Chapter 22
Though B Company expected to go into billets the day after Christmas, no relief arrived, and as the days wore on and word trickled down the line that hostilities in the mountains had ended, they grew restless in the trench along the river below.
“You’re certain of the date?” Captain Davies asked Sergeant Major Chapman, glancing at his pocket watch.
“Bristol’s Own on the bloody twenty-sixth, no doubt about it,” Chapman replied.
“Perhaps they were held up. Have we a line to HQ?”
“What—here?” Lieutenant Hawkins scoffed. “Send Tomasson.”
But the captain merely shrugged, unwilling to let Hawkins think he ran the show. “They’ll come when they come.”
There was little enough activity from the German line anyway, and Ash wondered if Davies was less than keen to let some strangers loose on their holiday pals.
With things grown relatively quiet, the captain spent more time visiting his men, sharing meals and tea, even the odd hand of rummy—as though the Yuletide festivities had knocked down some barriers of rank which previously kept him at a distance.
Or maybe he was just as tired and homesick as they were.
“Care for a biscuit, sir?” Ash offered on New Year’s Eve. “The last of my Christmas haul.”
He looked into the tin, where only the simplest treats remained, selected one, and closed his eyes, letting the rich, creamy flavor dissolve on his tongue.
“Butterpl?tzchen?”
Ash froze. He knew they were German biscuits.
“I—they’re from a… neighbor. Back home. She’s very kind.”
“I’m sure she is. Don’t fret. I won’t turn you in.” He savored the last buttery morsel and added, “More delicious than I remember. Thank you, Ash.”
“Have you been to Germany, sir?”
“Many times as a child. Secret for a secret?”
Ash nodded, honored to be the keeper of his confidence, though it wasn’t very private with all the others leaning in.
“My maternal grandparents were German.”
“They never were,” Coop said. “Don’t that make things awful hard?”
Davies snorted, but it wasn’t a real laugh. “Yes, Cooper. That’s one of a great many reasons all of this is terribly fucking hard indeed.”
The boys were delighted by his swearing, and Ash offered up another Butterpl?tzchen. He smiled conspiratorially. “Just one more,” he said, tapping his nose as though this, too, were their little secret.
“Take a few if you like—” Ash began, but a runner from another unit interrupted with a summons for the captain.
“Gentlemen,” he said, skimming the message and stepping away.
“He’s to report to battalion HQ posthaste,” the runner told them, looking into Ashley’s tin with interest, so she shrugged and let him have a biscuit. “The lieutenant colonel’s in a right snit, I can tell you,”
“Why? What’s happened?” Blake asked.
“He’s decent enough, the lieutenant colonel. I don’t expect he’d be half so hot, but he had an earful off the major general this morning—”
“What’s that to do with Davies?” Rook demanded.
The runner leaned back and looked around at each of them in disgust. “What you lot did of course. Fraternizing with the enemy. Disgraceful, you ask me—”
“We never did,” Cooper interrupted.
“It was all part of the plan,” Rook said. “Give them a thick head, leave them in bed for a week. Easy pickings.”
“Word in the rear is you swapped chocolates and played football.”
“A preview of the thrashin’ they can expect when next we meet,” Stewart explained.
“You can’t kill a man on Christmas,” TomTom added. “Bad luck, isn’t it?”
“Command thinks otherwise,” the runner said, turning down the trench in search of rations.
The others exchanged nervous glances, while Rook hung his head in abject shame. Ash knew he’d never forgive himself for instigating the football if it got the captain in very serious trouble.
Davies passed by again a few minutes later, washed and shaven and looking quite presentable in a crisp, clean uniform.
“You should eat something before you go, sir,” Dusty advised him. “At least have a cup of tea.”
Their Old Man just shook his head, ready to get his dressing down over with. “See you soon, lads,” he promised, wringing his hat a little nervously despite his cheerful tone, so they plastered false smiles on their faces and wished him well.
“Happy new year, Cap,” Rook called after him sadly.
“Happy new year, Rook. A very happy new year to you all,” he replied. Then he stood up straight, put on his hat, and followed the runner back from whence he came.
“How deep do you reckon he’s in it?” Ash whispered to Rook.
“Slap on the wrist,” he said with a shrug. “It’s Christmas.” But he didn’t seem convinced.
“Rook!” Lieutenant Hawkins shouted the moment the captain was out of earshot. “Stop swinging the lead and get to your post. Go on, look alive. If you haven’t found a target to snipe at by nightfall, I’ll clap you in irons myself before you can ask for a cig.”
“Isn’t it Merle’s watch?” Ash asked.
