days later, she found herself starting up Tommy's automobile-- now hers, she realized-- and driving down to church. It wasn't Sunday; but since telephoning her mother hadn't helped her clear her head at all, she thought maybe she'd have better luck there. As she drove, she noticed that the streets of London were mostly empty; they'd been that way for the most of the past couple years now, but today it seemed even moreso.
She arrived and went inside the church, curiously looking around, having never seen the building empty before. She looked up at the stained glass windows; somehow, they just didn't seem as beautiful that day. She sighed, walking in, noticing the minister sweeping between the pews.
"Why, hello, Mrs Taylor," he said, looking up. "What brings you here today?"
"Oh... I hope you don't mind," she said quietly, looking distant. "Would it be alright if I prayed here for a while?"
"Of course, go right ahead. You're always welcome in here." The minister smiled warmly.
"Thanks...," she trailed off, slowly walking to her pew. She took a seat on the old wooden bench, looking up at the windows once more.
The minister went back to sweeping-- he figured that whatever was troubling Dora was between her and God, and didn't ask anything more. Dora knelt down, closing her eyes and clasping her palms.
Is... this how I'm supposed to do it?, she thought to herself. I'm sorry, Lord, that the only time I really pray is when my husband dies... but.... She dimly wondered why she really was here. I guess... I guess I'm asking for your help here, God. Please... I don't know what to do. I know a lot of people are doubting now if you're real, but please, I know you are and I need... I don't know what I need. But please, he was such a good man, and I loved him, and... I guess, please let him be in a better place.
And then she thought of what she really should pray for: And please, God... may no other woman have to know my suffering.
She went back home not too long afterwards. She telephoned her mother again; but she did little other than sit around the house afterwards, thinking to herself. She tried to think about what she would do with her life now. She thought she was going to live happily ever after with Tommy, carry a nice housewive's life with her husband, and maybe in a couple years, have a child. But now she couldn't imagine what she'd do; what would she do now? Eventually, she went to bed early, unable to do anything but dwell on the subject. She had an odd dream that night.
She dreamed that she was a soldier, wearing a man's uniform, in the trenches, somewhere in France. It was dark, the sky was gray all around; but mostly all she could see was the dirt and mud of the trench she was sitting in. Gunshots rang through her ears. She heard a loud boom, and the ground shook a bit. She popped her head over the side of the trench, looking to find out what it was, but all she could see was black smoke billowing from a crater just a few yards ahead.
She looked around, realizing that she wasn't alone. She saw several men near her, most standing tall and firing their rifles just barely over the ridge of the trench; another few were lying in the mud, their backs against the side of the trench and eyes closed. She didn't know if they were dead or just sleeping.
Suddenly she realized that everyone was climbing over the side of the trench, charging. She quickly scrambled to follow, clumsily following in the scattered line of men rushing from one trench to the next. The gunshots continued, and one by one, the men running alongside her fell down, dead. The next thing she knew, she tripped over something-- it looked like a body-- and she tumbled into a mortar crater. She lay in a jumbled mess, her body resting on mud and lead. She tried standing up, but her legs wouldn't let her. She wondered if she was going to die there.
She didn't know how long she laid there, stuck in the crater, unable to move. Every so often she could hear an explosion; shells going off all around her, unable to see anything but razed earth and the grey sky above her. But then at last, a figure swooped down from the sky, landing right in front of Dora's mangled body. She stared at the person in amazement.
It was a woman, about the same height as Dora, wearing a blue officer's jacket and a rather short skirt; it didn't hang much lower than her knees. But the jacket was completely different: there were stripes of red and white fabric across it, as if the jacket was the top half of a Union Jack. A large silver Roman helmet adorned the top of her head; Dora couldn't see her face under the brim.
Before she had time to stare, the woman crouched down and picked up Dora. She carried her in her arms, clearing the battlefield in nimble hops, her feet only briefly touching the ground. When she got back to the trench, she bent down, letting Dora step off as if she were a small child.
