Timepiece

by Merinda Brayfield

  There were a few minor skirmishes as winter descended on them, though the frequency slowed and most of them were smaller operations. One evening, Frank came back with supper to find Blythe looking troubled, turning his pen in his hands.

  “What’s wrong?” Frank asked, putting down the plates and leaning his gun against the table.

  Blythe bit his lip, clearly hesitating, but he handed Frank a piece of paper without quite looking at him. “Your previous unit was part of this latest attack, and there were casualties.”

  Frank frowned, and took it, seeing it was a report penned by Wilson. The casualty report was mercifully short, and he didn’t recognize most of the names, but he stopped when he reached one. Frederick Bates, killed in action. It was a wonder Wilson’s hand was steady writing down the name.

  Swallowing hard, Frank put the paper down. “Thank you,” he said quietly, turning on his heel and hurrying out.

  Cold rain dribbled down Frank’s collar as he walked. He pulled his thin jacket close, wondering if Wilson would want to see him, but knowing he had to seek him out. They’d been friends before anything else.

  It didn’t take long to find the remains of his last unit huddled together against the weather. Haversham recognized him and silently pointed Frank at a pile of sandbags barely shielded from the weather.

  Behind them, Wilson sat by himself, arms wrapped around his knees. He was almost hidden in the quickly fading light. Frank stepped into the small shelter and sat next to him.

  Without speaking, Wilson leaned against his side. Frank put an arm around him and kissed the top of his head.

  The sound of rain and distant shells covered Wilson’s quiet sobbing. Frank held him gently, feeling Wilson’s body shaking against his. They’d all lost so many, but sometimes the loss struck too close.

  Finally, Wilson sat back and scrubbed a hand over his face. “He wasn’t even thirty,” he said softly, voice rough.

  “I’m sorry,” said Frank. It wasn’t enough, but what else could he say?

  Wilson took a breath. “Are they keeping you safe?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Mostly just pushing paper these days.” It was close enough to the truth and what he wanted to hear.

  “Good. It was quick, at least. He took a bullet to the face,” said Wilson quietly. “I saw him fall. He was dead before I got to him.”

  Frank rubbed his back. Platitudes weren’t enough. He’d seen men he cared for die, and it never got any easier. Some of their screams still haunted his dreams. “Did you get hurt?”

  Wilson shook his head.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” said Frank.

  “I know.” Wilson sighed and nodded. “You be safe, all right?” he said, looking up at Frank.

  Frank glanced around to make sure they were hidden from view. Satisfied, he leaned in and kissed Wilson gently. “I will,” he said softly. “Keep your head down.”

  Wilson smiled sadly at him. “I feel like I’m never gonna go home.”

  “We all do sometimes, but the war’s not gonna last forever.”

  Wilson studied his face. He reached over and touched Frank’s cheek. “Thank you.”

  Frank heard the words he didn’t, couldn’t, say and nodded. “You’re welcome,” he said, hoping Wilson understood just as well. “If you need me, if you need anything, come find me,” he said, pulling out his notebook, tearing off a sheet of paper, and quickly scribbling the bunker’s location.

  Wilson took it. “I will,” he said, though Frank could see by the look in his eyes that he’d never come.

  Frank squeezed his shoulder. “I should head back. See you around, yeah?”

  Wilson nodded. Frank stood up, only for Wilson to pull him back down and into a heated kiss. He gave Frank a tiny shove as he released him. “Go on.”

  Frank hesitated, looking at Wilson for a moment longer before turning away.

  As he stepped out of the shelter, he saw Innes standing a few steps away. The Lieutenant nodded at him, something careworn in his expression. Frank noticed his hand was bandaged. Maybe he’d finally gone over the top.

  Frank nodded back and headed for the bunker. Something about the moment felt like a true goodbye. He shook his head, trying to push the feeling away. He trudged slowly through the trenches, mud grasping at his heels, hands shoved into his pockets. The ice in his veins wasn’t just the weather. Shaded lanterns cast flickering shadows as he passed open doorways. The rain stopped, and a pale moon peeked out from behind frayed clouds. Frank glanced up at it and stopped, realizing his feet had carried him unerringly back to the bunker door.