Rook didn’t answer, holding the lieutenant with a blistering gaze as he removed a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one, and took a long, slow drag, the smoke curling out of his nose and lips like an irascible dragon.
“Of course, sir,” he said. Then, under the officer’s watchful eye, he stood and stretched languidly.
“Lads,” he added with a nod, before brushing past Hawkins and sauntering back to join Merle at his post.
“I miss Napier,” Tom grumbled so only Ash could hear.
She raised her tin cup in salute, and they shared a drink to the memory of the snarky lieutenant, wherever he may be.
With the captain away, Hawkins assumed the role he’d always wanted, making the Surreys stand to arms on the fire step for the better part of the day.
“Good thing we’re learning such valuable skills,” Ash muttered. “In case there’s a wall needs holding up after the war.”
Rook smirked, and TomTom allowed a tiny chuckle on her other side.
“Something to say, Private?” Lieutenant Hawkins asked.
“I said it’s very peaceful standing here with no one to shoot at, sir.”
“When it’s the most quiet is when you have to worry,” the lieutenant replied. “What are you laughing at, Private Tomasson? You’re out of uniform,” he added, pointing to a missing button on Tom’s coat with his bayonet.
“I’m sorry, sir. I couldn’t find the button to mend it.”
“Perhaps you should look for it in No Man’s Land while you fix the wire tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Next time, take the button off a shirt.”
“Then that one will be missing a button instead, sir.”
“And you can move the button back and forth from coat to shirt until you manage to take better care of your kit.”
“Yes, sir,” Tom agreed, not bothering to point out the buttons wouldn’t match let alone fit.
Despite Sergeant Major Chapman’s protests, Hawkins kept them assembled until nightfall when the captain finally arrived back from HQ.
“All right, Cap?” Ashley asked, though he looked none too worse for wear.
“Just fine, Private. Would you hunt up Lieutenant Hawkins and send him along for a report? The rest of you, stand down.”
“Of course, sir. Did our Christmas spirit get you in very grave trouble?”
“Well, we won’t be ringing in the New Year in cushy billets, and I doubt I’ll receive a crown and third stripe any time soon. Pretty fair trade, I’d say.” He offered her a genuine smile, far superior to his attempt that morning. “I’ve quite enough responsibility looking after you lot as it is.”
He patted her shoulder and sent her off in search of Hawkins, but the lieutenant’s dugout was empty and so was the latrine. Then his shrewish scream echoed down the trench as he harangued some other poor soul, and on instinct, Ashley headed straight for Rook.
“I asked you a question, soldier. How many shots have you fired today?”
Rook stood with his rifle at the ready, giving no indication he heard Lieutenant Hawkins, except for the muscle in his jaw which popped angrily. Ash couldn’t help admiring his nerve when he calmly replied, “Fritz has laid low today, sir. Probably still sleeping nice and cozy in his bunker.”
“Don’t get smart with me, Rook. I’ll string you up by your ankles. See if I don’t. What do you want, Private?” Hawkins demanded, turning on Ashley like the parent of a tiresome brat.
“Beg pardon, but the captain’s waiting for your report.”
Lieutenant Hawkins huffed but turned about-face to leave. When Ash pivoted at his elbow, he shook her off. “I think I know my own way, thank you.”
So she stayed behind with Rook.
“I owe you,” he said.
“What crawled up his shorts and bit, I’d like to know.”
“Guarantee you wouldn’t. What’s the word from the Old Man?”
“They’re none too pleased.”
“We can survive that. Anyway, the Germans won’t be giving us any trouble. Don’t seem to have much fight in them, to be honest.”
“Fat and slow from too many Christmas pies,” Ash teased. “He said it was worth it.”
“He’s all right, Davies. You’d be hard pressed to find a better man. And as we’re not likely to have a Christmas next year…” He trailed off but tilted his head as if to say, Why not enjoy ourselves now?
“You reckon not? Think we’ll still be fighting a whole year from now?”
Rook looked at her, his eyes so deep with pity she couldn’t see the bottom, and Ash realized his full meaning. The war would end or it wouldn’t, but eventually their luck would all run out.
“Right,” was all she could think to say, a sudden chill running through her as if someone had walked over her grave.
“There you are,” Tom called, coming up behind them with the others and carrying a large urn of tea.
They hunkered down near Rook and Merle, drinking for warmth as much as the ceremony of it. Stewart took a flask from inside his coat and added a healthy tot of whisky to each cup.
“Compliments of my Uncle Hugh,” he said. Then he lifted the flask in toast and took a long swig.
“1918,” TomTom said, raising his drink. “May it be better than the last.”
“May this be the year that ends it,” Cooper agreed, and they all snorted cynically at such an optimistic thought.
