He liked holding Stanley’s hand, the way the warmth of their skin began to turn into something more, something on the edge of excitement. He wanted to drop the map and wrap his arms around Stanley, and would have, except for the look in Stanley’s eyes as he gazed at the edge of the trench. And finally, when he looked at Devon.
“A fellow’s not supposed to care for another fellow,” said Stanley, though he didn’t let go of Devon.
“Maybe not back then,” said Devon, giving Stanley’s hand a squeeze. “But you’re here now, and it’s okay.”
“So you believe me?” asked Stanley.
“I do and I don’t,” said Devon, a little relieved to be drawn out of his own darker thoughts. “Time travel is impossible, but there’s something in your eyes that tells me you were there. When it happened. When it all went wrong, though, it was wrong from the beginning.”
“It didn’t seem that way,” said Stanley. “At the time, it seemed like a good thing everybody was excited about.”
Devon knew exactly what Stanley meant. The pictures he’d been looking at since he could remember had contained exactly that sense of excitement and patriotic verve. The soldiers’ faces had depicted an upbeat expectation about how it would be fighting the enemy and coming home victorious.
“It’s getting cold,” said Devon. He squeezed Stanley’s warm hand and again fought the impulse to hug him. “And I think it’s going to start raining.”
“It always rained,” said Stanley. “In the trenches, it was always raining, and the sky was the color of mud.”
Stanley’s face dropped back into sadness, as though he was being pulled into memories of the war against his will. Which made Devon want to take care of him all the more.
“Well, let’s get you inside,” said Devon, horrified at himself that he’d let Stanley go so far into his memories that he had an expression on his face like he did, one of sadness, despair filtering everything he looked at, every word he said. “Okay?”
“Okay,” said Stanley, smiling to himself.
Devon made himself let go, and together they tramped along to the end of the trench. While it occurred to Devon that this was the direction Stanley would have taken to reach the commander on his mission, he didn’t ask about it. Instead, he led them both back towards the cottage, cutting over the top of one trench, slipping down the other side to the path between the rows, getting to the cottage just as it began to rain.
“Some coffee to warm up with?” asked Devon.
“Yes,” said Stanley, with as much passion as Devon had heard from him, as though he was unbelievably grateful for the opportunity to drink something warm. “Can I have extra sugar in mine?”
“Yes, of course,” said Devon, pleased to be able, at last, to give instead of to take.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Devon made coffee using the French press. He did it as fast as he could, shoving the bowl of brown sugar in front of Stanley so he could have as much as he wanted. Then he took their damp jackets and rain-speckled knitted caps and hung them up. He did not let himself think about the next thing that he wanted to do, because he really should stop. He made himself sit across from Stanley at the kitchen table while the radiator oozed out warmth and the rain darkened the skies outside the windows and they drank their coffee.
“What I’d like to do,” said Devon because he couldn’t help himself, and maybe it would be okay. “I’d like to take pictures of you in your uniform to send to the history department at the university.”
“Why?” asked Stanley, his eyebrows going up as he finished his coffee. “Why would you want to do that? Would that help them?”
Devon felt a pang in his heart because, of course, that would be Stanley’s first concern. Not that it might make him uncomfortable, but that it might help somebody else. Which was why he’d volunteered, even though his friends had just been horribly killed and no other soldier had been brave enough to go on what turned out to be a suicide mission.
“Never mind,” said Devon, shaking his head, and he meant it. Putting that uniform on was the last thing that Stanley needed, and the last thing Devon wanted to put him through. “I’ll just take pictures of it on the floor. It’ll be easier that way anyway, and I can get good close-ups.”
“I’ll put it on,” said Stanley. “And maybe afterwards we can burn it?”
There was a jerk of hesitation deep in Devon’s gut because the uniform could be invaluable in understanding the day-to-day life in the trenches. Except the world already knew enough about that, and they wouldn’t miss this one uniform if Stanley wanted to destroy it. Except as Stanley went into the bedroom to change into it, Devon’s heart began to race, for he knew it would be like seeing not just his work, his thesis, but his dream come to life.
As Stanley came out of the bedroom, Devon’s heart almost stopped. There was mud on the uniform, and the sweater vest had holes where the moths had gotten to it. But the boots were tight, and the laces new. Stanley looked like he ought to look, the pure vision that had been in Devon’s mind since he could remember. Except it was better because the image was overlaid with Stanley himself, his smile, the brightness in his eyes, the willingness with which he’d put the uniform onjustso Devon could take pictures.
When Stanley bent to put on his puttees, Devon raced over to help him. Impulsively, he knelt at Stanley’s feet to wrap the puttees around Stanley’s boots with an anxious joy of feeling a live human being beneath his hands.
“There,” he said, looking up at Stanley. “Is that better?”
“Yes,” said Stanley. “But if you could hurry because there were a lot of lice in the trenches, and I think some of them came through time with me.”
Devon couldn’t tell whether Stanley was joking or not, but he got up, grabbed his cell phone, urged Stanley to stand in front of the fireplace, and took pictures.
There was no film to worry about, so he took pictures from each angle as it occurred to him, from the back, shoulder height, the front,the long view from the side. He even took close-ups of the buttons until he was sure that he’d used up almost all the space for photos on his phone.
