“Thanks,” said Frank, making his way over to it and again putting his rifle to the side. He sighed and perched on the edge of the cot, scrubbing a hand through his hair. It was damn quiet here.
Unexpectedly, a cat jumped onto the bed, startling him. Frank took a few breaths to calm his heart before reaching out to pet the animal. “Well, hello there,” he said quietly.
The cat butted its head against his hand, purring loudly.
“That’s Maggie,” a boy said in careful English as he came through one of the far doors.
Frank smiled at him. “And what’s your name?” he asked in French.
The boy’s face lit up and he hurried over, stopping on the other side of Maggie. “Louis. This is my family’s farm. Father is away, so Mama and I help.”
“Ah, she’s the one I saw in the kitchen, right?”
Louis nodded and gently pet the cat. “She cooks for everyone.”
“I’m sure they appreciate it.” Frank switched back to English as he heard approaching voices. “Thank you for introducing yourself and Maggie.”
Louis bit his lip and got to his feet. “I should go help her,” he said, following his lead and going back to English.
Frank nodded. “Can you do me one favor? I hate to ask, but I came in with a Major—”
Louis interrupted him: “Major Blythe, yes?”
“That’s him. Can you find him for me?”
“He said he’d come talk to me after his bath. I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”
“Thank you.” Louis turned and darted out as a handful of young soldiers noisily made their way into the room.
One of the soldiers looked over at Frank. “That cat might have fleas,” he said. “I wouldn’t let her on your bed.”
“With the cold weather we’re having, I’m sure she’s fine,” said Frank. Besides, it couldn’t be worse than the bugs and rats in the trenches.
The soldier shrugged and went to his own bunk. Another soldier stepped through one of the far doors and came out a few moments later with a fresh uniform. “If you want to clean up and change,” he said, gesturing at another door.
“Probably best,” said Frank. He was quite scruffy compared to these neatly trimmed soldiers and could take a not-so-subtle hint. “Thank you,” he said, taking the uniform and pulling open the door.
He wasn’t quite sure what the original purpose of the room was, but it had been turned into something of a water closet. A pump stood in one corner, along with a basin and soap.
Frank hung the fresh uniform on the back of the door and stripped out of his dirty one. He pumped some cold water and hurried through his ablutions.
His thoughts wandered as he washed. He clearly didn’t fit in with these neat and clean young men. What little he’d seen of the place so far told him a lot about where Blythe had come from. There was no shame in the work they did, but it was a world away from the dirty work of the war.
Frank sighed and ran a hand through his damp hair. Blythe was the matter at hand, wasn’t he? The man was as attracted to him as he was to Blythe, he was certain of it. Wilson had told him to find someone, and if he didn’t reach for that promise, he’d regret it.
Making up his mind, Frank dressed, finding the uniform snug, but not uncomfortably so. He looked in the mirror, scratching at the stubble on his cheek. Hopefully, he was presentable enough for Blythe.
Frank walked out with his dirty uniform, unsure where to put it. Louis was doing some sweeping while the soldiers lounged and chatted. He came over and took the dirty uniform from Frank’s hands. “Mama will wash this.” He lowered his voice so only Frank could hear. “Did you see the greenhouse? Major Blythe said to meet him there.”
“Thank you,” said Frank, patting Louis’s shoulder.
He headed out of the barracks and into the winter-sleeping garden. Frank’s feet carried him down a gravel path and to the door of the greenhouse. He took a breath, uncertain what to expect, and stepped inside.
Blythe stood alone in the gloaming light, examining a rose. Frank’s breath caught at his softened features, the way his elegant fingers cradled the unexpected bloom.
Looking up, Blythe’s caught his gaze, tongue darting out to wet his lips.
Frank closed the door behind him. Among all the threats they’d faced that day, this quiet greenhouse suddenly seemed the greatest of them all.
“You wanted to see me?” Frank’s voice was hushed, as if he were standing in a holy place.
