The man opened up his message and cursed quietly. “Wait outside,” he told Frank, turning towards his desk.
“Yes, sir,” said Frank, quickly stepping out and closing the door behind him.
“The Colonel is always like that,” said a soldier sitting nearby cleaning his rifle.
“Your English is good,” said Frank, coming over to him.
“I spent two years at Cambridge; it should be,” said the Frenchman. “Corporal Dupoy,” he said, offering his hand.
Frank shook it. “Corporal Martin.”
Dupoy offered him a drink. “Second time in two days you’ve been here.”
“And I might well be here more often. Just the messenger, though.” Frank took a swig and handed it back.
“They’re always planning things.” Dupoy shrugged. “At least we have kept Paris safe. It will end sometime.”
“I’m sure,” said Frank, looking over as the door opened and an unhappy officer offered a folded paper back to Frank. “See you around.”
“I will be here,” said Dupoy, giving him a wave.
Frank nodded and headed back. He delivered the message to Blythe and was directed to work on more papers. It wasn’t Frank’s job to guess, but it seemed like Archibald was planning another attack. Well, someone had to do the job, and clearly, the man possessed some ability for it if he’d been sent up here.
Over the next few days, they settled into a routine. Frank would wake in the morning to Blythe already at his desk. He’d fetch breakfast and they’d eat together. Then he’d help with paperwork until Blythe sent him off with a message. If he went to Adenet, he often found Dupoy nearby, and they would chat for a few minutes while he waited for a response. The Frenchman was easy to talk to, and he seemed glad to have a chance to practice his English. Frank, of course, never let on that he could speak French as well as a native.
He’d return the message to Blythe, and the afternoon would be more paperwork and messages. They’d have dinner together, and then Blythe would tell him to relax while staying at his desk, working until after Frank fell asleep.
Sometimes, in the evening, Collins would appear. He’d speak quietly with Blythe as he collected his reports. Frank couldn’t help but wonder what the relationship was between the two men. Blythe was clearly more relaxed with him, smiling more and sometimes even laughing. Collins called him sir, but they didn’t really speak to one another like officers of differing rank. Not that it was Frank’s place to ask.
Things became more comfortable between himself and Blythe. They ate together, often silently, sometimes talking about things Frank had observed or things he’d seen. Blythe was careful not to pry and tried to avoid subjects that might be painful, but he was clearly interested in Frank’s experiences.
Frank was almost surprised to find himself opening up to Blythe. Perhaps it was because he seemed honestly interested. Blythe said little about his own experiences in the war, but it was easy enough to see that he’d been safely behind the lines up until this point. In fact, Blythe rarely said much about himself at all. He was clearly from a very good family. It made Frank wonder why he’d joined up. He didn’t seem like the sort that would have had to, especially at his age. Perhaps they’d discuss that sometime in the future. After all, he knew he was an outlier himself.
About a week after he’d started working with Blythe, Frank was on his way back from dropping off the breakfast dishes. Suddenly, he heard the familiar shrill cry of the whistle, urging men over the top. Out of habit, he took a step towards the front before catching himself. He shook his head, standing rooted to the spot, listening to the sound of shells and gunfire. That was no longer his job. He’d been plucked from that duty and into something far safer. Frank took a breath and adjusted the rifle on his shoulder. He looked towards the sounds for a moment longer before resuming his walk back to the bunker.
Stepping inside he saw Blythe at his desk, the watch open and close at hand. He looked up at Frank, perhaps seeing something in his face. “Your previous unit wasn’t part of this attack,” he said.
Frank nodded, checking over his rifle before setting it in its usual place. “Thank you, sir.”
“They’re on rest at the moment,” said Blythe. “I can’t promise what will happen with the next one.”
Frank made a small adjustment to the gun. “We’re soldiers, sir. We know what we’re getting into.”
Blythe watched him a moment longer, then picked up something on his desk, though he didn’t seem to actually be reading it.
A moment later, he closed his watch and tucked it away, getting up to shuffle through his footlocker. In a way, it was a relief; Blythe was clearly troubled and obviously did care about the men he was sending forward. Keeping himself isolated was no doubt for his own sanity as well as his safety. It must be quite difficult to do the job when living among those carrying out your orders.
A knock on the door drew Blythe’s attention, and he called for them to enter. “First casualty reports, sir,” said the soldier, bringing in a few sheets of papers.
“Thank you, private,” said Blythe, his tone carefully controlled as he took the pages and sat down again at his desk. He rubbed his temples in the way that Frank was quickly learning he did when he was troubled. He took a deep breath and picked up his pen, starting to make notes and tally the results. Frank picked up some documents from Blythe’s desk that he knew needed sorting and sat at the table.
It was what they all had to do: pick up their weapon, whatever it was, and go to work.
The rest of the day passed quietly. Frank left him to his work, doing what he could to take some of the papers and the burden off of him. Blythe stayed focused on his tasks, occasionally pausing to rub his temples. The scratch of his pen was loud in the small space, especially when Frank knew that he was adding up and totalling the dead and the results of the day's attack.