  Home. He whispered it aloud to himself. The word felt strange on his tongue. The streets of London were as foreign now as the farthest ports. This was his safe harbor, this little bunker and the man within.

  Frank rubbed his eyes and ducked his head as he pushed open the door. Blythe looked up as the chill breeze stirred his papers. Frank closed the door, and when he turned back, he found Blythe had moved around the desk, pouring something from a flask into a cup. He silently offered it to him, studying Frank’s face.

  “Ta,” muttered Frank, accepting it and going to his bunk. Blythe sat back down to his papers.

  Frank sat heavily. He pried off his boots and settled back, listening to the comforting sound of Blythe’s pen. He closed his eyes as he sipped the liquor, letting it warm him, appreciating the burn. He found himself silently praying, for Wilson, for all those that had been lost. Though he doubted anyone was listening. God stayed far away from this place.

  Chapter Ten

  Archibald glanced at Martin as he sat with his eyes closed and body still. He wondered if the man was praying. Opening his eyes and putting the cup on the ground, Martin lay down and curled up on his side, back towards Archibald.

  Quietly, Archibald tucked the casualty list somewhere Martin wouldn’t have to see it again. In the time they’d worked together, he’d never seen Martin step foot outside unarmed, but his rifle still leaned against the table where he’d left it. Carefully, Archibald picked it up and moved it to its usual location. No point in reminding Martin when he saw it in the morning.

  He walked over to Martin and picked up his blanket, covering him with it. Worry on his face was softened by sleep, but clear. Archibald wanted to reach out and brush his hair back, but that was very much not his place.

  Taking a breath, he went back to his desk, glancing skyward as the artillery started up again. He rubbed his temples and picked up his pen. Collins would be by in the morning to collect the report.

  Martin whimpered in his sleep, drawing Archibald’s attention. He watched him duck further under the blankets as if trying to hide from the nightmares.

  Looking back to his work, Archibald briefly saw his totals written in blood. Shaking, he dropped his pen and pushed away from the desk. He reached for his flask, taking a swig and closing his eyes, feeling the burn. He took a steadying breath and looked back. It was ink, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it might as well be blood. He was the one who did the dread calculus, who decided how many lives were acceptable to spend. The final orders came from elsewhere, but they were built on his work.

  Taking a few deep breaths, Archibald got up to put the flask away. He tidied his papers and turned down the lantern, finding calm in his nighttime routine. Martin had slipped into quieter dreams by the time he finished. Archibald climbed beneath the blanket. Closing his eyes, he did his best to ignore the thoughts and fears and guilt that tugged at his very soul, like demons in the dark.

  As they plunged into November, their routine grew monotonous. Archibald went through his reports, gave his orders, and tallied his casualties, as he’d been doing all along. Whenever he saw a report from Martin’s old unit, he had to resist the urge to hide it. But apparently, whoever had been lost wasn’t as important as the first. Martin merely nodded and put the paper down, though Archibald noticed him running his finger over the name of the soldier who’d penned it.

  Archibald couldn’t
help watching Martin, aware of a spark inside himself. It was not the first time he’d found himself attracted to someone, but he’d never dared fan it into flame.

  With all that Martin did for him, from running messages and filing to getting their meals, he never asked for a thing for himself. But, as the weather turned colder still, Archibald noticed him shivering in his worn jacket. That, at least, was something he could fix.

  The next afternoon, while Martin was out, Archibald pulled on his own winter coat and went looking for the quartermaster, hoping he remembered the way.

  Archibald tried not to pay too much attention to the soldiers he passed. It was easier to apply cold logic to his plans when he wasn’t picturing the faces behind the numbers.

  But it was impossible not to notice how thin many of the men were, how small they looked huddled together. Most of them didn’t spare him a passing glance, for which he was grateful. He already felt a bit like Death itself stalking the trenches, a shadowy presence that could end their lives with a stroke of his pen.

