“Where did you come from?” asked the man, his dark brows lowering. He looked cross because Stanley had left a streak of mud across his shirt when he’d tripped over him. Moreover, the shirt was a white button down one that Stanley hadn’t seen on anybody since he’d enlisted.
Nobody had enough soap to keep something that white. Everything soldiers wore was designed to disappear into the earth, to blend in with the countryside where the fighting was. Yet this strange fellow was wearing the white shirt and those blue jean dungarees that farmers wore.
In spite of the odd clothes, the stranger drew Stanley’s gaze to him in the way that Isaac always did. He had long legs and looked incredibly fit and healthy, as though he’d not gone hungry one day in his entire life. He was not clean-shaven, but looked only a few razor swipes from being so, with his dark hair, the color of ink, cut away from his face. He was handsome even though he was frowning, and he squinted at Stanley, as though with displeasure at being disrupted from lollygagging in the grass. Which begged the question, what was he doing without any shoes when there was a war on?
“I’m asking you again, where did you come from?” asked the man.
“From the 44thBattalion,” said Stanley, incredulous that the man didn’t already know this because the soldiers in his battalion had been all around him only moments ago. “From the 44th, can’t you see the bodies? Can’t you see the trenches?”
Stanley’s voice rose to a high shriek and then warbled away as the man got up, feet bare in the grass, a continued scowl on his face.
“Those trenches are from World War I,” said the man with a snort, as though Stanley was a little foolish. “Why are you wearing that getup?” asked the man. Then he stopped. “I’m sorry, did you say the 44th Battalion? Are you role playing or something?”
Stanley didn’t know what role playing was, but it was obvious that the man didn’t think very highly of it, and thought even less of Stanley for participating in it. Stanley decided to do what he did best, deny. Which is what he’d been doing since the war started, deny that it was that bad, deny that he was terrified as hell all the time, deny that it was the worst thing imaginable.
He tightened his fingers around his rifle and held it firmly in front of him, elbows planted in the cold grass. The grass was so wet that in spite of his wool uniform, he was going to get soaked through. And then he’d get pneumonia, and then he’d die. At least he’d be with his buddies, at least he’d be with his Pa, who had died before the war began, and before Stanley had enlisted. That was a sad tale Stanley had barely been able to share with anybody, though there wasn’t much point, as everybody he’d met had a sad story of their own.
With nothing to lose, Stanley pointed the rifle at the man, tightened his shoulders, and crooked his finger to pull the trigger. But the man was quick, even in bare feet, for he reached down and with both hands on the stock below the blade, twisted the rifle sideways, and jerked the whole thing out of Stanley’s hands. Stanley’s whole body went hollow with shock, his breath leaving him in a gasp.
He thought that the man was going to shoot him. Instead, the man opened his palms and lifted the rifle close to his face to examine it.
“This is a museum quality piece,” said the man, sighing softly, his eyes alight. “Where did you get it? Did you steal it?”
“No,” said Stanley. He got up and reached for the rifle, but the man pulled it out of his reach. “It’s a Winchester 1912, and it’s mine, it’smine, I got it when I finished basic training. It’s mine because they gave it to me to kill Germans!”
“Why would you want to kill Germans?” asked the man. His eyeswere a flinty green, and he scowled briefly at Stanley, his dark brows drawing together. “Do you think we’re at war with them?”
“Yes, we are!” shouted Stanley, lunging for the rifle, for it had been drilled into his head since the day he’d been given it that it was his most valuable possession and the main thing that would help him survive and win the war. “Because the Kaiser attacked! Because Americans couldn’t stand by and watch while—”
“Yes, I know all of that,” said the man as he backed away from Stanley, shaking his head. “But that doesn’t explain why you’re digging your heels into the dirt like it’s going on right now. Or why you’re dressed in a uniform that ought to be in a museum, just like this antique rifle.”
“It’s a new rifle,” said Stanley, reaching again. “And it’smine!”
“I doubt that,” said the man. He cradled the rifle along his arm and stroked the stock gently, running his thumb across the place where Stanley had scratched his initials. “Why on earth would you damage such a fine piece by carving your name in the wood?”
“I did that so I’d know which one was mine,” said Stanley, confused by the man’s care with the rifle. “In case a shell comes, in case I drop it, in case—”
“Why do you keep talking like there’s a war on?” asked the man.
“Because there is!” Stanley shouted this at the top of his lungs and barreled forward in a desperate surge of energy, hands out, shoulders braced, reaching for his rifle.
At the last minute, the man stepped back and braced his feet, holding the rifle pointed forward at Stanley, with as much grace as anybody Stanley had trained with. Stanley was about to be pierced by the bayonet end of his own rifle, and die at the hands of a man who insisted there was no war but who handled the rifle as if he’d been born to carry it.
Reaching for his rifle, Stanley slipped on the wet, slippery grass that was shockingly cold on his hands. He tried to roll into a defensive ball as he’d been taught, but instead slid to a stop, face down, splayed out, ready to be sliced into pieces.
That didn’t happen, even though Stanley’s ribs hurt from the fall,his lungs ached with trying to get enough air, and his throat was tight with trying not to scream piteously for mercy. He was going to piss himself in another minute, and then he’d be dead, and all of this would have been for nothing.
“Can I help you up?” asked the man. “Come on, I’m not going to hurt you. I just don’t want you hurting me.”
Rolling on his back, Stanley expected to see the rifle aimed right at his heart, but though the man held the rifle at the ready, his right hand on the stock, his left on the barrel below the blade, he did not move into position to shoot or anything. Instead, he looked at Stanley with his brows drawn together, an expression of concentration on his face.
“You’re not from around here, are you,” said the man, as though puzzling it out. “And you’re not French.”
“No, I’m not,” said Stanley with some force. He didn’t hate the French, though their language sounded like babble to him, and the gestures they made with their hands confused him. He was rather fond of the cheese that he had tasted, but he was an American, and he needed to make this calm stranger understand that. “I’m an American through and through.”
“Okay, then,” said the man with a laugh, as though Stanley had said something funny. “But get up before you get soaked and catch your death.”
“You’rein bare feet,” said Stanley, accusing and pointing at the same time.