Late in the day, Frank went out for their supper. The sun was getting low. Men huddled together, speaking in hushed voices or simply sitting together in the way they always did after an offensive attack. Frank carefully wound his way through the trenches, stopping to see if there was any mail. Perhaps something from home would bring a bit of light for Blythe.
There were two letters, one for each of them. He recognized Julia’s handwriting, but looking at the one for Archibald, it seemed to have been addressed by a man. Interesting. He tucked the letters in a pocket and went over to get their dinner. Blythe was certainly an attractive man; Frank wasn’t blind. But he was an officer and a gentleman, and besides all that, he seemed to have others on his mind.
“You should eat,” said Frank gently when he returned.
Archibald looked up from his work and rubbed his eyes. “You’re right,” he said, getting up and stretching while Frank cleared space on his table and set down the meal.
“You got a letter,” said Frank, pulling the envelope out of his pocket and handing it over.
“Ah, thank you,” said Archibald, setting it down on his desk.
Perhaps not so important after all, thought Frank. Otherwise, he would have opened it first.
“There were some gains today,” said Archibald as he picked up his fork.
“I’m glad,” said Frank honestly.
Archibald nodded, eating quietly.
Frank finished his own food and went to his bunk before opening the letter from Julia. It might as well have been written by a stranger. There was no warm familiarity in it, merely a factual recounting of Henry’s progress in school and a few words about Doris’s activities.
He glanced over at the stack of casualty reports. More than once, he’d wondered why he’d been spared when so many others hadn’t. Letters like this didn’t help that feeling. What was the point of going home to a cold bed? He thought of Wilson but pushed that thought away. That relationship was over. He glanced at Blythe, taking in his profile. Was it only his nearness that made him so attractive? Or the fact that he was unobtainable? He looked at the man’s elega
nt fingers and knew that it was far more than the time and circumstance.
Either way, it was impossible. He tucked the letter away and started to do some tidying.
Chapter Eight
Archibald noticed Martin’s letter when he took it from his pocket. A woman’s handwriting, probably his wife. But Martin looked none too happy to have received it. He tore the envelope open but barely glanced at the words before folding it up and getting up to tidy the small space.
Finishing his dinner and moving back to his desk, Archibald opened his letter from Murphy. It was a welcome distraction from the reports and casualties. All was quiet at home. Murphy said that he spoke for the household when he said that he hoped he was safe. It made Archibald warm to know that they cared for him. He was their employer, of course, but it felt like more than that. Murphy especially was as close to a friend as a servant could be.
Archibald set the letter down and wrote out a response. He found himself talking about some of the differences of here versus the farmhouse. Archibald looked up as Martin stepped out with the plates. Archibald watched him go, then looked down and wrote a sentence about his aide.
Scrubbing his face in his hands, Archibald looked at his stack of reports and sighed. The paperwork could wait until morning. He stood, checked to make sure he had his sidearm, then stepped outside.
The world outside the door was grey and drab. Archibald picked a direction and started walking, needing the air, needing to think. He passed soldiers going about their business, noticing how thin so many of them were. And yet there was also laughter carrying from open doors. It was easy to see the easy camaraderie between many of the soldiers.
Archibald felt a spark of jealousy, though he knew almost all of these men would happily trade places with him. He'd chosen Martin in part because he was married and had a life back home, which had seemed less of a danger. But that was before he met the man. His attraction to Martin was almost more terrifying than the artillery outside their doors. Martin was handsome, but he was also intelligent, efficient, and honest. How long could they live in close quarters without Martin sensing the heat in his gaze? Archibald shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold and muck of the trenches.
Shaking his head, Archibald turned for home. Mud clung to the hem of his trousers and a chill rain began to fall. It perfectly suited his mood, however, and he wasn’t even particularly bothered by getting wet.
He ducked back into the bunker before it started coming down in sheets, finding Martin at his table, folding up a letter. “Feeling better, sir?” Martin asked.
“Perhaps a bit,” said Archibald. He looked at the work on his desk.
“You should rest,” said Martin. He echoed Archibald’s thoughts from earlier. “It will all be there in the morning.”
Archibald sighed, his shoulders sagging. Perhaps he’d simply needed permission. “You’re right,” he said quietly, going to his bunk. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” said Martin.
Archibald quickly got himself ready for bed, listening to Martin finish up his day’s work. He got under the covers and lay awake, numbers and plans and figures running through his head as he pondered what the course of action should be.
Martin lowered the lamp and got into his own bed. “Goodnight,” he said quietly.
Archibald blinked and glanced over at him in the darkness. “Goodnight.”
As usual, Archibald woke early the next morning. He stretched and rolled out of bed to start his day, listening to Martin snore softly. Turning up the lamp, he sat at his desk to finalize his report, knowing Collins would likely be in early to collect it.