"Thank you...," Dora said to the woman. "Who... who are you?"
The woman smiled at her, and Dora stared at her face, realizing that she recognized it; it was her own.
And then she woke up.
While she usually forgot most dreams by the time she put the morning kettle on, the previous night's dream managed to stay so perfectly clear in her head throughout the morning that she figured something must be up. She spent the entirety of the morning in a haze, shifting back and forth between feeling depressed about Tommy, and wondering what that dream meant.
Dora went about her day somewhat vacantly, pondering what kind of person the woman from her dream was. Someone like that obviously couldn't ever exist in real life, she immediately concluded; her first justification for that was because no woman was able to do incredible things like float in mid-air or be strong enough to carry a full-grown woman for so far. She was content in that for a while, but then as she thought about it somemore, she came to a second conclusion: a person like that existing was impossible not just because of that, but because no woman would ever risk their life on a battlefield just to rescue a single person from harm. And she was content in that explanation for a while, too.
It wasn't until she made her afternoon tea that she followed that conclusion to its logical end; she figured that no man could could save lives like that, either. She'd read a couple of articles in the paper about the war, she knew that it was all in trenches, and there were mines in between the trenches, and bullets constantly flying between them; pulling someone back into the trench was way too risky. So she thought to herself, that nobody could rescue anyone like that. She dimly wondered if that was how Tommy had died.
Then she thought to herself, that she wished she really could be like that woman. She knew that was the point, that it was just a dream and she'd imagined the perfect woman to be envious of, but the thought still lingered throughout her head all day.
That night she had another dream that was just as memorable.
She was in France again, standing on a smokey battlefield. She looked down, and saw that she was wearing that same outfit as the woman in last night's dream; this time, she really was that woman. Now she was aware that it was a dream, and thought to herself that it was childish that she'd dream something like that.
And then an angel appeared before her. He didn't look particularly angelic; she just knew that he was. She stared at him, unable to be particularly amazed. But she had the strongest feeling-- a piece of knowledge that didn't seem to come from anywhere-- that he was real, despite it being a dream.
"Dora Taylor," the angel said to her, with a kind smile. "You're a good person, with a strong heart. The world you live in is currently dark and harsh, but you have a gentle and kind soul.
"You've been chosen," he told her.
"Chosen...?"
The angel put his arm forward, pointing with an open palm towards her current attire; or more accurately, towards the body that was right now hers.
"Your prayers have been answered, Dora. You've been granted the power to match your dreams, to guide your caring towards the world. You're part of something greater than you can imagine, someone who can start doing great things that will make your world the better place you want it to be. Do you accept?" he asked her, knowing the answer before he even arrived.
"Granted...? You mean... by God...?" she asked, dazed.
The angel just smiled.
"I... I...," she started to say. "Of course... y-yes, I accept."
"I knew you would," he said with that same smile.
"But...," Dora questioned, puzzled, "What do you want me to do?"
The angel turned away, and started to leave. But then he turned back, saying just two words to Dora.
"Do good."
And then, he added, "Always, do good."
Dora woke up that morning with an incredible sense of calmness. She got out of bed, then just stared out her window for a while; remembering her dream with perfect clarity, but too afraid to actually ask herself if it really meant anything.
At last she firmly told herself to dismiss it and stop being so childish, and she set about her day, telling herself that grief was just going completely to her head.
It was partway through the afternoon that Dora heard a knock on the door; she had just started washing the dishes. She stopped, calling out, "I'm coming!", and quickly drying her hands.
When she opened the door, it was the postman; in one hand, the cane he had been limping on for years-- and the reason why he was still in England now-- and in the other, he was holding a rather large paper parcel under his arm.
"G'day, Missus Taylor," he said in a friendly tone. "Got a package fer you."
"Oh, gosh," she said when she saw the size of it.
"Were you expectin' anythin'? It's awfully big, I can't imagine what it could be."
