Timepiece

by Merinda Brayfield

  Archibald could see shaking heads and brows knitted in concern around the room. “The absence speaks to my suspicions. Someone went through our belongings while I was in Paris, including an attempt at accessing a locked trunk containing classified documents. I have no proof that Wright was behind this, but I can’t imagine who else would do such a thing. He certainly didn’t seem concerned about the security breach, though I did report it to him, and as commanding officer, he should have reported it. Nothing classified was accessed, which was why I didn’t report the incident myself.”

  There were more murmurs. General Bennet looked around, then back to Archibald. “Step outside, please.”

  “Sir,” said Archibald, standing and bowing to the table. He went into the hall and slumped against the wall.

  “Colonel,” said the private who had driven him, gesturing him into the kitchen.

  Archibald followed him and he was handed a cold sandwich. “I heard what you did today,” said the young man. “You saved us from being overrun.”

  “You saved yourselves,” said Archibald, taking a bite. “But thank you.”

  The private nodded and smiled. The smile quickly vanished, and he made himself scarce as Basil appeared in the doorway.

  “There are no charges, but you’re being moved back to the rear,” he said.

  “I understand,” said Archibald, finishing the sandwich. “I can do my work just as well from there.”

  “I know,” said Basil. “Come on back to the farmhouse for now.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Archibald, scrubbing a hand through his hair and following Basil back through the house. Hopefully, in the morning, he could check on Frank.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Frank felt numb, as if he was floating and his body belonged to someone else. There was the ghost of pain, but it was like something he knew he should be feeling rather than the actual sensation.

  His mind felt jumbled, memories and dreams blurring together until a few memories stood out. He’d been young, nearly done with school. He and some mates had gone to the coast. There’d been a party, a lot of drinking, a lot of people he didn’t really know. A man maybe a year or so older had led him away from the bonfire. Frank had known for a while that he didn’t like only girls, so he’d taken the opportunity, even if in the morning he wasn’t quite sure what had happened. Nobody had commented on it, and he’d never seen the other man again, so he’d left it alone.

  Other memories. Meeting Julia, thinking she was beautiful. Courting seemed the next logical step. After all, a man with a career should have a wife. They’d been happy, for a little while, in a small house, just the two of them starting off in the world. When Doris had been born, Frank thought she was beautiful, too. She was the most perfect little bundle he could ask for. Somehow, though, after the children came and his career grew busier, the relationship between him and Julia had started to fracture. Even Henry’s birth seemed an ending, not a new beginning. Frank had a son, and Julia seemed to think that meant she didn’t need to bear any more children. There was never any discussion about it, just a door shut before Frank realized it was even closing.

  The intervening years brought loneliness. Surrounded by people and yet totally alone. Sure, there were the men Frank worked with, and the usual social activities, and looking like a happy family when anyone came to call. They’d moved to a bigger house where Julia had her own room and Frank never darkened her door.

  The war came. Men joined up in a ferver of patriotism. Frank looked at his empty life and joined up, too, not sure what to expect, but at least it would be a change of pace. Julia got a job at a factory. He was cheered for donning the uniform. But even as he left England, he wondered if he even wanted to survive.

  War. Blood. Men whose lives had intersected with his only briefly before they were torn away by the violent seas of the battlefield. And then Archibald, like a lighthouse, a safe harbor. Frank had remembered what love could be. But the tides had come in and now he was being dragged back out to sea, watching the light vanish into the fog.

  Frank opened his eyes with a groan, pain slamming into him all at once. Not dead, apparently. He could hear others around him, some moaning in pain, some weeping, some with their lungs rattling from gas or sickness.

  “Here,” said a nurse, appearing by his side with some pills. She helped him swallow them and the sharp edge of the pain started to fade.

  She adjusted his pillows and lifted the blanket to check the bandage on his side. “You’ll be going home soon,” she said brightly, as if she were delivering good news.

