Timepiece

by Merinda Brayfield

  Timepiece

  Merinda Brayfield

  Carnation Books

  Timepiece Copyright © 2020 by Merinda Brayfield

  ISBN (ebook): 978-1-948272-44-5

  ISBN (print): 978-1-948272-46-9

  Published 2020 by Carnation Books

  CarnationBooks.com

  contact@carnationbooks.com

  Seattle, WA, USA

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  About the Author

  About Carnation Books

  For Chuck, gone too soon.

  Chapter One

  Frank stood with one hand on the ladder. Around him, the trenches were almost quiet, save a few quiet snatches of prayer—the calm before the storm. He could feel the rest of his unit at his back, shifting, waiting.

  A whistle shrieked across the trenches like the warning wail of a banshee. Frank swallowed his fear and climbed out into no man’s land. Gripping his rifle, he pushed forward against every instinct to turn and run. Bullets whizzed all around them, tearing into flesh and bone, stopping hearts, and turning living soldiers to corpses.

  Three days of heavy artillery had made little difference. Still, they kept going, slipping in the mud and blood as they pushed across each unforgiving inch.

  A man just to his left dropped, then one to the right. It felt like suicide, but Frank ducked his head and took another step. Over the sound of bullets, he heard another noise and shouted for those around him to take cover a moment before artillery landed close enough to ring his ears.

  Frank coughed up mud and raised his head. For a few terrifying heartbeats, he thought he was alone, until he saw other men staggering to their feet. One of them stumbled and fell a few feet away, his cries lost in the earth as he struggled to move.

  Looking away, Frank leaned on his elbows and took a few blind shots into the haze and fog. Another shell threw up dirt and men a short distance away. More condolences to send home.

  The order to fall back echoed across the battlefield. Frank glanced back at the fallen soldier, but he was still. Gathering what courage he had left, he stayed low to the ground as he moved back towards the safety of the trenches.

  Only a few yards from the trenches, he came across a soldier trying to crawl, dragging a mangled leg behind him. Frank shouldered his gun, grabbed the back of the man’s uniform, and pulled him towards the lines. He might die of his wounds later, but it would be better than dying out here. At least he’d have a chance.

  Frank shoved the soldier into the trench and rolled in after him. He wiped his mouth and slumped against the wall, trying to catch his breath.

  Someone handed Frank a canteen, and he took a long swig before handing it back. He closed his eyes and gulped a few deep breaths. When his heart was no longer beating in his ears, he opened his eyes again and looked down at himself, patting his hands down his body. Muddy, of course, probably a bruise or two, but unharmed. In all his years, he’d never had more than a scratch. Frank wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse.

  “Corporal Martin, report!” Lieutenant Innes materialized in his crisp uniform, looking at Frank dispassionately. Bastard probably hadn’t even gone over the top, though he was supposed to be leading his men.

  But no, he’d rather let Frank do that. Not that the rank mattered much, but since the last Sergeant had been killed, the Lieutenant had relied on Frank to do the work without being in any sort of hurry to promote or even recognize him.

  “Corporal,” Innes repeated, voice harder. It made him look like a child about to have a tantrum.

  Frank resisted laughing in his face. “Don’t think there’s too many left, sir,” he said, keeping his voice calm.

  “I want a list,” he ordered, meeting his gaze for a moment before turning on his heel and walking away.

  Frank blew out a breath and pulled a notebook from his pocket.

  Without looking up, Frank felt the presence of another and knew exactly who it was. Relationships could be nearly as dangerous as bullets, but Wilson had been a steady presence for a while now. He was built broadly, with a quiet strength Frank could count on. He stood close by Frank’s side and put a hand on the small of his back—a tiny intimacy.

  “Cock,” he said, looking in the direction the Lieutenant had gone.

  “He wants a list of casualties,” sighed Frank, flipping to a list of soldiers.

  “Briddle didn’t make it,” said Wilson, turning his attention fully to Frank.

  “Damn, I didn’t even have him on here yet.” Frank wrote in the name and crossed it off before glancing up at the concern in Wilson’s eyes. “I’m fine.”

  “You always say that,” said Wilson, dropping his voice.

  Frank gave him a tight smile. “What other choice do I have?”

  Wilson angled his head in acknowledgement and rubbed a small circle in Frank’s back. Frank crossed off Bennett, the soldier he’d left in the mud.

  Wilson moved in front of him, shielding Frank from view. He cupped his cheek, making Frank look up at him. They shared a long gaze. Wilson nodded and dropped his hand. “When you’re done, you know where to find me.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” Frank watched him go. As much as he’d love to take comfort, there was work to do. He pushed away from the wall and headed through the trenches, speaking with some of the other soldiers and then with the medics.

