The Battle of Harmingsdown: Chapter 15

Edmund stepped out into the morning light.

Was it portentous, the fact that the sun shone brightly on the brown mud of Harmingsdown for the first time in weeks, or that the piercing reflection of the white snow hurt Edmund’s eyes, forcing him to squint? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he had a plan, and he wasn’t sure it would work.

This was a new and frightening situation for Edmund to be in. After all, his entire life had been spent in the meticulous crafting of detailed plots that blossomed to fruition with only the smallest amount of uncertainty. As Matron had told him before: What use was a plan that had the potential for failure?

What made the whole situation worse was the fact that Edmund had no less than three other plans that were far more certain to work; he had rejected them all.

The right plan had come to him in the night. Or rather, it had come to him in the morning, while he was reading what he had written during his sleep. It wasn’t just about getting what he wanted, it was about getting it the right way. And that meant his only viable plan was filled with potential for failure. He was so uncertain, he didn’t even know how likely it was to fail.

“Sah!”

Edmund turned to see Old Tom saluting at full attention.

“Yes, Corporal?”

“I’m looking for Lieutenant Mauve, Sah, and…Oh…Sah!” Old Tom managed to salute again, without ever dropping his first salute. “Message for you, sah! Colonel Schtillhart wants to see you at his residence as soon as possible, sah.”

Edmund studied the Corporal’s face. He was exhausted, his body betraying his need to salute. How much more would it take, Edmund wondered, before the soldiers couldn’t take anymore? With luck, no one would ever find out.

To be so bereft of certainty was uncomfortable for Edmund, but he was able to find some comfort in the look on the Wickes’ faces when they saw Acting Colonel Schtillhart open the Colonel’s door and usher the waiting officers inside.

“May I say, Colonel,” Mr. Wickes’ said as everyone assembled around the large table, “you are looking…quite well rested.”

Acting Colonel Schtillhart adjusted his shirt. “The Colonel’s bed is, I must say, far more comfortable than what I am used to. Rank has its privileges, after all.”

“So we’ve noticed.”

“Then you had an…uneventful night?” Mr. Wickes asked, rubbing his jowls with a smooth hand.

“I did,” Acting Colonel Schtillhart frowned, “but that’s beside the point. The point is regarding your tactical gasses. I have reviewed the materials you sent and am ready to give my decision.”

The gathered officers settled, eager to hear their Acting Colonel’s plan for the coming battle. Schtillhart walked around the table as best he could in the cramped quarters. Edmund could tell he would have paced if there had been room.

“After examining the alternatives,” Schtillhart began, “and studying the potential gains and losses, I have decided to allow use of the Wickes tactical gasses.”

The gathered officers smiled at each other, delighted that their Acting Colonel knew well enough to grab victory when it was offered. The Wickes just nodded. Edmund bit his lip.

“This is not a decision I took lightly,” Schtillhart continued, hands clasped behind his back. “The simple truth is…we are running out of time. Our supplies are almost exhausted, and even if we could manage to hold the line without the gas, we would only last for another month at most. If we are to be victorious, we must be as resolute as the Spanish have proven to be. They are cruel and bloodthirsty. They have not only tried to break our front line, they have tried to break our spirit. I will not allow this, but nor will I allow us to sacrifice what makes us British!”

“Eh?” Mr. Wickes shifted his grip on his horse-topped cane. “I’m sorry?”

“I’ve studied your gasses,” Schtillhart stood straight again, looking down at the squat man. “I do not accept that we must become monsters to achieve victory. Your first three gasses incapacitate, inhibit, maybe even wound, but your fourth gas kills. I will not allow its use.”

“Your distinction is odd,” Mrs. Wickes spoke up before Mr. Wickes could protest. “Why wound but not kill?”

“It’s too risky,” Schtillhart shook his head. “Even if lethally poisoning the air was a line I was willing to cross, our soldiers must then march down into the enemy trenches. We learned the dangers of that when we first re-took the trenches we had mined for the Spanish. I will protect my soldiers.”

The officers nodded appreciatively again at this novel method of warfare, while the Wickes stepped back. Edmund almost wondered why the Wickes were not protesting further, before the immediately obvious answer crossed his mind.

“I am also concerned about the wind,” Schtillhart crossed his arms. “If the grenades fall short, they could deposit the gas on our own men, or close enough that the wind could carry them back in our own faces.”