  “What?” asked Frank, trying to get his mouth to work with his mind.

  She dropped the blanket and tucked him in. “You were shot in the side and had surgery. You’re recovering here, but once you’re well enough to travel, you’ll convalesce further from the lines, then go home. Now just rest.” She smiled at him, then turned away, moving to another patient.

  Frank closed his eyes, biting back a wave of nausea. London wasn’t home. Home was here. Home was Archibald. Was he all right? Frank opened his eyes again and looked around, but saw no one that looked like him. Maybe he was unhurt?

  For the entire time Frank had been fighting this war, he’d been lucky. Never a major injury, always surviving. Now it felt like all that good luck was repaying him in the worst way possible. He slipped back towards unconsciousness, unaware that his cheeks were wet with tears.

  Frank woke a few more times, never sure how long of a time he’d been out and quickly falling back into dark memories and dreams. Sometimes there was a nurse by his bed, sometimes he was alone. The nurse gave him something for the pain one of those times, but perhaps it was the sound of the other wounded that kept waking him up.

  At one point, he opened his eyes and realized Archibald was standing next to his cot. The nurse quickly moved away to give them some modicum of privacy in the full room.

  Archibald crouched down and covered Frank’s hand with his own. “Surgery went well. You’ll be leaving as soon as you’re well enough to travel.”

  Frank nodded, wanting to say so much and unable to form the words. Relief and worry battled on Archibald’s face, but at least he looked unhurt.

  Reaching into his pocket, Archibald took out a wristwatch. Frank felt Archibald’s hand shaking as he secured the watch around his wrist. “I meant to give this to you sooner,” he said quietly, voice cracking. “You are the best man I’ve ever known.”

  Frank blinked back tears, catching Archibald’s hand as he pulled away. “Archibald,” he managed to whisper, giving him a weak squeeze.

  “I know,” said Archibald, squeezing his hand in return. He glanced around, then risked leaning down to kiss Frank’s forehead. “Goodbye,” he whispered, reluctantly letting go and taking a step back.

  Frank mutely watched him walk away, feeling helpless. Archibald kept his eyes on him until he reached General Whitestone near the door. The general gave Frank a nod that seemed to be a silent promise, then put a hand on Archibald’s shoulder and gently led him away.

  Frank closed his eyes, trying to memorize the way Archibald had looked at that last moment, wanting to reach for him one last time. Tears fell silently down his cheeks as he brought his wrist to his ear and listened to the steady tick of the watch until he passed out again.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Archibald followed Basil out of the field hospital, then took the lead as they headed through the trenches, back to the little bunker. It was the last time he’d be making this trip, and his feet were heavy.

  People turned and looked at Basil, quickly standing at attention at the sight of a General this close to the front lines. Basil gave a few nods but mostly kept his eyes on Archibald.

  They reached the bunker without incident, and Archibald pushed the door open. “Take care of the Corporal’s belongings. I’ll make sure everything else is packed up,” said Basil.

  “All right,” answered Archibald, going to Frank’s table and making sure all o
f his personal items were gathered together. There was a letter to his family with only a few lines among the papers. Archibald swallowed around a lump in his throat and smoothed the letter, taking it over to Frank’s footlocker.

  “He’s not dead,” said Basil without looking at Archibald. “You’ll be able to see him again.”

  “Perhaps,” said Archibald, getting the rest of Frank’s things put away. The silence stretched out between them as they finished up their work. Suddenly, the door was pushed open, and they turned around to find Wright in the doorway.

  “Sir,” said Wright, stepping inside and saluting Basil.

  “As you were. Since you’re here, Lieutenant Colonel, perhaps you can help carry some things. Unless there was another reason you came.”

  Wright glanced at Archibald. Archibald found he wasn’t sorry at all to see there was a bruise on his cheek.

  “Not at all, sir. I simply wanted to make certain that the Major’s belongings weren’t being disturbed again.”

