Among the Poppies

by J'nell Ciesielski

  “You helped a poor boy, out of his mind with fright. I met him last night, and he told me what happened. Stop blaming yourself.”

  “There’s no one else to blame.”

  “Maybe blame is the wrong word. Maybe it’s destiny.” Cecelia curled her legs under her, spreading her black skirt over her ankles. “I read a bit of your Bible. I was so lonely without you, and it was just sitting there with its frayed pages. I had to see why someone would spend so much time reading it. Somewhere in there, I remember reading over and over that the Almighty has a plan far beyond our comprehension. Something about the seasons having a purpose.”

  “A time to every purpose under heaven,” Gwyn whispered. Her mother had often repeated that verse when Gwyn’s childish complaining got the better of her. “What was the purpose of this? Why Eugenie? Why my mother?”

  “Maybe if your mother were still here, you would never have left home. You’d be changing tires next to your father instead of changing bandages and pulling men from the trenches. Lives are saved because you’re here, and if you don’t believe me, then walk back into that hospital and talk to those boys.” Conviction flared in her brown eyes. “A fire sparked under you when your mother passed. You were never content to sit still after that, not that you ever did.”

  Dropping her gaze, Cecelia plucked a weed growing next to her and spun it between her fingers. “Truth be told, I’ve always been a little envious of that spark. I can see it’s what William likes most about you.”

  What was left of Gwyn’s heart broke. “I never meant to hurt you, Cecelia. Please believe me.”

  “Do you love him?”

  There it was again. Love. Boldly demanding acknowledgment. “Yes,” she whispered.

  Cecelia’s face pinched, the muscles in her throat working. She nodded and swiped at a tear. “I thought I could win him. My money, social position, charms, and pouting lips, but he didn’t want it. He wants you.”

  “I thought you would hate me forever.”

  “I thought so too.” She attempted a watery smile but sniffed instead. “It does hurt, and all the more painful because I’m not sure of which reason. Is it because of him or because I lost? I’ve never been thrown over, and certainly never saw myself in competition with a girl who has grease under her nails. It sounds so spoiled, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Gwyn cringed. Grief had left her dry of tact. “But it was never a competition, not for me. I did everything to avoid him.”

  “He’s a hard man to avoid, especially if you’re stuck with him, or any man, for two weeks in the woods.” Cecelia shuddered.

  “Not all of it was bad.” Gwyn remembered the feel of William’s arms around her. How she longed for them now. “Don’t get me wrong, most of it was the worst experience I’ve ever had in my entire life, but we found moments to smile about.”

  Cecelia stared at Gwyn with a loneliness that penetrated her to her bones. Along with tact, Gwyn’s tears left her devoid of thoughtfulness—bragging about what her friend didn’t have.

  “I didn’t mean that the way it sounds, it’s—”

  “You did mean it. I can tell by your voice when you’re thinking about him.” Cecelia waved a dismissive hand despite the tear winking in her eye. “Not to worry. I’m never down for long. There’s a handsome doctor here who smiles whenever he sees me. If I can get past the mustache, then he might be worth a go.”

  “Major Bennett? He’s a good man. Kind to all the wounded, enlisted or officer. And obviously smitten with you.”

  She nodded, brushing bits of grass from her skirt. A tiny smile pulled at her lips. “He called me bright when I suggested all the linens be assigned to individual patients to cut down on unsanitary beds.”

  “That is a good idea. Those men are hunkered in the trenches so long they’ve forgotten what basic hygiene means, and the difference it makes.”

  Her smile brightened then faded as she looked at her silk shirt. Wet splotches setting into stains dotted her shoulder and front. “Adding clothes to the mix wouldn’t hurt either.”

  Gwyn touched the crumpled lace embroidered with silver roses on Cecelia’s blouse. “I’m sorry about your shirt. All my slobbering seems to have wilted the lace around the collar.”

  “I never liked this blouse. Mother bought it for my great-aunt’s funeral two years ago. She’d burst into tears every time I suggested putting it in the mission barrel.”

