As he walked, Frank reflected that clearly, he’d spent far too many hours in these trenches if he could travel them with barely a glance at the signposts. Things were switching from English to French as he traveled, the soldiers he passed glancing at his British uniform. Frank ignored them and headed for the bunkers that made up French front headquarters.
“Excuse me,” he asked a lounging soldier, in English.
The man glared at him. “What do you want?” He asked in heavily accented English.
“I have a message for Colonel Adenet.”
The man looked skyward as if asking for relief from wayward Englishmen and gestured at a door.
“Thank you,” said Frank, ignoring what the soldier muttered under his breath as soon as he turned his back.
Frank knocked on the door and entered at the Colonel’s call. “Message from Major Blythe, sir,” he said, taking out the message and offering it.
The Colonel took the paper and looked it over, waving over a Lieutenant. They reviewed some work on his desk and spoke quietly amongst themselves. Finally, the Colonel scribbled out his response and handed it back to Frank.
“Thank you, sir,” said Frank, tucking the message into his pocket and heading back out. Storm clouds started moving in overhead as he hurried through the trenches.
Frank got back just ahead of the rain, closing the door behind him as the first drops fell. He leaned his rifle against the wall and then walked to the desk. It seemed that Blythe hadn’t moved at all, though perhaps some of the papers had. The watch lay open to his right, and Blythe glanced at it as he took the response from Frank.
“What did he say?” He asked without unfolding the paper.
Frank hesitated for only a moment. There had to be a reason he’d wanted a French speaker, after all. “He called you an idiot, sir.”
A ghost of a smile crossed the Major’s face. “Of course he did. Thank you for being honest.”
Frank couldn’t help but smile back. “Figured it was what you wanted.”
“Above all else,” said Blythe, closing his watch and putting it away. He unfolded the paper and looked down at it. “Please, unpack and make yourself at home.”
Frank blew out a breath and carried his bag over to the bunks. A footlocker stood open for him. He quickly unpacked his few things and got them sorted to his liking. Another soldier knocked and came in, taking some papers from Blythe and hurrying off again.
“Can you compile these papers?” asked Blythe, gesturing at a stack on the corner of his desk.
“Of course, sir,” said Frank, picking them up and moving to the smaller table to work. He noticed the stack dealt with much of this part of the front. Whoever Blythe was, his rank belied his importance. He wondered if Blythe was really a Lord or some such, and how he’d ended up here. Either way, his uniform wouldn’t stay crisp and clean for long.
A few other soldiers came in and out through the morning, delivering papers and taking some away. One of them brought in lunch. Blythe thanked the man and Frank was surprised when Blythe carried the food over to his small table and passed him a plate.
“We’re going to be working closely together,” said Blythe, clearly reading his reaction. “You are to be my eyes and ears outside this bunker. Can’t have you fainting due to starvation.”
Frank put the paperwork aside. “I appreciate that,” he said honestly, digging in, relishing a recognizable vegetable.
Blythe ate with delicacy. “It will get worse before it gets better,” he said quietly.
Frank glanced up at him, wondering about the look on his face. “They keep saying that, but I’m not sure if I believe in better. Winter is coming, and if you think the mud is bad now…”
Blythe inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I believe the Americans will be arriving by spring.”
Frank shook his head. “There’s been rumors about the Americans for months. Ain’t seen one yet.”
“Just a little longer,” said Blythe with confidence. “They’ll come.”
“Hope we can hold out until they decide to show up,” said Frank. He looked over his companion. “You haven’t been up here before, have you?”
“No,” said Blythe. “I’ve been attached to rear headquarters, but was asked to come up for this assignment.”
Frank found he appreciated the reciprocated honesty. “You’ll see what it’s like, then,” he said.
Artillery landed again somewhere close by. Frank watched Blythe flinch. Soon enough, he’d stop reacting to the sound.
Chapter Six
Archibald willed his heart to stop skipping. Martin hadn’t acknowledged the artillery at all, eating his supper without pause. Taking another breath, Archibald picked up his fork again and resumed his own supper.
As he ate, he glanced at his companion. Martin was proving to be as interesting as his records suggested. He was also unexpectedly handsome, with a bit more salt than pepper in his hair and warm brown eyes. He carried himself with easy confidence, his uniform well lived in and his gun an extension of himself. If he bore any anxieties about his new assignment, he hid them well.
Archibald tried to push the thoughts about Martin’s looks aside. He was his underling, for one. And married, and a police officer. Surely he wasn’t the sort who would dally, even if he wanted to. And likely, he had no interest in men. Archibald was quite used to looking at other men, but he carefully limited himself to gazes. No matter what Barclay might have been implying.
Martin finished eating and set his plate aside, reaching for the paperwork he’d been working on.
Finishing his own food, Archibald picked up the work Martin had completed and moved back to his desk. He’d perfectly performed his first assignment and was already proving to be observant and clever. It seemed he had a knack for the mundane as well. “I can tell this work is familiar to you,” Archibald said.
Martin smiled. “I’ve been helping my Lieutenant for some time. And I was a police officer before I joined up.”