  Basil made a noise, then handed him a heavy trunk. “You carry this. Major Blythe and I can get the rest.”

  Archibald picked up Frank’s trunk and led the way out, trying not to smirk as Wright struggled through the mud. “I’ll take this to the field hospital,” he told Basil as they neared the rear of the trenches. “I’ll meet you at the car.”

  He turned and carried the trunk over, giving it to an orderly to take it to Frank’s bed. There was no way he could face Frank again, not now, not with him looking so drawn and frail in his bed.

  Archibald took one last look at the field hospital, then went to the waiting car. There was no sign of Wright, which Archibald found himself glad for.

  “Ready?” asked Basil.

  “Yes,” said Archibald, getting into the front seat. Basil had insisted on driving them himself, though Collins had tried to talk him out of it.

  “I do want you to take it easy for a few days,” said Basil. “I know you’ll want to throw yourself right back into work, but you’ve been through a lot.”

  Archibald looked at his hands. “I want to be useful,” he said.

  “And you won't be if you’re distracted by other things or caught up in thinking about what just happened. I’ll let you know his status. They’ll move him to a convalescent home in a day or two, once he’s stable enough to travel, then they’ll send him back to London.”

  “They’ll send him home,” said Archibald, looking out at the countryside.

  “Back to his family, at least,” said Basil.

  Archibald looked at Basil, then back out the window. A light flashed in the distance—another shell, perhaps another shattered life.

  Was Archibald’s life shattered? He wasn’t the one who’d been shot, but he ached all the same. They’d always known it would likely come to this, to separation, to moving into a life without the other. It didn’t feel fair or right. He’d be going to bed in his old room, resume the shape of his old life until the war ended, then find the shape of his civilian life again, but there would be a hole where Frank had once stood.

  Archibald scrubbed his face in his hands, a wave of exhaustion pressing down on his shoulders. Basil glanced over at him. “You could go back to England for a rest,” he suggested.

  Archibald shook his head. “No. Not yet. I’ve got too much important work to do here.”

  “Well, I still don’t want to see you in your office for a day or two. I’ll send Collins to kick you out. I know you don’t want to go to Paris either. Just be easy with yourself.”

  “I’ll try,” said Archibald.

  They pulled up to the farmhouse, and Archibald got out of the car, looking up at it, feeling like it had been years since he’d seen it last.

  Louis came out, smiling at him. “Welcome back,” he told Archibald.

  Archibald smiled back. “Hello, Louis. Seems I’m here again, for a while yet.”

  “I’ll take your bag upstairs,” he said, opening the trunk. Archibald didn’t argue, knowing that he wanted to help.

  A couple other soldiers came and took the trunk of documents. Basil clapped him on the shoulder. “Come and have a drink with me, then you should go to your room.”

  Archibald followed Basil to his office and accepted a drink. Basil talked a little more, about unimportant things that had nothing to do with the war or loss. But when his glass was empty, Basil encouraged him to go up to his room and try to rest; he knew Archibald hadn’t got much sleep.

  Climbing the stairs, Archibald once again found himself in his once-familiar room. Louis had left him a fresh basin of water. Archibald locked the door and put his gun on the dresser, then stripped out of his uniform before splashing water on his face and looking in the mirror.

  He looked thin, his eyes haunted, hair starting to fall into his eyes for need of a cut. He looked entirely different from the man who had left this farmhouse for the front back in the fall, full of uncertainty and determination.

  Turning away from the mirror, Archibald climbed into bed, wrapping his arms around a pillow. He’d always known war would change him, if he’d ever truly experienced it. He’d not expected to be so changed by love, or to find that love in the midst of war.

  Closing his eyes, Archibald cautiously prayed. For himself and for Frank, that somehow they would find their way through these trials. That maybe, somehow, someway, they could be together again.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Frank woke as he felt himself shifted onto a stretcher. The weight of the watch on his wrist told him that Archibald’s visit hadn’t been a dream. He heard a few other men softly groaning as they were put on the transport.

