Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

D ust and ash continued to fall, sifting down to the mud to be absorbed there in the footprints along the bottom of the trench. Lt. Billings reached out to the radio, one hand above the broken casing where a cake-shaped hunk of shrapnel had dug itself into the metal and wood. Just as he reached out, the shrapnel dislodged itself and tumbled into the mud with a splat.

As the lieutenant kicked the smoking metal away, Stanley looked at Isaac and the others and they looked at him, their eyes wide. Then Stanley turned back to the lieutenant, waiting to see what he would do.

Stanley had the sickening feeling that he should have known to save the radio, too. That if he'd moved the radio to the left another two feet, it would have been saved as well. He should have known, but why did he think that? Why did he have the sensation that the responsibility for the fate of the battalion rested with him? Because it did.

He'd known about the mortar shell, when it would come, where it would land, and the damage it would cause. Vague memories of a conversation about this very occurrence lingered in the back of his mind. He could have saved everybody, but he'd only saved his friends, selfishly. Not like a true soldier, not like someone brave who would deserve a medal at the end of all of this. Not like someone who deserved a quiet moment in a well-lit room, eating supper with a handsome young man, followed by an orange all his own.

Suddenly, vividly, all the memories and images marched front and center, and he knew exactly what had happened to him. He'd been in the cottage, only it had been occupied by the history major—Devon—who typed quietly away while Stanley woke up at his leisure on the couch, the soft pillow beneath his head and the warm air on his face.

There were traces of Devon's touch on Stanley's knees, and of the expression in his eyes when he'd helped Stanley by telling him to breathe, slowly, in and out. There was the memory of sitting with Devon at the sturdy kitchen table, talking about that guy who could predict the weather, a meteor-something. And the memory of Devon's nearness, how he smelled, sweet like soap, with his smooth, tanned skin, like he spent days in the sun, and the way his chin was dark with beard growth.

"Stanley."

Stanley looked up to see Isaac bending close, as though to catch a word with Stanley before the lieutenant could notice that Stanley was making small, pathetic noises of distress. This was good of Isaac because soon Stanley would be babbling out loud about Devon and how he'd fallen in love with a scholar who knew all about the war and exactly how and when it would end.

More, Devon had rescued Stanley from freezing to death in a soaked uniform. He had taken Stanley in and talked him through his fears and anxieties, and had fed him. And who, for all his muscles and health, had been a soft-hearted man writing a paper about a war that he felt had been senseless.

"I'm fine," said Stanley, though he was anything but.

He sat up and spread his fingers across his cheeks as though wiping away the spray of ash from the mortar shell. Except his face was a little wet, and the ash turned into streaks like black paint, as though he was about to step into the dark and needed to be disguised.

"What are we going to do about the radio?" Stanley asked to distract everyone from his tears. "How is he going to call for retreat orders now?"

"He's going to call for retreat?" asked Isaac. Behind him, Bertie and Rex straightened up, staring at Stanley as though he was the second coming. "How do you know? Lt. Billings is in the bunker and we can't possibly hear him."

"I can't hear him," said Stanley as quickly as he could. "But that's what I'd do."

"Like you've had officer's training." Isaac made a friendly, scoffing sound.

How could Stanley know about the retreat? Because he'd lived through this morning already. Whether or not he'd been with Devon at a time when the cottage had been repaired and there were, once more, pastry shops in the nearby village, he'd already experienced the mortar shell, the explosion, and the death of his friends.

After which, Lt. Billings had determined they needed to retreat, as the Germans were getting too close and the battalion was running out of everything—he'd forgotten that from before—the reason they needed to retreat was because they were low on supplies. Even more important, the Germans had gotten a lock on their position and the bombs were exploding on target each and every time.

Another half a day and the Germans would be right on top of them. The whole battalion would be sacrificed to the war on account of a radio that had been in the wrong place at the right time. And all because Stanley had been focused on his friends and not on the bigger picture. He'd saved Isaac and the others so that he wouldn't be alone, rather than saving the whole battalion, which had been his mission in the first place. The reason he'd run along the bottom of the trenches to deliver the message.

