FIC: Roses of Picardy [5/?]
Jun. 16th, 2012 03:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Roses of Picardy
Author: Alex
Fandom: War Horse
Rating: Varies, G to NC-17
Pairing: Jamie Stewart/Jim Nicholls
Disclaimer: No money made, no harm intended. Michael Morpurgo owns War Horse and its characters.
Summary: Captured in battle, Major Jamie Stewart faces an uncertain fate.
Warnings: Violence, explicit sexual content.
Notes: Canon divergent [see pairing]
Can also be read on AO3
*
Well, then I want to ask you
Whether it really happened.
Eating, laughing,
Sitting up late, writing each other's verses,
I might invent all that, but one thing happened
That seems too circumstantial for romance.
---Robert Graves, A Letter from Wales
*
Dearest Jamie,
How thoughtless of me! I saw the thin, dispirited little envelope lying atop the post this morning and confess my heart sank just a bit (I know greed is a sin, and yet, and yet!) but when I opened it and read your note I felt paroxysms of guilt. Naturally writing-paper must be hard to come by there (what an old provincial I am! What, no Smythson’s in Mametz Wood? Shocking!) so I’m sending you a packet straight away, along with pencils and some other things you might find useful or cheerful. Haven’t your parents sent you any paper? If not, I’ll be happy to oblige for however long you will need it. I can’t have you sending me letters written on the sides of meat-tins and haversacks, the PO would never deliver them. Therefore, I beg you to consider me your official stationer.
You asked about my leg. I’m pleased to tell you it is improving steadily. In fact to-day Father took me to hospital and the doctors appeared to be delighted with my progress. I have advanced to crutches – if you could see me hopping about, you’d have a jolly good laugh, I think, but I believe I’m getting on well and quite nimble at that. I’ve only smashed two vases thus far. Because of these trifling events Mother, I’m sorry to say, is less impressed. I gather they were nice vases. All joking aside, it feels much stronger and I’m nearly my old self again.
And in light of this optimistic development, I’ve more news. You’ve inspired me, my dear chum – I’ve gone and got a job! Yes, James Riordan Augustine Nicholls is among the ranks of the employed, and what’s more, it’s with the War Office. I shall be assisting in record-keeping and the distribution of pay-books. The only fly in the ointment is that of course the work is in London and it’s a long and eventually costly train ride from Kent every day – and so I shall have to take a flat in the city. As soon as I find one, I’ll begin working. Happily, Father has agreed (albeit grudgingly) to supplement my very meagre income so I shan’t be living in complete squalor. He would still prefer that I work at the manufactory, but who cares about bathtubs, for heaven’s sake – there’s a war on. Sometimes I think he deliberately blinds himself to the truth, but perhaps we all do that from time to time….
….I’ve already met some fellows in the War Office who know you, Jamie, and they speak awfully well of you. Richard Hedrick who said he was with you at Sandhurst asked that I pass on his very best wishes (he took a bullet in the shoulder) and David Colbert, who didn’t say he’d been at Sandhurst but did say you were a topping chap (where do you know him from? I didn’t like to ask) also requested that I give you a halloo and said you were a grand brave fellow for heading back to the field of battle. And so you are – you should be proud. I know I am – proud of knowing you, of being your friend, of so very many things. I realise that time for leisure is precious there, and that even the smallest note from you is cause for rejoicing (this is a dreadfully un-subtle way of urging you to write, if you hadn’t happened to notice).
It’s getting on for half past eleven and I want this to go into the post tomorrow morning, so I shall close here. I hope to hear from you soon. You are never far from my thoughts.
With fondest wishes from your devoted friend
Jim
*
Spring had come, to everyone’s displeasure. As miserable as winter at the front had been – advancing and entrenching had been a nightmare, ferocious and bloody battles ended with corpses stacked like firewood on the frozen ground, and several of Jamie’s men had died of frostbite and exposure – spring seemed worse. Stinking and foul, the mud coated them all; despite the duckboards they’d set up as trench flooring, they wound up wading through it, sinking to knee and thigh. The constant wet meant ill temper and sickness and crippling maladies like trench-foot. The warmer weather meant rats and lice and flies, the smell of urine and faeces and vomit and the sickening, stealthily pervasive stench of rotting bodies. Sometimes Jamie mused that if the opposing forces simply stayed put and did nothing for a few weeks, the war would end much more quickly and at very little military expense.
He had just completed stand-to, the twice-daily dawn and dusk armed drill, and his ears still rang with the after-echo of small arms fire. He permitted the soldiers to fire off a round or two at every stand-to – it relieved a bit of tension and efficiently cut down any enemy creeping toward them. The Germans performed stand-to at the same time, and Jamie decided he’d make dusk stand-to ten or twenty minutes later on varying days. Too much routine made the enemy complacent. Morning would have to remain the same, though – any earlier than an hour before dusk and he’d have a riot on his hands.
Bracing himself against the breastworks of sandbags and wood so as not to slip on the muddy duckboards, Jamie went back to his scraped-out hole – no grander than any of his men’s except for the luxury of a spirit lamp and a wooden desk and chair liberated from a burnt-out schoolroom – and took Jim’s letter from his pocket, re-reading it and savouring every word. Then, as eagerly as a child, he unwrapped the paper parcel and examined the things Jim had thoughtfully sent along: boxes of matches, packets of Woodbines, some chocolate bars, the promised paper and pencils, soap wrapped in flowered paper and sealed with wax. Jamie unwrapped one of the cakes of soap, holding it to his nose and inhaling.
A sweet jab of lilac and lilies emanated from the cream-coloured cake, bringing an ache to his heart and involuntary tears to his eyes. When he’d actually be able to bathe with the deuced thing he had no idea; he was duty officer for the next three weeks, and any more than a quick wash of hands and face was impossible. From the neck down, he was as filthy and smelly as the lowest private. Still, it was a little piece of home, and a cheering reminder of Jim. He smiled at the gifts scattered on his cot. Jim had touched them, had gathered and perhaps wrapped them himself. It looked that way – the package had been assembled and tied somewhat awkwardly, telling of a young man’s haste and impatience with such a domestic, feminine task. Somehow, it was all the more precious for its clumsiness.
Too restless to attempt sleep, he rose, tucked the chocolate bars into his trench-coat pocket, then picked up his lamp and walked back out to the breastworks, nearly bumping into his orderly, Waterson, who was carrying a pot of something steaming-hot and surprisingly, enticingly aromatic in one hand, his own spirit lamp in another. “Supper?” he inquired. “Christ, it completely slipped my mind.”
“Got to eat, sir,” Waterson said. “Can’t have you wasting away. HQ will be down my neck in no time.”
“I’ll be along presently,” Jamie said. “Might as well do arms inspection now. Hang on to it for a bit, will you? Don’t let the rats get it.”
