Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

S tanley surged up from where he had fallen, his eyes wide open, his hands out in front of him. Instinctively, he reached for his rifle, wondering why he'd not pierced himself through the heart with his bayonet when he'd fallen. He clutched at his canteen to make sure the metal lid was still screwed on so he didn't lose all his water, which he'd need to keep from being dehydrated because he was just about to piss himself, just like Lt. Billings said.

His knees were soaked, and he was cold all the way through, as though he'd been in a block of ice. He reached up to touch his head; mud caked through his short hair fell in damp clumps. He stepped forward with jerky movements and a sense of what-the-hell? Before him were row upon row of white crosses across a green, frost-tipped field. At the far end was a larger cross, also white, and he saw the stone swags that he thought were meant to represent a flag or funeral bunting, and squinted.

Where were the trenches? If he drew his eyes along the edge of the field in the right way, he could see the top of the most recent one he'd been running along, but that was impossible. The sun was coming over the trees with bright, gold shards, cutting through the chilly morning, sending fog up from the earth, dressing the air with wisps of ghost-like tendrils. They would soon grab him if he didn't move, except he couldn't because the mustard gas had been all over him, and he'd fallen and maybe hit his head. Was he unconscious and dreaming? Or had he died and was he a ghost?

There was no war. There was nobody, no soldiers, no barbed wire, no smoke and, noticeably, no sounds of mortar shells exploding. No shouts of command, no cries of despair, no movement. There was only stillness and the white crosses across a green field, the edge of what could have been a trench. A sky full of frosty, jagged clouds as the blue began to break through. Larks singing somewhere in the bare trees.

Over the rise, he thought he saw the roofline of the cottage so that, at least, was familiar. If he moved toward the center of the crosses, which was eerie as hell, the cottage came fully into view. Stanley knew he had to get to a high point so he could figure out where he was and started running.

The movement jarred his head, and his lungs felt seared with the gas, the burning taste in his mouth that made him want to throw up. His heart was beating so fast, but he couldn't stop running till he made it to the edge of the field and got closer to the cottage. A moment later, he could see the ruin that before had been only a pile of stone with one wall, but its carved frame against the sky like a broken hand reaching for help was now an entire, well-tended building.

Stanley had only one moment to wonder why or how such a ruin had been repaired so quickly when he tripped over a body on the ground. Thinking it was a dead body of a soldier whose face he did not want to recognize, Stanley pushed his rifle away from his body and rolled as he fell. He braced his elbows and pointed the rifle at the body as it sat up, one of the living dead.

His arms were shaking and his breath came in heavy jerks, sweat rolling down the side of his face. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead to keep it from getting into his eyes. Gripping the rifle again, tighter, he pointed it at the man, and wanted to shout.

But what would he say? He needed to figure that out before he started blabbing, as that would be the sensible thing to do. And then the words spilled out anyway, all in a rush, as they tended to do when he couldn't put the brakes on them.

"Where did the ruin go? Where are the bodies? Where is the mud—where is the fucking war?" He was almost screaming when he stopped, mouth open, gasping for air.

The man on the green grass leaned back on his arms to support himself. He didn't seem the least bit worried that Stanley was pointing a rifle directly at him, though he was frowning, as though confused, which of course he would be because where in the world was his uniform?

"Where did you come from?" asked the man, his dark brows lowering. He looked cross because Stanley had left a streak of mud across his shirt when he'd tripped over him. Moreover, the shirt was a white button down one that Stanley hadn't seen on anybody since he'd enlisted.

Nobody had enough soap to keep something that white. Everything soldiers wore was designed to disappear into the earth, to blend in with the countryside where the fighting was. Yet this strange fellow was wearing the white shirt and those blue jean dungarees that farmers wore.

In spite of the odd clothes, the stranger drew Stanley's gaze to him in the way that Isaac always did. He had long legs and looked incredibly fit and healthy, as though he'd not gone hungry one day in his entire life. He was not clean-shaven, but looked only a few razor swipes from being so, with his dark hair, the color of ink, cut away from his face. He was handsome even though he was frowning, and he squinted at Stanley, as though with displeasure at being disrupted from lollygagging in the grass. Which begged the question, what was he doing without any shoes when there was a war on?