  “And yet she sent it to you in a war zone. The perfect opportunity to lob it over to the Germans.”

  “Don’t they hate us enough?”

  “One more insult can’t hurt.” Gwyn’s eyes wandered to the cross marker, freshly cut with the wood grains standing out like braille. She ran a hand over the flat grass blades. “Eugenie would’ve loved that assault.”

  Cecelia raked her fingers through the grass, gathering clumps of dead stalks and tossing them aside. “If we’re still here in the spring, we should plant flowers. This place is much too bleak.”

  “Haven’t you heard? The war will be over by Christmas.”

  “Oh, yes. How could I forget? Roses or daffodils? Maybe lilies. Mother could send a few from her garden.”

  Gwyn didn’t bother to stop Cecelia’s planning. With all the bleakness, it was nice to dream of a more beautiful world, where flower gardens could exist. Someday, God willing, Gwyn could plant her own garden in front of a small home, horses grazing in the pasture and William striding in after a long day of training them. When the war was over.

  “Come on.” Gwyn pushed to her feet and helped Cecelia up. Pins and needles prickled Gwyn’s legs. “I need some help changing a tire, and you need help getting those wet spots out of your blouse. We can’t let the Jerries think we’re sloppy dressers.”

  “I don’t know the first thing about tires.”

  “And I don’t know the first thing about proper care of a blouse, but the world is changing, and we need to keep up with it.”

  The siren shrieked. The soap would have to wait.

  Cecelia kissed Gwyn on the cheek and stepped back. “Be safe, G. I can’t add your name to one of these rows.”

  Sprinting to the ambulance line, Gwyn pleaded for protection for all of her drivers. If they were lucky, orders would come from the south and west. Far away from William.

  William folded the letter into precise thirds and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Reaching into his other pocket, he pulled out the leather journal and flipped open to a page near the back. Just that morning he had drawn Gwyn, a simple sketch of her face, with gray pencil smudged all around the flowing length of her hair. A small smile played on her lips as if she watched him with a secret. He’d agonized for over an hour about her eyes. How to portray their inquisitive glory while keeping the mystery of what she was thinking.

  He stroked a shaky thumb over her cheek. He’d almost lost her. Her letter never stated it, but he read between each heavy word as she described the loss of her friend. And now she was poisoned with survivor’s guilt.

  The stabs of guilt, so painful one might think a knife was cutting your heart out. The difficulty breathing past the knot in your chest, the hollowness of your gut, and the pounding of your head. A lifetime of bearing and discipline had failed to teach him how to rid himself of it. Except to call it a sacrifice of duty and bury the crippling emotion deep down.

  A fierceness to find her roared within him, to hold her close and shelter her from the storm raging all around. Her heart had broken enough over her mother. Now she carried the burden of thinking it should have been her and not Eugenie.

  Slamming the book shut, he dug his fingers into the soft material, cutting gouges down the spine. Helplessness snagged him, pulling him down. She was out there every day, bumping over roads and retrieving men, knowing the next mile might be her last. And there was nothing he could do about it.

  Blast this war. And blast the duty that strangled him at every turn.

  “I see you’re moody again.” Roland loomed in the opening of the du
gout shelter.

  “I see you have nothing better to do with your time than bother me. Again.”

  “As a matter of fact, I just completed a rifle check.” He entered without an invitation. Pulling around a short box, he plopped on top of it, his knees popping. “I can’t wait to feel a real chair beneath me once more. What say you, Will? Or are you more interested in dreaming about soft lips and hair? I’d take that over a chair any day.”

  “Her friend was just blown to kingdom come, and that’s what you have to say? Good God, man. Have some decency.”

  Roland’s gaze dropped to his lap. “I only meant to cheer you. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re doing a poor job of it.”

  “Aren’t I?” He gave a nervous laugh. “I only meant to remind you that she’s still here. Is it wrong to rejoice that Gwyn was spared?”