“Lieutenant Trammell can –“
“Trammell’s dead,” Jamie interrupted. “Took a stray this afternoon.” He’d popped up above the fire-step, and a bullet had hit him in the eye. The only mercy had been immediate death. “There’s a letter for his parents on my cot. See that it gets out in the morning.”
Waterson nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Carry on.” Jamie shouldered past Waterson and made his way down to the main fire trench, bracing himself against the sandbags in the darkness. “Arms inspection, gentlemen!”
His men snapped to with gratifying speed. They were all weary, sick, cold, wet, hungry, and yet they fought like tigers, every man-jack of them, as bravely as his cavalry regiment had done. He was proud of them, and yet discipline was tight; no point in letting things slip over pride. Carelessness was as great a threat as the Germans across the sea of French mud.
Jamie nodded as he passed each man. “Good. Good. Very good, Pilcher. Look sharp, Borden. Good. Hampton – good Christ, man, that carbine’s a disgrace. Clean it at once.” He scowled at the private. “And clean yourself up a bit too. God knows we’re all dirty, but we needn’t descend to the level of savages – not yet. Straighten that tunic up and fix your puttees. Come on, snap to it – and that goes for all of you.” His voice carried easily in the stillness. “When the jerries see you attacking with uniforms crisp and rifles gleaming, gentlemen, you will strike fear into their hearts. Fear will make them hesitate, and their hesitation will be their undoing.” He spoke with such crisp authority that he almost believed it himself. Up and down the line, the men tidied themselves up as much as they could, and he was heartened. “Excellent. Well done, gentlemen. Thank you.” He made his way down the line and was about to turn back when he saw a huddled figure near the latrine. Jamie held up his lamp. “What’s the matter, man? Are you ill?”
The figure straightened, and Jamie recognised Willie Doyle, a young man almost as tall as Jamie, but he couldn’t have been more than nineteen and thus still had a puppyish clumsiness, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with his arms and legs. Willie’s face was red, and there were streaks on his face, the clean tracks of tears. Willie stiffened to attention and saluted. “Sir.”
Jamie winced as a breeze blew the stench of the latrine toward them. “What the devil are you doing lurking in the dark?”
“Nowt, sir. Felt a bit sick, is all.”
“Right. Well, get back to the line. Where’s your weapon?”
“Got it right here, sir.” The young private’s voice trembled.
“Sick, eh?” Jamie raised the lamp, illumining the young man’s face, then gentled his voice a bit. A niggling suspicion teased at him. “Homesick, lad?”
“A bit, sir.”
“How old are you, Doyle?”
“Eighteen, sir.”
Jamie lifted an eyebrow. “Funny – why don’t I believe you?”
“I am, sir!” Doyle insisted, squaring his shoulders. “I’ll head back, sir.”
“You can head back when you tell me the truth, Private.”
Doyle’s shoulders sagged. “Sixteen, sir.”
Jamie sighed. “It was your height that got you in, I expect. You do realise it’s a crime to falsify papers?”
“I know that, sir. I didn’t mean any harm. I just wanted to fight.”
And regret it now, like as not. Jamie shook his head. “Shall I send you home? I should, you know – technically, you’re here under false pretences.”
“Christ, no, sir. I’d cop it for sure. My mam was like to kill me when I did the bolt – my dad wrote that she’s only just forgiven me, sir. Don’t send me back, sir.”
“Listen here, Doyle. We all get homesick from time to time. There’s no shame in it. But mind you keep your storms and tears to yourself, the way you did just now. I can’t have lachrymose moods infecting my company, is that clear?”
Doyle nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Keep that chin up. Make your parents proud.”
“Sir.” Doyle’s shoulders went up again.
“Good man.” Jamie hesitated; ought he to say something more reassuring? He hadn’t Jim’s easy-going demeanour with people, and in the service discipline and toughness was the order of the day. But he felt as if he should say something more to this boy, who was just a boy after all, whose mother was doubtless terrified for her son and who by all rights should have been able to clasp him close for another few years. “Back to your post.”
“Yes, sir.” Doyle shouldered his rifle and began the slippery walk back to the line.
“Doyle!”
The boy executed a gawky little turn on his heel and righted himself. “Sir?”
“When next you write your parents, you tell them I said you’re an asset to this company and we’re damned lucky to have you.”
Doyle’s face broke into a grin. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Slowly, Jamie walked back to his hole, nodding absently at the salutes and cap-tugging of his men. They were a cracking good company, Yorkshiremen mostly, blunt and a bit rough-hewn, but respectful and brave and good-humoured. And, thank God, they knew nothing of his disgrace in Belgium. He wondered if their respect would dwindle if they did know.
Jamie nodded thanks to Waterson and took the now-cooled pot from him. “What is it?”
“Beef stew, sir. Not bad at all.”
“Right. Thanks. Oh – here. A friend sent a few of these.” Jamie proffered one of the chocolate bars.
“Dear God, I’ve been dreaming about one of these. Thank you, sir. Mattingly’s just brought your tea, sir – it’s there on the table, nice and hot. Get some sleep, sir.”
“Thanks, Waterson. Dismissed.” Jamie placed the lamp on the desk and slumped into his chair. Slowly, he ate the watery stew, over-salted to compensate for its consistency, and took out Jim’s letter once more. He read and re-read it, nodding over his tea, and finally fell asleep at the desk, too tired to crawl into his cot, but soothed and contented nonetheless.
*
Dear Jamie,
I suppose you think I’m a perfect dunderhead, asking you to send me some token from France, but you’re very good not to say so. Thanks ever so much for the pebble – where ever did you find such a pretty one? It looks as though there are flowers pressed into the stone. I’ll confess it; I never did get any ‘souvenirs’ from Europe. I suppose I should have asked to keep the bullet they dug out of my leg, but I didn’t think of it at the time – I just wanted it out! Pity. Also, it’s sentimental of me, but I rather like having a keepsake, something that reminds me of you and that I can tuck into my pocket and carry about. Yes, I said it was sentimental, you needn’t snigger at me. Don’t pretend you’re not.
Old chap, it was sobering, to say the least, to read of the latest news. I know you’re not permitted to say exactly where you are, or what’s happening, but I read all the papers avidly and I can’t help but worry. I know you say you’re in good health and certainly your letters are full of cheer, but do tell me if anything goes amiss, won’t you? I hope you realise you may say anything to me, as I feel I might to you.
You asked me for all sorts of news and I have such a lot of it! First, you will notice the return address on the envelope is markedly different – yes, I’m in London at last. That silver plate did absolute wonders for healing and I’m using a cane to get about. It looks quite dashing and I tend to get looks of admiration rather than pity now, which comes as something of a relief. It’s not a pleasant thing, being the object of pity. I suppose it makes people uncomfortable to see others in obvious pain – or is it guilt at being well and whole while others are not? In any event, I suspect it’s a sight one must get used to soon, for more wounded arrive every day.
