The End of Innocence (22 page)

The grizzled driver looked down from the car. “I don't know any Spencer, but I know some Harvard folks west of La Boutillerie. I can take you to them, but you've got to promise to keep your eyes closed. It's one thing to be on the field back there, but up here they may not take it as well. Hop in.”

“Thanks, Tommy!” he said with a grin. But as he opened the door, he gagged at a foul odor. He got into his seat and turned back to see the back laden with decomposing bodies.

“Been waiting to get our men,” he said as they bumped their way north. Wils held tightly to the door.

“Where'd you learn English?” the driver asked after hitting a particularly nasty crater.

“Harvard.”

“I knew a guy from Harvard once. He was a jerk.”

Wils nodded. “Some are.”

After a few miles of soft road, the ambulance came to a quick halt outside a white tent with a red cross on it. Men with stretchers and a chaplain in black bands emerged from the tent.

Wils climbed down from the truck and thanked the driver, who pointed him to a garage shop nearby.

“Hey, Fritz, do you know a Friedrich Kriesler?” asked the driver.

Wils shook his head. The driver shrugged. “Met him in London. Was a waiter at the Savoy.” He shrugged. “Good fellow. Well, if you're back by noon, I got my second run out to pick up more poor lads, or, er, what's left of 'em, and I'll run you back,” he said matter-of-factly before motoring away through the puddles.

Wils checked his new pocket watch. Two hours. He turned quickly and walked across the road to a roadside stand of round stones and weather-beaten boards. A large flag with a red cross was sadly draped between two boards, creating a doorway for Wils to enter.

One man stood in overalls soiled by big patches of black oil. Another wore a khaki jumpsuit, his white armband sporting a red cross. They seemed to be arguing over who was going to get under the vehicle. Surprised by the field gray uniform, they looked up bewildered. Wils held up both his hands.

“Harvard,” said Wils.

“Yes. And you?” asked one in denim overalls cautiously. He had a flat Midwestern accent and dirty blond hair.

“I'm class of 1915. Wilhelm Brandl. There's a truce for the day on the front. I'm looking for Rhyland Spencer—a cousin of mine.”

“You're a 1915? Shouldn't you be studying for exams?”

“Why start now?”

The Midwesterner gave a lopsided grin. “Who did you say you were?”

“Spencer's cousin. Wils Brandl.”

He looked at him cautiously. “Spencer's just up the road a bit. I saw him last week. You can walk it from here. In fact, if Mike here can work on the ambulance, I'll take you myself. I haven't had much luck talking with the Boche. I've been too busy cleaning up after him. It's worse than living at Grays.”

“You lived at Grays?” asked Wils.

“Indeed. Where were you?”

“Beck.”

“Beck Hall! We've got a prince here!” said the man, his look softening. He wiped his hands on a dirty rag.

“Grays—do you know Jackson Vaughn?”

The young man's eyes widened. “The rich boy who went crazy after his girl left him? He's trying to fly planes now. Don't know how that's going to work out.”

“That's Jackson.” Wils laughed.

The young man nodded and extended his dirty hand. “Bill Wimmer, Chicago. Class of 1916. I'll take you to Riley, but put on this armband,” he said, handing him a white cloth with a red cross on it. “They won't bother you.”

Wils nodded. “I can't stay long. My ride leaves soon.”

“We'll walk fast. Good to meet another Harvard man. Dark times, these are,” said one from behind the wheel of the car. The others nodded in agreement.

So the two students, German and American, began walking along the cold, bombed-out road for another half mile to Riley Spencer's regiment. They spoke of little of importance and found themselves laughing at times. And in their laughter, they savored the rare quiet of the day, as they did not know when the next lull would come.

The Western Front

Friday, December 25, 1914

Riley, a writing board perched in his lap, reached over to pull the kettle off the small open fire on the brazier near his feet. He poured hot water into his teacup, smelled it, and made a face. The lemon he had added had barely covered the stench of the water.

He rubbed his hands together and took up his pencil again.

2nd Wiltshire Regiment

2nd Battalion, 7th Division, 21st Brigade

British Expeditionary Force

Dear Edith,

How I was saddened to read your latest letter. It grieves me that you have been worried. But, Edith, you must not chastise me so for not writing more often. It means nothing regarding my affection but that nearly every hour is scheduled with soldierly duties.

Riley looked up and frowned. He'd never met a woman who actually believed that. Women jumped to the conclusion that if you didn't write it was just cause to analyze you for all sorts of moral faults. In his case, when he didn't write they were right to be suspicious about him. But there were many other innocent, overworked lads who were abused on this account, and it was just not right.

Yet even though he knew his first paragraph would be ignored, he still felt he had to write it as a formality. He'd write it and she'd ignore it. Nature's way with a wife, he guessed.

He stopped again to give a laugh at the thought. A wife! A woman whose job was to satisfy him every night! How ridiculous that he was away at war. They'd had a hurried ceremony that now made him duty bound to her. But that was as it should be, given they would have a child soon. He had the duties of the relationship but none of its benefits. There had once been a time when he'd consider this arrangement the very definition of hell.