  William shifted on his box, the rough corners digging into the undersides of his thighs. Shame picked at his conscience. As he had read the letter, his heart breathed a prayer of joy even as the next sentence of her letter recalled the death of another. “If I find a good answer, I’ll let you know.”

  “She was a nice girl. Knew how to change a bandage proper, much better than Miss Hale.” Slipping off his tin hat, Roland rubbed his elbow over the mounded top. “At least Miss Hale has found something better suited to her. I didn’t want to be the one to hurt her feelings and tell her she had no future in nursing, even with that mustached doctor fawning over her.”

  Guilt sliced into William’s shame at the mention of Cecelia. The horror on her face as she discovered Gwyn in his arms was nothing short of betrayal. And then he’d just left Gwyn standing there to plead with her friend.

  William shook off the sour thoughts. What happened was done. Best to press on. “Don’t set your bridle for one filly. There’s more than one in the paddock.”

  Roland sighed, cupping his chin in his palm. “I adore it when you talk horses and women. Tell me, is that how you made Miss Ruthers swoon?”

  “Hardly. The only time she wants to see a horse is as she speeds past on four wheels.” William tucked his journal into his breast pocket, promising himself not to take it out again until he was alone. He’d go mad if he didn’t stop thinking about her. “How are the rifle drills progressing?”

  “Up to par.” Roland sniffed, crossing his arms and staring out the door. “If I didn’t know any better, one might think MacDonald had invented the idea.”

  “He was the one to suggest the men spar while they’re on the reserve line. Keeps them in shape and lets off a little steam.”

  Roland huffed. “How, out of all the battalions in the field, did he end up right where we are? Shouldn’t they send the Highlanders to the woods? Don’t they like that kind of wilderness assault?”

  “What have you got against MacDonald? Other than he tops you by at least eight inches.”

  “He’s got a bad habit of throwing his weight around.”

  William doubted it had to do with the Scot’s leadership capabilities and more with his imposing size. The men respected both, while Roland lacked both. A fact William was careful to tread around. “He has a way with the men because he fought in their ranks before they tacked brass on him.”

  “He’s uncouth.”

  “Couth or not, compared to most of the generals I’ve seen strutting around on the parade grounds, I’d choose to fight alongside him any day. And so would you.”

  “I suppose.” Roland’s nose twitched. “Smell that?”

  “Yes, you need to bathe.” William pulled the pencil from his stationery box and hunched over the supply list he was supposed to complete by the end of the day. His quartermaster had annotated several notes by some of the items while crossing others out that he’d managed to acquire by trading packs of cigarettes and whiskey. “I’m serious. It’s similar to the stuff our groom uses to kill the rats in the stables.”

  “Easier to use a cat. Did Sattler get those extra bayonets he was eyeing from the French last week?”

  “Get off the bayonets, Will, and smell.”

  William sniffed. Sulfur tickled his nose. Men scurried by the boxed shelter unclipping gas masks from their belts. Dread curled into his belly.

  “Fritz has decided to throw us a poisonous tea party.” William grabbed his hat and mask. Roland jumped to his feet, pawing the mask pouch strapped to his side. “Check the men. No one sits. The gas hangs low.”

  Hurrying down the trench, William turned into the nearest observation point and demanded the field glasses. Clouds of yellow-gray rolled over the ground as men leaped from their positions and ran back to the main line. A colonel raised his pistol high into the air and fired, shouting threats to the men abandoning their post.

  “They’re going to suffocate, sir.” Next to William, the observer fumbled to tighten the straps on his mask. “Give me a bloomin’ bullet over that stuff.”

  The Germans couldn’t have designed a better way to torture their victims than through slow suffocation. The French gave the gases a go first, but it was the Jerries who proved to master its employ. Within seconds of inhaling, the vapors destroyed the lungs and sentenced the victim to a choking attack, crippling lines of men without ever wasting a single shot.

  Masked black figures advanced forward, appearing behind the smoke.

  William shoved the glasses back into the observer’s hand and rushed to find Colonel Seymour. He found him in the COMMS trench blasting orders at his aides. “Sir, the Germans are advancing behind the screen of gas.” William snapped a salute.