“…Yes,” Mr. Wickes licked his lips. “I suppose that could happen…”

“Then again, if we could be sure the grenades landed in the trenches,” Mrs. Wickes tapped a thin finger to her chin. “The gas would certainly stay there, like water in a river-bed.”

Edmund was immediately certain this was not, in fact, true.

“My thinking exactly,” Schtillhart leaned over the table, staring at the charcoal map of the Harmingsdown Trenches. “We’ll need to bring our soldiers closer. We’ll dig a single looping trench, extending from here to here.”

“That’s awfully close to the Spanish,” one of the officers spoke up.

“Close enough for our best lobbers to drop their grenades straight into the Spanish trenches. They’ll be positioned all along this trench here, and throw their payloads in a semi-circle reaching out to here. The gas will then flow through the trenches on the Spanish side, thusly. You can get us gas grenades by the time the trench is dug?”

“Of course,” Mr. Wickes smiled. “We are almost finished, in fact.”

“Good,” Schtillhart glanced at the assembled officers before setting his eyes on Edmund. “Lieutenant? The trenches are your responsibility. See to it, will you? Dismissed.”

An underappreciated skill is the art of not-leaving-with-the-crowd. Those without the skill tend to plant themselves like a tree, forcing the flow of egressers to part and jostle with each other, resulting in resentment and frustration. Edmund, being practiced, was able to appear to everyone as if he was being carried along in the wake of the officers, yet remain exactly where he was standing when everyone else had left.

Edmund watched as Schtillhart sagged, leaning over the table and staring at the strategic map of Harmingsdown.

“You don’t have to do this,” Edmund said.

Schtillhart looked up. Edmund had expected fire in his eyes, but instead saw cold and clear resolve. “I must.”

“You’re a Colonel,” Edmund stepped to the table. “You don’t have to do what the Wickes tell you to do.”

“You think that’s what I’m doing?” Schtillhart grimaced. “I am an Acting Colonel, and even if I were a Field Marshal General, I would still have a duty to both protect my men and achieve victory for King and Country!”

“I can stop the Wickes,” Edmund said.

There was a labored pause before Schtillhart moved closer to Edmund, his jaw set firm. “I beg your pardon?”

“I can stop them,” Edmund repeated. “I can keep them from —”

“Are you admitting to a superior officer your intent to sabotage the local representatives of the Military Research Division?”

Edmund closed his mouth, and then opened it again. “I know they’re blackmailing you.”

“You don’t know what you are talking about,” Schtillhart snapped, turning back to the map.

“I know they want this. They need their gas to be deployed at the front so they can —” he caught himself. How much did he want to explain? How certain was he that Schtillhart wouldn’t tell the Wickes anything Edmund told him? “They’re not working for the army, they’re working for themselves.”

“I may not like the Wickes,” Schtillhart admitted, “but I have yet to see them disobey a direct order, and until I see that, I will treat them the same as any officer under my command. Understood?”

“They’re going to mislabel their grenades,” Edmund explained, wondering if it wasn’t as obvious as he had thought. “Or accidentally put some of the deadly gas with the harmless gas. They won’t follow your orders.”

“I’m not sure you are listening properly, Lieutenant! I made the decision to use the gas, and that makes it my responsibility. I don’t give a good goddamn who you think the Wickes serve, but I serve my country! I have a duty to put the orders of my superiors into action and work to achieve victory, as does every officer under me! That includes you, Lieutenant! You are dismissed!”

---

The trenches looked particularly brown to Edmund as he walked up and down their lengths, looking for soldiers. It wasn’t that there weren’t soldiers everywhere, it was that he needed a very particular group of soldiers. Soldiers who were in a very specific state of mind. As fortune would have it, he knew the soldier he found.

“Corporal Cottonwood,” Edmund approached the haggard man where he stood against the trench-wall.

“Sir?” Old Tom straightened and saluted. Not as straight-backed or strong as he used to be. Eyes shaded, knees bent…You have a surplus of melancholic humors…

“Collect a digging party and meet me at the front junction. We have a new trench to dig.”

Edmund knew Old Tom well enough to know he would look for soldiers eager for something to do. He knew where those soldiers were likely to congregate. A bit of quick math, and he knew how long it would take for Old Tom to meet Edmund to receive his orders.

