Chapter 25 Millie & Gert #2
If Charlie hadn’t literally been pushing a car up a hill, he would have turned and ran. Even with the car, the temptation was strong.
“What do you mean by that?” Gittins turned around in his seat. Was everyone listening to this? Could someone not step on a toe?
“Officers could ask the impossible.” There was a beat as Smythe gathered his breath. “Villiers got us to do the impossible.”
There was a wave of laughter from the men around the car.
Someone out of Charlie’s line of vision said, “Remember when Villiers convinced us to go along with the plan to dig trench lines in the middle of the night?”
“The blisters on my hands have only just faded,” Smythe called back.
“Here I was thinking your contribution was mostly whining and giving away our position to the enemy,” Charlie answered, relaxing into the teasing.
“I was making sure the rest of these idiots actually dug trenches in the right place.” Smythe’s needling of each other felt far more comfortable than the compliments of a few minutes earlier.
“I thought we would all get court-martialled that night.” The strain of pushing was now more evident in Andrew’s voice. “Not four hundred yards away from German lines, and you were all behaving like schoolboys in the mud.”
Ignoring the ache in his back and arms, Charlie raised his head to properly look at all the men pushing this broken car up the hill, a disorienting experience of piecing together identities behind rounded cheeks, grey beards, and lined faces.
Yet, there was no denying he did recognise these men, shared something with them.
Not wanting more emotion to jump out unexpectedly, Charlie craned his neck and noticed that their little parade was starting to attract a bit of attention from the French locals.
“Anglais, les idiots.” The disgusted look of the shopkeeper watching from his front window needed no full translation.
“The French never change,” Smythe muttered, low enough for only Charlie to hear.
“We should show them that we don’t either.” Charlie breathed through the weight of the next few steps and then called out, “Millie, do you think you could give some marching tunes?”
“I’m not sure if I know any.”
Gittins tapped her shoulder compassionately. “Luckily, my dear, I do.”
“The ruder the better,” Smythe interjected.
With that, the men started singing off-key.
???
Not long after, they arrived at the top of the hill, sweaty, aching, and triumphant.
Gert confidently took over the negotiations with the bewildered mechanic, apparently French not softening her tone at all.
Millie let Charlie help her out of the car. “You’re not just a group of friends on a holiday, are you?”
Charlie shrugged.
“My cousin died at the Somme,” she continued, her gaze not breaking with his.
“Many did.” He looked round to where the remnants of his division were scattered around, complaining and teasing each other about aches and pains.
What he wanted to say next weren’t things you just spit out, no matter how sure he was of what Millie and Gert were to each other.
“Enjoy Paris. I hope it's everything you’re looking for.”
Millie looked over to where Gert was arguing more loudly with the mechanic, affection all across her face. “I’m sure it will be.”
The Cluley now settled, Charlie looked to leave when an arm wrapped around his shoulders. “Joining us for a drink, Villiers? You can explain how your sorry excuse for a North London football team fell apart in the Cup Final this year.”
Charlie still didn’t know what to do with this new Smythe, who was still a sarcastic bastard, but maybe also the sort of man Charlie liked to have pints with. While his instinct was still to stay as far away from everyone as possible, he could also ask himself what harm one drink would do.
So he found himself slapping Smythe on the back and saying, “At least Arsenal made the final. Didn’t see much of Chelsea floating around.”
The rest of the afternoon was spent in the pub, recounting to all who would listen the feat of strength required to push a car up a hill.
Between their boasting, the men traded insults and merciless one-upmanship—in the traditional way of the British male—to hide the joy in seeing the life each man had built for himself.
Photographs were passed around and admired, chests were puffed up as various accomplishments were recounted.
All surprisingly pleasant.
Charlie had hated the army but had loved his section’s camaraderie. He had never been able to fully explain the pain to have been wrenched from them so suddenly, made worse by knowing that it was all his own fault, his decision to give up the fight. He had been one of them, and then he wasn’t.
Yet here his belonging was unquestioned by his comrades, a bit dusty and neglected, but right where he had left it. He took a deep drink of his beer to cover the fact that he was blinking quite quickly.
“The lads are happy you’re here.” For some unknown reason, Smythe had sat beside Charlie the whole afternoon. “We weren’t sure you’d forgiven us.”
Charlie almost dropped his beer. “Forgiven you for what?”
“Leaving you behind.” Smythe looked down at his own drink and, though it was hard to see in the light, Charlie swore his cheeks had reddened. “At Scarpe. The call to retreat. We shouldn’t have let you go off on your own.”
“But… it… I mean… I ignored the order.”
“You wouldn’t have left us behind, and not just in No Man's Land. You wouldn’t have let Pemberton go after any of us the way he went after you.” Smythe shook his head. “It's no wonder you left.”
What? How? Charlie’s brain spun with questions.
Instead, he clapped Smythe on the back. “What’s important is that we survived. And are here. To push a car up a hill.”
“Excuse me, we pushed four cars up a fucking mountain if I heard Gittins correctly a few minutes ago.”
“Damn right.” Charlie smiled as they clinked glasses.
Above the bar the clock showed it was half past six, just enough time to finish his pint and be on his way to meet Ned.