But back to my news. I’m settled into my flat. I’ll be the first to admit it’s not the smartest section of London, but it’s only a short tram ride to the office, and it’s cosy and quite suitable for my needs. Pansy is in a perfect wax, though – I think she had some notion of using my flat as her headquarters for some sort of dizzy social life, and I told her absolutely not. She’s perfectly welcome to spend a night now and again, if she doesn’t object too strenuously to bachelor living (I do have a twice-weekly housekeeper, thank heavens) but she’s certainly not going to plant herself here permanently – she can jolly well get her own flat, or share one with another girl. It would probably be good for her. I wonder if I shouldn’t take up permanent residence here – London is the heart of things, and even though Father will likely yank away my supplement and demand my return to Kent the moment the war ends – yes, I might stay after all. I’ll get another job – I mean to make myself useful. And it’s not especially close to your parents’ home (which you said was in Mayfair, I believe? Remind me) but it’s the same city, at least, which would be awfully pleasant and convenient when you return to Blighty.
I can’t say much about the work as you probably know, but I can tell you I’m involved in record-keeping, and it’s making the days fly by at top speed. Some of the other chaps at the office are wounded, like myself, and we all feel better being able to pull our weight and continue to do our bit. Jamie, I still think of that last night and I’m sorry for my cynicism. It was ungracious of me, and while I am beginning to truly wonder about the necessity of this war (more on that another time, I think) at the same time I’m proud of you and of every soldier and sailor who’s risking his life for king and country.
It does sound like a fascinating mix of fellows in Company ‘A’ – are you keeping them all in line? No need to ask, I know you are. They sound like topping lads. Do keep sending me anecdotes, they are immensely heartening and put a smile on my face. I like knowing you’re in solid company. You spoke of trench-digging parties at night, but something tells me there’s a decided lack of festivity about them…tell me more if you can. I hope conditions are a little more tolerable now that the rains have stopped – although now you must contend with the heat of summer. Still, it’s August, and autumn is round the corner. Which reminds me – it’s been nearly ten months since I’ve seen you. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a leave?
You’ll likely think it foolish, but I asked my mother to add your name to her list of intentions as she says the Rosary nightly. Yes, it’s Papist mysticism, but surely it can’t do any harm, and Mother is so dear and sweet that I can’t help but think her honest devotion wings its way speedily to God’s ear, and perhaps He will listen, and protect you. She’s a far better intermediary than I – I don’t think He would listen to me quite as readily.
My luncheon hour is about finished and so I shall have to end here, but I intend to add a postscript tonight as today’s post has been collected already.
Jim
p.s. At home now and have just finished the evening papers. Another long casualty list. My heart is in my throat every time I see one, and afterward I’m grateful and quite sick with relief. Jamie, when will this all end? How many more men must die before nations can come to some accord?
I’m sorry. I promised I should be cheerful in my letters to you. Something to end on a high note – last week-end I taught Pansy to drive (despite her surfeit of beaux, she’s still quite in love with you – those tins of chicken paste and sardines, she insists I inform you, were presents from her and not from me, so do please send her a note and get her off my back). The good news is that we’re both still alive. I’m being unjust. She’s actually most competent behind the wheel, but she is a terror. I’ve never seen anyone drive so fast, or shriek quite so gleefully at the sensation of blinding speed. I believe I shall enter her in a race and bet my earthly fortune on the girl. I suspect this is only the beginning of trouble, though – she’s taken to hemming up her skirts and talking of suffrage. My parents are scandalised. I should probably not be encouraging her, but as I consider myself an enlightened fellow, I am. Why shouldn’t she vote, after all? I call her silly, and so she can be, but the truth is that she’s brighter than many men I know and beginning to take an interest in the world around her, which can only be to the good – I hope! Now, having spoken so boldly, I shan’t ask her to drive me anywhere. She frightens me half to death.
Do write as soon as you can, and know that as ever my thoughts and prayers go with you.
Your most devoted (if ever so slightly dented from my last motor-car ride) friend,
Jim
*
Jamie stared down at the grain of the wooden table and traced the tip of his finger round a whorled pattern in the scrubbed surface. Nature moved in extraordinary fashion, in spirals and curves of wood, in the sinuous stripes of the marmalade cat snoozing on the chair nearby, in the bright scattering of jewelled stars outside. And mankind trampled it all in straight, brutal lines.
Taking a packet of Woodbines from his pocket (Jim kept him well-supplied; he was far more considerate than Jamie’s parents, who hadn’t sent more than a handful of letters – full of absent kindliness, to be sure, but far less effusive than Jim’s cheery missives), he lit one and inhaled deeply, exhaling smoke through his nose. This meeting made him uneasy; there were sentries outside, and the perimeter had been carefully checked, but he still felt a bit frightened at its haste, its air of secrecy. He was no spy, and had no desire to be one. And his contact, whoever it was, was late.
He flicked cigarette ash into his cupped hand and gazed around the room. Lit by a few aromatic beeswax candles, it was a cheery kitchen, spotlessly clean if not luxurious. The lady of the house had fed him a marvellous dinner of crisply roasted chicken with carrots and parsnips and then had retired an hour ago, bidding him good-night in liquid syllables that Waterson translated for him. He’d thanked her in his atrocious French and now wondered if the person he was supposed to meet had been waylaid somehow.
“Sir.” Waterson’s voice came softly from the door. “He’s here.”
Jamie rose to his feet and was taken aback to see Colonel Alexander McMuir, the man who’d recruited him in London. He saluted smartly. “Sir – good God, we’d thought you’d –“
“Been killed, I know.” Colonel McMuir, a lean, craggy man with glinting green eyes, gestured toward the table and dropped a large haversack on it. “Sit, Stewart. Need a word with you.”
“I’m delighted to see you’re well.” Jamie took his seat and peered at the man across from him. He was out of uniform, wearing canvas trousers, rough work boots and a sort of sailor’s pea-jacket. His dark-blond hair had grown longer than military standard, and he was unshaven, several days’ stubble covering his chin and cheeks.
“Aye, I’m well enough. Sorry for the deception, but it were necessary.” McMuir gave him a narrow smile with very little mirth in it. “Someone at the War Office got wind that I spoke fair German, and the rest is history, none of which I’m at liberty to discuss. Christ, is that a Woodbine? You wouldn’t have another, would you?”
Jamie pushed the packet across the table. “Keep it.”
“Ta for that.” McMuir stood and began to open cupboards. “I reckon Simone’s got something for the ash in here.”