  Too many names, really. He wondered if they’d bring in more poor saps or shift the few remaining to other companies. He’d nearly lost track of how many units he’d been attached to in the last two years.

  Once Frank had determined the fates of his fellow soldiers, he sat down by himself and dutifully copied over the list onto a fresh sheet of paper. The platoon had already been short-handed and down to thirty-five men before the battle. Five had been seriously injured, ten more dead or presumed dead. He scrubbed a hand across his face and breathed, listening to artillery land somewhere nearby. Though he barely believed in God anymore, he gave a silent prayer for the fallen as he finished up. At least their work was done, meaningless though it might be in the end.

  He got to his feet and made his way to the Lieutenant’s quarters. He knocked and entered, finding the man sitting behind his desk, working on condolence letters.

  Innes accepted the list and looked it over. For once, Frank saw his eyes soften, sad, but his cold mask quickly slid back into place. “You’
re dismissed, Corporal.”

  “Yes, sir.” Frank quickly saluted and left him to his work.

  Frank trudged through the mud and followed the sound of laughter into the barracks bunker. The men that remained were sitting at the table and around the large room, most of them eating dinner. Aside from some minor wounds, there was little evidence they’d been fighting for their lives just a short time before.

  Wilson saw Frank hesitate in the doorway and shepherded him to the table, putting a plate in front of him. Frank gave him a grateful smile. Wilson patted his shoulder and walked away, sitting down with one of the other soldiers. Freddie Bates was younger than the two of them and newer to the front. Frank ate his food without tasting it, watching Wilson laugh at something Bates said.

  Frank’s stomach twisted with jealousy. He tore his gaze away and looked down at his plate. It was never going to last. He knew that when they started. Frank shovelled the last of his bland food into his mouth and pushed the plate away.

  Retreating to his bunk, Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded picture. He carefully opened it up and looked at his family. They were who he should be thinking of, after all. The photo had been taken just before he shipped out. Frank, in uniform, stood guard over his wife, Julia, who sat stiffly in front of him, the children on either side. Doris imitated her mother’s posture. Henry leaned back towards his father.

  Two years had passed since this fleeting moment. He’d asked Julia for a newer picture of the children, but she’d ignored the request and he’d stopped asking. In fact, she barely wrote to him at all. But Frank did his best to write regularly, no matter the stretches of silence.

  Shaking his head, Frank folded the picture up again and stuck it in his breast pocket before pulling out paper and pen to write a letter. As usual, he assured the children that he missed them. Henry was only twelve, so he did his best to hide the truth of his life and instead made it all sound rather dull. Doris was turning sixteen in a week, so Frank wished her many happy returns. He barely knew what to say to Julia and merely gave her some platitudes before ending the letter.

  Frank scrubbed his head in his hands, folded the page and got to his feet. He made his way to the door, quietly checking on a few of the younger soldiers, making sure that they were all right after the battle. At least everyone had been in one before, so while there was much no one said aloud, they met Frank’s gaze and nodded when he touched their shoulders in silent question.

  Closing the door behind him, Frank headed out to post his letter. An officer stood at the crossroads of two parts of the trench, peering at the handmade signs and clearly lost.

  “What are you looking for, sir?” asked Frank.

  The man looked relieved at the offer and told him. Frank understood his confusion; these trenches were as bad as some of the warrens of London. He gave him directions, watching him go before heading off to finish his own errand.

  It didn’t take long to drop off the letter, but going straight back to the bunker would mean seeing Wilson with Bates, putting space between them. Despite the comfort he’d offered earlier, Frank knew Wilson was going to end things between them. Frank couldn’t blame him. It was dangerous to grow too close to someone you could easily lose, and doubly so when the relationship itself was a crime. As long as you were discrete, there was a certain leeway here, but as a police officer in his civilian life, he’d certainly seen what happened to those caught at it back home.

  That job and life felt like it belonged to someone else. As if all there ever had been was the fighting and the mud. Sighing, Frank found a relatively quiet spot and rubbed his eyes, feeling numb. He should be sad and upset, but aside from that earlier flicker of jealousy, there was nothing. Life was too cheap here.

  Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out his wedding ring. He looked at it in the fading light. His time here had worn him so thin it would fall off if he wore it, which seemed fitting. Julia had barely hidden her dalliances before he left; he bore no illusions that she was faithful now. Not that he had any claim to integrity. Wilson was the most recent, but not the first, though he’d been obedient to his vows at home.