“I worked in the government,” said Archibald. “So I completely understand.”
Martin glanced up at him, his smile warm. “Never an end to the paperwork, is there?”
“Not at all. I’m sure the bureaucracy would collapse if there was.”
Martin chuckled and turned his attention back to his work. Archibald was surprised to find himself relaxing. Perhaps it was the warm smile and easy familiarity Martin was offering him. The lines between officer and soldier were thinner here at the front. Or perhaps it was that Martin knew nothing about him. It was rare that Archibald had a chance to begin fresh with people.
“You’ve been here two years?” Archibald asked.
Martin’s shoulders tensed and his hands paused. Archibald wondered if he’d misspoken, though surely that should have been a common enough question.
“Yes,” he said, taking a breath and resuming his work. “A bit more, actually. I’m sure you saw my records.”
Archibald inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I did. But personnel records don’t always paint an entire picture.”
Martin looked up at him and nodded. “Quite true,” he said, studying Archibald’s face. His gaze held no judgement and Archibald found himself relieved. They’d be working closely together, and it wouldn’t do to start off on the wrong foot.
Martin turned back to his work, and they lapsed into silence. Though they’d just met, Archibald found himself reassured by Martin’s presence. He glanced at him occasionally, but if Martin noticed, he said nothing. He seemed to have no questions or curiosity about the work in front of him, which also helped soothe Archibald’s nerves. It seemed Martin was exactly the sort of steady assistance he needed for this job.
Archibald made a few more notes and wrote out a message for another French officer. “Can you deliver this, Martin? And perhaps return the plates?”
“Of course, sir,” said Martin, getting to his feet. He put the message in his pocket and reached for his rifle, settling it on his sho
ulder before picking up the plates. Archibald watched him go, then picked up his pen. He flinched as artillery landed again, somewhere close by. His heart skipped as he wondered about Martin’s safety, then shook his head. Martin had survived this long; he wasn’t foolish. And besides, this part of the lines was well back from the front.
Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Archibald turned his attention back to his papers, trying to ignore the sounds of war not far outside his door. He doubted birds ever made an appearance here the way they did outside his window at the farmhouse.
A knock on the door drew his attention. “Come in,” he called.
Collins let himself in and closed the door behind him. “Good afternoon,” he said.
“Good to see you, Lieutenant,” Archibald smiled, meaning it. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you.” Collins sat in Martin’s seat. “Getting yourself settled?”
“More or less,” said Archibald. “Corporal Martin is out running an errand. He’s proving to be quite useful already. He seems to have a knack for paperwork that nearly rivals your own.”
Collins chuckled, but before he could speak, the door opened, and Martin himself came in. He glanced between the two men, face unreadable, then focused on Archibald. “Here’s the response from Verley, sir,” he said, offering Archibald the scrap of paper. “He was even grumpier than the other one.”
Archibald couldn’t help his smile as he took it. “Did you learn anything else?”
Martin hesitated, glancing at Collins. Another point in the man’s favor.
“Corporal Martin, this is Lieutenant Collins. He’s General Whitestone’s aide. Anything you wish to say to me can be said in front of him.”
Martin nodded and turned his attention back to Archibald. “Verley is concerned and seems to genuinely care for his soldiers. I overheard two French soldiers sharing rumors about an upcoming attack.”
“Thank you,” said Archibald, making a few last notes before turning the report over to Collins.
Collins took it and stood. “Thank you. I’ll see you again soon.”
“Be safe, and send the General my regards,” said Archibald.
“I will.” Collins turned to Martin. “And a pleasure to meet you.”
Martin seemed surprised by the gesture. “Thank you, you as well.”
Collins nodded to them both and headed out. Martin watched him go.
Archibald leaned back in his chair and stretched, feeling the effects of sitting at his desk most of the day. If he was at the farmhouse, he might take an evening walk. But here, well, it would probably be best to get at least a bit familiar with the trenches. “Corporal, you clearly know these lines well. Would you mind giving me a brief tour?”
Martin blinked. “Of course, sir.”
Archibald got to his feet and came around the desk, straightening his uniform from habit.
“It rained earlier, and it’s quite muddy,” said Martin.
Archibald looked down at his clean uniform. “Well, I’m not going to stay tidy forever.”
“I can’t remember the last time I was really clean,” said Martin, adjusting his rifle. He looked Archibald over, clearly making sure he had his sidearm. “Ready?”
“Yes, quite,” said Archibald, giving him what he hoped was a confident smile.
Martin raised an eyebrow but opened the door and led Archibald out into the trench. As they started walking, the soft ground sucked at Archibald’s boots. He watched the way Martin carried himself and did his best to copy his movements, getting a bit more confidence as they went. Martin didn’t glance at the signposts as they turned and soon arrived at something of a central area. “You can post letters there, and get supplies there,” he said, pointing. “Meals come from there. Let’s get our dinner.”
Archibald nodded and followed him. The soldiers getting meals for their companies eyed him as he and Martin walked past and went to another area. “This is for officers,” he said, stepping up to an open door and speaking quietly to whoever was there.