“And may we be here to see the end,” Ash added, eyeing Rook with another shiver.
“What’s your gran say, Stew?” Blake asked.
Stewart smiled the soft, faraway smile of a man who had given up hope. “My gran… She was partially right about it all being over by Christmas. Only off by a year. She passed… three weeks ago. For the rest of us—who knows?”
“You never said,” Ash gasped.
He hadn’t been able to look at them through the whole exchange, and they couldn’t face him after, but Ash edged her boot close and pressed it up against his so he wouldn’t feel alone, and Maxie licked his hand.
“I’m sorry, pal, that’s… bad luck,” Blake said, with such genuine regret in his voice that Ashley’s heart ached twice as hard.
They sat in silent companionship until a few minutes before midnight, when they were given orders to stand on the fire step once more, guns at the ready. As the hour struck, they fired salvos into No Man’s Land, one-two-three all up and down the line, announcing the arrival of the year.
When all was quiet again, Tom went off to check the barbed wire as ordered, and the rest turned back to their tea.
“Cooper,” Captain Davies called, then paused an uncomfortably long time.
“Do allow me to help, sir,” Lieutenant Hawkins said, snatching a message from the captain and turning gleefully, almost shoving Cooper as he pressed the paper into his chest. “Transfer orders. Get your kit together. You leave tonight.” Then he turned on his heel and headed down the trench towards Rook.
“Cap?” Cooper asked, unfolding the message. “British West Indies Regiment, sir?”
“HQ think you’ll be more… comfortable there.”
“Comfortable? Do they know what we’re doing out ’ere?”
“Likely not.”
Ash looked questioningly at Blake, whose lips were drawn. When he didn’t explain, she turned to Stew.
“All-Black regiment,” he whispered.
“But you need me,” Cooper protested.
“I wish it were up to me. They’re apparently in dire straits for want of a good runner.”
“And if I refuse?”
“We both know how that ends, Coop.”
“This is bollocks, that’s what.”
“Yes, Private. This is absolute bloody fucking bollocks,” Captain Davies agreed.
Then he put a hand on Cooper’s shoulder and spoke more softly.
“I want you to understand, this in no way reflects on your performance here. You’ve been exemplary.
And when this is all behind us, I’m not saying I’ll cheer for the Gunners or anything, but I’ll come down to London. Catch a game.”
“We’ll have a drink, you and me.”
“We will,” the captain said, shaking Cooper’s hand. “And Stewart, I collected this at HQ this morning. Max has been awarded a Distinguished Conduct Medal for her actions at Ypres.”
“Thank you, sir,” Stew replied gruffly.
Captain Davies nodded, handing him the shiny silver medal on its red and black ribbon and shaking his hand as though it were his own commendation. “It’s a very great honor. Especially for a dog,” he added before leaving them.
“The dog gets a medal, and I’m transferred out,” Cooper grumbled, sitting back down with a huff.
“Hawkins has it in for us all,” Blake told him. “It was only a matter of time before we were split up.”
His voice was raspy, and Ash could only imagine how he must feel. It would be a very hard adjustment for him too.
“Aye, he does at that,” Stew agreed, pinning Max’s ribbon on Cooper’s chest. Then Blake and Coop clasped hands as they always did before each run.
Suddenly, Rook fired into the darkness, three shots, then three more.
“Shine a light,” the lieutenant called, and bright search lights were turned on No Man’s Land until he nodded with satisfaction.
“Well done, Lance Corporal. Maybe you’ll amount to something after all,” he sneered, finally leaving the same way he’d come. “Look alive, Cooper!”
When he was gone, Rook deflated, but he didn’t turn away from his post.
One by one, the others crept near enough to risk a peek of the land beyond before the lights were turned out. Six Germans laid dead inside a crater, while Tom, still on wire duty, tucked himself flat to the ground so as not to be caught in the spotlight.
Ash glanced over at Rook and his jaw was set like stone, except for the muscle, still popping, while the rest of him stood stock still.
“Nothing sporting about picking off drunks as they stumble in the dark,” Rook muttered. “Wouldn’t have done it, ’cept the lieutenant was watching.”
“Have some tea,” Ash told him, offering her mug because he looked like he could cry, and she couldn’t bear it.
“Don’t want tea,” he said.
“Have some anyway. It’s gone cold, but it’ll do you good.”
He didn’t look at her but accepted the proffered cup at her insistence.
His eyes widened as the whisky hit the back of his throat, and he took another long swig, draining the whole cup.
A faint, sad smile played at his lips when he handed it back to her.
“You’re right, Little Bird,” he said gratefully. “Better’n mudder’s own milk.”
It may not have made everything better, but Ash was happy that in some small way she could help.