  He and Julia had loved each other once, long ago. Then the children had come and his job grew busy and the distance between them had grown. Though even now, his stomach tightened at the idea of another man in his house, sharing her bed. She’d always gone elsewhere for her assignations, and he hoped she’d continued to afford him that measure of respect. One of her letters had mentioned her doing some work for the war effort, but he bore no illusions that it could be enough to occupy her. And what kind of example was she setting for the children?

  He shook his head and put a hand on the wall of the trench. This was here and now. London seemed like a strange and foreign country. There were rumors about the Americans, and that this might all be over sooner rather than later. He couldn’t imagine slipping back into his old life, going back to police work. The idea seemed nearly absurd, and yet what else could there be at home but the same things he’d run from?

  A soft sound nearby stirred Frank from his melancholy thoughts. He turned and cocked his head, listening. The choked sob could barely be heard over the general background din of the trench, but it was there. He walked towards the sound until he found a young man sitting in a patch of darkness, arms around his knees, shaking and failing to hold back his tears.

  The man looked up at Frank’s approach. He looked barely sixteen and might not have been if he’d lied to enlist. It happened often enough.

  Carefully, Frank crouched next to him. “First time over the top, yeah?” he asked.

  The man nodded, flinching as artillery landed somewhere in no man’s land.

  “My name’s Frank, what’s yours?” he asked gently.

  “Andrew,” he said, voice rough from crying.

  Frank nodded and shifted to sit next to him. Andrew dashed at his tears with his sleeve and watched him.

  “Not what you expected, is it?” asked Frank.

  Andrew shook his head, eyes going distant and breath hitching at some half-remembered nightmare.

  Frank touched his arm to draw him out of it. Andrew shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “It won’t help,” said Frank softly. “I wish I could tell you it gets better, or easier, but I can’t. But you’re brave, Andrew.”

  Andrew lowered his hands and stared at him. “I didn’t fire a shot,” he admitted, still shaky. “I went up and then I froze. Someone pushed me down and I just stayed there until we were ordered back.”

  “But you went up,” said Frank. He glanced up and saw the stars had been erased by a flare. He was silent for a moment, then turned his attention fully back to Andrew. “I’ve seen some who can’t even make it out of the trenches the first time. You went up and you made it back. Next time, maybe you’ll get a little farther. Time after that, you might take a shot.”

  Andrew shook his head and looked away. “I can’t. I don’t want to ever do it again.”

  “But you will,” said Frank gently, getting to his feet and patting Andrew on the shoulder. “None of us want to. But we do it anyway.”

  Andrew took a few breaths and looked up at him in the fading light from the flare. “I’ll learn?” he asked.

  “You will,” said Frank. “Get some sleep. It’ll help.”

  “Thank you,” said Andrew, struggling to his feet and shouldering his rifle.

  “Go on,” said Frank. “You’ll be all right.”

  Andrew studied his face a moment longer. Frank wondered what Andrew saw, but whatever it was must have been enough. He turned and hurried away.

  To Frank, the figure disappearing into the night might as well have been a ghost. Andrew would learn or he would die. Or he might die anyway. It was impossible to know what tomorrow might bring.

  Frank sighed and turned to walk back to his own bed, dreading the nightmares that stalked his sleep like hungry wolves, wishing he could believe in hope.

  Chapter Two

&nbs
p; Archibald straightened his uniform and wiped away a bit of lint. Nodding to himself in the mirror, he turned and made his way through the farmhouse towards the dining room. The place had been appropriated two years earlier by the British Army. Family pictures and mementos littered the walls and corners. Madame LeBeau cooked and cleaned for those occupying her home, while her young son, Louis, helped her and ran errands for the soldiers. Monsieur LeBeau was off at the front.

  Archibald took his usual seat at the table. The others were mostly junior officers, though as a Major, he was one of the higher-ranking men. And everyone knew that he worked closely with the Brigadier General.

  Archibald sat stiffly and tucked into his chicken, half-listening to the quiet chatter around him. Most of the other soldiers slouched in their seats, and more than a few had a glass of wine in front of them. Glancing up, he stole a glance at Major Barclay, who had just arrived that afternoon. Barclay caught his eye and cocked his head with a soft smile, clearly appraising. Archibald bit his lip and looked back down at his plate. Dangerous.

  He cut a piece of chicken with a bit of force. Barclay would hear all about him soon enough.

  “What do you think, Blythe?” asked Lieutenant Richards, the man to his left.

  Archibald blinked and looked at him. “My apologies. What was the topic?”