“Yes.” Blythe matched his tone, rooted to the spot, his feelings plain on his face.
Frank took a hesitant step closer, leaving space between them.
With effort, Blythe made himself look back to the rose. “We’ll be staying here a few days for a rest.”
“Good,” said Frank. He smiled gently. “If you prick yourself on a thorn, I’ll be forced to tend your injury, and I’m afraid I’m quite without a handkerchief.”
A smile creased Blythe’s face as he withdrew his hand. “Best be careful, then,” he murmured, looking up at Frank, something shy in his gaze.
Frank closed the space between them, heart speeding. This was foolish. They were in a glass house where anyone could see if they stopped to peer inside. And yet, he couldn’t resist.
Blythe reached out and took his hand, holding it as delicately as he’d held the blossom.
Frank wanted to take the final step, wanted to draw him into his arms and sip kisses from his lips, but he held himself back, a sliver of uncertainty under his skin.
Inching closer, Blythe stroked his hand in the gathering darkness. “We won’t be here long.”
“I’m glad,” Frank said quietly. He looked into Blythe’s eyes. “I would rather like to have you alone.”
Blythe shivered and nodded. “I feel the same,” he admitted.
The uncertainty evaporated. Frank brought Blythe’s hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles. “Soon,” he promised.
“Yes.” Blythe seemed to be barely breathing, as if not daring to break the spell.
But one of them needed to. Frank reluctantly dropped Blythe’s hand. “You should go back before you’re missed and someone comes looking for you.”
Blythe hesitated and looked away, running his other hand through his hair as if not wanting the feel of Frank’s lips to fade. “I suppose I should.”
Frank stepped aside. “I’ll be here when you need me.”
Blythe smiled softly at him. “You always are. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” answered Frank, watching as Blythe gathered himself and walked out of the greenhouse. Often, the world was damned unfair. But sometimes, there were little glimmers of hope and promise. He stepped towards the bloom and examined it himself. Sometimes, a rose bloomed in winter.
Frank lingered in the greenhouse a little longer, wanting to give Blythe a chance to keep the appearance of propriety. And, if he was honest, give his heart a chance to slow. When he felt it was safe, he stepped out of the greenhouse, nearly colliding with another man.
Frank caught his balance and looked up. He quickly saluted as he recognized the general. “Apologies, sir.”
“It’s fine.” General Whitestone looked him over. “At ease, Corporal Martin. I wanted to speak with you.”
Frank’s heart skipped again, but he dropped his hand. “Of course, sir.”
“Come inside, it’s a bit cold to have a conversation out in the garden.” The general turned on his heel and headed back for the farmhouse. Frank followed after him, going through the back door, down the hall, and up the stairs to his office. Collins was filing some paperwork when they came in. He poured them each some tea, then gave Frank a nod as he made himself scarce.
General Whitestone settled behind his desk, gesturing for Frank to sit as well. Frank perched in the chair, watching the general sip his cup.
“Go on, I think you’ll find it’s better tea than you get up at the front,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I do want to say thank you for keeping Major
Blythe safe. And I understand you’ve become invaluable to his work.”
Frank was wary, but he picked up his cup and took a sip. Whitestone was right, it was far better than he usually got. “You’re quite welcome. It’s been my privilege to help him.”
He nodded. “And is Major Blythe settling in?”
Frank looked at his tea. “There have been difficult moments, but that’s true for anyone coming to the front for the first time. He is very dedicated to his work, and good at it.”
“I know. Or else I wouldn’t have sent him up.” Whitestone gave him a thin smile. “And having worked with the Major in such close quarters, I’m sure you’ve grown to know the man.”
Frank eyed him. “He’s my superior officer, so no, not that well.”
The general sipped his tea and regarded him. “Major Blythe does speak highly of you. He said you saved his life today.”
Frank shrugged. “I did my duty. Any soldier would have done the same.”
