Chapter 7
Owing to their success in the Brigade Sports, Ash and TomTom were quickly embraced by their new unit, who would ride the bragging rights of having won the most points for a good long while.
The collie also took an immediate liking to Ashley—not above her master, but definitely above the other boys—always coming to Ash first for a chin scratch or belly rub, and Ash couldn’t help wondering if it was because somehow Maxine could smell the truth and was happy to have another girl around.
At least the collie would keep her secret.
The runners all shared one small tent, too close for comfort even before Stewart and Max arrived.
The first night Ash squeezed to the edges of the group, grateful for the buffer when the dog crept in between her and the lads, but after that Stew made an excuse to bunk down with the dogs at the kennel.
“Sleeping anywhere else but here I can understand,” TomTom told him a few nights later. “What I can’t get past is you giving that mutt half your rations.”
“She’s hungry,” Stewart replied, as though he didn’t understand the question.
They had spent the morning writing letters home about their exploits in the races before cleaning their boots and weapons.
After lunch they’d played cards and double-checked their gear, and after dinner they’d gathered around to watch 20,000 League Under the Sea, which was projected onto the side of the big barn where Captain Davies quartered.
Now, having retired to their tent, TomTom eyed a hard, flavorless biscuit scornfully.
It was the only ration that seemed to be in abundance between meals, and he placed it in his cup of water to soak so he wouldn’t break a tooth.
“I’m hungrier than the dog,” he told Stewart.
“How’s about you give me half your rations instead. ”
“Then what’ll Maxie eat?”
“She can have these biscuits,” Tom suggested, taking a timid bite. “She wouldn’t mind they taste like paste.”
“Eaten your fair share of paste, have you, boyo?” Blake teased.
“Taste like paste smells, then,” Tom retorted.
Stewart held out his hand for the biscuit, and Tom reluctantly passed it over.
“Saltier than paste,” Stew said after taking a thoughtful nibble. “Hint of straw. And yes, I have tasted straw and paste,” he said, cutting off Blake’s question before he could ask it.
“S’pose that’s to be expected from a Scot,” Blake sniped.
Stewart threw the biscuit at him and suddenly the whole tent collapsed.
“What did you do, mate?” Cooper demanded as the five of them sprawled together in the darkness, the candle lanterns thankfully blown out rather than sending the canvas up in a deathly canopy of flames.
“Wasn’t me,” Stew protested, scrambling to find the edges of the tent in pitch darkness.
“Oy,” TomTom yelled, and before Ash could reach for his shadowed form, her legs were pulled out behind her and the darkness turned even darker as a scratchy sack was yanked down over her head.
She sucked in a breath, swallowing her own scream.
It smelled of damp earth and bile, and when she tried to pull it off, her arms were pinned to her sides, and she was jerked to her knees and then her feet.
She gasped and struggled against her unseen captors, as a rifle butt prodded her in the back, urging her forward.
Shouts and muffled groans came from her friends, and she could feel the slaps and flying elbows as they fought. A low growl and then a snarl from Max were followed by a whimper.
“It’s all right, Maxie, stand down,” Stew chirruped, more worried for his beloved dog’s safety than his own.
Shouldn’t there have been snipers and sentries posted around the perimeter of their camp?
How did this unseen enemy get through? Ash had read enough stories about the way German soldiers treated POWs.
When they went to castrate her, would they laugh at her deception before having their way?
Or would they cut her stem to stern and feed her to the hungry creatures in their own kennel?
After several minutes stumbling, Ash tripped into the back of another lad, who grunted but held his tongue. Then strong hands forced her to her knees once more before finally ripping the sack off her head.
She blinked in the moonlight filtering through trees.
They must have been brought to the wood that bordered their training fields, and their captors—not German at all, but a handful of British soldiers.
Ash recognized one as Simmons, the straw-haired private from the Buffs who tried to trip her before they ran the mile.
“Welcome to hell,” a big, ginger lance corporal growled. “You’re not ready for it.”
“Been here the whole time, Reid,” Blake protested.
“Do not interrupt me, Private,” Lance Corporal Reid screamed in his face, spittle flying so far it hit Ashley on the chin.
“You think you’re something special on account of you run so fast? Runners need eyes in the back of their heads,” Reid went on, beginning to circle Ash and her friends as they shrank into a tight huddle.
“Eyes in the front and sides, too,” Simmons cut in. “Where are your eyes, runners? We caught you far too easy.”
“They were begging for capture,” a third soldier agreed.
“Piss off, all of ya,” Blake said. “Buffs lost fair and square.”