Jamie raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Simone? He waited patiently as McMuir returned to the table, sat, and placed a chipped pottery bowl between them. “There we go.” He lit his cigarette and drew deeply; the end glowed red in the semidarkness. “I reckon you’re wondering why you’re here.”
“Yes.”
“Got a present for you.” McMuir reached into the haversack and withdrew an object, spreading it out on the table with long, surprisingly graceful hands. It was a sort of canvas hood, with a rectangular glass eye-piece.
Jamie regarded the hood dubiously. “What the devil’s that?”
“I’ve got a hundred and fifty of these ugly bastards for your company, Stewart, as well as some bloody grim news. The Jerries have developed a poison gas for widespread use in the trenches, and word is they’re ready to use it.”
Jamie felt his hostess’ splendid dinner give an almighty lurch in his belly. “Good Christ.”
“Aye.” McMuir nodded. “They’re calling it mustard gas, because it’s a bit yellowish and it even smells that way, but what it does, Stewart – frigging horrible. Blisters on the skin filled with pus, and the shite penetrates clothes, too. There’s vomiting and blindness and Christ knows what else because I didn’t stick round to find out, but I got enough information to scare the piss out of me.” He drew on his cigarette, briefly illuminating the hollows beneath his eyes. “They send ‘em over in canisters, and you’ve got to get the masks on before you see the gas, because the wind will pick it up in the blink of an eye.”
“And when –“ Jamie’s voice hitched a bit. “When do they intend to begin using it?”
“Soon. So you need to start drilling immediately.”
“And if it penetrates clothing, what’s the use of this?” Feeling ill, Jamie stabbed at the ominous-looking hood with a finger. Fear began to insinuate itself inside him. Poison.
“It’s treated canvas, woven tight, and there’s a compound inside that will protect you from the gas. As for the rest of the skin – even if it’s bloody hot, the men have to be in full kit from now on if they want to protect themselves. Layers will help. We’re not abandoning you to slaughter, Major.”
“How reassuring,” Jamie said softly, bitterly. Poison. How right Jim had been: it wasn’t their war any longer. Perhaps it never had been.
McMuir rubbed his eyes and got to his feet. “Aye. It’s rotten, every bit of it, but we’ve got to see it through now. I’m for bed – haven’t slept for two days. Simone said that you and your lads can bunk wherever you find room, but you’ve got to clear out before dawn.” He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Jamie. “Orders. Drill instructions. The lot. I don’t expect I’ll see you again, so I’ll say good-bye here.” He extended his hand.
Jamie shook it firmly, but frowned. “You don’t –“
“Have you people at home, Stewart?”
“Yes.” Jamie thought briefly of his parents and Philip, but the image of Jim’s face blazed through like a beacon. “Yes, I do.”
“I reckon they’re expecting you to come home in one piece. See that you do.” He nodded shortly, then made his way to the rickety wooden staircase and climbed up, disappearing into the darkness.
Jamie heard the heavy tread of McMuir’s boots, then the unmistakable sound of same dropping one by one to the floor. There was a soft voice, then an equally soft answer, and the creak of wood. Jamie rose, gathered up the hateful hood, extinguished the candles, and left the house quietly.
Waterson stood outside with the two sentries. Even in the starlight they all looked exhausted. “Where’s the parcel?” Jamie asked.
Waterson pointed to a loaded cart. “There, sir.”
“Right. Let’s get back. No time to lose.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jamie tucked the hood inside the cart and walked alongside it, guiding it as the sentries pulled. His hand went to his pocket, where Jim’s latest letter reposed. He’d meant to read it once more before bed, but it would have to wait. Still, he remembered much of it.
I need those prayers, Jim. God help us all.
*
Fog lay over the trenches, a thick, drifting blanket of mist, pale-grey in the dawn. The men of Company A had just finished stand-to and were enjoying breakfast, inasmuch as one could enjoy a hasty breakfast in a muddy trench. Autumn had brought rain again, and cold weather, and mud. Despite it, the mood was merry. The post had come yesterday, and several lucky men had packages from home, bulging with tea and cakes and whatever other edibles worried families could send their fighting boys. Those who hadn’t families to send supplies looked on, a bit shamefaced and sad, but Jamie’s men were a generous lot and soon everyone had something, chocolate, shortbread, shared tins of sardines. They ate and drank in the quiet and stillness until the sound of gunfire filled the air.
“Posts!” Jamie roared, and leapt to his feet. His men moved with gratifying speed, making room for him as he leapt toward the fire-step with weapon drawn.
Strangely, the firing had ceased. Jamie frowned, and cautiously raised his head, pressing his field-glasses to his eyes, trying to see through the drifting fog.
There was nothing. No advancing troops, no flash of fire, no staccato drumbeat of machine-guns. Only drifting fog and silence.
And then Jamie saw it – a yellowish-brown cloud, thick and hazy, carried toward them on the wind.
“MASKS ON! CLEAR OUT!”
They’d drilled ferociously, and kept their masks close; off came the helmets, on went the masks, back on went the helmets. They looked like bizarre executioners, every last one of them. Gloves next, and those who weren’t in full kit hastened into it as the wind carried the poison closer.
Over the top they went, into hell.
*
Dearest Jamie,
I can’t tell you how happy I was to receive your letter. Lately I swear I’ve scarcely finished one before I get the queerest sensation in my chest, as if someone were squeezing my heart with a mailed fist, and I realise it’s anxiety and I’m already waiting for the next letter, hoping and praying until I receive it. I am trying not to be gloomy, but I feel as if I’m surrounded by death on all sides, Jamie, and can’t do a thing about it. If only there were some way to speak to you every day, just for a moment, to know you’re well.
Enough, enough dreariness. I apologise. I had a bit of a surprise yesterday – I met your mother! I gather our regimental photographs have some place of honour in the Stewart household, for she seemed to recognise me immediately. I can see where you get your aristocratic looks; she’s quite a beauty, I was utterly charmed by her. She insisted on taking me to tea at the Savoy, a new and rather luxurious experience for me, and we had the most jolly time.
Now, old man, what on earth did you tell her? I fear you painted a very flattering picture of me. If her account is to be believed, I swooped into your prison like the Scarlet Pimpernel, sword flashing, hauled you over my shoulder, and swung out on a rope! I exaggerate, but only slightly; she treated me as the most heroic of rescuers, when you and I both know the truth is somewhat different, to wit: I was shot and you carried me. I did my best to correct her misperceptions, but I’m afraid she insists on seeing things her way. (Stubbornness must be a family trait!) She said that Christmas was a dreary affair without you and Philip, and she longed for the war to end. I heartily agreed with her.
It’s cold and rainy, typical for February, but I’m well enough. My leg twinges in the damp; the doctors say it won’t last forever, and I’m determined to be optimistic – ah! New post, hurrah! More later.
The sweetest word in the English language – LEAVE.