“I would hope so,” said Whitestone. He picked up a piece of paper from his desk. “You joined up two years ago. Police officer. Wife and children at home.”
“Correct,” said Frank, feeling off-balance and wondering what the point of all this was. If it was merely about his conduct as a soldier, would Whitestone be getting so personal?
“Collins says you’re quite dedicated to the Major.”
“Well, of course I am.” Frank’s brow knitted. “As you said, we work closely together.”
“Indeed. And if an opportunity came for you to go home, or to go elsewhere, somewhere more secure, perhaps, would you take it?”
Frank shook his head. “If it was a choice, no. Of course, I’ll obey the orders I’m given, sir. But I would prefer to stay by Major Blythe’s side and continue assisting him.” He took a sip of his tea, glancing down at the desk, feeling Whitestone watching him.
“Then continue to do so,” said Whitestone at last, setting down his cup. “Far be it from me to break up such a fruitful collaboration.”
Frank drained the last of his tea. “Thank you, sir,” he said, looking back up at him.
“And thank you, Corporal Martin. Go on. Dinner is in the kitchen. Enjoy a good meal while you can. You’ll be back to the front sooner rather than later.”
“Yes, sir.” He stood. “I won’t let you or the Major down.”
“I’m counting on it,” the General said, picking up another piece of paper and settling back to read.
Frank saluted, then walked out of the room. He couldn’t help but feel as if he’d passed some sort of test. He wondered just how much Whitestone knew. But he seemed satisfied with Frank’s answers. Frank took a breath and headed down the stairs, mind still buzzing with the evening’s encounters.
Chapter Eighteen
Archibald jerked awake from suffocating dreams. The distant sound of artillery echoed the pounding of his heart. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to slow his breathing. Only a nightmare. He was nearly as safe here as if he were in London.
Shivering, he got out of bed, feeling the nightmare lingering behind his eyes. He glanced out the window towards the barracks outbuilding. He would have had much pleasanter dreams if his mind had returned to that evening’s touch. Archibald unconsciously rubbed his knuckles.
Taking one breath, then another, he pulled on his coat. Perhaps the fresh air would clear his head. Archibald pulled open his door and quietly headed down the stairs, hearing the sounds of men working, even at this hushed hour. War never slept, only grew quiet before roaring back to life.
Archibald made it to the ground floor and slipped out of the back of the house. A man he didn’t know was sitting outside, smoking a pipe. He looked up at Archibald and nodded. “Good morning.”
“Is it?” asked Archibald, looking up at the stars. So many could be seen from here.
“It’s after midnight, at any rate,” said the stranger. “Bad dreams?”
“Yes,” admitted Archibald, looking back over at him. “I’m afraid I haven’t seen you before.”
“Claremont. Just passing through. Going back to the front at daybreak.”
“Blythe,” said Archibald, echoing his lack of rank. “I’m going back in a couple days.”
“If we were wiser men, we’d run in the other direction,” said Claremont, looking out into the darkness. “But it wouldn’t be much of an army if we didn’t obey orders.”
“I haven’t seen much combat,” admitted Archibald. “Got my first taste yesterday, though it was just a shell.”
“You never get used to it. I’ve never quite got rid of the taste of iron in my mouth. But we all do what we must.” Claremont’s pipe glowed red in the darkness.
“I suppose that’s the nature of things. We do what we must, whether or not it’s anything we actually want to do.”
“Put away childish things,” said Claremont, “though there are children fighting in this war. I don’t know how anyone could allow a lad of fourteen to charge into German guns.”
Archibald shook his head. “Someone passed them through, then another person, and then they were in it and had to stick through or be shot for desertion.”
“It’s cruel,” said Claremont shortly. “If a man no longer has the will to fight, why must he be put down like a dog?”
“In the name of discipline, I suppose. As you said, if we were wiser men, we’d all run as fast and as far as we could.”
Claremont made a noise, though Archibald wasn’t sure if it was agreement or simply acknowledgement. He tapped out his pipe. “I’m going to try and rest. Sleep well when you go.”