He should have grabbed the radio, and maybe it would still be intact enough for the lieutenant to send out a signal and get one in return. Then, within half an hour, the entire battalion would be packing up and heading over the back of the trench and beyond the frosty fields to safety.

Except now the retreat wouldn't be called in time because Stanley had failed. He didn't deserve the bit of happiness he'd found with Devon, in a world that was quiet and still and warm. Where there was food and hot water aplenty, and space and time to just sit and think. Where young men could have affection for—and fall in love with—other young men, or anybody they fancied. Even if that young man was a scholarly student tapping away at a bit of folded metal, his eyes on his work, but his attention on the fellow just waking up on his couch.

Devon had always been aware of Stanley, though he'd excused it as being interested in the uniform, Stanley's kit, the puttees. Instead, his eyes had gone to Stanley time and again, a soft, gentle smile on his face.

While he'd apologized, embarrassed, for his obsession with the war, the first war, Stanley couldn't imagine chiding him for it, or becoming bored because Devon's eyes had lit up. When he would confirm this fact or that idea, he would smile as though he had something exciting to share. Stanley didn't like to think about those friends of his who'd grown exasperated or bored with Devon's favorite subject because they were missing out. Stanley would be happy to listen to him rattle on about uniforms and trenches and maps and escarpments until the end of time.

"Men," said Lt. Billings between the pounding sounds of mortar shells being launched. He made the gesture that they were to remain as they were, seated in a row, protected from the mud and damp by a bit of borrowed canvas. "The radio is broken, and I need someone to carry a message for retreat."

"Retreat, sir?" asked Isaac with a sideways glance at Stanley.

"Yes," said Lt. Billings. "The Germans are close and getting closer, and I need someone to go."

It was on the tip of Stanley's tongue, as it had been the last time, that in this dire situation where Commander Helmer had deserted in the night, if the lieutenant had assumed command on his own say-so, then he could call for retreat without permission, too. Lives would be saved, and precious time gained, for a retreat was a clumsy business, never smooth or orderly like it was described in the manual .

Time had folded in on itself. The morning was repeating as though to give Stanley a second chance. If time allowed him to be with Devon again, he would take that chance. If he could, if he ever could, he would tell Devon how he felt. He would take a chance at love instead of being afraid all the time.

"I'll go," said Stanley. He stood up. Isaac's hands reached to pull him back to the muddy, canvas-covered bench. "I'll take the message, sir."

"No, Stanley," said Isaac, desperation in his voice. "Somebody else should go, somebody faster."

He didn't mean that Stanley wasn't a fast runner; he meant that he didn't want Stanley to go because he cared for him, in spite of the fact that it was terribly illegal to have such feelings. If Stanley didn't come back from his mission, Isaac would mourn the loss. But what Isaac and the others didn't know was that if Stanley didn't come back, there would be no battalion, and nobody to mourn for him, anyway.

He couldn't tell Isaac that, couldn't tell anybody what had happened to him because they wouldn't believe him. Devon hadn't believed him, at least at first. He'd hardly believed it himself because all of it could have been some fear-induced dream. Except that Devon had been as real to Stanley as Isaac or anybody.

Stanley ached with missing the wonderful passion that filled Devon's face and spilled over his hands as he soothed Stanley with his fingertips. He was willing to do anything if it meant there was a chance that he could be with Devon in a world where love, no matter the shape, was legal .

"I'll go," said Stanley again.

"I need you to take the message and bring the rest of the retreat code back, as quick as you can, yes?"

"Yes, sir," said Stanley.

Lt. Billings gestured that Stanley should follow him into the bunker, and when Stanley stepped into the shell of mud-capped air, he cast a glance over his shoulder. Had this been before—before he'd met Devon—he might have been pleased with the looks of awe on his friends' faces, and a little cocky that he'd been invited into the bunker for a secret, man-to-man chat with the lieutenant.

With the taste of ash in his mouth, Stanley went up to the table where the map was and waited while the lieutenant tugged at one edge of it. Stanley looked at the map and did his best to pretend he'd never seen it before.

The last time, the lieutenant had been standing with the map in his hand, in the trench, just outside the door of the bunker. Stanley wondered why it was different this time, and why he was so calmly comparing the two, as if it had actually happened, as if he'd actually gone forward in time. But he must have done, otherwise, how would he have all these memories in his head?

