Timepiece

by Merinda Brayfield

  “You, too.” Frank waved goodbye before walking over to accept the reply from the aide coldly staring at him from the doorway. He headed back towards the bunker, hoping that Dupoy and he might in fact have that coffee in Berlin one day.

  Frank adjusted his rifle out of habit, leaving the French lines behind and passing back into the British. Still preoccupied with his thoughts, he came around a corner and nearly walked smack into a soldier.

  The man pulled back as if he were about to shout at him, then his eyes widened in recognition. “Frank.”

  Frank barely had time to realize it was Wilson before he was wrapping him in a hug. “Hello to you, too,” he murmured, returning the gesture. They broke apart and he stepped back, looking Wilson over, noticing how tired and drawn he looked.

  Wilson took his elbow and pulled him along. “It’s good to see you,” he said.

  Frank allowed himself to be guided, though he wondered where they were going. “You all right?”

  Wilson kept his silence as he pulled Frank into an empty bunker and turned to face him.

  Frank studied his face. He knew him well enough to see his eyes were haunted by something more than just his recent loss. Words unspoken hung heavy between them.

  Wilson studied him in return, leaning towards him. A cough from someone passing outside shook Wilson from his reverie and he stepped away, going to a footlocker and rustling it in for a few moments before coming up with, improbably, a carefully wrapped piece of cake.

  “Smith turned nineteen the other day,” he said, not quite looking at Frank. “I have no idea where Harris got the cake, but there’s a piece left, and I want you to have it.”

  Frank wanted to refuse, but he understood the importance of the gesture “Thank you. I’ll take it back with me.”

  “Share it with the Major. Even officers don’t get cake very often.” Wilson gave him a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  Frank’s heart ached. He wanted to touch him, to offer comfort in the way he once had. But it no longer felt right. Perhaps it was the mention of Blythe that stayed his hand. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate it,” he said instead.

  Wilson looked away, speaking quietly. “He’s planning this push everyone is talking about, isn’t he?”

  “Parts of it,” shrugged Frank, feeling much more at liberty to speak with Wilson then Dupoy.

  Wilson bit his lip. Frank could almost hear him trying to collect his thoughts. “He cares, doesn’t he?” asked Wilson, gaze still averted. “I mean, we’re just soldiers, but he wouldn’t have us attack for no reason, right?”

  “He cares far more than he’d ever admit to anyone,” said Frank quietly. “He pretends he doesn’t, but I’ve seen his face when he’s tallying the casualty counts.”

  Wilson steeled himself and turned back to Frank. “Listen, if things go badly…”

  Frank put out a hand to stop him, but Wilson ignored the gesture.

  “I want you to know you’re a good man. We had a real good thing going there for a while, and I know we had to stop...” Wilson drew a breath. “I cared an awful lot for you Frank, and still do, but I want you to be happy. And I don’t mean with that wife of yours.” Wilson looked into his eyes, silently pleading for Frank to understand.

  Frank nodded, glanced towards the open door, then stepped closer. “I know,” he said softly. “You, too. Find happiness where you can.”

  Wilson closed the gap, lips brushing tenderly against Frank’s. A lover’s kiss, full of all the promise they would never see fulfilled. Wilson wore a heartbreaking smile as he squeezed Frank’s hand and stepped back. “Might be too late for me.”

  “Don’t give up,” Frank pleaded, wanting to reach for him and feeling rooted to the ground.

  Wilson scrubbed a hand through his hair and turned away. “You better get going before the Major sends out a rescue party.” His voice was rough as he glanced back at Frank. “Just glad I got to see you one more time.”

  Frank shook his head. “The Americans are coming. Might all be over sooner rather than later.”

  Wilson turned back to his footlocker, ignoring the sentiment.

  Frank took a step towards the door, trying desperately to memorize the way Wilson looked in this moment. “I’ll see you again,” he said.

  Wilson spared him one more glance. “Take care of yourself.”