In the meantime, Edmund unrolled the map of the trenches.

By the time Old Tom had arrived with his crew in tow, Edmund had finished his work, checked it twice, and had a collection of measuring sticks ready to hand out.

The job was a simple one, taking only a few minutes to explain. He pointed to the marks he had made on the map and detailed the process by which the diggers could be sure they had dug as far as they needed to. Before long, the team had split into two, each heading off to their assigned places to begin digging.

Old Tom watched after them. “I can take it from here, sir,” he said, holding out his hand for the map.

Edmund handed it over, but didn’t let go. “Corporal, where are you from?”

Old Tom blinked. “I’m…I’m from up north, sir. Born and raised in Chapphamdowns.”

“I’ve never been to Chapphamdowns,” Edmund still didn’t let go. “What is your favorite local meal?”

A low buzzing began to fill the air. “I’m…sorry sir, but…why are you asking me this?”

Edmund wasn’t sure himself. He had a reason, he knew it, but the words for it escaped him at the moment. It had to do with the war, and the trenches…

The buzzing became a roar as three recon planes flew past overhead, heading towards the Spanish trenches. They would split formation after they crossed enemy lines and spend a good five minutes observing everything before returning. It was happening twice a day, now, only this time their flight was marred the the dull thuds and rapid patter of the Spaniard’s answer to the British anti-aircraft weapons. Based on the German scattershot artillery they used on their ships, they sent thousands of metal shards flying through the air, raining metal on friend and foe alike.

“Those are machines,” Edmund pointed, “flying through the air faster than any zeppelin. There are more machines about these days. More diesel and oil.” he paused a moment, listening to the distant sounds of war. “Fewer and fewer people.” He blinked, and let go of the map. “That is why I asked you those questions.”

Old Tom nodded, and looked down at the map. Edmund could see the warring loyalties in his face, whether to obey orders or to finally say what was on his mind. “There’s a pub near the river,” he said at last. “It’s called the Bake and Duck. The cook there, she makes a potato pie with just the right amount of sage…” Old Tom glanced off into his memory, his mouth already beginning to water.

“They sing a song every night?” Edmund asked, only partially familiar with proper pub etiquette.

“The Hollow Log and the Hungry Frog,” Old Tom smiled. “Still know every verse. Even the third one. No one remembers the third verse, but my pa, he taught it to me. Sir,” he shifted his weight back and forth on his feet, “I ought to warn you…this digging is putting us damned — begging your pardon, sir — Very close to the enemy trenches. Are you certain this is a good idea?”

“It’s our orders, Corporal,” Edmund crossed his arms. “And for your information, yes, I do believe this is a very good idea.” Perhaps my only one, if it works. “If you have other ideas, I’m certain the Corporal would love to hear them. Would you like me to take you to him?”

“No sah!” Old Tom threw his body at attention.

“Excellent. Before I forget,” Edmund handed Old Tom the thick wooden dowel he had at his side, “here is the measurement stick. The Colonel and the Wickes decided on those measurements, so make sure the trenches are the exact length specified.”

Nowadays, it is unremarkable to postulate the philisophical question: if someone were to adjust the length of a measuring stick, how would anyone be able to tell it was longer or shorter? After all, the only way to know would be to measure it; the Tautology of Measurement states that a meter — far from being immutable — is exactly as long as a meter stick.

Scholars debate, however, if Edmund’s supplying Old Tom with a measuring stick was the first practical application of this knowledge in history.¹

---

Nighttime came and went, as did the sun. In two days, the trenches were dug and the gas grenades distributed. Tomorrow morning the British would attack, and Edmund had no idea what would happen.

He had finally come to peace with this fact, but he had yet to understand how to handle the waiting. For the first time in a year, ever since joining the army, Edmund had nothing to do.

This is what Tension feels like, he realized.

On impulse, Edmund struck out through the trenches towards the Colonel’s residence. When he reached the Colonel’s door, he was midly surpised to find Colonel Schtillhart sitting next to it on a small box. It reminded Edmund of when he would approach Brigadier McNaymare’s office and see Brother Bromard sitting patiently outside.

Brother Bromard, however, hadn’t had a mug of powerful alcohol in his hand.

