He needed to be like the larks and the poppies, and he needed to finish his mission to save his battalion, to save his friends. He suddenly laughed at that because when he saved everybody, what would Devon have to write about? There would be no lost battalion, no tattered remains in the trenches, and no cold front to have caused the disaster. Well, the cold front would still be there, but since the 44thwould have gotten out before they were decimated, nobody would care, and the rain and the frost would go unnoticed, unwritten about. Unremarked, except by the poppies coated in a delicate curl of ice.
Stanley shook himself and counted out the moments.
It had begun to rain by the time Stanley determined enough time had passed, and he clambered to the top of the trench. He rolled down the other side until he was covered in mud and soaked through. And then he ran, straight as an arrow, back to Lt. Billings, who was waiting in the command bunker with Isaac, Rex, and Bertie. Behind them wasa small group of officers that Stanley knew had not been there the last time. But then, he’d never returned from his mission with the second half of the code before.
Panting expansively, Stanley threw himself down at Lt. Billings’ feet, as though exhausted by his toils, white faced and shaking from his supposed trek across the war-torn fields.
Isaac, who must have been waiting terrified this whole time, hauled Stanley to his feet and embraced him, heartfelt but briefly, before letting him go.
“The code, soldier,” said Lt. Billings. His face held no expression, as if he was completely prepared for Stanley to tell him that he’d failed in his mission.
“There are penguins on the ice,” said Stanley. “And they skate brilliant figure eights.”
Before Stanley had gotten halfway through the second part of the code, Lt. Billings’ eyebrows flew up in his forehead. Stanley realized that the lieutenant had always known the second part of the code, but that military order dictated a second, separate source.
“It’s good having it confirmed,” said Lt. Billings. He turned to the group of officers who had evidently been in the know, and who had been waiting for Stanley to return. “I’m giving the order for retreat. Pass it along, run if you have to. We’re taking only what we can carry with us. Nothing is more important than a man’s life; everything else can get left behind. Tell them to go over the top, and head west, and we’ll muster at the river by the old mill.”
Mud sprayed up at Stanley as the officers, the chaplain, the scout, and Isaac, Rex, and Bertie sprinted into action to spread the word to the rest of the battalion.
Soon, like ants, soldiers charged over the top of the trenches, headed west in a swarm of legs and arms and white faces. Once, when Rex ran past him, hauling a wounded soldier beneath each of his broad arms, he winked at Stanley. Bertie, close behind, leading a line of soldiers, attempted to pat Stanley on the arm, but missed and had to keep on going.
As Stanley went up the trench to check for stragglers, he saw Isaacout of the corner of his eyes by the opening of the bunker. When Stanley turned around, he discovered that almost everybody was gone. He was alone at the back end of the retreat, and smiled, pleased that finally he’d been able to complete his mission.
He looked at Isaac, and went toward him, wanting to share the moment with him. From overhead came the crack of a canister, the smell of acrid smoke pelting down, deep into the trench around Stanley. He was in the middle of it, and the first breath he took sliced right through his lungs as he tumbled at Isaac’s feet.
In the next moment, Isaac was at Stanley’s side, gripping his hand as though he were trying to pull Stanley out of a deep well. Even closer was the white faced Lt. Billings, his eyes urgent and wide. His mouth was open. He seemed to be shouting at Stanley, as though Stanley had made a mistake, and was getting yelled at for it.
He sensed the chaplain waiting not too far off, and beyond that was the blankness of an empty trench. All the soldiers were gone, and only these three remained to tend to Stanley in his last moments.
Stanley was sorry, honestly he was, for how things had turned out. He opened his mouth, wanting to tell them what an honor it had been to serve with them. To have eaten dried bread and drunk bitter coffee, and to have shared laughter about it, because that’s all you could do, sometimes, when things were as bad as they had been. Beyond this moment, Stanley had the certainty that the 44thBattalion would not end up beneath a grassy field decorated with white crosses, row on row, but would go on to survive the war, and lead happy lives.
As for himself, he had known the greatest love of his life, a love that had returned each gesture, each word, and that with joy and acceptance and passion. In some distant year, when the cottage across the fields was whole once more and heated by sweet, warm air, Devon would write his paper about how weather had affected the last battle of the 44thBattalion. Perhaps, in one way or another, he would think about Stanley, the strange young man who had visited for a while, but who had gone back to save his fellows. Or maybe he wouldn’t remember because it had never happened, and this was all in Stanley’smind, the last fevered imaginings as he struggled to breathe and large black spots formed in front of his eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY
There was nothing but layers, layers black as pitch, hot like the sun. Stanley felt them all, his arms spread wide, his head tilted back, though whether he was moving forward or backward, he didn’t know. Only that he was dizzy and still all at once, and that his fingertips felt frozen, and that the cold might be creeping closer to his heart with each moment, each eon, that passed.
He landed face down, his whole body slamming against something solid and cold. With a start, he opened his eyes, blinking against the damp. Slatted rain was falling on the still-green grass. Within moments, he was dotted with wet, flat flakes of snow.
Pushing himself up, he reeled as though he’d been tossed for hours. Then he was still, sitting with his hands braced behind him. He stared across the field to the cottage, shocked that there was no smoke coming up from the chimney.
A silver-colored car was heading out of the driveway and along the road to the village. In the back of the car was Devon’s dark head, which was turning back to the cottage, as though for one last look.
Stanley opened his mouth to shout.
“Devon.”
It came out a croak; he couldn’t find his voice to stop Devon, so he had to find another way.
Stanley stood up and started to run, except the grass was slippery. His legs felt like rubber, and he stumbled to his knees. He got up again and ran as fast as he could, though he felt like he was going in slow motion, mouth open as he searched inside of himself for the sound that simply wouldn’t come.
He ran anyway, his arms up, reaching for the car that was about to turn the corner into the copse of trees. At which point, Devon would be out of sight and out of reach, and Stanley would be alone. He wouldn’t know how to contact Devon in this land of small, portable phones, and metal laptops you could carry, and cups of coffee that tasted smoky and good.
His heart began to break, and his knees trembled.
Suddenly, to Stanley’s astonishment, cutting through his fog of desperation, the taxi spun to a halt on the blacktopped road. Devon got out, jacketless, and began to run. He ran straight for Stanley, and within a moment, his arms were around Stanley. He was with Devon,finally, and Devon was protecting him from the cold, the snowy rain, a bulwark against the uncertainty of time.
“Stanley,” said Devon, his face buried in Stanley’s neck. His nose was cold, his lips were warm, his breath sweet and soft on Stanley’s skin. “I waited and waited, but was leaving—”
