Lovely War(26)

Hazel was about as comfortable challenging authority as she was deep-sea diving. To make Mrs. Davies dislike her on her first day seemed foolish in the extreme. But she had to.

“That may be true for a few,” she said, “as I’m sure it’s true for a few in any large group of soldiers. But I’m sure most are as much gentlemen as anyone else.”

Reverend Scottsbridge’s cough made little effort to conceal a chuckle. “My dear,” he said, “you haven’t seen enough of the world to know its dangers.” He gave a knowing nod to Mrs. Davies. “You’ll have more than enough soldiers to entertain, and handsome ones at that.”

Hazel thought she might be sick. Black soldiers were less handsome? So that should appease her concerns—because she wasn’t truly concerned on principle; the reverend knew best. She was only here for handsome boys. Her mind roiled.

Father McKnight gave Hazel a sorrowful look, then closed his eyes as if in prayer.

Mrs. Davies had clearly had enough with delays. “This way, please, girls, to your rooms.”





DECEMBER 1942


     Second Witness





APHRODITE ADDRESSES the bench. “Your Honor, I’d like to call my second witness.”

“Not again,” groans Ares. “How many immortals are you dragging in here? We should’ve gone to Olympus. Besides, I thought the whole ‘court’ thing had fizzled out.”

“Overruled,” Hephaestus tells Ares. “The defense may proceed.”

“I call,” Aphrodite says, with courtly theatrics, “Ares, God of War.”

Ares sits up straighter, and shoves his arms into his shirtsleeves. No point in buttoning the shirt; his magnificent chest would be hidden. He feels he’d better keep his attractions on full display. But a court appearance demands decorum.

Lacking a court officer, Hephaestus administers the oath. “Do you solemnly swear to limit boasting, tell the facts and only the facts, and otherwise keep your great yap shut?”

“Hey,” Ares protests, “you didn’t swear in Apollo.”

“I grew up with you,” says Hephaestus darkly.

“Ares,” Aphrodite says soothingly, “he’s piqued, is all. Won’t you tell us the story now, from your point of view?”

Ares rises and addresses the court. “Not for his sake, I won’t,” he says, “but if you want me to, I’ll tell it. Just to set this sappy record straight.”





ARES


     Bayonet Practice—January 4, 1918





PRIVATE JAMES ALDERIDGE lined up with his squadron in the training grounds at the Front to practice using a bayonet. They were a few miles behind the trenches. James still hadn’t gotten used to the constant roar of artillery guns.

“Bayonets on!” barked the commander. James screwed a blade onto his Lee-Enfield rifle.

“Guard position!” He snapped his gun upward with his left arm and braced it against his side with his right. He aimed the point at an imaginary German’s throat.

“Alderidge,” someone said. “Spread your feet wider.” It was Private Frank Mason, a fisherman from Lowestoft. He was retraining after recovering at home from a combat leg wound.

The training commander strolled down the line, correcting men’s imperfect form.

“Rest position!”

Down went the rifles, and up went everyone’s backs.

“I didn’t say take a nap, soldier!” At six foot two and seventeen stone, Private Billy Nutley, a Shropshire farm lad, should’ve been a deadly fighter but seemed more like a large target.

“Guard!”

Up snapped the bayoneted rifles.

“Aim for their throats, ladies!” The trainer’s face was red. “When you’re down in Jerry’s trench, it’s kill them before they kill you. Germans show no mercy. Points at the throat!”

James licked his lips and pointed for the unseen throat.

“Long thrust!”

Rear legs lunged forward. Blades jabbed and sliced upward.

“Thrust and twist! Screw their guts out!”

James thrust and twisted. Nutley puffed away. Beyond him, Chad Browning, a wiry Welsh ginger, jabbed at the air. Young, nimble, and talkative, but barely nine stone soaking wet.

“Throat and armpits, vulnerable!” their trainer said. “Face, chest, and gut! At their rear, go for the kidneys. Or have you geniuses forgotten where kidneys are? Rest position!”

Rest position.

The trainer paraded up and down the line. “Now, find your dummy.”

They moved closer to the line of rickety wooden gallows from which hung straw dummies—pillow-like stuffed effigies of Germans.

“The German soldier is a ruthless killing machine,” said he. “A lethal weapon in the Kaiser’s hands. A fraction of a second is the difference between your throat cut, or his.”

James’s fingertips brushed against his Adam’s apple.

“Survival at the Front,” the trainer cried, “requires the will to kill. Guard!”

Bayonets low and at the ready.

“High port!”

Rifles snapped up over the shoulders.