  By some miracle, Archibald soon located the man he was looking for. He requisitioned a coat as well as a few other items, thankful that there were no questions about why he was doing so. He picked everything up and hurried back to the bunker, feeling exposed in the sunlight, the great guns that much louder outside.

  Once safely back in the bunker, Archibald got the mud off as best he could and set the items on Martin’s footlocker. Taking a breath, he resumed his usual place at his desk. Martin came in a few minutes later, smiling softly, as it appeared that once again, Archibald hadn’t moved while he was gone. Was he aware that he smiled like that?

  “Nothing new today,” Martin said as he offered the reply. “Just complaints about the weather.”

  “And it isn’t even snowing that hard, yet,” Archibald said as he accepted the note.

  “Oh, I know,” Martin turned and noticed the clothes. “What’s this?” he asked, leaning his gun against the wall and picking up the coat.

  “I believe they call that a winter jacket,” said Archibald, a tiny smile blooming on his face.

  Martin turned and caught his gaze. He smiled back, but quickly averted his eyes, as if afraid to look too long. “Thank you, sir,” he said as if reminding them both of their stations. He shed his old coat and pulled on the new one, looking down. He grinned as he noticed the other things. “Oh, fresh socks. Bless you.”

  Archibald’s heart skipped. Most would be far more likely to curse him if they knew his true purpose in this war. Luckily, Martin was looking at the clothing and not at him. “If you need anything else, please let me know,” he said, turning back to his work.

  “I don’t need much,” said Martin, sitting and pulling off his boots.

  “Well, I can’t have you getting sick,” said Archibald.

  Martin looked up at him, smiling fondly. He shook his head, looking away and scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I will say that Colonel Adenet seemed even grumpier than usual,” he said.

  Archibald sighed and rubbed his temples, his good mood evaporating. “There’s going to be another major push soon, and we need more of his men.”

  Martin glanced up at him. “Should you be telling me that?”

  Archibald shrugged. “To be honest, I’m a bit surprised you’ve never asked.”

  “Not my job to ask questions,” said Martin, rubbing his feet.

  “Still, you must have some curiosity,” Archibald regarded him.

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” said Martin, pulling on fresh socks. “And I don’t have nine lives. Or if I did, I’ve used up at least… I don’t know… seven of them.”

  Something twisted in Archibald’s stomach. “I am sorry.”

  Now it was Martin who shrugged. “I volunteered, so I’m here until it’s over or there’s another reason to send me back to England. At least working with you, I’m not getting shot at every other day.”

  “I wouldn’t permit it,” said Archibald sharply.

  Martin looked at him, cocking his head.

  Realizing he’d said too much, Archibald turned back to his papers and picked up a stack. “Can you compile these for me?”

  “Yes, sir.” Martin studied his face, then got his boots back on before taking the pages.

  Archibald tried to turn his attention to his work as Martin got settled at the table, but he was keenly aware of his presence. The sound of shuffling papers was suddenly loud. Archibald silently chastised himself. The upcoming battle needed his full attention. There wasn’t time for a dangerous infatuation that likely wouldn’t even be returned.

  They did their tasks without speaking, the distant sound of an artillery barrage beating out time. Eventually, Martin got up and put the pages on his desk. Archibald glanced over as he stepped away, watching him settle back down at the table and pick up his pen. He averted his gaze, focusing once more on his work before Martin noticed.

  A knock on the door a few minutes later disturbed the heavy quiet. Archibald started at the sound. “Enter,” he called.

  Collins stepped inside, giving Archibald a smile.

  Martin glanced up and looked between them. “I’ll get dinner,” he said, standing suddenly and pulling on his new coat. He glanced at them one more time before shouldering his rifle and heading out.

  Collins raised an eyebrow as the door closed.

  “It’s nothing,” said Archibald, not sure why he felt a need to defend the man.

  “Do you need a different aide?” asked Collins carefully. “Martin can be reassigned somewhere else.”

