Page 5

Now there was only the work to be done. Tomasz moved through the camp with methodical purpose. He carefully examined a piece of canvas from a collapsed tent, tangled in charred wood, and decided it was worth the effort to free it. He looked through shattered wood from ammunition crates. He chose pieces long enough to be useful. Next, he came across a leather belt on a corpse. Alistair saw him hesitate before taking it, his massive hand hovering above the dead man's waist before unbuckling and removing it. He went through this process several times, always with the same hesitation, and collected half a dozen.

He cut cloth into lengths; each piece checked for strength. Some pieces were discarded, others kept and set in a small pile near where he laid Alistair.

When Tomasz had what he needed, he returned. Kneeling by the officer, he lowered his big frame to make himself smaller. It seemed silly given their size difference, but it helped him get the work done. His hands, which trembled hours before, were now completely steady, moving with a new purpose.

He began with Alistair's left leg. His hands moved carefully, feeling the damage. Then he started working with the strips, creating structures, building support systems. He placed the wood slats alongside the limb, pressing them together firmly but gently, providing a framework. The fabric wrapped around everything, holding it all together. His movements were quick and deliberate, performed in silence.

Alistair tried speaking once. When Tomasz was working on the right leg, when the pain was particularly acute, Alistair whispered: "Je suis désolé."

I am sorry. For what? For being injured? For slowing them down? For forcing this man to dig through the bodies of his brothers to find materials to create a splint? The apology was inadequate, but it was all he had. And he knew those were incapable of touching what had happened here. They would not undo it. They would not repair the inescapable sense of loss that surrounded them.

“Pas d'excuses,” Tomasz answered directly. Do not apologize.

And with that, he plainly continued working, finishing the binding on the right leg, then beginning work on a system of support that would allow him to carry Alistair another way. Made from the remains of his own destroyed camp, the proper sling would hold Alistair’s body differently against his frame.

Alistair would no longer be draped over the big man’s shoulder. His ribs and torso would no longer be compressed under his own weight, making breathing easier. Instead, the canvas would wrap around him, drawing him tight against Tomasz’s torso. His broken legs would be more comfortable as well, splinted and suspended in a horizontal cradle. His physique would be distributed more evenly, bodies brought closer together. Chest to chest.

Tomasz finished and tested it by pulling on the canvas and pressing against the splints. He wanted to make sure everything would hold. Then he looked at Alistair. In his dark eyes, there was an expression that might be apology, resignation, or just acceptance. This was how things were now, and how they would have to be.

He lifted Alistair with the same care as before. Now, he positioned him against his chest, settling his backside into the sling he made. The canvas held. The splints held. Alistair felt his broken body cradled and supported. His face was level with Tomasz's shoulder; his small frame pressed against the larger man's torso. Almost immediately, he felt Tomasz's heartbeat against his chest. He smelled the sweat and the earth, and the scent of his own blood mixed with the larger man's skin. The proximity was at once humiliating and strangely grounding. He was being swaddled like a baby, and he had to make a choice: to resent it or to accept it.

Tomasz stood up, shifting back and forth to test the balance. The sling held firm. He took a moment to gaze out at the camp's remains: the burned tents, scattered belongings, and the bodies of his brothers lain to rest in the earth. Alistair waited to see if Tomasz would glance back, if he would acknowledge what they were leaving behind. But he did not. Tomasz simply turned away from the camp and started walking. They climbed out of the depression, leaving the hollow of his past behind, and headed toward whatever remained of the future. His stride was steady, with a slight adjustment for the new weight distribution, but its purpose stayed unchanged. Forward. Always forward. There was no other direction left for them now.

***

CHEST TO CHEST. THE realization arrived with an almost palpable shock. Alistair's small frame pressed against Tomasz's chest. His broken legs rested in the canvas cradle. Alistair's ear rested over Tomasz's heart. He counted the beats—alive, alive, alive. Each breath the big man took pressed against his ribs. Their uniforms, sweat-soaked and mud-caked, clung where they touched. He smelled iron and salt. He felt the tremor in Tomasz's arms, the adjustment of his stride, the deliberate care with each step. He was being held like a child. It was intensely intimate, but also deeply humiliating; the only thing keeping him alive.

It took some time to adjust. He needed to adjust how he moved, spreading the load differently. His steps were slow and deliberate, as if his body were having to calculate the new mathematics of carrying. Alistair sensed every choice, each shift in weight, and every posture change. He noticed in his own body when Tomasz changed direction or stopped to deliberate. Tomasz moved as if he were carrying something delicate, and the recognition he was the delicate thing being carried was both sobering and eye-opening.