“You, too,” said Archibald. “And good luck.”
“A soldier needs all the luck he can get,” said Claremont with a mirthless smile. “Luck and those small moments that remind him he’s human.” He glanced at Archibald once more and then headed back inside.
Archibald took a few more breaths of the cold air and then followed, wondering if he might get a few more hours of sleep.
The next morning, Archibald joined the other officers for breakfast. Major Barclay sat down next to him. “Major Blythe, it’s good to see you’ve returned.”
“Only temporarily,” said Archibald, picking up a scone.
“More’s the pity. It would be nice to get to know you better,” said Barclay.
Archibald raised an eyebrow at him. “So you said previously. I’m afraid I’ll be rather busy.”
He noticed some of the other officers glancing at them and turned away from Barclay. “How is your work, Shipley?” he asked the nearest one.
“The usual,” he said, clearly surprised Archibald was even talking to him. “How is the front?”
“About like you’d expect,” said Archibald, wondering what exactly he could even say about it.
“Is it as bad as they say?” asked one of the others.
Blythe shrugged. “It depends on what you’re asking. It’s cold and dangerous, the food isn’t very good, and it’s noisy all the time.”
“But the trenches themselves are pretty safe, aren’t they?”
“Maybe. I suppose it depends on how accurate their artillery is.” He took a bite of his food, trying to take a moment to savor it now that he was thinking of the food back at the front.
“The General sending you back up there?” asked Barclay.
“We haven’t discussed my next assignment, but I suspect it will be on the front somewhere. The Americans aren’t here yet.”
“They’re coming, though,” said Shipley. “I heard there’s a few already, and more on the way.”
Archibald nodded. “It’ll be good to have the backup,” he said quietly, thinking of the many losses he’d already tallied.
The other officers glanced at one another, then turned back towards their food, the conversation moving towards more pleasant subjects. Archibald did his best to ignore Barclay as he ate, not trusting the man’s intentions.
Finally, Collins came down as he finished. “The General would li
ke to see you,” he told Archibald.
“Thank you.”
Archibald dropped his bowl in the sink and headed up to Basil’s office. He knocked and let himself in, finding Basil looking troubled as he sorted through some papers.
“Is everything all right?” asked Archibald, closing the door behind him.
“As much as they can be in the middle of a war,” he said, rubbing his temples. “Have a seat, Archibald. We need to talk about that last attack.”
“Of course.” Archibald took a seat and picked up one of the papers Basil was looking at.
They talked strategy, what went right and what went wrong, and how to deal with similar battles in the future. Debriefing after a battle was familiar, and they both seemed to relax as they worked, Basil making notes and marking a small map of the battlefield.
Finally, Basil leaned back and looked at Archibald. “I’m sending you back to the front, but a different location. It’s more dangerous, Archie,” he said, meeting his eyes. “They’ve reached the trenches a few times, and our defenses are simply not as good.”
Archibald nodded and got up to pour them each a drink. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “And I’ll have Corporal Martin with me.”
“Yes,” said Basil, taking the glass from him and regarding it. “I know I promised you a few days rest, but I think I’ll send you out tomorrow.”
“It’s fine,” said Archibald, sipping his own drink. “It’s quiet here.”
Basil made a small noise and Archibald looked up at him. “Basil, I know there’s something else on your mind.”
Sighing, Basil set down his glass and got up, moving to the window and clasping his hands behind his back. Archibald let him have his silence, waiting for him to gather his thoughts.
“My brother killed himself,” he said finally. “Richard, the one who just went home.”
Archibald looked at Basil for a long moment. “I’m sorry,” he said finally, then mentally kicked himself for the banal response.
“He was nineteen,” said Basil quietly, still looking out the window.
Archibald got up and picked up Basil’s glass, carrying it to him. “It’s not your fault,” he said, realizing he was echoing Martin’s words.
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