"I'm asking you again, where did you come from?" asked the man.

"From the 44 th Battalion," said Stanley, incredulous that the man didn't already know this because the soldiers in his battalion had been all around him only moments ago. "From the 44 th , can't you see the bodies? Can't you see the trenches? "

Stanley's voice rose to a high shriek and then warbled away as the man got up, feet bare in the grass, a continued scowl on his face.

"Those trenches are from World War I," said the man with a snort, as though Stanley was a little foolish. "Why are you wearing that getup?" asked the man. Then he stopped. "I'm sorry, did you say the 44th Battalion? Are you role playing or something?"

Stanley didn't know what role playing was, but it was obvious that the man didn't think very highly of it, and thought even less of Stanley for participating in it. Stanley decided to do what he did best, deny. Which is what he'd been doing since the war started, deny that it was that bad, deny that he was terrified as hell all the time, deny that it was the worst thing imaginable.

He tightened his fingers around his rifle and held it firmly in front of him, elbows planted in the cold grass. The grass was so wet that in spite of his wool uniform, he was going to get soaked through. And then he'd get pneumonia, and then he'd die. At least he'd be with his buddies, at least he'd be with his Pa, who had died before the war began, and before Stanley had enlisted. That was a sad tale Stanley had barely been able to share with anybody, though there wasn't much point, as everybody he'd met had a sad story of their own.

With nothing to lose, Stanley pointed the rifle at the man, tightened his shoulders, and crooked his finger to pull the trigger. But the man was quick, even in bare feet, for he reached down and with both hands on the stock below the blade, twisted the rifle sideways, and jerked the whole thing out of Stanley's hands. Stanley's whole body went hollow with shock, his breath leaving him in a gasp.

He thought that the man was going to shoot him. Instead, the man opened his palms and lifted the rifle close to his face to examine it.

"This is a museum quality piece," said the man, sighing softly, his eyes alight. "Where did you get it? Did you steal it?"

"No," said Stanley. He got up and reached for the rifle, but the man pulled it out of his reach. "It's a Winchester 1912, and it's mine, it's mine , I got it when I finished basic training. It's mine because they gave it to me to kill Germans!"

"Why would you want to kill Germans?" asked the man. His eyes were a flinty green, and he scowled briefly at Stanley, his dark brows drawing together. "Do you think we're at war with them?"

"Yes, we are!" shouted Stanley, lunging for the rifle, for it had been drilled into his head since the day he'd been given it that it was his most valuable possession and the main thing that would help him survive and win the war. "Because the Kaiser attacked! Because Americans couldn't stand by and watch while—"

"Yes, I know all of that," said the man as he backed away from Stanley, shaking his head. "But that doesn't explain why you're digging your heels into the dirt like it's going on right now. Or why you're dressed in a uniform that ought to be in a museum, just like this antique rifle."

"It's a new rifle," said Stanley, reaching again. "And it's mine !"

"I doubt that," said the man. He cradled the rifle along his arm and stroked the stock gently, running his thumb across the place where Stanley had scratched his initials. "Why on earth would you damage such a fine piece by carving your name in the wood?"

"I did that so I'd know which one was mine," said Stanley, confused by the man's care with the rifle. "In case a shell comes, in case I drop it, in case—"

"Why do you keep talking like there's a war on?" asked the man.

"Because there is!" Stanley shouted this at the top of his lungs and barreled forward in a desperate surge of energy, hands out, shoulders braced, reaching for his rifle.

At the last minute, the man stepped back and braced his feet, holding the rifle pointed forward at Stanley, with as much grace as anybody Stanley had trained with. Stanley was about to be pierced by the bayonet end of his own rifle, and die at the hands of a man who insisted there was no war but who handled the rifle as if he'd been born to carry it.