It was a fine arrangement for a day such as this, however. Just fine. All the nostalgia for lazy days rowing along the Charles River—the wind to your back and the sun bright on your face—could not change the lice or the mud or the shells exploding in the foggy night sky in front of him. As much as he might gripe about Edith, it was good to have a family behind to send you things, keep you in their prayers, and to return to.

His mind ached to think of something female. Something other than the mind-numbing marching, firing, cleaning, digging, reporting, and endless talk of duty and courage at the front.

What had become of soft lips and flushed cheeks? He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. The thought gave way to memories of perfumes, of long ringlets and lace shirts. Of dancing with so many lovely women. Of racing through parks in a red car.

He thought of the acres of time he'd spent by himself, sculling silently along the Charles River, free to come and go as he pleased. At Harvard the only danger had been that too many of his admirers would attend the same dance. Not sniper fire from an unseen man. What a fool he'd been not to savor it more.

He continued:

When we're not in the trenches, they have us up at six, parading until eight. We then have a full slog of it working on trenching and musketry. The afternoon is spent parading, drilling, and studying the laws of war. They don't feed us until eight and we must be in our billets by ten. In between that and our constant moving about we've little time for writing, and you know I've never been a good writer. Still I do not wish to grieve you and will try to do better.

Thank you for the biscuits! The men and I ate your shortbread to the last crumb, and blessed your kind heart for them. You are a princess, they say, and they might elevate you to angel if you were to send another tin and this time include chocolate, lemon drops, and bismuth soda pills. Good brandy would also be appreciated as we find our flasks constantly empty. Your packages, dear wife, are most appreciated! (However, as you see, my address has changed yet again to the above. Dearest Edith, I must ask that next time you not write anything else in the address line. The censors will return it to you, or worse, eat the biscuits themselves!)

But you can at least know where I am in very specific terms—and you will laugh when you learn. Your husband is literally billeted in a pigsty—luxury compared to the men at the front. I sit with straw at my feet to sop up the mud. (The dikes were all broken in the last battle, and now we often sit in a cold mud stew, without a useful rock between here and Hamburg.) But don't think of this as complaining. The British spirit is indomitable. We'll win this one, and about that there is no doubt.

He thought about his predicament further, then continued:

Captain Tomkins continues to be a true find. I'm lucky to serve under him. Yesterday the captain set up a revolver shooting contest in which we were to shoot a tin of bully beef from varying distances. I placed a solid third and I was encouraged to hear that there are two others at least as good as me because I won't be able to take out all the Germans by myself. Placing second was the captain himself. A lieutenant by the name of Sydney Norton won the competition. He seemed to wish to make it a personal duel with me, but I'd have none of it. Sydney is a designated sharpshooter and, unfortunately, a professional complainer. We all have reason to complain, but it does no good. We must make the best of it, rain or shine. (Though I must point out there's more of the former these days.) I am glad that I have two days more seniority than he does or I'd have to answer to him, which would be bloody awful. He is a nasty sort, a bit unhinged since his brother sadly died at the Marne.

Instead of worrying about me I'd encourage you to go out and buy something for our baby. Worry will only do yourself harm and won't help me or our child. What will help me are items on the attached list, and perhaps a good pair of wader boots. Anything else will be too difficult to carry in the trenches.

Yours with love,

Riley

He gave a half laugh reviewing that last paragraph. Something for baby! It was nice to think there were still some people in this world who had the luxury of thinking of new life.

He heard a retching noise nearby and looked over to see young Cotting, bent over and convulsing.

“Private Cotting!” Riley barked. The boy couldn't eat an apple without becoming ill these days.

The young boy's watery brown eyes looked mournfully at him. Riley spied a pile of chocolate wrappers nearby.

“Did you eat the entire box of chocolates?”

“Three boxes, actually. Traded the other men for the tobacco,” nodded Cotting, holding his stomach.

Riley stood up and went over to him. He hated to see anything look this pathetic, especially in front of the other men.

“Cotting, would you like to take my place and rest?”

“Can't. Stomach hurts awful. Need to stay here.” The boy's eyelids fluttered.

“Now, man, steel yourself.”

The boy whirled around and retched again. Riley rolled his eyes. “Have you tried the bismuth tablets?” he asked. Paul's breath smelled terrible, and that was saying something, as everything out in that war-torn land smelled terrible.

Cotting shook his head.

“Paul! You've got to learn to take care of yourself.” Riley went over to his kit, pulled out three pills, and handed them to Cotting. “Chew these. They'll settle your stomach right nice. Ask your mum to send you some in her next package. A big bottle will help you digest all the Princess Mary chocolates you can get your hands on.”

The boy ate the chalky pills. He made a face and then, in a few more seconds, he returned to his natural color.

“That worked quite nice, guv'nor,” said Cotting, then toddled off.

“Glad to be of service.” Riley wished he could leave too. But he was behind in his letter writing and now had to face a more difficult, more painful letter.

He sat down and pulled the writing board up closer.

Dear Edith,

In the event of my death I have been instructed to write to you to make certain that you know my final wishes.