  Frank took a breath, then crossed quickly to Wilson, kissing him again before he could change his mind. He turned and walked out before Wilson could react, tears stinging his eyes as he clutched the cake and hurried on his way.

  Frank composed himself on the walk back. They’d had a good run, but Wilson was his past. For his future, well… Frank took a breath before opening the bunker door. Blythe was pacing, worry clear on his face. He glanced at Frank, then walked behind his desk and sat down to work as if he hadn’t been seen.

  Despite his own mixed-up feelings, Frank smiled gently at him, knowing that he’d told the truth. Blythe did care. “Sorry I went long. Ran into an old friend.”

  “It’s fine,” said Blythe, not looking up at him.

  Frank put his gun down in its usual place, then carefully unwrapped the cake and set it on the desk.

  Blythe looked at it as if Frank had put down a rat. “What is it?”

  Frank grabbed his chair and two forks, sitting at the edge of the desk. “I believe they call it cake, sir,” he said, teasing gently.

  “I’m sure your friend wanted you to have it,” said Archibald, still eyeing it warily.

  “He wanted me to split it with you. And I would have anyway.” He carefully cut it in half and handed Blythe a fork.

  Blythe hesitated, then took a bite. His eyes closed as he enjoyed the treat on his tongue. Frank couldn’t help but watch the way pleasure moved across the man’s face. Blythe’s tongue darted out to catch a crumb, and without thinking, Frank mirrored the action.

  “Delicious,” said Blythe, opening his eyes and catching Frank’s gaze.

  God, but his eyes are so blue, thought Frank.

  Blythe studied Frank for a moment too long before looking away. “Thank you,” he said, taking his half and sitting back, giving them some space.

  “You’re welcome,” said Frank, taking his own bite. He looked down at the cake. “Damn, this is good.”

  A ghost of a smile crossed Blythe’s face, even as he kept his eyes averted. “I won’t ask where it came from.”

  “No idea,” said Frank, taking his second bite. They lapsed into a comfortable silence as they ate. These stolen moments were comfortable. Just being around Blythe made him relax.

  Blythe put down his fork as he finished. “I suppose that was well worth your tardiness.”

  “I’m glad. And I am sorry to make you worry.”

  Blythe shrugged. “Did you have a reply for me?”

  “Ah, yeah, sorry.” Frank fished for it in his pocket and handed it over. “There are lots of rumors these days.”

  Blythe unfolded the message. “An operation of this size is nearly impossible to keep secret.”

  Frank picked up the wrapper and forks and moved his chair back to his table. Despite everything, he could still hear Wilson’s questions in the back of his mind. “Will it make any difference? This attack I mean.”

  “I pray so,” said Blythe, “For all our sakes.” He picked up his pen and went back to scratching notes.

  Frank looked over at him, seeing the way he leaned over his desk, maps and papers and plans scattered in front of him. Blythe rubbed his temples as he looked between the message and whatever he was working on.

  Quietly, Frank put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re doing your best.”

  Blythe started at the contact but didn’t pull away. “Thank you,” he said. “You… are invaluable to me.”

  “I’m glad to help with all your burdens,” said Frank.

  Blythe turned under his hand and looked up at him, eyes flickering to his lips.

  A knock on the door made Frank yank his hand
away. They stared at each other for a moment longer, then Frank sat at his desk and Blythe called for the person to enter.

  It was a private with a message from elsewhere in the trenches. Frank busied himself with papers, listening as Blythe thanked the private and sent him off again. Frank looked over, but Blythe already had his pen in hand and as he made more notes.

  Always there were more messages, more plans, more work.

  Frank did what he could to help out, as he always did, sorting things, making sure they were filed away. They stayed busy for the afternoon until another knock brought Collins in.

  Collins met Blythe’s gaze, and Frank pushed down a surge of jealousy. It wasn’t his place. If there was anything between them, at least Collins was a fellow officer.

  Blythe nodded to Collins and handed over a sheaf of papers. By the slight tremble in Blythe’s hand, Frank figured it was the final orders

  “Thank you,” said Collins, nodding at Frank on the way out.

