Lovely War(55)

ARES


     Rotating Out—February 8, 1918





THEY WEREN’T THE same lads when they emerged from the trenches. The morning after their thirty days were finished, they stumbled out, bone-tired. They spoke a new language. Understood survival as never before and cared about it less. They were used to cold and mud, to the sounds of shells and the sight of blood. They’d gone on raids, bombing several traverses of German trench. They hadn’t lost any men.

James hadn’t gone on the raids. He and Private Pete Yawkey had been rotated to overnight detail, so they stayed in the snipers’ nest. When, the next night, a company of Germans crept through a hole to enact revenge, James saw them. Shadows in the brief glow of a flare.

Perhaps it was because they were only shadows in the dark that James could do it. Perhaps it was because he knew they were on their way to murder his own best lads. Perhaps he could see, in his mind’s eye, bowlegged Mick Webber blown against a trench wall by a grenade, or Chad Browning’s singing throat slashed open by a serrated German bayonet.

He saw them, trained his scope on the shadows, and fired. Twice.

Yawkey, glued to his scope, gave him a thumbs-up. “I think you got ’em both.”

James already knew he had. Somehow he had felt each bullet find its German, as if it were still connected to him by a fishing line, and he could feel the tug of impact.

The Germans came no farther. They spent the night dragging back their fallen.

“I think one’s dead,” Yawkey said. “From the other one’s screams, I give him fifty-fifty.”

James wasn’t listening. He had backed away from the rifle toward the rear wall of their dugout. He knew he was breathing, but no air came in.

“I don’t blame you,” Yawkey said, “for not picking off the stretcher-bearers. It doesn’t feel cricket. God knows the first kill is the hardest. We’ve all been there.”

James didn’t answer. He stared at his shaking hands.

“Go on,” Pete said. “Find some food, and rest. Chew the fat with your mates. All right?”

“There’s supposed to be two of us,” said James.

Pete swatted the objection away. “Get lost. Not much for a spotter to do in the dark.”

It was a lie. James didn’t care. He collapsed into a dugout and slept. When he woke up, Sergeant McKendrick saluted him and shook his hand. His shooting had saved British lives. The shrewd eye to see Fritz in the dark, and the presence of mind to take out two of his raiders, halting the raid—these were the sterling qualities of a true British soldier, so proudly represented this morning by Private James Alderidge. A written commendation would be attached to his file.

So when James requested two days’ leave in Paris, then and there, it was granted, provided all remained quiet at the Front. Two Germans, two days. A curious calculus. They weren’t the last he’d kill before rotating out.





APHRODITE


     Two Days’ Leave—February 8, 1918




    February 8, 1918

My dearest Hazel, My sergeant has given me his word. I can take two days’ leave to travel to Paris. I can arrive late in the afternoon of Wednesday, February 13. The trains could well be slow, but I think I could get to Gare du Nord by about four o’clock in the afternoon. Can you join me there? If you wait for me, I promise I will find you.

I hope you’ll come. I need to reassure myself that you aren’t a dream. I’ll find a place to wash the grime off me before I see you, so that I’ll be someone you won’t mind being with.

Please come. Prove that you exist, and allow me to prove how much you mean to me.

Yours affectionately, James





* * *





    Hazel’s answer was short. More telegram than letter.

Four o’clock, Wednesday the thirteenth, Gare du Nord, it read. I’ll be there.





APHRODITE


     Concert Night—February 11, 1918





ON THE EVE of their departure for the tour that would lead them to Aix-les-Bains, the 15th New York Band threw a farewell concert for Saint-Nazaire. Everyone who could finagle a seat went.

Aubrey wasn’t going to Aix-les-Bains. Not after Colette had shared so much with him. He’d already told Lieutenant Europe. With Luckey Roberts at the piano, Europe could spare him. He’d rejoin the band later when their division reported to the Front. So there was no need for him to play that night’s show.

Someday, he told himself, I’ll headline any band I’m in.

He decided to go to the concert anyway, for kicks, and took the long way there, conveniently passing by Hut One on his way. If anyone in his Company had been counting how often Private Edwards took this detour, he’d have some explaining to do.

Hut One’s door opened. He ducked behind a Nissen hut to see who it was.

Shoot. It was the wrinkled bat who’d shooed him away and some other old biddy beside her. He smiled. There was Lady Hazel de la Windicott. The three women left without Colette.

But where was she? Why wasn’t she going to the concert? Time to find out.

“We’re closed,” Colette’s voice called through the door when he knocked.