Dora shook her head. "Me neither. I haven't the foggiest clue."
"Wow," he muttered, handing it to her. "Well, 'ere you go, Missus. Take care now."
"Have a nice day!" she shouted at the postman as he limped away. She put the parcel down inside the doorway and shut the door, wondering what it could possibly be.
She took the parcel to her dining room table and stared at it; it was marked with her own name, rather than her husband's, but there was no return address given. It didn't take long for her to give into her curiousity, and she pulled the twine wrapping it, and carefully opened the brown paper wrapping.
She gasped in surprise, staring at the contents of the package: sitting there, atop folded blue clothes, was a shining Roman helmet. She picked it carefully, surprised to discover that it didn't feel heavy in the slightest. She saw underneath it, a neatly folded officer's jacket, with the top half of a Union Jack carefully stitched on. She kept staring in amazement, moving the clothes aside; there was more to the package. Underneath everything else was a round blue shield with a familiar flag pattern on it. Suddenly, she thought she realized why the package's contents looked familiar, and not just from the dream.
She scrambled off in a rather unladylike fashion, quickly finding her changepurse and bringing it back to the table. She dumped the contents of it, and picked through the pile of coins until she found a half-penny, looking at the reverse side of it; adorned with an image of Britannia. She stared at the coin, and sure enough, the helmet and shield were identical.
She put the half-penny down again, staring at the contents of the package laying on the table. She still didn't have a clue as to where it came from, but she now started to think that she was sure she knew why it had arrived. She told herself that the dream really hadn't been just a dream; as she thought about it, she became more and more sure.
She'd prayed. And, she told herself, she'd been chosen by God. She continued to stare at that package she'd been delivered, in awe of what she knew it meant.
Dora suddenly wondered if she was really meant to be just like that woman from the dream--Britannia, she realized, it must've been-- if she'd been given her incredible strength, too. She stood up, looking down at the table, ready to humour her theory and find out; and then she stopped. I won't test it, she thought to herself. I'll... have to be strong here. I've been given all the proof I need; I'll take that on faith.
Her heart started to pound heavily as she thought about what that meant; she really had been chosen. Her life really was going to change. She had never thought of herself as being strong; of course she hadn't, she was a woman, why would she ever have to? No proper woman needed to be strong. She thought about that woman in her dream, and the woman on that half-penny; her heart racing just imagining herself standing on that battlefield. And she remembered she had told the angel that she accepted what was given to her.
And then she thought to herself, despite being scared at the idea: I know what I have to do.
Dora arrived in France by ship not long after she departed. She started off traveling east by bicycle, but she was soon stopped by the ruined earth in the countryside, heavy trenches stopping her from travelling like that any further. When she arrived at the first abandoned battlefield, she was amazed at how much it was unlike what she'd imagined; land that was once a farmer's field had been turned to mud, filled with shrapnel, spent shells, barbed wire, and long since abandoned equipment. The ground was hard to look at, and Dora did not try to make sense of the confusing maze of trenches that lay ahead of her.
But the sun was shining brightly, with barely a cloud in the sky. There were even birds singing; she could not believe how peaceful this place where countless men had been killed had become. Not for the first time on her voyage, she wondered what she was even doing here; she should be at home, not in a place like this.
She abandoned the bicycle and continued onwards on foot, amazingly leaping over trenches and debris as she came across them. She didn't know how far she ran, or for how long it was; she eventually stopped paying attention to the landscape altogether, for it was all the same.
Because of that, it may have taken a matter of minutes, it may have taken hours; but it most likely took her some number of days to finally arrive at Sommes. She came to her senses as she finally arrived at a battlefield that hadn't been abandoned; full of life, at least for now. Two aeroplanes flew over her head, and her ears started to ring quickly. As she stared from not too far away from the active trenches, she was overwhelmed by the sheer size of the ground they were fighting on; trenches filled with men, as far as she could see, with explosions ringing out constantly. Rifles, aeroplane guns, steady streams of bullets from massive cannons, clods of dirt flying into the air as the ground got hit by shells.