Distant gunfire drowned out whatever Martin was saying, but he returned to Archibald’s side with two plates. “Come on, let’s head back.”
“You do know these trenches well,” said Archibald, taking his plate from Martin’s hand.
Martin shrugged. “Been here a long time.”
Archibald glanced skyward as another artillery barrage started up.
“It’s ours,” said Martin, perhaps unconsciously adjusting his rifle.
“You can tell?” asked Archibald.
“You learn,” said Martin with a mirthless smile. “We’re softening them up. Probably be an attack in a few days.”
“I see.” Archibald wondered if Martin knew that the report he’d passed to Collins had included a suggested time for that attack.
The skies began to grow dark as they neared the bunker. Lights were lit, but carefully shadowed. Martin got the door for him and set his rifle down before going to the table to eat.
Archibald joined him, feeling the mud drying on his pants and boots. Not the most pleasant feeling, but one he knew he’d have to get accustomed to.
“You can knock the mud off easier when it’s dry,” said Martin, evidently noticing the way he shifted in his chair.
“Thank you,” said Archibald. “I’ll get used to it.”
“You never quite do. But keep your feet dry—it’ll help.”
“I’ll remember that. I don’t need anything else tonight, so feel free to relax after you eat.”
“Thanks.” Martin took a last few bites and got up. “I’ll take care of the plates when I get breakfast in the morning.”
“All right.” Archibald might have offered to take them himself, but he would almost certainly get lost.
Martin went to his bunk and sorted through his belongings. Archibald stacked his plate and went to his desk, tidying it and taking out paper to write Murphy and let him know that he’d been reassigned to the front. It seemed as though he should tell someone about the assignment, even if he kept the details vague. The letter was short, but he felt better as he folded it up and put it aside.
Glancing over, he saw Martin was settled in his bunk with a dog-eared novel. He seemed engrossed, so Archibald left him alone and took out some maps instead, studying this location and that of the upcoming attack.
Some time later, a soft noise caught his attention. He looked over and saw that Martin had fallen asleep with the book on his chest. Archibald turned down the lamp and prepared himself for sleep. Martin rolled onto his side, the book sliding to the floor. Quietly, Archibald picked it up and placed it on top of Martin’s footlocker. Martin twitched and whimpered as if troubled by nightmares. Archibald bit his lip and turned to his own bunk, guilt working in his stomach. After all, he was likely at least partially responsible for some of those bad dreams.
He settled beneath the thin covers, finding the bed much firmer than the one in the farmhouse. But, best to get used to it, like everything else. He settled onto his side, getting as comfortable as he could, listening to the artillery.
Generally speaking, he tried not to think of the men behind his numbers and figures. But now he was surrounded by the real flesh-and-blood behind his reports. He remembered Martin’s report on his desk, the list of the dead he’d skimmed past to see the totals. How did Martin feel about those names?
Archibald sighed and closed his eyes. He’d hoped, always, that the lives he spent would save others later. But in his heart, he wondered if it was truly worth so much spilled blood.
This was his duty, he reminded himself, and one he had volunteered for. All of his life, he’d served the Empire in one capacity or another. No one else had quite his talents and skills, which was why he’d been chosen for this task.
Gradually, Archibald found rest, thinking of the letter Basil had written him. He hoped that Basil’s faith would be enough.
Chapter Seven
Frank woke and found Blythe already at his desk, almost as if he’d never lef
t. He stretched and sat up, watching as the Major sorted through pages and made more notes, clearly focused on his work.
“I’ll fetch us breakfast,” announced Frank, pulling on his boots and tying them.
“Thank you,” said Blythe without looking up.
Frank picked up the plates from the night before, then shouldered his rifle and headed out.
This time of morning was always muffled, with pink-tinged grey skies and men passing with quiet steps. Frank scratched the stubble on his chin and wondered how things were going with Wilson and his former unit. They were no longer his responsibility, but he never had been able to easily shake his concerns for others.
Frank reached the officer’s mess, yawning and waiting his turn. He collected the food and a small pot of tea and quickly made his way back to the bunker again.
Blythe was shaving when Frank came back in, standing at a small piece of glass he’d propped up for the purpose. Frank couldn’t help but notice the delicate movement of his hands and quickly looked away, getting the meal organized.
“Thank you,” said Blythe, putting the razor aside and wiping his face before taking a seat.
“You’re welcome,” answered Frank, sitting down across from him. He started to shovel his food, only to notice Blythe was eating at a more sedate pace. He forced himself to slow down, reminding himself that he didn’t have to hurry and go stand a watch or do anything, really, aside from whatever Blythe asked of him.
Still, he finished first and went to shave as Blythe stacked the plates and moved back to his desk. Blythe seemed to be watching him, and it made him wonder the reason.
When he finished shaving, Blythe handed Frank another message for Colonel Adenet.
Frank headed out again. The weather was cool, but mercifully dry, as Frank made his way through the trenches. He dropped off the plates and headed for the French lines. There was more activity as the sun rose. Soon enough, he found the Colonel’s quarters again.
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