The heat from Tomasz's body, the dampness of his undershirt, and the smell of arduous work filled the air. It was not an unpleasant smell. It was, in fact, deeply reassuring. It was the smell of effort, of labor undertaken, of a body working beyond its natural limits and continuing anyway. Alistair spent his life among men who attempted to conceal such things behind cologne and the rituals of cleanliness. Tomasz's rawness felt primeval and almost sacred. His presence demanded honesty and rejected pretense.

The metallic taste of blood lingered in Alistair's mouth, his own, he thought, though he was not sure. Beneath it, he smelled the coppery scent of Tomasz's skin. The larger man's neck was close enough for Alistair to see his pulse. He could have pressed his fingers to it and felt the rhythm of life, still going despite everything. But he did not reach out. He stayed still, knowing that any movement would force Tomasz to adjust, placing more demands on his already tired muscles.

The environment changed as they moved. They were descending a bit, entering smoother ground with fewer craters. Trees here had been damaged but not obliterated. The earth bore scars from past violence, but it was not chemically damaged. It still had the potential for new life to thrive. It was progress, or at least the suggestion of it. Hope, or the idea of hope.

They came upon a stream at one point. The water was remarkably clear, given everything. Tomasz slowed his pace as he approached it. He did not enter the water. He carefully knelt, lowering his center of gravity. He supported Alistair as he bent. Tomasz refilled his canteen from earlier, as well as a second one he scavenged from the French camp. He drank deeply before offering it to Alistair, who could feel the water travelling down through his body. The water was cold, shockingly so. Tomasz’s hand held the smaller man steady as he took his water, one massive palm supporting Alistair's head with a gentleness that was almost unbearable.

After a while, Alistair’s mind, which had been reduced to purely bodily sensation for so long, began to reassert itself. Questions formed. Words demanded articulation. Around them, the country fields continued their slow transformation. The light was beginning to shift, the shadows lengthening. It was moving toward sunset’s golden hour. The exhaustion Tomasz had to be feeling was becoming palpable, even if unspoken.

"Où allons-nous?" The question emerged as barely more than a whisper. Where are we going? But the words contained more. They contained: Why are you doing this? How much farther? Will I live? Does it matter?

Tomasz went silent for a moment. His stride continued, unbroken, and Alistair thought he had not heard, or had heard and decided not to answer. Then, his voice was soft and steady, almost conversational despite the mangled accent: "Ouest. Poste anglais."

West. English post. Alistair let his head fall back against the cradle of canvas. The soldier understood French, at least a little bit. He had understood this whole time.

Sometime later, Tomasz produced a flask from a secret pocket. He gently brought the bottle to Alistair's lips. He paused, wanting him to understand what was being offered. Then, he tilted it, letting the liquid flow into his mouth. The liquid was strong alcohol, some type of French liqueur. It burned down Alistair's throat like fuel. The taste was bitter and warm, like survival itself, and it spread through Alistair's chest like fire. For a moment, the pain in his legs took a backseat to the burning sensation.

"Facile," Tomasz said. Easy. His strong hand rested on Alistair's chest, stopping him from drinking too much. "Doucement."

The endearment, if it might be called that, was implicit in the gesture. Tomasz's care was precise. He controlled the dosage carefully. His large hand cradled Alistair's small body gently. He knew what the officer needed and made the necessary adjustments. Alistair's French was rusty, but it was more than enough. He was learning through proximity, through presence, and through the simple fact that Tomasz decided his life was worth saving. He was carrying that decision out with meticulous care.

The flask disappeared back into the coat. The alcohol was already kicking in. Alistair's mind felt dreamlike, with the lines between his body and Tomasz's starting to blur. He rested his face against Tomasz's shoulder and let the fire in his throat make the rest of the world small and distant.

They walked as the light continued to shift. The horizon opened before them, the trees giving way to open ground. The wind picked up as they left the shelter of the trees. It brought the smell of rain and a hint of coming storms. Tomasz's pace did not slacken. He moved ahead, his heavy frame shielding Alistair from the harsh wind. His strength kept him steady against the merciless gusts.

***

THE SMELL OF STAGNANT water reached them first. It was a foul soup percolating through the earth, a collection of melted snow and groundwater that sat and putrefied for weeks or more. It absorbed the decay of everything that fell into it. Bodies, motor oil, equipment. The various disintegrating materials of a place that endured many years of war. The smell was profound, sweet, and rotten and chemical, all at once.