  “It’s in God’s hands now,” muttered Blythe. He looked over at Frank. “Dawn. Two days’ time.”

  “You’ve done all you can,” said Frank.

  Blythe nodded, shuffling some papers. “Can you get us dinner?”

  “Sure.” Frank pulled on his coat and picked up his rifle, glancing one more time at Blythe before heading out. He prayed silently as he walked, for Wilson and for all those who would soon be in danger. He felt a twinge of guilt and tried to ignore it. The universe had put him here, and God only knew how much longer his luck would have lasted.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next two days were quiet, though Archibald could feel the building tension of the coming battle. The night before the attack, he stayed up later than usual, dreading his dreams, even if there was really nothing else to do until it was over.

  “You might as well try to sleep,” said Martin from his own bed, watching him shuffle through papers.

  “I suppose you’re right,” muttered Archibald, running a hand through his hair. He lowered the lamp and got out of his shoes.

  “I know I am.”

  Archibald could hear the smile in Martin’s voice. He sighed and got into bed. “It’s not the first battle I’ve planned, but it is one of the biggest.”

  “Natural to be anxious,” said Martin, shifting and settling. “I know how nervous I always was before going over the top.”

  “I’m not the one getting shot at,” muttered Archibald.

  “But you worry and you care. That matters a lot, believe me.”

  “It was easier when it was just numbers. But being here…” Archibald trailed off. It was Martin, too. He reminded him how much he was not a soldier, despite the uniform.

  “Try to rest,” said Martin, interrupting his thoughts. “You’ll need to be awake tomorrow.”

  Archibald nodded, though Martin couldn’t see. Somehow, it was easier to hear these things from him. He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. But sleep didn’t come easily. He tossed and turned, hearing the echoes of gunfire in his dreams. Eventually, he gave up even trying and climbed out of bed. He pulled on his shoes and took out his pocket watch, noting the time.

  Quietly, he walked to his desk and sat down, still watching it. The minute hand moved inexorably forward.

  A few minutes later, Martin got up and pulled on his boots. He gave Archibald’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, then pulled on his coat and gun and headed out. Martin had been doing that quite a bit of late. A gentle squeeze to the shoulder or a soft brush of their hands. Rarely had anyone touched him so often, but Archibald found it comforting.

  On a day like today, it felt especially important. He tried not to think too much about what those gentle touches might mean, aside from simple comfort from one man to another.

  The great guns continued their noise above them. Archibald put the watch down but kept his eyes on it. Martin returned, placing a warm cup of tea by his hand, then went to his table and pretended to work.

  The hands swept to the appointed hour. Archibald closed his eyes, almost imagining the sound of the whistles urging men over.

  Martin suddenly stood behind him, a warm hand resting between his shoulder blades. “You’ve done your best,” he murmured.

  Archibald leaned into the touch. “There’s always something more I could have done.”

  “You can’t live that way,” Martin’s tone was soothing, perhaps the way he spoke to his children when they were upset. “We all do what we can.”

  “This isn’t a scraped knee,” said Archibald, hating the wobble in his own voice. “Men will die today because of the choices I’ve made.”

  Martin moved and Archibald opened his eyes to find Martin drawing his chair up close to him. “That friend I saw the other day, he asked if you cared. I told him ‘more than you let anyone see.’” He picked up one of Archibald’s hands in both of his own.

  This could all blow up like one of the land mines in the field, but Archibald didn’t want to pull his hand away. Instead, he closed his eyes. Martin’s friend, his fellow soldiers, were out there in danger. Men Martin knew were almost certainly crawling through the cold mud, breathing their last. And Archibald had never fired a single shot in all his time in France.

  “You’re a good man.” Martin’s voice was gentle.

  Archibald shook his head and opened his eyes. “No, I’m not.”

  Martin studied his face, then looked down at the watch. Archibald followed his gaze. How many were dying with each sweep of the second hand? The watch ticked by in the silence, Martin’s hand warm as it covered his own.