There was more at stake. His friends' lives, the survival of the 44 th Battalion, and most of all, being with Devon. It didn't matter where the memories had come from. Stanley was going to put them to good use for the greater good, and for Devon. For the chance at being with Devon once more.

Lt. Billings tapped the map with his finger, made sure that Stanley was paying attention, then traced the length of a wobbly line.

Stanley knew everything about the map because Devon had shown it to him and explained what everything meant. Even as the lieutenant was talking and pointing, Stanley knew that the dark brown lines were the trenches, and the small green and blue X's were various weaponry. Green X's were howitzers, and blue ones were rifles. The one gold cross was for the chaplain's station, and the circles of various colors indicated the mess area, the latrine, the bunkers for sleeping, the ramps to the supply caches.

"It's a death sentence, you know that," said Lt. Billings. "But you need to find the major and bring the code for retreat back or we're all going to die in this trench."

With a tap on the map, the lieutenant brought Stanley's focus to the area in the corner where the major was holed up. Right on the edge of the map was a cross with a faint circle over it to indicate the bombed out church. Nestled beside it was the little cottage whose roof was falling in and whose walls were none too steady .

Stanley didn't let himself look at that, or think about Devon and the studious atmosphere that Devon had created with his work. Or think of how Devon had fed him and made him feel safe. Or how Devon had looked at him with that light in his eyes, as though Stanley was the most amazing thing he'd ever seen.

"Tell him I sent you," said Lt. Billings. "Here's your rifle, in case you meet up with any Jerries, and a canteen of water because your mouth will be so dry with fear that you'd drink out of a puddle just so you can spit."

"Yes, sir." Stanley took the rifle and slung the band over one shoulder, then took the canteen, which he slung over the other shoulder. Just as he turned to face the open doorway, where his friends were waiting to see what would happen next, he felt Lt. Billings' hand on his shoulder.

"Follow the length of the trench and stay low along the bottom," said the lieutenant.

Stanley nodded, though he knew better. Devon had said the damp weather had caused the air to be quite dense, which, in turn, had caused the mustard gas to sink quite low. Stanley had a chance to get to the major, but only if he disobeyed orders. He would go along the top of the trenches, in spite of the risk of gunfire, because if there were any gas in the air, it would tumble to his feet, and he would be impervious to its effects.

He couldn't tell that to the lieutenant. He couldn't tell his friends, either, as he stepped out of the bunker and they gathered to wish him well. His body felt numb to their pats of reassurance and to Isaac's quick embrace. Everything fell silent, as though the sound had been turned down on the radio. A low hum built up in his ears as he bid them all goodbye. He hefted his rifle and began walking along the bottom of the trench.

When Stanley rounded the first curve, he clambered to the top and began to run. Lt. Billings might see him or he might not, but Stanley was too far away for more orders, too far away to be stopped. He was on his own now, running along the top of the trench. The soldiers he passed seemed to understand his mission, that the code for retreat was being gathered. They fired off shots from their rifles to distract the enemy so that Stanley could keep running without fear.

He ran until his lungs hurt, but with the map in his head, his destination was quite clear this time. He wouldn't get lost or take a wrong turn because he knew where he was going, knew exactly where the command bunker was, thanks to Devon and his map. Devon, who had unknowingly given Stanley all the information he needed to save every man in the 44 th Battalion. It was as if Devon was helping him, and though he was far away in time, his voice was steady in Stanley's ears.

He ran on, imagining what the war memorial would look like if nobody died. But then he heard the zing of metal in the air and the ripping pop of a canister just above his head.

He looked up and tumbled into a trench. With the next breath he was inhaling it, the acrid taste of chemicals soaking into him from the inside. It burned and filled his body and his lungs, seared his eyes.

Stanley fell to his knees, spitting up, green mucus trailing in the mud as he braced himself with his hands, gasping for air as he sank down into the earth. The blackness took him just as it had before, with hard arms and a fierce intensity, a live thing riddled with animosity and hatred and fear. His whole body cried out with loss. He had failed. Again.