Lovely War(50)

Colette busied herself with arranging her toiletries. “I don’t think so,” she said. “He’s just very friendly.”

Hazel sat up and took notice. Colette was avoiding looking at her. Interesting.

“I don’t know,” Hazel said slowly. “I don’t think you saw how he was looking at you. He likes you, Colette.”

Colette frowned at her reflection and bunched up her nose. “Looking at this? Pah.” She turned and smiled at Hazel. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that he was looking at me. That he does like me, which I doubt.” She shrugged. “A soldier, looking for love on the eve of war? It’s as old as the hills. I’ve heard that song before.”

Hazel knew when not to push a point. “Speaking of songs,” she said, “how about his piano playing?”

Colette allowed herself a smile. “Now that,” she said, “is really something.”





ARES


     Moving Up the Line—January 20, 1918





“PRIVATE ALDERIDGE.”

James woke in a dugout to a pair of boots in front of his face.

He crawled out of the dugout, and stood in the shelter of the trench’s eastern wall, and saluted. “Sergeant McKendrick, sir!”

“At ease, Alderidge.”

The sergeant scrutinized him. Was he in trouble?

It was his third day in the support lines. After a ten-day stint in reserve, his section had hiked through two miles of zigzagging communication trenches to the second line, support.

“You’ve been working hard, Alderidge.”

James held his head high. “Thank you, sir.” Should he ask about Paris leave?

“I have a report on you from your training sergeant,” McKendrick said, looking at a clipboard. “Seems you acquitted yourself well.”

James rocked on his toes and waited. A report?

“I also see you were a crack shot in target practice.”

This was all becoming a bit much.

“Are you a gamesman?”

“No, sir, Sergeant. I’ve never done much in the way of hunting.”

McKendrick’s brow furrowed. “Is that so? Interesting.” He sized James up. “We need a new sniper at the front,” the sergeant said. “Lost a man at dawn. A German sniper identified our hidden loophole and took him out. Some mighty fine shooting there.”

The sergeant admired the German shooter more than he mourned the British one. Not a comforting thought.

James didn’t want to be a sniper. A cold-blooded killer. The enemy’s number-one target. But he did need to curry favor with the sergeant. His goodwill was James’s Paris ticket.

“I’m putting you into sharpshooter training,” the sergeant said. “There’s a pay increase.” A pay increase for murder.

James seized hold of training. A trainee wouldn’t shoot people. Not just yet. He’d probably head back behind the reserve line, to open country, where it was easier to take long aim. He could do poorly enough in training that he’d be moved back into the regular infantry.

“May I ask a question, sir?”

“You may.”

James had no idea how to approach this. “Sir, when our rotation through the trenches is up, and we get some rest time . . .” he began.

The sergeant’s eyebrows rose. James was already doomed.

“Yes?”

He swallowed. “I have a girl, Sergeant, and she can meet me in Paris for a day.”

Sergeant McKendrick’s expression hardened.

“You’re hoping after one tour through the trenches, you’ll be eligible for leave, to spend a day in Paris with your girl? As a new recruit? After likely seeing no combat to speak of?”

No retreat and no surrender. “That would be,” he said, “what I was hoping. Sir.”

Sergeant McKendrick studied James’s face, as if waiting for something to buckle or crack. For James to beg forgiveness and say, “Never mind.”

“This girl of yours,” the sergeant said. “She pretty?”

James gulped. “She is, sir. Very pretty.”

“I see.” The sergeant began to pace back and forth. “And why would she be in Paris?”

“Volunteer service, sir. With the YMCA.” Close enough to true.

“Ah. They do good work.”

James nodded. If you say so. If it helps my case.

“Let me hear a good report of you, soldier,” the sergeant said, “and I’ll consider that request for leave.”

James wanted to shake his hand. He stood tall. “Yes, sir!”

The sergeant turned to go, then paused. “Redhead? Brunette? Blonde? What’s she like?”

James didn’t want to pull Hazel out of his pocket to show to anyone. But he needed this.

“Brunette, sir,” he said. “She plays the piano beautifully.”

“A talented young lady of some quality.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s grand. Make sure you write to her often. Right then. In half an hour I’ll have someone lead you up to the fire trench, to the snipers’ lookout post.”

James’s mouth went dry. “The fire trench? Lookout?”