Stanley wanted to peel off his uniform and get Devon to build a fire in the fireplace so they could burn everything from the vest to the trousers to the puttees. He wanted to put the past behind him, but it was that same past that had brought Devon here, to the village of Ornes, where the last battle of the 44thBattalion had been fought. So maybe some part of that past ought to be preserved, to mark the moment when their two lives had become entwined.
“I feel like I’ve always been with you,” said Stanley. He half expected that Devon might pull back at the heartfelt sentiment.
Nothing could be further from the truth. Devon came close, pulled Stanley to him, and hugged him. A whiff of mold puffed up from the uniform, which was crumbling on his shoulders as though tearing with the pressure of Devon’s arms.
“What is going on?” asked Devon. He stepped back, his hands on Stanley’s shoulders. “Take that off, it’s falling apart even as I look at it.”
The whole of the uniform was falling into flakes, into tatters, the leather of Stanley’s boots crumbling and shrinking, the collar of his shirt worn to the thinness of an autumn leaf.
As he stepped out of his uniform, the seams on his trousers split and every piece blew away into a puff of dust. The strap on the canteen disintegrated and the canteen fell. The hemp around his neck withered into a strand that melted on the faint draft from the radiator, and the ID tag, more rusted around the edges than it had been before, clattered to the floor.
Devon grabbed the blue robe and threw it around Stanley. He tied the sash at his waist, then bent to pick up the ID tag. He held it in the curl of his palm and looked up at Stanley.
“Maybe time is letting us keep this,” he said, his eyes hopeful as he searched Stanley’s face.
“And the canteen,” said Stanley. He pointed at it. The canvas case around it was gone, but the metal, a bit dented in the middle, shone like dull nickel beneath the overhead light. “But what happened to the rifle, Devon?”
He meant the question as a joke, but was surprised when Devon blushed and looked away.
“I smashed it because you were gone.”
“What?” asked Stanley, his mouth open.
“I couldn’t bear to look at it anymore,” said Devon. The corners of his mouth turned down, his eyes dark with sadness. “I couldn’t bear to think of you suffering through the war, and every time I saw the rifle, well, it got to be too much. So I destroyed it.”
This, as if Stanley needed it, was evidence of how much Devon cared about him. Not his experience, or his uniform, his soldier’s kit, buthim. Stanley Sullivan, ex-soldier, and soon to be returning to the States with his scholar, whom he loved.
“Please don’t worry about it,” said Stanley. “We’ll get a new strap for the canteen, and we’ll make you a necklace with a piece of ribbon you can loop through the tag so you can wear it forever. Okay?” Hesaid the word as Devon always said it to him, as confirmation and an expression of care.
“Okay,” said Devon as he reached into his pocket for his phone. “But I’m going to worry until we are away from here, you know? Put some clothes on, and we’ll pack, and I’ll call the airlines—Stanley, what is this?”
Huddled in the fluffy blue robe, Stanley hurried to the table where Devon was picking up the chocolate that Isaac had given him. The three or so squares were wrapped in waxed paper, which had the oily look of having been stored someplace where the heat had gotten to it.
“That’s the chocolate Isaac gave me,” said Stanley. “He was always doing that because he said he didn’t like chocolate, but I always thought it was because he wanted me to forgive him for not, you know—”
Stanley waved his hand in the air as though conjuring up an explanation. The floppy sleeve of the robe slid back from his wrist as he reached to take the chocolate from Devon, who surely wouldn’t want it.
“Isaac gave you that?” asked Devon, his voice hushed. “On that last day, on November 10th, 1917?”
“Yes, he did,” said Stanley. He didn’t really understand the question until he saw that light of passion in Devon’s eyes. Then he cleared his voice and told the story, laying out the scene as it ought to be done so that Devon could enjoy the moment to its fullest.
“Normally, we get our chocolate ration on a Thursday, after supper. It was always bully beef and rice, and the rice was usually undercooked, you know?”
Devon nodded, his eyes wide as he listened to Stanley, rapt with attention like a child preparing to hear a beloved story.
“You know that what they gave us had to last a week, right? Well, none of the fellows could last that long, and usually they had races to see who could finish first. There wasn’t much point in holding back if you knew you might die before the end of the week.”
With a shaking hand, Devon started to put the chocolate on the table, but Stanley went to him and put his arm around Devon’s waist.With his other hand, he cupped Devon’s hand, and lifted their joined hands so Devon could see the chocolate.
“Normally, Isaac gave me his chocolate ration on a Thursday, and I’d eat it all up before bedtime, and that’s just how it was. But this time, Isaac gave his chocolate to me on the 10th. I never had time to eat it and so now I’m giving it to you.” Stanley unwrapped the waxed paper, pushing back the flap with his thumb. “Now, you do want to taste what it was like to be in the trenches on November 10th, 1917, don’t you? Go on, you can.”
“Can I?” asked Devon, looking at Stanley with all the hope in his eyes, his obsession for the war and everything about it a wild, passionate spark. “Really, can I?”
“Yes,” said Stanley. “And I’ll have some too, so we can share it together, a gift from Isaac to us.”
The thought of Isaac and his generous nature and what he might say if he ever learned about Stanley and Devon, made Stanley feel a little sad because they’d never again meet. But it was more important to focus on feeding Devon chocolate that had come from the very war he’d written his paper about.
Still holding on to Devon’s waist, Stanley laid the chocolate on the table, the waxed paper beneath it, and with tender fingers broke off three even pieces. He lifted a piece and fed it to Devon, who took it on his tongue as though it were something holy. With a dreamlike expression in his green eyes, he let the chocolate melt for a moment, and then began to chew. Stanley could sense him taking notes the whole while.
