Stanley had the sickening feeling that he should have known to save the radio, too. That if he’d moved the radio to the left another two feet, it would have been saved as well. He should have known, but why did he think that? Why did he have the sensation that the responsibility for the fate of the battalion rested with him? Because it did.
He’d known about the mortar shell, when it would come, where it would land, and the damage it would cause. Vague memories of a conversation about this very occurrence lingered in the back of his mind. He could have saved everybody, but he’d only saved his friends, selfishly. Not like a true soldier, not like someone bravewho would deserve a medal at the end of all of this. Not like someone who deserved a quiet moment in a well-lit room, eating supper with a handsome young man, followed by an orange all his own.
Suddenly, vividly, all the memories and images marched front and center, and he knew exactly what had happened to him. He’d been in the cottage, only it had been occupied by the history major—Devon—who typed quietly away while Stanley woke up at his leisure on the couch, the soft pillow beneath his head and the warm air on his face.
There were traces of Devon’s touch on Stanley's knees, and of the expression in his eyes when he’d helped Stanley by telling him to breathe, slowly, in and out. There was the memory of sitting with Devon at the sturdy kitchen table, talking about that guy who could predict the weather, a meteor-something. And the memory of Devon’s nearness, how he smelled, sweet like soap, with his smooth, tanned skin, like he spent days in the sun, and the way his chin was dark with beard growth.
“Stanley.”
Stanley looked up to see Isaac bending close, as though to catch a word with Stanley before the lieutenant could notice that Stanley was making small, pathetic noises of distress. This was good of Isaac because soon Stanleywouldbe babbling out loud about Devon and how he’d fallen in love with a scholar who knew all about the war and exactly how and when it would end.
More, Devon had rescued Stanley from freezing to death in a soaked uniform. He had taken Stanley in and talked him through his fears and anxieties, and had fed him. And who, for all his muscles and health, had been a soft-hearted man writing a paper about a war that he felt had been senseless.
“I’m fine,” said Stanley, though he was anything but.
He sat up and spread his fingers across his cheeks as though wiping away the spray of ash from the mortar shell. Except his face was a little wet, and the ash turned into streaks like black paint, as though he was about to step into the dark and needed to be disguised.
“What are we going to do about the radio?” Stanley asked todistract everyone from his tears. “How is he going to call for retreat orders now?”
“He’s going to call for retreat?” asked Isaac. Behind him, Bertie and Rex straightened up, staring at Stanley as though he was the second coming. “How do you know? Lt. Billings is in the bunker and we can’t possibly hear him.”
“Ican’thear him,” said Stanley as quickly as he could. “But that’s what I’d do.”
“Like you’ve had officer’s training.” Isaac made a friendly, scoffing sound.
How could Stanley know about the retreat? Because he’d lived through this morning already. Whether or not he’d been with Devon at a time when the cottage had been repaired and there were, once more, pastry shops in the nearby village, he’d already experienced the mortar shell, the explosion, and the death of his friends.
After which, Lt. Billings had determined they needed to retreat, as the Germans were getting too close and the battalion was running out of everything—he’d forgotten that from before—the reason they needed to retreat was because they were low on supplies. Even more important, the Germans had gotten a lock on their position and the bombs were exploding on target each and every time.
Another half a day and the Germans would be right on top of them. The whole battalion would be sacrificed to the war on account of a radio that had been in the wrong place at the right time. And all because Stanley had been focused on his friends and not on the bigger picture. He’d saved Isaac and the others so that he wouldn’t be alone, rather than saving the whole battalion, which had been his mission in the first place. The reason he’d run along the bottom of the trenches to deliver the message.
He should have grabbed the radio, and maybe it would still be intact enough for the lieutenant to send out a signal and get one in return. Then, within half an hour, the entire battalion would be packing up and heading over the back of the trench and beyond the frosty fields to safety.
Except now the retreat wouldn’t be called in time because Stanleyhad failed. He didn’t deserve the bit of happiness he’d found with Devon, in a world that was quiet and still and warm. Where there was food and hot water aplenty, and space and time to just sit and think. Where young men could have affection for—and fall in love with—other young men, or anybody they fancied. Even if that young man was a scholarly student tapping away at a bit of folded metal, his eyes on his work, but his attention on the fellow just waking up on his couch.
Devon had always been aware of Stanley, though he’d excused it as being interested in the uniform, Stanley’s kit, the puttees. Instead, his eyes had gone to Stanley time and again, a soft, gentle smile on his face.
While he’d apologized, embarrassed, for his obsession with the war, the first war, Stanley couldn’t imagine chiding him for it, or becoming bored because Devon’s eyes had lit up. When he would confirm this fact or that idea, he would smile as though he had something exciting to share. Stanley didn’t like to think about those friends of his who’d grown exasperated or bored with Devon’s favorite subject because they were missing out. Stanley would be happy to listen to him rattle on about uniforms and trenches and maps and escarpments until the end of time.
“Men,” said Lt. Billings between the pounding sounds of mortar shells being launched. He made the gesture that they were to remain as they were, seated in a row, protected from the mud and damp by a bit of borrowed canvas. “The radio is broken, and I need someone to carry a message for retreat.”
“Retreat, sir?” asked Isaac with a sideways glance at Stanley.
“Yes,” said Lt. Billings. “The Germans are close and getting closer, and I need someone to go.”
It was on the tip of Stanley’s tongue, as it had been the last time, that in this dire situation where Commander Helmer had deserted in the night, if the lieutenant had assumed command on his own say-so, then he could call for retreat without permission, too. Lives would be saved, and precious time gained, for a retreat was a clumsy business, never smooth or orderly like it was described in the manual.
Time had folded in on itself. The morning was repeating as though to give Stanley a second chance. If time allowed him to be with Devon again, he would take that chance. If he could, if he ever could, he would tell Devon how he felt. He would take a chance at love instead of being afraid all the time.
“I’ll go,” said Stanley. He stood up. Isaac’s hands reached to pull him back to the muddy, canvas-covered bench. “I’ll take the message, sir.”
“No, Stanley,” said Isaac, desperation in his voice. “Somebody else should go, somebody faster.”
He didn’t mean that Stanley wasn’t a fast runner; he meant that he didn’t wantStanleyto go because he cared for him, in spite of the fact that it was terribly illegal to have such feelings. If Stanley didn’t come back from his mission, Isaac would mourn the loss. But what Isaac and the others didn’t know was that if Stanley didn’t come back, there would be no battalion, and nobody to mourn for him, anyway.
He couldn’t tell Isaac that, couldn’t tell anybody what had happened to him because they wouldn’t believe him. Devon hadn’t believed him, at least at first. He’d hardly believed it himself because all of it could have been some fear-induced dream. Except that Devon had been as real to Stanley as Isaac or anybody.
Stanley ached with missing the wonderful passion that filled Devon’s face and spilled over his hands as he soothed Stanley with his fingertips. He was willing to do anything if it meant there was a chance that he could be with Devon in a world where love, no matter the shape, waslegal.
