“I’ll do.”
Winter visibly forced himself to straighten up from the wall. “Where now, Iven?”
“I don’t know.”
“You will put me with the other prisoners. Then go find an officer, say you are reporting for duty.”
“No,”said Freddie violently. “No—I won’t let you die.No.”
“Iven,” said Winter. His voice hardened. “There’s nothing else to be done.”
An idea came to Freddie: completely mad, desperate. “Yes, there is,” he whispered. “Yes, there is. We’ll go to Laura. We’ll go to my sister.”
“If I’m not a prisoner, then I’m a spy. I do not want to be hanged. Or put your sister in danger.”
“She won’t be. She’s a hero. She’s got a medal and everything. She can manage. Would you rather die of a wound gone bad? You’re my prisoner, anyway. You’ll go where I want. And I want you to go to Laura. I want you to live.”
A muscle ticked in Winter’s unshaven jaw. “Better I die than both of us.”
“No, it isn’t.” It wasn’t based in reason, his wanting Winter to live. There was only a certainty that if Winter died, he, Wilfred Iven, would one night wake up back in the pillbox. And this time he’d be all alone. “I promised I wouldn’t let you die.” He wished he didn’t sound so young. “Ipromised.”
“You don’t owe me your life, Iven.”
“But I do,” said Freddie. “It’s all right. Laura will make it all right.” He remembered back in ’15, when she’d written the family about her decoration. She’d been strangely laconic:The French are pleased with me, after some unpleasantness with poison gas; they have voted me a Croix de Guerre.But she’d told him a little more when he asked, after he’d come over: three days without sleep, fighting tooth and nail for gassed men’s lives. She’d spoken of it only once, and reluctantly, after a bottle of wine. But even with what she hadn’tsaid, he knew it had been a feat. If she could manage that, then she could manage this. If Freddie believed in one thing in this strange world, he believed in Laura.
The plan leapt fully formed to his mind. He and Winter would find a place to hide for the day, slip out of Ypres in the darkness. It wasn’t too far to the casualty clearing station at Brandhoek, where Laura was stationed with her mobile ambulance. Freddie would slip in, find Laura quietly, explain. Laura would find a way to help them. She’d put Winter in with the prisoners, she’d feed them both. She’d see that Winter got surgery, that he was properly nursed. She’d save his life.
Freddie turned to Winter, ready to persuade him. But before he got out a word, a singular voice met his ears. So singular, in that context, that Freddie’s arguments died away unvoiced, and Winter went still beside him. To Freddie’s left, a deep-set door hung askew from rusting hinges. Through the crack, Freddie saw a room with rotting floorboards, three men, and a shabby printing press. Two of the men were in British uniforms, but the third was a civilian in a worn checked suit. He was addressing the two soldiers with a faint accent that didn’t sound like French. Flemish? “I would like,” he said, “to place an advertisement in your paper.”
Freddie knew what the soldiers were doing. They were printingtheTimes. The trench newspaper. Everyone read and laughed over theTimes,when it could be got out between bombardments. But it wasn’t a real paper. It was satire. A long black joke, printed in the wreckage.
The men printing it clearly didn’t know what to make of the civilian. “A submission, you mean?” said one of them. “I—what?”
“An advertisement to attract clientele,” said the stranger.
Silence.
“For evening revels,” the man went on.
The two printers still looked nonplussed. “But— Our paper’s a joke, sir. We take poetry submissions. There’s limericks…” He trailed off.
The stranger shrugged and handed them a scrap of paper. “Printit. Some will understand.”
Another shell rattled the masonry and there was the peculiar wailing scream that meant someone had copped it. The two soldiers in the room ducked instinctively. Winter’s hand fell on Freddie’s sleeve, the effort audible in his voice. “Iven, we have to go.”
“No, there’s no location,” the stranger added. “People will find it.”
“Revels, sir?” said one of the printers, in a new voice. “Are you— I’ve heard— Are you the one who…”
“Probably,” said the stranger.
Then one, joking weakly, said, “Well, then, the going rate’s three bob a word, sir.”
“I can do you one better,” said the stranger. “If you will only come and drink with me.” Freddie could not see the stranger’s expression; his back was to the door. But the men printing wore looks of terrified yearning.
“That sounds—all right. If you like, sir,” whispered one of the men.
“Very well,” said the stranger. “Good morning to you both.” He turned for the door. One of the soldiers made a jerky gesture, as though he wanted to reach out. But his mate clapped a hand to his wrist.