You’re coming home. However brief – oh, Jamie!
Yours,
Jim
Author: Alex
Fandom: War Horse
Rating: Varies, G to NC-17
Pairing: Jamie Stewart/Jim Nicholls
Disclaimer: No money made, no harm intended. Michael Morpurgo owns War Horse and its characters.
Summary: Captured in battle, Major Jamie Stewart faces an uncertain fate.
Warnings: Violence, explicit sexual content.
Notes: Canon divergent [see pairing]
Can also be read on AO3
*
Well, then I want to ask you
Whether it really happened.
Eating, laughing,
Sitting up late, writing each other's verses,
I might invent all that, but one thing happened
That seems too circumstantial for romance.
---Robert Graves, A Letter from Wales
*
Dearest Jamie,
How thoughtless of me! I saw the thin, dispirited little envelope lying atop the post this morning and confess my heart sank just a bit (I know greed is a sin, and yet, and yet!) but when I opened it and read your note I felt paroxysms of guilt. Naturally writing-paper must be hard to come by there (what an old provincial I am! What, no Smythson’s in Mametz Wood? Shocking!) so I’m sending you a packet straight away, along with pencils and some other things you might find useful or cheerful. Haven’t your parents sent you any paper? If not, I’ll be happy to oblige for however long you will need it. I can’t have you sending me letters written on the sides of meat-tins and haversacks, the PO would never deliver them. Therefore, I beg you to consider me your official stationer.
You asked about my leg. I’m pleased to tell you it is improving steadily. In fact to-day Father took me to hospital and the doctors appeared to be delighted with my progress. I have advanced to crutches – if you could see me hopping about, you’d have a jolly good laugh, I think, but I believe I’m getting on well and quite nimble at that. I’ve only smashed two vases thus far. Because of these trifling events Mother, I’m sorry to say, is less impressed. I gather they were nice vases. All joking aside, it feels much stronger and I’m nearly my old self again.
And in light of this optimistic development, I’ve more news. You’ve inspired me, my dear chum – I’ve gone and got a job! Yes, James Riordan Augustine Nicholls is among the ranks of the employed, and what’s more, it’s with the War Office. I shall be assisting in record-keeping and the distribution of pay-books. The only fly in the ointment is that of course the work is in London and it’s a long and eventually costly train ride from Kent every day – and so I shall have to take a flat in the city. As soon as I find one, I’ll begin working. Happily, Father has agreed (albeit grudgingly) to supplement my very meagre income so I shan’t be living in complete squalor. He would still prefer that I work at the manufactory, but who cares about bathtubs, for heaven’s sake – there’s a war on. Sometimes I think he deliberately blinds himself to the truth, but perhaps we all do that from time to time….
….I’ve already met some fellows in the War Office who know you, Jamie, and they speak awfully well of you. Richard Hedrick who said he was with you at Sandhurst asked that I pass on his very best wishes (he took a bullet in the shoulder) and David Colbert, who didn’t say he’d been at Sandhurst but did say you were a topping chap (where do you know him from? I didn’t like to ask) also requested that I give you a halloo and said you were a grand brave fellow for heading back to the field of battle. And so you are – you should be proud. I know I am – proud of knowing you, of being your friend, of so very many things. I realise that time for leisure is precious there, and that even the smallest note from you is cause for rejoicing (this is a dreadfully un-subtle way of urging you to write, if you hadn’t happened to notice).
It’s getting on for half past eleven and I want this to go into the post tomorrow morning, so I shall close here. I hope to hear from you soon. You are never far from my thoughts.
With fondest wishes from your devoted friend
Jim
*
Spring had come, to everyone’s displeasure. As miserable as winter at the front had been – advancing and entrenching had been a nightmare, ferocious and bloody battles ended with corpses stacked like firewood on the frozen ground, and several of Jamie’s men had died of frostbite and exposure – spring seemed worse. Stinking and foul, the mud coated them all; despite the duckboards they’d set up as trench flooring, they wound up wading through it, sinking to knee and thigh. The constant wet meant ill temper and sickness and crippling maladies like trench-foot. The warmer weather meant rats and lice and flies, the smell of urine and faeces and vomit and the sickening, stealthily pervasive stench of rotting bodies. Sometimes Jamie mused that if the opposing forces simply stayed put and did nothing for a few weeks, the war would end much more quickly and at very little military expense.
He had just completed stand-to, the twice-daily dawn and dusk armed drill, and his ears still rang with the after-echo of small arms fire. He permitted the soldiers to fire off a round or two at every stand-to – it relieved a bit of tension and efficiently cut down any enemy creeping toward them. The Germans performed stand-to at the same time, and Jamie decided he’d make dusk stand-to ten or twenty minutes later on varying days. Too much routine made the enemy complacent. Morning would have to remain the same, though – any earlier than an hour before dusk and he’d have a riot on his hands.
Bracing himself against the breastworks of sandbags and wood so as not to slip on the muddy duckboards, Jamie went back to his scraped-out hole – no grander than any of his men’s except for the luxury of a spirit lamp and a wooden desk and chair liberated from a burnt-out schoolroom – and took Jim’s letter from his pocket, re-reading it and savouring every word. Then, as eagerly as a child, he unwrapped the paper parcel and examined the things Jim had thoughtfully sent along: boxes of matches, packets of Woodbines, some chocolate bars, the promised paper and pencils, soap wrapped in flowered paper and sealed with wax. Jamie unwrapped one of the cakes of soap, holding it to his nose and inhaling.
A sweet jab of lilac and lilies emanated from the cream-coloured cake, bringing an ache to his heart and involuntary tears to his eyes. When he’d actually be able to bathe with the deuced thing he had no idea; he was duty officer for the next three weeks, and any more than a quick wash of hands and face was impossible. From the neck down, he was as filthy and smelly as the lowest private. Still, it was a little piece of home, and a cheering reminder of Jim. He smiled at the gifts scattered on his cot. Jim had touched them, had gathered and perhaps wrapped them himself. It looked that way – the package had been assembled and tied somewhat awkwardly, telling of a young man’s haste and impatience with such a domestic, feminine task. Somehow, it was all the more precious for its clumsiness.
Too restless to attempt sleep, he rose, tucked the chocolate bars into his trench-coat pocket, then picked up his lamp and walked back out to the breastworks, nearly bumping into his orderly, Waterson, who was carrying a pot of something steaming-hot and surprisingly, enticingly aromatic in one hand, his own spirit lamp in another. “Supper?” he inquired. “Christ, it completely slipped my mind.”
“Got to eat, sir,” Waterson said. “Can’t have you wasting away. HQ will be down my neck in no time.”
“I’ll be along presently,” Jamie said. “Might as well do arms inspection now. Hang on to it for a bit, will you? Don’t let the rats get it.”