“Share a drink with me, Lieutenant,” Schtillhart plucked up another mug and held it out.

Edmund took the mug and sat down.

For minutes, neither of them said anything, simply sitting and sipping their drinks. Then, a flicker of memory drove Edmund’s tongue into action; a phrase Old Tom had said to him, when they had first met.

“Your chin is so smooth, I bet you never need to shave.”

“Ha!”

Edmund had not anticipated the success with which his minor attempt at conversation was received. Schtillhart threw his head back and laughed with the full-throated sincerity that could only come from surprise. He stopped himself quickly, covering his mouth with a dirty hand before taking another swig from his mug.

“Thank you,” Schtillhart said, finally.

“For what?” Edmund asked, knowing full well the answer.

“For not telling anyone.”

It had been an easy decision on Edmund’s part. He could see the value to morale in ensuring no one knew that Schtillhart had been wounded multiple times.

“I imagine you have questions,” Schtillhart said, his voice quiet. “About…why.”

Edmund did, in fact, have questions. “Acting Colonel, may I ask why you enlisted?”

Schtillhart looked up in surprise, mouth gaping. For several minutes there was silence. Then Schtillhart looked away again, taking a drink from his cup. “Do you know who you are, Lieutenant?”

Edmund opened his mouth, and then closed it again. It was a question he had never bothered to ask, much as he had never asked what color his hair was. A simple glance in the mirror was all the answer he had ever needed.

“I didn’t know for most of my life,” Schtillhart continued when Edmund didn’t answer. “I thought I was who my family told me I was, but then…” he took a deep breath. “Did you ever read Tin Jack? I loved those old penny-pulps. I bought every issue with money I made myself, doing chores for Cook. Father wasn’t —” he stopped herself with another sigh, shaking his head. “Tin Jack was a man of action. He did what was right, not like the other penny-dreadfuls. He was a man of honor, duty, and strength. He was a real soldier. A man of justice, devoted to Queen and Country. Women…” he smiled ruefully, “they threw themselves at him, but he always turned them away so he didn’t break their hearts.”

His voice trailed off for a moment before he continued. “My mother thought I was…enamoured, but no…I wanted to be Tin Jack. Marching across the country, thrashing bandits and protecting the innocent. Tin Jack once commanded a hundred men at the battle of Hatsburgen, defeating the thousand-strong army of the Blood Baron of the Bundestag…”

Schtillhart leveled a steel gaze at Edmund. “That’s who I am. That’s why I enlisted. There is no worse betrayal than betraying yourself. In the army, I could be who I really was.”

It seemed to Edmund that on the battlefield is when you were the least alone, surrounded by allies and enemies of all kinds. Expectations from your friends to save their lives, from your family to come back safe, from your officers to obey orders, and even from your foes to die when their bullet hit your heart.

Edmund knew, mostly thanks to several years of trial and error, that Schtillhart would probably not appreciate Edmund’s contrary views on the matter, so he simply nodded.

“I can’t help but wonder,” Schtillhart muttered into his mug, “did Tin Jack change? Or did the War?”

“This is a different war,” Edmund nodded. “No war was ever like this one.”

“Or will be again.”

Edmund opened his mouth, and then closed it. Schtillhart had obviously meant the phrase to be an affirming one. To Edmund, the lack of future constancy in war was a something horrible, not comforting. The next war will be so much worse…as will the next, until we’ve invented something entirely new.

Schtillhart sighed. “Tin Jack never fought in trenches; he was a wandering soldier. He fought to protect the innocent. We’re fighting to protect a long abandoned farm-house on the outskirts of a town no one had ever heard of, because the strategists and Generals at HQ say that if we don’t, the Spanish will move inland, west towards Rottinghampsire.”

Edmund nodded. “That is what they say.”

“What would you have me do, Lieutenant? At what point does victory become cruelty? How many soldiers wounded? Dead? Do we just send half of them to the hospital? Is three-quarters too much? Victory is victory, Lieutenant Mauve, and defeat is defeat! You may sit cozy in your filing office and judge the qualities of both, but in the trenches there is no difference between a victory justly won, and one poorly gotten.”

Edmund wasn’t sure what he had said that had prompted Schtillhart’s protest, so he remained silent. The chill in the air thickened as winter snow began to fall, dusting the brown mud. In minutes the trenches would be white as bone, only to turn back to brown as the mud tainted the downy winter blanket.