Reaching for his rifle, Stanley slipped on the wet, slippery grass that was shockingly cold on his hands. He tried to roll into a defensive ball as he'd been taught, but instead slid to a stop, face down, splayed out, ready to be sliced into pieces.

That didn't happen, even though Stanley's ribs hurt from the fall, his lungs ached with trying to get enough air, and his throat was tight with trying not to scream piteously for mercy. He was going to piss himself in another minute, and then he'd be dead, and all of this would have been for nothing.

"Can I help you up?" asked the man. "Come on, I'm not going to hurt you. I just don't want you hurting me."

Rolling on his back, Stanley expected to see the rifle aimed right at his heart, but though the man held the rifle at the ready, his right hand on the stock, his left on the barrel below the blade, he did not move into position to shoot or anything. Instead, he looked at Stanley with his brows drawn together, an expression of concentration on his face.

"You're not from around here, are you," said the man, as though puzzling it out. "And you're not French."

"No, I'm not," said Stanley with some force. He didn't hate the French, though their language sounded like babble to him, and the gestures they made with their hands confused him. He was rather fond of the cheese that he had tasted, but he was an American, and he needed to make this calm stranger understand that. "I'm an American through and through."

"Okay, then," said the man with a laugh, as though Stanley had said something funny. "But get up before you get soaked and catch your death."

" You're in bare feet," said Stanley, accusing and pointing at the same time.

"Yes, but I'm going in the house now, and you can come, too, and dry off. Then we'll figure out where you belong."

The man reached down, extending his hand to Stanley. He was muscled as all-get-out, as though he'd trained for a war he professed was not going on.

Stanley was sure he was going to get yanked with some force, as the man was taller than he, and broad through the shoulders. Instead, the man took Stanley's forearm in a firm grip and then gently pulled him to his feet.

For a moment, Stanley was close enough to see the little black specks in the man's green eyes, and the line across his cheek where his five o'clock shadow ended. The curve of his smile. The white teeth that pressed against his lips.

Stanley turned his head because he'd kept his secret this long, though Isaac might have started figuring it out only days ago, days before he died—

"Hey, kid," said the man as he let go. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to help you."

"I'm not a kid," said Stanley rudely before he could stop himself. "I'm nineteen and I'll be twenty next year, so stop calling me a kid."

"Okay, okay," said the man.

As Stanley moved out of reach of the man's grip, he could see that the man thought Stanley was funny. This wasn't surprising, as that was the reaction of many of the guys in the battalion, except for his buddies, and Lt. Billings, as the latter viewed everything with serious eyes.

"You can laugh all you want," said Stanley. "I don't care. I just want to get back to my battalion and continue my mission, and see if I can save some lives."

"Which battalion did you say again?" asked the man, a quirky smile playing across his mouth as though he meant to humor Stanley.

"The 44 th , or can't you see my stripes? This badge?" Stanley pointed to his uniform, which would have told anybody with any sense where he belonged. "Lance corporal, second class gunner, in case you didn't know."

"I do know," said the man, though his words came out more slowly. "You did say the 44 th Battalion, right? And are we talking about the Battle of Ornes? That battalion was wiped out, and the village was too. I mean, there's people living there now, but it's more like a bedroom community—"

"What do you mean, wiped out? All of them, all of them? Nobody was saved? How could you know that?" asked Stanley. He knew he was screaming, but couldn't stop, a sense of panic rising in his chest so hard and fast that he thought his heart would stop.

"Because of the records," said the man, somehow calm in the face of Stanley's agitation. "In the museum in Ornes, where I've been doing the research for my—don't you see the crosses, don't you see the memorial?"

"Yes, I see them," said Stanley, though his voice warbled and his breath was coming in such short bursts that his vision was going black. Round circles began to block out the cloud-draped sunlight, and the only thing he could focus on was the man's green eyes. "But I don't understand—"

He was falling to the ground, and the wet grass was about to embrace him. If he could just stay low and catch his breath, slow his heart, he could figure out what was going on and get back to his battalion. He'd return without the code needed for retreat, but at least he'd be with them, his commander, his friends, with people he knew, when he died.