  Seymour ignored him and continued his tirade on gun position to the shrinking lieutenant in front of him.

  “Sir,” William said. “We are losing ground. The front men can’t hold the line without sufficient reinforcement.”

  Seymour turned cold eyes to him. “Then, Captain, take your men and provide them with sufficient reinforcement. I’ve got two blown cannons to deal with here.”

  William saluted and marched away. Fear galloped down his spine. His men had never charged into a gas explosion.

  CHAPTER 25

  Shrapnel flashed in the air, cutting down the mob of infantry streaming along the sunken road. Ashen-faced and frothing at the mouth, the retreaters knocked past the reinforcements in their desperate flight from the rolling gas and the Germans swooping in behind it.

  “Hold steady and let them pass, men!” William dodged a dust-covered South African who raced past him clutching his throat.

  Roland stumbled as a Zouave dressed in bright red baggy trousers knocked into his shoulder. “And you want to take us there? It’s suicide.”

  William’s jaw clenched. The worst kind of suicide, but he had no intention of being shot for cowardice. The obnoxious gas cloud clogged his nostrils, bringing tears to his eyes. They needed to gain the high ground for breathable air if they had any hope of taking on the Germans. “Keep your masks on, and check the man behind you. We push on.”

  William’s lungs squeezed with his limited intake of oxygen. Hot, itchy, and filled with the musty smell of a storage chest, it was enough to make him gag before they even encountered the Jerries. So much for breathing easier.

  The road bottle-necked with men too wounded for retreat. They stumbled, falling face-first into the dirt, leaving their mates to step around them. Bodies filled with shrapnel and laying with slack mouths were pushed to the side by those still able to walk. William’s boots squished through rivers of blood and vomit.

  A roar of thunder exploded overhead, followed by another and another. Men and packs flew into the air, spiraling to the ground like dead flies.

  “Get down!” William grabbed the two men closest to him and threw them into the ditch. “Take cover!”

  Dirt pounded the backs of his legs as he huddled in the ditch, sheltering a corporal beneath him. Shells dropped like rain, hailing destruction without distinction between the already dead and still living. William glanced over the hunched backs of his men. Gaping holes dotted his line.
If they sat here any longer, the Germans would blow them to bits in less than an hour.

  Keeping to the ditch, William moved his line forward until the shells thinned along the perimeter. He doubled back, his stomach dropping with each fallen soldier. The numbers shrank, but he kept his men moving until a jumbled regiment of dirt-covered Canadians blocked their path.

  “Shore up the Mape’s numbers, men.” William pointed to the thin line of soldiers. Scanning the bars on their sleeves, he found the closest thing to their commanding officer. “Where are they?”

  “Just over that ridge, sir.” Hollow-eyed and green-cheeked, the sergeant major looked close to passing out. “We’ve been holding them back, but we’re the last of the retreat defense.”

  “Where is the rest of your unit?”

  “You probably met them on the road.” He tilted his helmet back and wiped the grimy sweat from his forehead. A cough rattled in his throat. “Didn’t have any protection. That gas came out of nowhere.”

  William ripped his mask off and forced it into the sergeant’s hands. “Here. Take an easy breath.” The man tried to hand it back, but William shook his head. “Then give it to that lad on the other side of you. I can’t see with that thing on anyway.”

  Low crawling his way up the embankment, William peered through the tall grass. Yellow clouds wisped over the ground as the German line marched across the field. Further back, the glint of Stahlhelme-topped soldiers crested a small rise where the rest of the German army awaited the front attack.

  William wriggled back down the slope to where Roland and the sergeant waited. “Pass the order to ready rifles and fix bayonets. We’ll hold position here until I give the signal to charge.” The idea of charging poured ice into his veins, but it was a last resort. No man of his was getting stabbed to death waiting in a ditch.

  Anticipation flooded him, filling his bones until they shook with the effort to restrain it. He peered over the ridge. Just a few seconds more, and the enemy line would have to turn to volley. Five. Four. Three. Two.