Martin woke while he was engrossed in his work, yawning and pulling on his boots before picking up his rifle and going out for their tea and breakfast.
Collins appeared while Martin was out. “Good morning,” he said.
“Morning,” answered Archibald, offering him the finished report.
“Thank you,” said Collins, taking it. He produced a sealed letter. “General Whitestone sends his regards.”
“Thank you,” said Archibald, opening it.
Martin came back in, glancing at Collins and setting their food down. “Would you like some tea?” he asked politely.
“I would, thank you,” said Collins.
While Martin and Collins talked quietly, Archibald read over the letter—part orders, part inquiring about his health. He wrote a quick response, assuring Basil that he was doing well and promising that he would follow his orders. He folded it up and smiled at Collins. “Give this to the General, please,” he said.
“Of course. I’ll see you again soon.”
Archibald noticed the way Martin looked at Collins, but he wasn’t certain what it meant.
One chilly, rainy evening, Martin was darning some socks while Archibald finished up the day’s paperwork. Archibald leaned back in his chair and regarded his companion.
They’d taken to talking in the evenings, getting to know one another a little better. Martin had been remarkably open about things he’d seen and done on the front. But neither of them had talked much about their lives before the war.
Archibald took a breath, knowing he should show something of himself. “I suppose you’ve wondered why I’m here,” he said. “As a soldier.”
“Sometimes. Seems like you didn’t need to be,” said Martin, without judgement.
“You’re right. I didn’t. I was doing good work in the government.”
“What changed?” asked Martin, glancing up at him.
“I met a man, a soldier,” said Archibald.
Martin gave him an odd look. “I’m sure there’s plenty of us in London,” he said, tying off his work.
“True. I suppose he caught my attention because he’s missing a leg. He was looking for work and having trouble. So I hired him.”
“Did you?” asked Martin, cocking his head at him.
“I did. He works hard. But seeing him, it suddenly didn’t feel like enough to work in London. I needed to do more. Of course, I went right from the safety of London to a relatively safe corner of France, but that’s because General Whitestone wanted me to work for him.”
“You two know each other, I take it?”
“Yes. We were at school together. He followed his family tradition of a military career.” Archibald fidgeted with a pen. “I know I’m more of a bureaucrat than a soldier.”
“No shame in the work you do,” said Martin, putting his work aside.
“I stay behind a desk. You’re the one who puts life and limb on the line.”
Martin shrugged. “I enlisted. I knew what I was getting into.”
“It seems like you didn’t have to join up, either,” said Archibald.
Martin looked away for a long moment, clearly thinking of his next words. “It seemed like the right thing to do,” he said at last. “I know I’m a bit old for this, but they accepted me.”
“I’m certainly glad for your presence,” said Archibald before he could catch himself.
Martin smiled. “Thank you.” He blinked and added, “Sir.” He took a breath and gathered up his darning. “Do you need anything else before I get ready for bed?”
Archibald put down the pen he’d been fidgeting with. “Not at all, Corporal, but thank you.” Reminding each other of their ranks seemed the safest course.
Chapter Nine
Frank tried not to think too much about Blythe saying he was glad for him. Surely it was just a slip of the tongue. He relied on him, so it was most likely no more than that. They were partners in duty; that was all.
Frank got into bed, rubbing his arms as he settled. In quiet moments, he could admit he missed being touched. Aside from Julia, he’d never desired very many women at all. It had been expected that he would marry, and so he had.
But here at the front, things were blurred. Life was cheap, and soldiers found comfort where they could, whether it was with a bottle, the women available behind the lines, or in
the arms of their companions.
Frank curled up on his side and wondered what it would be like to feel Blythe’s hand on his skin. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to push that thought away. It was far too dangerous. Frank was aware Blythe watched him sometimes, soft blue eyes tracking his movements. But the man was his superior officer, and if Frank made a move and he was wrong, then the firing squad was the best he could hope for. While the army generally turned a blind eye to relations between soldiers as long as they were discreet about it, a liaison between an officer and an enlisted man crossed several immovable lines.
But that didn’t stop his imagination. In the darkness, it was easier to entertain the dangerous and tantalizing possibilities. In the small hours, he could allow himself to dream.
It seemed that almost as soon as the dust settled from the last attack, Blythe was working on the next one. Frank understood that need, that desire to keep throwing oneself at work rather than daring to stop and think about it. Sometimes he heard Blythe tossing and turning in the night. Frank wondered what haunted his dreams.
The trenches between the bunker and French headquarters became a well-trodden path. As he became part of the background of their lives, Frank found that the French soldiers spoke more freely in front of him. Frank was certain Dupoy was listening and picking up information as much as he was. So the conversations were always friendly, but guarded—neither one of them willing or able to say more than they should.
Frank was glad to pass on the rumors and snippets he heard, knowing that every piece of information was giving Blythe a better view of the puzzle before him. It was easy to see how clever he was, how quickly he grasped the big picture of the world before him. He could only imagine how competent he was in his government work.
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