“Lieutenant Trammell can –“
“Trammell’s dead,” Jamie interrupted. “Took a stray this afternoon.” He’d popped up above the fire-step, and a bullet had hit him in the eye. The only mercy had been immediate death. “There’s a letter for his parents on my cot. See that it gets out in the morning.”
Waterson nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Carry on.” Jamie shouldered past Waterson and made his way down to the main fire trench, bracing himself against the sandbags in the darkness. “Arms inspection, gentlemen!”
His men snapped to with gratifying speed. They were all weary, sick, cold, wet, hungry, and yet they fought like tigers, every man-jack of them, as bravely as his cavalry regiment had done. He was proud of them, and yet discipline was tight; no point in letting things slip over pride. Carelessness was as great a threat as the Germans across the sea of French mud.
Jamie nodded as he passed each man. “Good. Good. Very good, Pilcher. Look sharp, Borden. Good. Hampton – good Christ, man, that carbine’s a disgrace. Clean it at once.” He scowled at the private. “And clean yourself up a bit too. God knows we’re all dirty, but we needn’t descend to the level of savages – not yet. Straighten that tunic up and fix your puttees. Come on, snap to it – and that goes for all of you.” His voice carried easily in the stillness. “When the jerries see you attacking with uniforms crisp and rifles gleaming, gentlemen, you will strike fear into their hearts. Fear will make them hesitate, and their hesitation will be their undoing.” He spoke with such crisp authority that he almost believed it himself. Up and down the line, the men tidied themselves up as much as they could, and he was heartened. “Excellent. Well done, gentlemen. Thank you.” He made his way down the line and was about to turn back when he saw a huddled figure near the latrine. Jamie held up his lamp. “What’s the matter, man? Are you ill?”
The figure straightened, and Jamie recognised Willie Doyle, a young man almost as tall as Jamie, but he couldn’t have been more than nineteen and thus still had a puppyish clumsiness, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with his arms and legs. Willie’s face was red, and there were streaks on his face, the clean tracks of tears. Willie stiffened to attention and saluted. “Sir.”
Jamie winced as a breeze blew the stench of the latrine toward them. “What the devil are you doing lurking in the dark?”
“Nowt, sir. Felt a bit sick, is all.”
“Right. Well, get back to the line. Where’s your weapon?”
“Got it right here, sir.” The young private’s voice trembled.
“Sick, eh?” Jamie raised the lamp, illumining the young man’s face, then gentled his voice a bit. A niggling suspicion teased at him. “Homesick, lad?”
“A bit, sir.”
“How old are you, Doyle?”
“Eighteen, sir.”
Jamie lifted an eyebrow. “Funny – why don’t I believe you?”
“I am, sir!” Doyle insisted, squaring his shoulders. “I’ll head back, sir.”
“You can head back when you tell me the truth, Private.”
Doyle’s shoulders sagged. “Sixteen, sir.”
Jamie sighed. “It was your height that got you in, I expect. You do realise it’s a crime to falsify papers?”
“I know that, sir. I didn’t mean any harm. I just wanted to fight.”
And regret it now, like as not. Jamie shook his head. “Shall I send you home? I should, you know – technically, you’re here under false pretences.”
“Christ, no, sir. I’d cop it for sure. My mam was like to kill me when I did the bolt – my dad wrote that she’s only just forgiven me, sir. Don’t send me back, sir.”
“Listen here, Doyle. We all get homesick from time to time. There’s no shame in it. But mind you keep your storms and tears to yourself, the way you did just now. I can’t have lachrymose moods infecting my company, is that clear?”
Doyle nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Keep that chin up. Make your parents proud.”
“Sir.” Doyle’s shoulders went up again.
“Good man.” Jamie hesitated; ought he to say something more reassuring? He hadn’t Jim’s easy-going demeanour with people, and in the service discipline and toughness was the order of the day. But he felt as if he should say something more to this boy, who was just a boy after all, whose mother was doubtless terrified for her son and who by all rights should have been able to clasp him close for another few years. “Back to your post.”
“Yes, sir.” Doyle shouldered his rifle and began the slippery walk back to the line.
“Doyle!”
The boy executed a gawky little turn on his heel and righted himself. “Sir?”
“When next you write your parents, you tell them I said you’re an asset to this company and we’re damned lucky to have you.”
Doyle’s face broke into a grin. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Slowly, Jamie walked back to his hole, nodding absently at the salutes and cap-tugging of his men. They were a cracking good company, Yorkshiremen mostly, blunt and a bit rough-hewn, but respectful and brave and good-humoured. And, thank God, they knew nothing of his disgrace in Belgium. He wondered if their respect would dwindle if they did know.
Jamie nodded thanks to Waterson and took the now-cooled pot from him. “What is it?”
“Beef stew, sir. Not bad at all.”
“Right. Thanks. Oh – here. A friend sent a few of these.” Jamie proffered one of the chocolate bars.
“Dear God, I’ve been dreaming about one of these. Thank you, sir. Mattingly’s just brought your tea, sir – it’s there on the table, nice and hot. Get some sleep, sir.”
“Thanks, Waterson. Dismissed.” Jamie placed the lamp on the desk and slumped into his chair. Slowly, he ate the watery stew, over-salted to compensate for its consistency, and took out Jim’s letter once more. He read and re-read it, nodding over his tea, and finally fell asleep at the desk, too tired to crawl into his cot, but soothed and contented nonetheless.
*
Dear Jamie,
I suppose you think I’m a perfect dunderhead, asking you to send me some token from France, but you’re very good not to say so. Thanks ever so much for the pebble – where ever did you find such a pretty one? It looks as though there are flowers pressed into the stone. I’ll confess it; I never did get any ‘souvenirs’ from Europe. I suppose I should have asked to keep the bullet they dug out of my leg, but I didn’t think of it at the time – I just wanted it out! Pity. Also, it’s sentimental of me, but I rather like having a keepsake, something that reminds me of you and that I can tuck into my pocket and carry about. Yes, I said it was sentimental, you needn’t snigger at me. Don’t pretend you’re not.
Old chap, it was sobering, to say the least, to read of the latest news. I know you’re not permitted to say exactly where you are, or what’s happening, but I read all the papers avidly and I can’t help but worry. I know you say you’re in good health and certainly your letters are full of cheer, but do tell me if anything goes amiss, won’t you? I hope you realise you may say anything to me, as I feel I might to you.
You asked me for all sorts of news and I have such a lot of it! First, you will notice the return address on the envelope is markedly different – yes, I’m in London at last. That silver plate did absolute wonders for healing and I’m using a cane to get about. It looks quite dashing and I tend to get looks of admiration rather than pity now, which comes as something of a relief. It’s not a pleasant thing, being the object of pity. I suppose it makes people uncomfortable to see others in obvious pain – or is it guilt at being well and whole while others are not? In any event, I suspect it’s a sight one must get used to soon, for more wounded arrive every day.