“Does anyone else know who you really are?” Edmund asked. It was a clumsy gambit, but he needed an opening into Schtillhart’s heart to see if anyone else knew about Tin Jack; if there was room inside for him.

“That is not a discussion I’m willing to have, Lieutenant,” Schtillhart snapped.

“Sorry, sir.”

The snow continued to fall, glinting in the faint glow of the small fires that dotted the trenches. Falling stars, Edmund imagined, loosed from the black sky and tumbling to earth like shards of glass.

“My sister may know” Schtillhart sniffed. “I could never hide anything from her. My Father was a…” He stopped himself with another drink. “You know, tomorrow will be a great victory for the British army.”

“I hope so.”

“Don’t worry,” Schtillhart’s voice was empty of reassurance. “It’ll work. We’ll push the Spaniards back to the sea soon enough.”

Edmund took a drink, wondering if Mr. Forthmore had recently invented a mask that could prevent gas from harming their soldiers, much like Edmund had, or if the Wickes wanted the Spanish to suffer first.

“Are you feeling alright?” Edmund asked.

“I’m fine.” Schtillhart took a deep swig before refilling both his and Edmund’s mug from a nearby crusted bottle.

Edmund took a drink. “Have you considered…intimacy?” Fool Moulde! Why not outright ask to hold his hand?

Schtillhart’s eyes betrayed a surprise as sincere as Edmund’s. After a moment, he gave an uncomfortable laugh. “I’m…not exactly in a position where that’s feasible, Lieutenant.”

Romance was the purview of humans. People who could feel vulnerable, let other people see them for who they truly are. It made an odd sort of sense that being an invincible officer, Schtillhart couldn’t let anyone see any vulnerability, emotional or otherwise.

Of course, Edmund knew Schtillhart was only a man. He couldn’t stop his mouth in time. “Not even with someone who already knows?”

A flash of anger quickly faded from Schtillhart’s face, to be replaced by confusion, and then discomfort. “Ha. I’m afraid you’re…not my type.”

“Ah.”

“Besides,” Schtillhart nudged Edmund in the side. “Don’t you have a girl waiting back home for you? Everyone’s supposed to.”

Googoltha.

In his memory, the tiny girl smiled her sharp-toothed smile at him, her eyes as shiny and deep as a doll’s. She was his fiance, and she had yet to speak a single word to him. She was waiting for him, wasn’t she? Well…no, she probably wasn’t, but the marriage was. Along with the whole of the Moulde and Rotledge families. The wedding was arranged to happen before the end of next year.

Then they would be husband and wife forever.

“Do you?” Edmund asked.

Schtillhart took another drink. “I did. She’s a beautiful girl, and I never…” he stopped.

Edmund, being unfamiliar as he was with the romantic realities of war, did not immediately recognize the look of a man who was coming to grips with the fact that the woman he had loved for years from afar might never know it before he dies.

Tension, as Edmund had noted before, was what kept the military functional. At the same time, inequality was an important factor as well, as hierarchies and ranks created a vast organic machine. Edmund had known, the day he joined the army, that he would like as not betray this organized structure. He had subverted the rules and regulations, adjusted files and manipulated the paperwork to his own ends. He had even developed a conspiracy with the Black Cat Confederacy that set him apart from the proper chain of command.

He was a traitor, through and through. But in all his minor rebellions and circumventions, there was no betrayal more satisfying than the sudden feeling of equality between him, a Lieutenant, and a Colonel. There was a new tension between them. Not the tension of the military, of dancing puppets on strings, but of partners. Of two people leaning back, holding the other up as a counterbalance.

He wasn’t entirely sure how they had gotten there, but it was a nice feeling all the same.

---

In the charming and above all predictable manner of the trench-weary soldier, they had given their new trench a name. One of the military medics had named it St. Clerkson Rakesfield’s Rhinoscopic Observer, after one of his professions most specific tools, when he overheard a private exclaim, as he glanced at the map; “Yew must be jokin’! Why, pop our heads up and we could see up their nostrils!”

It was a common sentiment, and once the reference of the name had been carefully explained by the doctor to his fellow soldiers, they settled on the more efficient name of Saint Clerk’s.