The fourth soldier, another private, slapped Blake hard across the mouth and Ashley winced.
“Think this place is an adventure?” Reid asked.
“It ain’t,” Simmons told them.
“Think this war is an adventure?” the third man asked.
“It’s just fucking war,” the fourth replied.
“The man beside you may change, but the battle drags on and on,” Simmons added almost sadly.
“You may think being a runner is your chance to be a hero, but heroes get their pals killed,” Reid said in a menacing way that made Ashley shiver.
“Do you want to get your pals killed?” Simmons asked her, and when she shook her head, he opened his mouth wide in a wolfish grin.
“You may think being a runner entitles you to special treatment,” Reid said.
“Extra rations,” Simmons cut in.
“You’re wrong. All you’re entitled to is extra danger,” Reid shouted. “Assignments that’ll make you piss yourselves.”
“Don’t piss yourselves, ickle babies,” Simmons taunted, grinning even broader than before. “Speed won’t be enough to see you through, and if you fail, we go down too.”
“Strip,” Reid ordered. “Now. I outrank you, and I want to see a pile of uniforms at my feet in the next twenty seconds, and that means your knickers as well, ladies.”
The last jab, more than any of the rest, was all it took to turn Ashley’s fear into idle fury, and she glowered at Reid, higher rank or no.
“Fifteen seconds,” he said, glaring back.
Ash caught Tom’s eye as the others began to follow orders, and shook her head once, hoping if both of them stood firm in their defiance, Reid and his goons might back down. Was it even an order if the men weren’t from her platoon?
“Ten seconds,” Reid growled.
TomTom shrugged a half apology and kicked off his boots.
Calculating whether she could make a run for it, Ash glanced at the moon, now directly overhead. It would expose her like a spotlight all the way back to camp. She was fast, but four on one were not good odds.
What would happen if they caught her and held her down, peeling her sticky uniform off perspiration-damp skin despite her thrashing and clawing, layer by layer until they discovered what she’d done? Would she survive long enough to beg the captain’s mercy?
She could be imprisoned for fraudulent enlistment according to the Field Service Regulations, but might they first tie her to a tree for twenty-four hours, crucifixion-style—Field Punishment Number One—before sending her home in shame? And would it make them hunt down Charles with extra vigor?
“What are you waiting for?” Reid yelled in her face, so close his spit settled on her eyelashes like tiny wet gnats, and she held her breath to block out his fetid stench. “Are you deaf?” he demanded, boxing her ears so they rang almost as badly as they had on the rifle range. “Togs. Off. Now.”
“No,” Ashley replied.
He slapped her cheek hard enough to break the skin. Max barked and lunged, causing one of the other privates to whip out a pistol.
“Dinnae hurt her,” Stewart pleaded, and for a moment Ash thought he meant her rather than his dog.
The private ignored him, cocking the hammer and aiming at Max.
“That’s quite enough,” a voice drawled, and Rook stepped out of the trees, cigarette hanging from his lips, rifle pointed at Reid’s head.
Despite the danger, Ashley’s stomach flip-flopped at the sight of him.
Reid and his men all seemed to know by reputation that Rook wasn’t likely to miss, and Reid gestured to put away the pistol.
When the soldier didn’t comply, Rook said, “You can shoot the dog if you want, but I’ll let Captain Davies know you plan on taking her place. Fancy the taste of rat?”
The private’s blank expression didn’t falter, but he holstered his weapon at last.
“Well, if it’s not the three-legged champion,” Reid scoffed. “That’s a child’s game. We’ve got no grievance with you.”
“You’re holding my runners hostage. Seems like grievance enough.”
“Just putting them in their place,” Simmons said.
“Their place is back at our camp.”
Reid glowered. “I outrank you. I could have you written up.”
“Reid, isn’t it? I heard your lieutenant was looking for you lot. Seems someone put a bug in his ear that you may have deserted. Isn’t that right, Dusty?”
The captain’s batman stepped out of the woods next, his own gun aimed on Simmons. “That’s what I heard.”
“Better take care of that.” Rook gestured with his rifle. “Wouldn’t want to give them cause to believe it.”
Reid huffed, nostrils flaring, and exchanged a glance with his now terrified companions before slinking away.
When they were gone, Rook lowered his weapon and turned back to the runners, all but Ashley down to nothing but their undergarments and identity discs—except for Blake, who wore nothing at all except two cupped hands to shield his dignity.
“Why the fuck are you naked?” Rook asked.
“Lance corporal told us to,” TomTom answered.