But back to my news. I’m settled into my flat. I’ll be the first to admit it’s not the smartest section of London, but it’s only a short tram ride to the office, and it’s cosy and quite suitable for my needs. Pansy is in a perfect wax, though – I think she had some notion of using my flat as her headquarters for some sort of dizzy social life, and I told her absolutely not. She’s perfectly welcome to spend a night now and again, if she doesn’t object too strenuously to bachelor living (I do have a twice-weekly housekeeper, thank heavens) but she’s certainly not going to plant herself here permanently – she can jolly well get her own flat, or share one with another girl. It would probably be good for her. I wonder if I shouldn’t take up permanent residence here – London is the heart of things, and even though Father will likely yank away my supplement and demand my return to Kent the moment the war ends – yes, I might stay after all. I’ll get another job – I mean to make myself useful. And it’s not especially close to your parents’ home (which you said was in Mayfair, I believe? Remind me) but it’s the same city, at least, which would be awfully pleasant and convenient when you return to Blighty.
I can’t say much about the work as you probably know, but I can tell you I’m involved in record-keeping, and it’s making the days fly by at top speed. Some of the other chaps at the office are wounded, like myself, and we all feel better being able to pull our weight and continue to do our bit. Jamie, I still think of that last night and I’m sorry for my cynicism. It was ungracious of me, and while I am beginning to truly wonder about the necessity of this war (more on that another time, I think) at the same time I’m proud of you and of every soldier and sailor who’s risking his life for king and country.
It does sound like a fascinating mix of fellows in Company ‘A’ – are you keeping them all in line? No need to ask, I know you are. They sound like topping lads. Do keep sending me anecdotes, they are immensely heartening and put a smile on my face. I like knowing you’re in solid company. You spoke of trench-digging parties at night, but something tells me there’s a decided lack of festivity about them…tell me more if you can. I hope conditions are a little more tolerable now that the rains have stopped – although now you must contend with the heat of summer. Still, it’s August, and autumn is round the corner. Which reminds me – it’s been nearly ten months since I’ve seen you. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a leave?
You’ll likely think it foolish, but I asked my mother to add your name to her list of intentions as she says the Rosary nightly. Yes, it’s Papist mysticism, but surely it can’t do any harm, and Mother is so dear and sweet that I can’t help but think her honest devotion wings its way speedily to God’s ear, and perhaps He will listen, and protect you. She’s a far better intermediary than I – I don’t think He would listen to me quite as readily.
My luncheon hour is about finished and so I shall have to end here, but I intend to add a postscript tonight as today’s post has been collected already.
Jim
p.s. At home now and have just finished the evening papers. Another long casualty list. My heart is in my throat every time I see one, and afterward I’m grateful and quite sick with relief. Jamie, when will this all end? How many more men must die before nations can come to some accord?
I’m sorry. I promised I should be cheerful in my letters to you. Something to end on a high note – last week-end I taught Pansy to drive (despite her surfeit of beaux, she’s still quite in love with you – those tins of chicken paste and sardines, she insists I inform you, were presents from her and not from me, so do please send her a note and get her off my back). The good news is that we’re both still alive. I’m being unjust. She’s actually most competent behind the wheel, but she is a terror. I’ve never seen anyone drive so fast, or shriek quite so gleefully at the sensation of blinding speed. I believe I shall enter her in a race and bet my earthly fortune on the girl. I suspect this is only the beginning of trouble, though – she’s taken to hemming up her skirts and talking of suffrage. My parents are scandalised. I should probably not be encouraging her, but as I consider myself an enlightened fellow, I am. Why shouldn’t she vote, after all? I call her silly, and so she can be, but the truth is that she’s brighter than many men I know and beginning to take an interest in the world around her, which can only be to the good – I hope! Now, having spoken so boldly, I shan’t ask her to drive me anywhere. She frightens me half to death.
Do write as soon as you can, and know that as ever my thoughts and prayers go with you.
Your most devoted (if ever so slightly dented from my last motor-car ride) friend,
Jim
*
Jamie stared down at the grain of the wooden table and traced the tip of his finger round a whorled pattern in the scrubbed surface. Nature moved in extraordinary fashion, in spirals and curves of wood, in the sinuous stripes of the marmalade cat snoozing on the chair nearby, in the bright scattering of jewelled stars outside. And mankind trampled it all in straight, brutal lines.
Taking a packet of Woodbines from his pocket (Jim kept him well-supplied; he was far more considerate than Jamie’s parents, who hadn’t sent more than a handful of letters – full of absent kindliness, to be sure, but far less effusive than Jim’s cheery missives), he lit one and inhaled deeply, exhaling smoke through his nose. This meeting made him uneasy; there were sentries outside, and the perimeter had been carefully checked, but he still felt a bit frightened at its haste, its air of secrecy. He was no spy, and had no desire to be one. And his contact, whoever it was, was late.
He flicked cigarette ash into his cupped hand and gazed around the room. Lit by a few aromatic beeswax candles, it was a cheery kitchen, spotlessly clean if not luxurious. The lady of the house had fed him a marvellous dinner of crisply roasted chicken with carrots and parsnips and then had retired an hour ago, bidding him good-night in liquid syllables that Waterson translated for him. He’d thanked her in his atrocious French and now wondered if the person he was supposed to meet had been waylaid somehow.
“Sir.” Waterson’s voice came softly from the door. “He’s here.”
Jamie rose to his feet and was taken aback to see Colonel Alexander McMuir, the man who’d recruited him in London. He saluted smartly. “Sir – good God, we’d thought you’d –“
“Been killed, I know.” Colonel McMuir, a lean, craggy man with glinting green eyes, gestured toward the table and dropped a large haversack on it. “Sit, Stewart. Need a word with you.”
“I’m delighted to see you’re well.” Jamie took his seat and peered at the man across from him. He was out of uniform, wearing canvas trousers, rough work boots and a sort of sailor’s pea-jacket. His dark-blond hair had grown longer than military standard, and he was unshaven, several days’ stubble covering his chin and cheeks.
“Aye, I’m well enough. Sorry for the deception, but it were necessary.” McMuir gave him a narrow smile with very little mirth in it. “Someone at the War Office got wind that I spoke fair German, and the rest is history, none of which I’m at liberty to discuss. Christ, is that a Woodbine? You wouldn’t have another, would you?”
Jamie pushed the packet across the table. “Keep it.”
“Ta for that.” McMuir stood and began to open cupboards. “I reckon Simone’s got something for the ash in here.”
Jamie raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Simone? He waited patiently as McMuir returned to the table, sat, and placed a chipped pottery bowl between them. “There we go.” He lit his cigarette and drew deeply; the end glowed red in the semidarkness. “I reckon you’re wondering why you’re here.”