  Archibald stirred when he knew the retreat order must have been given. He withdrew his hand and closed the watch. “Perhaps you should get us some breakfast,” he said with more strength than he felt, reaching out to sip his cold tea.

  Martin knew he’d start receiving casualty reports shortly. He nodded and stood, looking for a moment like he was about to plant a kiss on top of Archibald’s head before catching himself. “Of course. Won’t be gone long. I’ll fetch you some fresh tea while I’m at it.” He quickly grabbed his coat and rifle, looking at Archibald for a long moment before stepping out.

  Archibald put his head in his hands, taking a shuddering breath. It was done. Basil had placed his trust in him because he was the best man for this job. Now to deal with the aftermath.

  A knock on the door heralded the first messenger. Archibald quickly schooled his features and called for them to enter, accepting a report written by a shaky hand.

  More pages trickled in. Martin reappeared with the promised breakfast, but Archibald could hardly touch it as he read over the pages. He bent over his work, gathering information, trying to focus on facts and figures, not faces and names.

  Late in the morning, he noticed he was missing some reports. He wrote a note and handed it to Martin, who nodded and hurried out. Archibald leaned back in his chair and took a few breaths, reaching over to eat some cold food and think. Not a complete disaster, but not the desired results either.

  Martin returned a few minutes later. Archibald took the pages as Martin picked up the plates and headed back out.

  Rubbing his eyes, Archibald picked up the first piece of paper. An entire unit had been killed. He started to add the dead to his tally. Then he looked at it again and his veins ran cold.

  It was Martin’s former unit.

  Archibald’s heart beat faster as he looked it over again, as if re-reading it would yield a different result. He sank back in his chair and rubbed his face in his hands. To think, just a short time ago Martin had been offering him comfort and assurance while Archibald’s orders were killing his former companions.

  Taking a breath, Archibald reminded himself he needed to focus. Nothing would bring them back, and they were far from the only casualties today. He winced at the thought.

  Archibald pushed away from his desk and walked over to his footlocker to retrieve his flask. He took a swig, feeling it burn. He needed to be steady for Martin’s sake. With
another breath he walked back to his desk, tucking the flask just out of sight as he picked up his pen.

  Martin stepped back inside a few minutes later. He froze as he looked at Archibald, seeing something in his face. “It’s bad, isn’t it?” he asked.

  Archibald swallowed hard and picked up the bedeviled report. “I’m sorry,” he said, offering it.

  Martin closed the door behind him and walked to the desk. He ignored the offered paper and held Archibald’s gaze. “I need to hear it from you.”

  “Your previous unit was in this battle. There were no survivors.”

  Tears appeared in the corners of Martin’s eyes, but he swallowed hard. “All of them?”

  “To a man.”

  Martin dashed at his eyes, dropping his rifle and stumbling to a seat.

  Archibald got up and bolted the door so they wouldn’t be disturbed. The world could wait ten bloody minutes. He picked up the flask and brought it to Martin, but he shook his head, fists reflexively clenching as if he could hold back his emotions with sheer force of will.

  Dragging his chair over and putting down the flask, Archibald sat next to Martin. He put a hand on his back. Martin crumbled and leaned against him, tucking his head against Archibald’s shoulder, shaking with unshed tears.

  Archibald held him gently, as if Martin were a fragile thing that would fly apart at the slightest breeze. Trying to give Martin strength, Archibald closed his eyes, feeling like a fraud. What right did he have to comfort him like this? He’d never experienced battle and camaraderie in the way that he had.

  “Don’t blame yourself,” murmured Martin, seeming to read his thoughts.

  Archibald opened his eyes and rubbed Martin’s back. “They were my orders.” How many lives had been shattered this day? Not just the soldiers, but the ripples and waves washing over their families and friends.

  Martin pulled back and scrubbed his face in his hands, taking a shaky breath. “We all knew what we were signing up for. It’s our job to die for the Empire.”

  Archibald’s heart ached, but he didn’t want to argue the point. “It’s my job to achieve these objectives with as little loss of life as possible. I failed you.”