He shook his head and threw it into the fire. This letter business was all so damn awkward.

Riley thought for a few more minutes, then picked up his pencil and started again.

“Lieutenant!” a cracking voice called to him. Riley looked up. It was Paul Cotting again.

“What, Cotting?”

“A truce! A truce on the front!” he called.

“Good. Let's go home,” said Riley, not moving.

“It's not that kind of truce—not official-like. Just everybody seems to have stopped fighting at the front for Christmas. We're meeting the Huns in no-man's-land for some sport and Christian burials. Want to come?”

Riley shook his head and sighed. “The captain said I couldn't do anything until I wrote my farewell letter to my wife.”

Cotting wrinkled his nose. “Now that's the Christmas spirit.”

Riley smiled. “As I would be the one dying I would think she should be writing me.”

“So you can't come?”

“No.” Riley scowled. “This will take a while. Have fun with the Boche, Cotting.”

He picked up his pen again and sighed.

* * *

“Riley!”

“What now, Cotting?” he snapped.

Riley looked up and froze. A Red Cross officer in a German uniform was advancing toward him. He slowly moved his writing desk aside and reached for his rifle, not taking his eyes off the man. Supposed truce or not, a German shouldn't be this far across no-man's-land. The soldier was covered in mud, his glasses dirty. He reached for his helmet—the helmet of an uhlan, no less—and removed it to reveal a familiar shock of blond hair.

“Wils?” he whispered, squinting. “Wils? Is that you?” He stood up suddenly. “Good Lord! You look awful!” Riley yelled, grabbing his cousin and hugging him fiercely.

“Dear God, Riley! I've found you! It's been so terrible,” Wils choked out.

“Oh, Wils, I can't believe it! You're here! You wouldn't believe the trouble I get into without you, dear boy.”

They pushed back. Wils wiped his eyes.

“It's hell over there, Riley.”

“Not much better here.”

As Riley welcomed Wils into his small corner of France, he noticed how thin his cousin had become. Wils's eyes were hollow and his hands shook. Riley sat him down at the edge of the warm brazier and opened as much food as he had, urging Wils to eat with him.

Riley gave him some water to wash his hands of the clay, and then a cup of hot tea and a tin of beef, as he listened to his cousin explain what had happened at the front and how he'd come to Riley's camp.

“How are your feet?” asked Riley. “Do you need to warm them up?”

“Feet? Oh, yes. Some days are better than others. I try to keep them dry. The rain last week made it difficult.”

“We lost three companies because of trench foot,” said Riley. “Now we have to pull double duty until we get replacements.” He shook his head. “I never want to set foot in a field again.” Riley pulled his head closer to Wils. “And our general has a nasty habit of referring to the enemy as the French.”

Wils grinned. “Do you think it's better over where I am? Our generals think we should already be in Paris and the fact that we're not means we should just work harder.”

“Well, by the way mine talk, we'll be in Berlin by the kaiser's birthday.”

“January?” said Wils, rolling his eyes. “I think our army's supposed to be in London by then. I'll say hello to the king for you.”

“Tell my mother to send more food,” said Riley. He frowned as Wils pulled a watch from his pocket and checked it.

“Riley, I can't stay long. I'm sorry. There was a break in the fighting. I didn't think I could find you, but I asked and they said you were here. I wanted to see you again.”

Riley looked at his cousin's haggard face. “You're cold. Would you like my coat?”

“No thanks, Riley. It just does me good to know you're all right.”

“Have you heard from Helen?”

Wils eyes lit up. “I got a letter from her last week. Thank God for that. It's so difficult to get mail unless it's the government sending sausage and Christmas trees. She is quite well.”

Riley grinned. “Well, please tell Helen I'm a married man now, honest as the day is long.”

Wils looked at him carefully. “The child—”

“Should come in February. Hope you'll be at the christening.” He was not ashamed.

“Of course.”

“Wils, is something wrong?”

Wils looked down. “I hadn't told you yet, but I am married myself.”

Riley forced the smile to remain on his face, though it still stung a bit that Helen had ultimately chosen Wils over him. “Congratulations!” He reached out mechanically to clap Wils on the shoulder as one should do in these instances. “When did you marry?”

“Before we left, in a private ceremony. We will have a church ceremony when the war is over. I was hoping to get your blessing.”

Riley swallowed hard. “Wils, I've long been over Helen. I saw she had eyes only for you, and wished then and there that you two would be as happy as you could be. You have my most heartfelt and warm wishes.” He saw a flicker in Wils's eyes.

“Now, Wils, you and Helen had better get on with things, as my firstborn will tower over your children by the time you get around to having them. Is Helen doing well?”

“She said she was getting along. Her work in class was coming to an end. She said she missed us all frightfully. And Riley, I believe she always will hold a soft spot for a British rake.”

“A woman of fine taste.”

Wils paused, then looked back toward the path from which he came. “I've got to go back. Give Edith my best love.”

“Don't go!” Riley protested. “You just got here.”

“The truce won't last. I have to get back.”

“Wait! I've an idea. Get a pass and let's meet next month.”

“What?”

“Let's meet next month,” repeated Riley.