The battle was absolutely nothing like she'd imagined it would be at all, not in the slightest; but she tried to reassure herself all the same, telling herself that she'd be able to save some of those lives. She stared at the massive battlefield, wondering just how many soldiers were there; she tried counting, then tried counting a small section, and then she just tried to estimate it. No matter which, she realized that wouldn't be able to measure how many men were there that way; there was just too many.
Countless, she concluded. Then she looked towards the horizon, seeing German rifles popping out of trenches in the distance. Double times countless, she corrected herself.
The war was absolutely nothing like Corporal Edward had imagined at all; but as he stood with just one of his comrades remaining in the abandoned pillbox, he realized that he really was going to get that glory that he'd signed up for after all, just not in the way he'd imagined. He was going to die in that spot, without a doubt; but as rear guard, he'd at least get to save the lives of his retreating unit.
He heard footsteps-- coming from the direction opposite his retreating comrades, undoubtably the Germans. He glanced at the retreating men, seeing them disappear from sight. Followed by some shouting. He wasn't sure what it was about, but it certainly wasn't orders, and it didn't pertain to him. So he just stood there, staring at his rifle; waiting for the Germans to come.
Suddenly, from the direction that his unit was retreating from, a woman rushed in, halting in between the two men waiting to die. She stared at them, both pale and staring with alarm.
"Why aren't you two retreating?" she asked in a slow, calm voice. Neither of the men had heard a woman's voice in months; Edward thought it was the most beautiful sounding thing he'd ever heard in his life, finding her soft voice to be soothing. He stared at her in amazement, entirely shocked to not only see a woman on the battlefield, but dressed in the image of Britannia, wearing a man's uniform. But the moment overwhelmed him, and he was unable to take in the moment at the time.
"We're... rear guard, Miss," he responded grimly. "It's our duty to stay here... and cover everyone else. Or nobody gets away in time."
The footsteps of the approaching Germans got louder.
"Run," she said quietly, giving him a kind, unworried smile. "I will cover you."
Edward was hesitant. He felt compelled to listen to the beautiful woman standing in front of him, caring for their safety, yet at the same time knowing that it was his responsibility to follow his superior's orders; which meant staying there as ordered, in service of King and country, in service of the men whose retreat they had to cover, so that at least they would come out alive from the failed attempt to take the pillbox. It was, after all, his duty.
"Miss, whoever y'are... it's orders..."
She still smiled at him-- he had absolutely no idea what she was thinking-- and with a look of compassiong in her eyes, she raised her shield and charged forward, in the direction of the advancing Germans.
As she did, she whispered but two words: "Please, run."
He glanced at the other soldier, and they both nodded; still unable to properly take in the situation, he was suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to not disappoint that woman. Gunshots rang out ahead, no doubt fired by the Germans, and at that instant he decided that he would run.
He fled, his comrade following right behind him. As he ran, one thought came to his mind: he would not die that day.
Meanwhile, now far behind him, the mysterious woman charged straight into the advancing enemy soldiers, halting their progress through the narrow hallway for long enough. Edward had seen her with an air of amazement, stunned at how kind, how brave, and how unafraid she was. She did not realize at the time just how much awe he was in, but it was certainly misplaced; Dora was frightened beyond her wits, whispering because she was too nervous to choke out her words loudly, entirely unable to believe what a situation she was in. She had simply pushed onwards in an effort to not let fear overtake her completely.
But none of that mattered to the man whose life she'd saved. He saw her as beautiful, perfect, and brave all the same; skewed by being surrounded by death and dying and confronted by the inevitability of death.
That day, the British managed to take hold of that pillbox. Britannia wasn't able to put much thought to what she had done at the time-- too overwhelmed by her sheer fright-- but later, she would tell herself: that's not such a bad start to a legend.