Stanley stepped forward before anybody could speak because in spite of being a battalion made up of young men, there was more than one soldier who would have been willing to take on the task that had no chance of success and that would surely be a one-way trip. But Stanley knew he needed to be the one to go. He had a mission to complete, and he had made promises—
In that moment, Stanley remembered.Everything.
He remembered Devon. He remembered tripping over Devon in the rain. Being taken inside the warm, dry cottage, and being fed marvelous food. He remembered the hot shower, the clean clothes, and the piles of papers and books that occupied various shelves and spots on the floor.
He remembered Devon sitting at the heavy wooden kitchen table, typing away at his metal laptop, or scrolling to search for information to include in his thesis. The way he would look at Stanley and smile, as if in amazement that Stanley was listening to his ideas about his paper, that Stanley was interested. Which, of course, Stanley had been. It had been his own life, after all, that Devon was writing about.
More than that, when the passion would light up Devon’s eyes and his face became animated, it had been more than Stanley could do to resist him. Devon’s gentle hands in the dark, bringing Stanley to pleasure, was a sensation that Stanley would never forget, as long as he lived. What’s more, he remembered Devon telling him the code. In any other regard, it was useless unless complete, until, at this moment, when the 44thBattalion needed it most because Stanley knew the full code.
“I’ll go, sir,” said Stanley. He drew his hand away from his arm and stood as straight and steady as he could.
“But you’ve been wounded,” said Lt. Billings.
“A scratch, sir,” said Stanley, and he meant it. Before Devon, he might have played it up, limping like a wounded bird dragging itswing across the dirt, but now he needed to finish his mission. He needed to save the entire battalion to be worthy of Devon’s love. “I can make it, just tell me what to tell them.”
Lt. Billings placed his hand quite gently on Stanley’s arm and pulled him, alone, into the bunker.
“Where’s your rifle, son?” asked Lt. Billings. “Where’s your canteen? You’re going to get mighty thirsty running between bullets, scared enough to piss yourself.”
Stanley thought about how he’d left both of those things in the cottage so that Devon wouldn’t think he was going crazy when he woke up and found Stanley gone. But it was worth it, all of it.
“They got hit by mortar fire,” said Stanley, ducking his chin to hide the fact that his ID tag was also missing.
With a sigh and a grimace that seemed to reflect a sense of desperation, Lt. Billings tapped the map that was spread out on the table. He drew Stanley’s attention to the upper left corner, just beyond where the cottage was, the cottage where Devon would one day live and write his paper about weather and how it affected the war.
“It’s the far corner, here, do you see?” asked the lieutenant. “You can run along the bottom of trenches for the most part, except for here, where you will have to go over two of them.”
As he looked at the map, the lieutenant’s face was grave and still. Stanley knew that he would have to disobey orders and run along the top of the trenches the entire way to avoid the mustard gas. He also knew in his heart that the lieutenant would rather have gone himself than to send someone in his place. But he was the officer in charge and needed to stay with his men.
“I understand, sir,” said Stanley.
He had the way memorized and almost turned to go on his mission before he remembered that the lieutenant had not yet given him the first half of the code. It would look odd if the lieutenant remembered later that this had not happened, but that Stanley had been able to come back with the rest of the code just the same.
“The code, sir?” asked Stanley.
“Yes,” said Lt. Billings, and with a little sigh, he raised his head tolook at Stanley. “Tell the officer this:There are penguins on the ice. He’ll know what it means, and he’ll give you the other half.”
“Yes, sir,” said Stanley.
He straightened up, gave Lt. Billings a smart salute, and then, exiting the bunker, touched his forelock to his buddies, and smiled at Isaac. Then he ran at a dog trot until he reached the place where he needed to decide whether to go up along the top of the trenches or down along the bottom, as the lieutenant had ordered. Both directions had meant his death by mustard gas, as the last two missions had proved to him. Maybe this time would be different, or maybe it would be the same. Either way, he was going to do his best and prove that he deserved Devon’s love. To the world. To time itself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
When Devon woke up, he had a crick in his neck that was demanding ibuprofen and a hot shower. Except that as he sat up, rubbing the muscles on the back of his neck, Stanley wasn’t in the bed. The sheets and pillows smelled like Stanley, warm and reminiscent of the night before. However, the bedclothes were messy enough so that right away Devon began to doubt his own sanity. Just as with the last time he’d woken up alone, he could have tumbled the sheets himself, and left the clothes puddled on the floor.
The light coming through the half drawn shades was a silvery color, as though it was raining again, with the sun struggling through the clouds to light the day. Only instead of being comfortable with the thought of the weather being outside and him being inside with his papers and notes, it felt strange and funereal.
Where was Stanley?
Devon got up, pulling on his jeans, dragging on a t-shirt inside out, and stumbled around the cottage. Stanley wasn’t sleeping on the couch, nor was he in the kitchen attempting to make coffee on his own. He wasn’t in the bathroom taking an everlastingly long shower and using all the towels. He wasn’t anywhere.
Devon’s heart began to race, his mouth dry. Stanley wasn’t therenow, but he’dbeenthere, right? It couldn’t be happening again, or Devon would know, would finally know, that he’d dreamed up the whole thing, dreamed upallof it. That he’d completely imagined Stanley’s shorn hair, the curve of his smile, his innocent face, or his bright eyes when he would gaze up at Devon through his dark lashes. The way he’d looked at the oranges the first day, wanting them, but not daring to ask.
Devon would give Stanley a hundred oranges every single day if he would just show up right now, but he didn’t. He wasn’t anywhere. And Devon was alone.
Except there in the corner of the living room, in the shadowy light from the curtained windows, was something, an object that looked out of place. Devon flicked on the overhead light. In the yellow gleam of brightness, he realized that he was staring at a Winchester 1912 rifle with a bayonet attached. There was a canvas-shrouded canteen dangling from it, with the dot-to-pull fittings gleaming silver. And from that—
Devon walked right up to the rifle and reached out, and before he could think, he had Stanley’s ID tag in his hand. The round disc with etched letters felt so heavy, reflecting the bleak trace of Stanley’s name and rank.