There was something fitting about naming the small loop of trench after a Saint, even if no one could remember one named Clerk. No one bothered to argue, because when you are in the middle of a war that will come to be noted by historians as one that changed everything, you are grateful for any sign or symbol of comfort you can get.

At the moment, that comfort for ten soldiers on the southern end of St. Clerk’s was a small fire.

The winter night was bitterly cold, and the curve of the trench at this particular point in St. Clerk’s turned in just the right manner to catch the frigid air and blow it straight down the soldier’s boots. Regulations demanded that no fires were to be lit, as the enemy could use the light to discern where troops were stationed and shell more accurately. Enforcement of this was enacted through a serendipitous wood shortage, and so it was with tiny scavenged scraps of wood that the soldiers had managed to light a fire no bigger than a ration-can.

Color Sergeant Blakesburn had almost put his foot down and forbid the fire at all, when Corporal “Old Tom” Cottonwood reassured him that the light was too small to see from the other end of St. Clerk’s, much less across no-man’s-land. After being offered a spot around the cramped circle, Color Sergeant Blakesburn gratefully admitted that the light was dim enough to risk it.

It is these small victories that keep soldiers fighting, even when they have seen no others.

“So,” a thin whip of a Private sniffed, huddling closer to the small fire, “Yew think we’re headin’ over the top?”

“Hope so,” a brutish young Corperal coughed, gripping his thin army jacket tighter around his shoulders. “Need to pay them tapas-eaters back for Rolly.”

There is an ebb and flow to Military chat. Long pauses are commonplace while the aching brains and tired souls of war ruminate on every aspect of what was just said. This is to allow for thoughtful response, and also a defense mechanism for the young privates who have learned not to speak quickly, lest they inadvertently interrupt a superior officer and receive a sudden and painful lesson in polite behavior.

“Binjamin got hit too,” Old Tom muttered, holding out his gloved hands to the fire. “Damn scrapnel cut his face to bits.”

“They never done this before, sah,” another Private interjected. There is always a Private like this. They usually have nicknames like ‘Specs’ or ‘Brain,’ and spend a disproportionate amount of time cleaning the slop buckets as punishment for being clever. “Didn’t used to be like this.”

To a man, every soldier surrounding the fire pointedly and purposefully avoided looking at the large crate of grenades that squatted not a few feet away.

“I fell down in the creek once when I was young,” someone offered. “Got a full lungful of water. Almost drowned. It was horrible.”

“Well, it’s like this now,” Color Sergeant Blakesburn snapped. “They use scrapnel, so we use mines. They use hollow bullets, an’ we…” He didn’t finish.

“Oi hear they gots a gun that shoots loightning,” the first private said. “If’n we go over the top…we’ll get froiyed up loik beef.”

There was a pause while the other soldiers considered this.

“Yah?” the bulky Corporal sniffed. “Well, stands to reason, don’t it, that we use gas. Don’t have to go over the top then, do we?” He turned to Old Tom, his eyes asking the question that his voice had only asked rhetorically.

“Don’t suppose we do,” Old Tom ran his finger under his nose, shaking off the dew that had already begun to collect on his lip. “Don’t suppose.”

“It’s just going to make them cough, right?”

“That’s what they say.”

“And cry?”

The fire flickered against the narrow trench walls. The shadows of the huddled soldiers danced against the mud, and for a moment there was no sound but the soft rustle of shivering soldiers and chattering teeth.

“I want to go home,” another Corporal said.

They all did, even though it was the first time anyone had said as much. The young soldiers never said it because none of the older soldiers ever said it, so it must not be something soldiers say. The older soldiers never said it because they wanted to appear tough for the young soldiers. The oldest soldiers they knew it was pointless to dwell on the impossible.

There are certain other topics that soldiers are never meant to broach, but with the first taboo already broken, it was easier for a deep voice in the crowd to say what was on everyone’s mind.

“Sarge, what are we fighting for?”

“Enough o’ that!” Color Sergeant Blakesburn snapped again. “We’re fighting for King and Country!”

“Oi know that,” the first private said, picking up the thread of conversation now that it had been started by someone braver. “Everyone knows that. But…well, Ois only wonders what…what do the King want?”

“Dead tapas-eaters,” the burly Corporal grumbled into his chest. “That’s what he wants.”

“But why now?” Brain or possibly Specs interjected. “And why like this?”

