“One?” asked Stanley. There was more than one? Devon had said it like that a few times,World War One, like the war Stanley was in,hadbeen in, had only been the first one, the first ofmany. He didn’t want to believe it.
“More time travel stuff,” said Devon, half to himself while he rubbed his forearms with his hands. Then, having decided, he wiped his hands on his blue jeans and blew out a breath. “I’m not sure Ishould tell you, in case you really are a time traveler and might go back to 1917 and shouldn’t know, but there were two world wars—”
“Two?”
“Only two,” said Devon. “I mean, there were other wars, local wars I guess you’d call them, but only two that involved the whole world.”
Devon didn’t seem to want to talk about it more than that, though, so Stanley didn’t push it because the thought of it was making his heart race again. Even though he kind of wanted to know, there wasn’t anything he could do about it. And besides, it was far more pleasant to look at Devon as he went about his household chores.
“I have an idea,” said Devon. “Why don’t we get some fresh air and walk along the trenches? Then you can show me what you know.”
Stanley didn’t know much about anything, it seemed, but he liked the way the suggestion made Devon smile, and that was good enough for Stanley.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Devon had shared too much too soon, that much was obvious, but the suggestion of a walk had made a difference in the way Stanley was looking at him. Besides, he still felt conflicted as to whether Stanley was crazy or truly from the past. Either way, it was Devon’s responsibility to do right by Stanley. That included not giving in to the impulse to grab him and hold him close simply because Stanley had such a sweet face and seemed quite eager, at a moment’s notice, to listen to Devon babble on. So, putting on jackets and knitted caps, and after Devon grabbed the weatherproof map of the area he’d ordered online, they headed out.
He didn’t lock the door, and noticed that Stanley didn’t say anything about it. That only made sense, as, at least in Devon’s mind, in Stanley’s time, in 1917, the world had been a more honest place, and people didn’t need to lock their doors. That might not be altogether true, but it pleased him to think about it that way.
They headed out across the wet grass as a mist was coming down, shrouding the green corduroy rows in wisps of gray velvet.
“Let’s go this way,” said Devon. He pointed to the edge of where the nearest trench began. When he’d first moved to France, he’d goneover every inch of every trench, starting from left to right, so it made sense, at least to him, to explore it that way now with Stanley.
When they got to the top of the first trench, Stanley stood there with his hands in the pockets of the dark pea coat that Devon had loaned him. The blue of the borrowed knitted cap was stark against his pale skin, the bones tightly drawn across his cheeks as he gazed across the rows of trenches.
“It’s hard to look at,” said Stanley. “When I see the memorial, all I can see is my failure.”
“You did what you could,” said Devon before he could stop himself, as it was too banal a thing to say when 200 men had lost their lives for nothing. “You volunteered. That was brave, and at least you tried. Right?”
“Maybe,” said Stanley. “What is that?” As if to distract himself, he moved closer to Devon and pointed at the map in Devon’s hand. “Is that a map?”
Nodding, Devon unrolled it and held it flat between his hands. He remembered finding the cartography shop online that offered reproductions of various maps from all the wars. Though it had been a bit pricey, the details in the map had helped Devon get a feel for what he was working on.
He’d looked at the map so many times that he knew it by heart, though it revealed something new every time he’d unrolled it. Had he been taken back to 1917, he really felt that he could have found his way around, would have known where to stop to get a cup of coffee or where to stop to get a new scarf from supplies, at least, had there been scarves on offer. Though, with Stanley right in front of him, the daydream that had occupied him for so long began to seem a little inadequate.
The unrolling of the map brought Stanley to his side, close and warm, his expression eager and interested, his eyes bright. Devon knew that he’d been waiting his whole life for this exact moment, where he could share this with Stanley and watch the expression on his face as he listened. Something bubbled up inside of him. Herealized that it was happiness, and he longed for time to slow down so they could stay this way forever.
“Okay, here’s where we are,” said Devon, doing his best to keep at least some of his excitement out of his voice so as not to overwhelm Stanley. He pointed to the lower left corner of the map. “The brown lines are trenches, shaded a little bit in the middle, there, and the green and blue X’s are weapons, green for howitzers and blue for rifles. The gold cross is the chaplain’s station. There’s only one of those, you see. The circles are the canteen, the latrine, bunkers for sleeping, and supply caches.”
He waited while Stanley squinted at the map and then looked up. His eyes were tilted down at the outside corners, and it made Devon want to throw the map to the ground and hold him close in the way he’d been resisting all morning. Except impulsive, physical contact was not how he wanted Stanley to know him. Besides, what Stanley was doing was attempting to determine where he’d been on that fateful morning when he’d volunteered.
Devon felt a little rush of excitement at the thought of what Stanley could tell him. Then he felt badly about it because why should he find any joy in knowing more about Stanley’s demise, and the loss of his friends, not to mention the entire of the 44th?
“That’s the cottage?” asked Stanley as he pointed to the edge of the map where a little bit of shaded gray area was.
“Yes, it’s off the map and the church is, too. I could only afford a portion of the whole map, as it was a limited edition. I figured I already knew where those buildings were anyway, so I got this one.”
It was exciting to think that Stanley would be able to give him specific information. That he was standing there with an American doughboy and was able to ask him, in person, where he’d been during a crucial part of a disastrous military effort.
“These are the trenches,” said Stanley. He ran his finger along the shaded area that was the low point of the trench they were standing on. “And these are the bunkers for the commanding officers—”
“Where were you, Stanley?” asked Devon.
As Stanley looked over the trenches, his eyes narrowed as thoughfocusing on the middle distance, rather than actually looking, Devon thought for a moment that he should take back the question. Otherwise, he was asking Stanley to plunge back into a very dark moment.
“Stanley—” said Devon. Why was he so obsessed? Why did he have to push it all the time?
He reached out and put his hand on Stanley’s arm, which seemed to wake him. He was about to tell Stanley to never mind. He had enough information for his thesis; he didn’t need to drag Stanley through the sad mud of the past to get it.
