“Iamback then,” said Stanley. “I mean, that’s now, right now. It’s November 10th, 1917. I was talking with my lieutenant about our ruined radio. Then I was in the bottom of a trench, trying to get to the top of it, when the mustard gas hit me. And now I’m here.”
There was sympathy in Devon’s eyes, as though he’d heard every word Stanley had just said and felt the tragedy of Stanley’s story keenly in his heart. Devon opened his mouth like he was about to ask Stanley more questions to get more details about the battle, but he held up his hands, as if resisting the urge.
“Hot shower and dry clothes,” said Devon, pointing at Stanley. “Then food, then we’ll talk. I have something you can wear, okay?”
“A shower?” asked Stanley. He stood up, thinking that Devon must be wealthy to have such a contraption and share it so freely. Back home, most people in his neighborhood had tubs. Coming into the army, Stanley had taken showers with the rest of the men upon enlisting, but it had been a long time since he’d had warm water to wash with.
“Oh,” said Devon. His smile was genuine and his eyes lit up. “If it’s 1917, most people didn’t have showers, did they.”
He seemed to want to go on with this discussion, and Stanley could see that for some reason Devon was really knowledgeable about the year 1917, but was keeping himself from asking any more questions. Instead, he gestured towards a closed door that was just past the kitchen.
“Feel free to use all the hot water you want, and I’ll get you some clothes. But could I look at your uniform while you shower?”
“You want to look at my uniform?” asked Stanley, thinking that it was nice to have someone on his side in this. Devon’s eyes were kind when he looked at Stanley, and wanting to look at Stanley’s uniform wasn’t too much to ask, was it?
“It’s for my master’s thesis,” said Devon. He dipped his head and looked up at Stanley like a little kid. “I’m close to finishing up, but I’d really like to take a look to see how close the stitching is and whether the buttons are really sometimes made of wood wrapped in leather.”
“They used to be,” said Stanley before he could stop himself. “Now they’re just made of wood because leather is hard to come by. My helmet used to have a leather strap, but the rats ate it, so now it’s a strip of canvas. But then my helmet shattered.”
“When the shell hit you and your buddies,” said Devon. He nodded as though he was remembering that Stanley had told him something that was a fact, rather than something that Stanley had fabricated. “Okay, okay. Let me get those clothes.”
Devon went through a door that was off the area where the table was, and soon came back with a folded bundle in his hands. Then he pointed to the bathroom where the shower presumably was and handed Stanley the clothes.
“Give your uniform to me and I’ll hang it up so it can dry,” said Devon.
Stanley could see by the look in his eye that Devon was looking forward to going over the uniform with a fine-toothed comb.
“You going to take that off, too?” asked Devon. He pointed at the ID tag that sat in the hollow of Stanley’s throat, looking a little eager, as though he wanted to examine it up close, pleased at having found such a fine specimen to write about in his thesis.
“No,” said Stanley. His hand clutched impulsively around it, the cold metal cutting into his palm. “I never take it off. It’ll identify me when I die.”
“Got it,” said Devon, putting his hands up. “Why don’t you just take that shower. It’ll get you warm, and then you’ll feel better.”
That was never going to happen because he was in a strange place where there was no war. He was in the future, or at least he seemed to be, though he didn’t know what year it was. He was also far enough away from the year 1917 that the war he’d just been in was a faraway notion, worthy of study and nothing more. Nothing to fear, nothingto be concerned about. Besides, the air in the cottage was warm, and Devon seemed to have plenty of everything.
“Here,” said Devon.
He opened the door to the bathroom, which looked different from the rest of the cottage; there was no trace of old stone walls or a time-worn wooden floor. Instead, there were shiny tiles, white alternating with blue, and a shiny white toilet, and an enormous shiny white tub. The fixtures, the taps and the drains both, were silver and were also very shiny.
Devon flipped on a switch as they both went in, and everything gleamed so brightly that Stanley had to blink.
“You know how to use a faucet?” asked Devon.
“It’s 1917, not the dark ages,” said Stanley. “We have bathrooms, same as you.”
“Just checking,” said Devon with a smile, seemingly unaffected by Stanley’s rebuke. “Hot water’s on the left, cold is on the right. Soap’s there, and the shampoo and everything; towels and washcloths hanging there. Holler if you need anything, and don’t forget to give me your uniform, and be careful when you unwrap your puttees, okay? Don’t tear them.”
“I’m not going to tear them,” said Stanley, which was only the truth, as the leg wraps were the only part of the uniform that were sturdy enough to withstand rough handling. Devon seemed obsessed, though if that was the price Stanley had to pay for a bit of food and shelter, then so be it.
Devon went out of the bathroom, leaving Stanley alone for the first time that morning. He quickly shut the door and pressed his forehead against the door, trying to breathe slow breaths to calm himself.
Finally, the draw of having a hot shower was too much to resist, so he got out of his uniform. He took special care when he unwrapped his puttees and placed everything in a neat pile outside the door. Then, stark naked, he figured out how the hot and cold water worked, and that the curtain needed to be inside the tub. Grabbing a clean washcloth, he stepped into the stream of deliciously hot water.
He hadn’t had access to hot water since the summer, and had made do with a basin of cold water with a thin sliver of soap, no washcloth, and only a flap of canvas to dry himself with. He and Isaac and the rest had made jokes, as if the whole thing was a lark, and that had made it better. Having friends had made everything better, and until that morning, he’d actually thought they might all make it out alive.
Only Devon had told him that everybody had died, and the white crosses row by row on the green grass attested to that. It might be true they had all died, which meant that Isaac was buried beneath one of those crosses. And if that was true, was Stanley really in the future? Had he left the war behind? Had he died, or was he still alive, and this was all just some trick of his brain?
It wasn’t good; the questions slammed into him as though the Germans were aiming their guns at his head. He needed to focus on where he was, and not on the bizarre things happening all around him, or he would go crazy, just like Devon thought he was.