  “No,” said Archibald quickly. “No. He’s doing excellent work. He’s invaluable.”

  Collins took Archibald’s report and a letter. “Be careful,” he said, meeting Archibald’s eyes.

  “I always am,” promised Archibald, looking back down at his work and shuffling paper. “Goodnight.”

  Collins stood there a moment longer, as if weighing what else he might say. Instead, he turned and headed out without speaking. Of course, he would tell Basil about what he saw, though Archibald wasn’t quite sure what that was.

  Sighing, Archibald reached for the stack Martin had complied, sorting through it. One of the pages was missing. He got to his feet, going to the table and searching through the papers.

  Picking up one near the top, Archibald realized it was a letter Martin had been composing to his family. He knew he should put it down, that he had no right to peek, but instead, he sank to a seat to read it.

  Martin’s handwriting was neat as always. He carefully spoke to his children, giving them gentle encouragement and doing his best to give them assurances. He told them he was in a safe place now and working for a good man.

  Archibald’s heart twisted at the phrase. He quickly put the letter down and returned to his desk, scrubbing his face in his hands, thinking over what he had read.

  Though it wasn’t complete, it was obvious that the letter had been addressed nearly entirely to his children, as if his wife were nothing more than a ghostly presence, barely in need of acknowledgement. There had scarcely been a sentence directed to her. So either Martin was writing her separate letters, or, more likely, he had nothing to say to her. He certainly hadn’t said anything about her. Most men talked about the families they’d left behind. Archibald had never even seen a wedding ring. Perhaps he was freer than he appeared.

  Archibald shook his head. Foolish thoughts. After all, he was an officer, and there were good reasons for the rules. Aside from the illegality, a man like Martin didn’t need a dangerous entanglement with his superior officer, assuming he’d even be interested in such a thing.

  By the time Martin returned with supper, Archibald had composed himself. If he noticed Archibald’s contemplative mood, he didn’t acknowledge it. They quietly ate together as they always did, as if this was how the world always was and always would be.

  Chapter Eleven

  By early December, rumors ran rampant about the oncoming offensive. Soldiers always
talked, and twice as much when their lives were on the line. Frank wasn’t the only messenger hurrying through the muck, low hanging clouds only adding to the feeling of imminent threat.

  Blythe seemed tenser than ever, but Frank wondered if it was due more to the upcoming battle or the lingering glances they’d been sharing. Hands touched a moment longer than necessary as they passed over papers, they both seemed to smile a little easier in the presence of the other, but quickly looked away.

  On one of his walks to the French lines, Frank noticed soldiers giving him a glare as he passed. Perhaps they saw him as an unhappy portent of their futures. Which probably wasn’t wrong.

  He gave the message to Colonel Adenet and stepped out, finding Dupoy in his usual place. He waved him over. “Good afternoon, my friend.”

  “Bonjour,” said Frank in a purposely terrible accent that made Dupoy physically wince. “How are things?”

  “We should stick to English, yes?” said Dupoy with a smile. “They are as you can see. Tempers are short.”

  “How can you tell with Colonel Adenet? He’s never happy.”

  Dupoy chuckled. “True, true.” He gave Frank a shrewd look. “But the attack is coming, is it not?”

  Frank shrugged. “I’m not at liberty to say anything one way or the other.”

  “Of course not,” Dupoy sat back, watching him. “Still, these attacks are why we’re here. Shooting at each other is our purpose.”

  ”For now, anyway,” said Frank. “Perhaps in a few years’ time, we’ll be enjoying a coffee together in Berlin.”

  “Assuming we survive. The rumors about the Americans are getting louder as well.”

  “They’ve been saying that for at least the last year,” said Frank.

  “That’s the soldier’s diet, is it not? Rumors and mud?” asked Dupoy.

  “Seems like it.” Frank chuckled. He looked up as the Colonel’s door opened. “That’s my sign to go. Talk to you soon.”

  “Be safe,” said Dupoy.