  He felt the vehicle start and squeezed back tears. The physical pain, surely, but worse than that was the grief. He was moving away from the front. Away from Archibald.

  The thought that he might never see Archibald again was almost too much for his heart to bear. It had always been the most likely outcome, but as the sound of distant artillery faded he tried to force himself to face the truth. He was going back to London. Alone.

  The vehicle dipped in the road, jarring him, making him cry out in pain. It was too much, and he let himself cry. Anyone seeing him would assume it was the physical pain; they knew nothing of his heart.

  Frank must have passed out again because he jolted awake as he was carried into a building. He found himself put into a bed that was as soft as the bed in Paris had been, but far more empty. The nurse said something to him he couldn’t quite hear, then closed the door as he left him alone.

  The next span of time was hard to measure. He was aware of plain white walls when he was awake, nightmares and memories full of blood and war and pain and loss when he was asleep. Pain was a constant companion, though the medications dulled it. Nurses and doctors passed in and out of his room like shadows.

  Finally, though, Frank began to come back to himself. The physical pain started to fade. He could lay on his uninjured side and stare out the window, watching winter begrudgingly give way to spring. Alone with his thoughts, he could start to think about London, to wonder how he could go home again.

  One afternoon, he woke up to the sound of the door opening and watched as another man was helped into the room, getting him settled into the bed that had been empty since Frank had been aware it was there. The new occupant was missing most of his right arm, and his face bore terrible scars from shrapnel. He waved off the nurse as she offered him a glass of something.

  “Did you need anything?” the nurse asked Frank.

  “No, thank you,” said Frank.

  She looked between them a moment longer, then let herself out.

  Frank looked over at his new companion. “Afternoon,” he said politely.

  “Seems like it,” grumbled the man in a thick Scottish accent, staring at the ceiling. Finally, he looked over, something in his eyes saying that he expected Frank to react with horror to the injuries of his face.

  Frank did no such thing, giving him a small smile instead. �
��Corporal Martin,” he said by way of introduction.

  “Sergeant McDonald,” he answered. “I think you’re a sergeant, too. They said you was, anyway.”

  “Nobody told me, but it’s possible,” shrugged Frank. “Haven’t heard much of anything.”

  “Well, don’t expect me to entertain you,” said McDonald, closing his eyes.

  “Fair enough,” said Frank, wincing as he shifted. Still, even with silence, it felt better to have someone close by, to not be utterly alone with his thoughts.

  Eventually, Frank was allowed out of bed. He was given a cane, with the doctors assuring him that he’d eventually be able to walk without it. But for now, it helped when he felt awake. He began exploring the hospital, sometimes with McDonald by his side. Ostensibly, McDonald was only there to make sure he didn’t fall, but Frank knew it was also his excuse to leave their room. They didn’t talk much, but that was fine.

  The majority of men in the common rooms were happy to be done with war and excited to be going home. Frank could see by McDonald’s reaction that he was as reluctant about going home as he was. There were a few others, like McDonald and himself, lurking around the edges, trying not to dim the happy chatter of the others.

  One afternoon, he was sent to an office he hadn’t been to before. When he limped in, he saw a man looking over his records. He smiled at Frank and gestured him to a seat. “Sergeant Martin, a pleasure to meet you. I’m Mister Green.”

  “Thank you,” said Frank, sitting carefully.

  “You’re going home soon,” said Green, watching him closely. “The doctors say that you’re healing well.”

  Frank shrugged. “I’ve had good care. And I was lucky enough to be helped quickly when I was injured.”

  Green leaned forward. “And how is your mind doing?” he asked.

  Frank looked past him and out the window, noticing the tree was putting out a few early blossoms. “I’ve got nightmares many nights, if that’s what you’re asking. Most of us do.”