“Yes.”
“Got a present for you.” McMuir reached into the haversack and withdrew an object, spreading it out on the table with long, surprisingly graceful hands. It was a sort of canvas hood, with a rectangular glass eye-piece.
Jamie regarded the hood dubiously. “What the devil’s that?”
“I’ve got a hundred and fifty of these ugly bastards for your company, Stewart, as well as some bloody grim news. The Jerries have developed a poison gas for widespread use in the trenches, and word is they’re ready to use it.”
Jamie felt his hostess’ splendid dinner give an almighty lurch in his belly. “Good Christ.”
“Aye.” McMuir nodded. “They’re calling it mustard gas, because it’s a bit yellowish and it even smells that way, but what it does, Stewart – frigging horrible. Blisters on the skin filled with pus, and the shite penetrates clothes, too. There’s vomiting and blindness and Christ knows what else because I didn’t stick round to find out, but I got enough information to scare the piss out of me.” He drew on his cigarette, briefly illuminating the hollows beneath his eyes. “They send ‘em over in canisters, and you’ve got to get the masks on before you see the gas, because the wind will pick it up in the blink of an eye.”
“And when –“ Jamie’s voice hitched a bit. “When do they intend to begin using it?”
“Soon. So you need to start drilling immediately.”
“And if it penetrates clothing, what’s the use of this?” Feeling ill, Jamie stabbed at the ominous-looking hood with a finger. Fear began to insinuate itself inside him. Poison.
“It’s treated canvas, woven tight, and there’s a compound inside that will protect you from the gas. As for the rest of the skin – even if it’s bloody hot, the men have to be in full kit from now on if they want to protect themselves. Layers will help. We’re not abandoning you to slaughter, Major.”
“How reassuring,” Jamie said softly, bitterly. Poison. How right Jim had been: it wasn’t their war any longer. Perhaps it never had been.
McMuir rubbed his eyes and got to his feet. “Aye. It’s rotten, every bit of it, but we’ve got to see it through now. I’m for bed – haven’t slept for two days. Simone said that you and your lads can bunk wherever you find room, but you’ve got to clear out before dawn.” He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Jamie. “Orders. Drill instructions. The lot. I don’t expect I’ll see you again, so I’ll say good-bye here.” He extended his hand.
Jamie shook it firmly, but frowned. “You don’t –“
“Have you people at home, Stewart?”
“Yes.” Jamie thought briefly of his parents and Philip, but the image of Jim’s face blazed through like a beacon. “Yes, I do.”
“I reckon they’re expecting you to come home in one piece. See that you do.” He nodded shortly, then made his way to the rickety wooden staircase and climbed up, disappearing into the darkness.
Jamie heard the heavy tread of McMuir’s boots, then the unmistakable sound of same dropping one by one to the floor. There was a soft voice, then an equally soft answer, and the creak of wood. Jamie rose, gathered up the hateful hood, extinguished the candles, and left the house quietly.
Waterson stood outside with the two sentries. Even in the starlight they all looked exhausted. “Where’s the parcel?” Jamie asked.
Waterson pointed to a loaded cart. “There, sir.”
“Right. Let’s get back. No time to lose.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jamie tucked the hood inside the cart and walked alongside it, guiding it as the sentries pulled. His hand went to his pocket, where Jim’s latest letter reposed. He’d meant to read it once more before bed, but it would have to wait. Still, he remembered much of it.
I need those prayers, Jim. God help us all.
*
Fog lay over the trenches, a thick, drifting blanket of mist, pale-grey in the dawn. The men of Company A had just finished stand-to and were enjoying breakfast, inasmuch as one could enjoy a hasty breakfast in a muddy trench. Autumn had brought rain again, and cold weather, and mud. Despite it, the mood was merry. The post had come yesterday, and several lucky men had packages from home, bulging with tea and cakes and whatever other edibles worried families could send their fighting boys. Those who hadn’t families to send supplies looked on, a bit shamefaced and sad, but Jamie’s men were a generous lot and soon everyone had something, chocolate, shortbread, shared tins of sardines. They ate and drank in the quiet and stillness until the sound of gunfire filled the air.
“Posts!” Jamie roared, and leapt to his feet. His men moved with gratifying speed, making room for him as he leapt toward the fire-step with weapon drawn.
Strangely, the firing had ceased. Jamie frowned, and cautiously raised his head, pressing his field-glasses to his eyes, trying to see through the drifting fog.
There was nothing. No advancing troops, no flash of fire, no staccato drumbeat of machine-guns. Only drifting fog and silence.
And then Jamie saw it – a yellowish-brown cloud, thick and hazy, carried toward them on the wind.
“MASKS ON! CLEAR OUT!”
They’d drilled ferociously, and kept their masks close; off came the helmets, on went the masks, back on went the helmets. They looked like bizarre executioners, every last one of them. Gloves next, and those who weren’t in full kit hastened into it as the wind carried the poison closer.
Over the top they went, into hell.
*
Dearest Jamie,
I can’t tell you how happy I was to receive your letter. Lately I swear I’ve scarcely finished one before I get the queerest sensation in my chest, as if someone were squeezing my heart with a mailed fist, and I realise it’s anxiety and I’m already waiting for the next letter, hoping and praying until I receive it. I am trying not to be gloomy, but I feel as if I’m surrounded by death on all sides, Jamie, and can’t do a thing about it. If only there were some way to speak to you every day, just for a moment, to know you’re well.
Enough, enough dreariness. I apologise. I had a bit of a surprise yesterday – I met your mother! I gather our regimental photographs have some place of honour in the Stewart household, for she seemed to recognise me immediately. I can see where you get your aristocratic looks; she’s quite a beauty, I was utterly charmed by her. She insisted on taking me to tea at the Savoy, a new and rather luxurious experience for me, and we had the most jolly time.
Now, old man, what on earth did you tell her? I fear you painted a very flattering picture of me. If her account is to be believed, I swooped into your prison like the Scarlet Pimpernel, sword flashing, hauled you over my shoulder, and swung out on a rope! I exaggerate, but only slightly; she treated me as the most heroic of rescuers, when you and I both know the truth is somewhat different, to wit: I was shot and you carried me. I did my best to correct her misperceptions, but I’m afraid she insists on seeing things her way. (Stubbornness must be a family trait!) She said that Christmas was a dreary affair without you and Philip, and she longed for the war to end. I heartily agreed with her.
It’s cold and rainy, typical for February, but I’m well enough. My leg twinges in the damp; the doctors say it won’t last forever, and I’m determined to be optimistic – ah! New post, hurrah! More later.
The sweetest word in the English language – LEAVE.
You’re coming home. However brief – oh, Jamie!
Yours,
Jim
