Chapter 8 Language of Love #2
Henderson chewed his lip. “I’m a bricklayer, what do I know about asking a girl to marry me?”
“Trust Betty to know the man she fell in love with.” Charlie thought about the advice he had given Ned, to see women as partners, not like a civilization from a faraway land.
“If she chose John Henderson, it wasn’t because she wanted pretty words.
She wants the man who knows how to do an honest day’s work to give her his last name. ”
Henderson nodded and folded up the piece of paper before slipping it carefully into the inside of his jacket. “I’ve something to ask you. If she does say yes, that is.”
“She will,” Charlie said immediately.
“If she does,” Henderson continued, “I was hoping you would stand as my witness? I guess we will get married in London, I don’t have much family, but Betty’s people are in Holloway.” Charlie was struck by what a small world it was; Holloway was only a few miles from his father’s shop.
“It would be my honour.” Charlie clapped his friend on the back. “And I look forward to meeting the infamous Elizabeth Townsend, the woman brave enough to marry Sergeant John Henderson.”
???
The next day was even worse than the practice shellfire. Charlie was just finishing up a full day digging latrines when he heard the public-school accent of his lieutenant. “A word, Corporal?”
As if Charlie had a choice.
With a short nod, Charlie followed Pemberton into the empty YMCA tent. Pemberton lit a small gas lamp. “Sit.”
Charlie took a spot on the bench. After hours of digging, his body screamed for bed, but sitting was at least better than having to stand at attention. Through the fog of his tiredness, Charlie realised he hadn’t spoken. “How can I be of assistance, Lieutenant?”
Pemberton always liked it when the men were formal with him.
Pemberton reached into his jacket and pulled out a flask. “Care for some gin?”
Then, as if Charlie had agreed, he pulled out two small cups and poured gin in each. “Drink up then.”
Still watching the man across from him, Charlie took a small sip. The burn in his throat followed by the blossoming warmth in his stomach was welcome, despite the company.
Pemberton continued the one-sided conversation. “Looks like we might get some sunshine for the rest of the week.”
“Sun in France? Next you’ll be saying the Germans have packed up and gone home.” A weak joke.
Pemberton leaned over as if they were deep in their drink and sharing their greatest secrets. “This war isn’t just about beating the Germans.”
Had the man been off with the fairies the past three months? Their daily survival depended on beating the Germans.
“Obviously the Kaiser and his henchmen must be defeated. Rape of Belgium and all that.” Pemberton knocked back his gin in a single go. “This war is about so much more than some European backwater. We are fighting to save the very fabric of the British soul.”
Charlie raised his glass in cheers. “To King and Country.”
Pemberton’s smile at Charlie was that of a lord to a peasant slaving in the fields. “England was once a nation of warriors, and we will be again. First, we need to burn out the rot that has taken hold of our society. Made our men effeminate, weak.”
Charlie thought of Ned, in a silk robe and make-up. Ned had been many things in that moment, but weak was not one of them.
“Which is why we must take action about the rumours that are circulating about our division,” Pemberton continued casually.
“The boys like to relax, sir. Burn off a bit of war stress when they can get their hands on something to drink. They don’t mean anything by it,” Charlie responded. And when you were losing over half your men in a single week, who the fuck really cared about rumours?
“I’m talking about something far, far more insidious than a bit of drunken merriment. There are whispers about horrible, disgusting behaviour taking place. Buggery. Sodomy.”
Charlie’s first instinct was to make a joke that any man who managed to actually figure out how to bugger in a muddy trench deserved a medal. Then again, joking had always been his gut reaction to fear, and at Pemberton’s words, terror had bubbled up in Charlie.
“Men like to gossip. And when there isn’t anything to gossip about, they like to invent some.”
“A friendly man like yourself probably hears everything that happens in the division.” Pemberton stared at Charlie like he was an insect under the glass. “I want this stamped out to the fullest extent. I want names, Corporal.”
Charlie could think of half a dozen different chaps who found comfort in one another in the trench lines. Some of them were even still alive after the past summer. None of them deserved being sold out to a worm like Pemberton.
Mistaking Charlie’s silence for hesitation or nerves, Pemberton pressed on. “I don’t need a long list. The gross indecency rules apply to officers as they do to enlisted, even ones with titles.”
The gin in Charlie’s belly turned to acid as he finally understood what this conversation was all about. Pemberton wasn’t after Charlie or some randy new recruits. Pemberton wanted Ned.
Charlie would have sworn that Pemberton was too drunk to remember his own name that night in the tavern, but maybe someone else had spilled that Charlie had stayed the night in Ned’s room? Or worse, had he seen one of their moments in the dark corners?
Pemberton twisted the knife. “It’s about time this division gets some proper men as officers.”
Charlie had disliked Pemberton from the moment he had first seen the man.
He might go over the top with the rest of the Tommies, face the same gas and machine gun fire, but he never let anyone forget that his death would matter.
Charlie and the rest? In Pemberton’s world, they were a supporting cast for his heroism.
For him to say Ned was the lesser man?
Charlie’s fist was in Pemberton’s face before the other man had time to react. Punching Pemberton had been something Charlie had wanted to do for over a year, and his knuckles connecting with the other man's small pug nose was as satisfying as he had imagined.
Charlie braced for a counterattack, but instead heard chuckling on the ground as Pemberton wiped the blood from his face.
“Corporal Villiers, that sort of insubordination cannot be tolerated. Bad for unit cohesiveness. That’s three weeks at the front as a stretcher bearer. No rotations of duty.”
Charlie clenched his jaw. He had received field punishment before, lost his rum privileges, had to do extra duty, even put in the stocks. Three weeks at the front? Men didn’t survive that sort of duty, not with the types of attacks they had been doing.
“Of course, if you have something interesting to tell me, I would like to see you as soon as possible.” There was the carrot. Spill, betray Ned, and save his own skin.
Pemberton could shove that carrot up his arse. While Charlie might not be talented in most of the ways that mattered, he was a stubborn son of a bitch. He wasn’t going to let Ned be hauled in front of some monkey court because of who he liked to fuck.
With a salute but no other response, Charlie turned on his heel and left Pemberton, his gin, and his threats. He had rarely been so furiously angry in his life. Or as terrified.
As he exited the tent, he nearly walked square into Henderson, who gave him a broad smile. “Letter is in the post! I think she is going to say yes, you know. I really do.”
“Of course she will!” Charlie had never been so jealous of a future he didn’t want.
Henderson paused. “You alright? You look pale.”
Henderson would find out soon enough about the field punishment. Would be furious at Charlie, at Pemberton. Right now… Charlie couldn’t bring himself to spoil the mood. “Nothing to worry about, just need my supper.”
Henderson slapped him on the back. “Let’s get to it then! It's a good day in Flanders, Villiers. A good day.”