“That’s not a question worth answering,” Old Tom shifted his rifle to his lap. “He wants us to fight, we fight.”

“Officers want us to fight,” came a sullen muttering.

Old Tom glanced at Color Sergeant Blakesburn. He knew the Color Sergeant from old times. He was a loyal soldier, almost an officer himself. He would have come down hard on any insolent soldier who dared speak such insubordination in years past…but it was not the fury of god that spilled from the Color Sergeant’s mouth. “What else are we going to do then? I ain’t no good to be nothin’ but a soldier, and soldiers don’t do nothin’ but what they’re told. You wanna change that, you don’t wanna be a soldier.”

The first Private scratched the back of his neck, embarrassment leaking out of his frozen pores. “Maybe we could…Yoo-yoon…eyes?”

Color Sergeant Blakesburn grimaced. “You stow that talk in your back pocket and don’t let me ever hear you say that again, private, or I’ll rake your skin from your back. Now keep it quiet all of you while I make another patrol. Gotta make sure those panheads up north aren’t singing bloody folk-songs.”

The Color Sergeant stood up and picked his way though the crowd of seated and huddled soldiers, the least dignified manner for any Sergeant to make an exit. Old Tom shifted the rifle on his lap. Never thought I’d see him retreat from a private in me life.

Time crept slowly forward, the moon rising higher in the sky and shining down on the freezing soldiers as they waited for orders. For an officer. For the morning. For anything.

“Nothin’ wrong wi’ folk-songs,” someone muttered. “Gotta tune you can whistle…”

“I miss te’ ol’ pub,” the burly corporal agreed. “Always a good song after dinner. We could sing the roof off.”

“Ol’ Jackdaw’s my favorite. I’m good wi’ the chorus.”

“Naw, we always sang One for Dear Jonnie at closin’ time. The barman, twas his tradition.”

“Oi loiked Once inna Springtoime. Third verse’s funny.”

Old Tom listened as the hushed conversation continued until what would have been half past midnight if any soldier had a watch, but was instead simply “late.” He was about to order the men to get some rest, when he nearly jumped out of his seat at the deep rumbling of a clearing throat behind him. Spinning around in his seat, he was met with the sight of a giant man leaning against the wall of the trench. He had been so silent and loomed so large, Old Tom was unconvinced that the Trench itself hadn’t simply decided to come warm itself by their meager fire.

A quick glance at the giant’s shoulders convinced him otherwise. “Ah, Sergeant, you gave me a turn, an’ no mistake!”

The looming shape paid him no mind, but shifted slightly as it stood up straight from the wall, lifted its head and began to sing.

“Sergeant? Sah?”

The giant Sergeant’s deep booming voice echoed through the tiny trenches, bouncing back and forth like distant thunder.

Those who knew the song spared only a moment to note that with the Sergeant’s deep bass voice and slow steady pace, the song sounded more like a dirge than the lighthearted folksong it had been written to be, but a moment was all it took before this fact was lost to the homesick soldiers of Harmingsdown.

Before long, half of the men had joined in, replacing their own home towns for Brackenburg where appropriate, lifting their voices over the battlefield into the night sky, singing loud, long, and off-key; the only way true soldiers know how to sing.

After the fourth refrain, Old Tom Cottonwood gripped a nearby shoulder. “Ey…what’s that?”

Before long it was clear to everyone what Old Tom had heard, drifting back at them from across the trenches.

“‘Ere, now…that ain’t right!”

“They can’t be singin’ the same song, can they?”

“‘hat’s Spanish, Oi know ‘hat much.”

“It’s the same tune, though. Think it’s the same words?”

The squad paused for a moment, as the implications settled on their helmeted heads. A song with the same tune and the same words, even if they were in Spanish, had to be sung by the same people, hadn’t it? In one brilliant moment of uncertainty, the soldiers began to wonder if the exact same conversations they had been having in their trench was happening on the other side as well.

The moment was broken when Old Tom snatched the helmet off of his head. “Well, bugger this for a lark!”

The corporal at his side grabbed him by the hand as he stood up. “‘Ere, Old Tom, what’r yew on about?”

“Let go’a me!” The old man yanked his hand free. Standing up straight on the box he had been sitting on, he turned to face the enemy trenches, placed his helmet over his chest, and began to sing again, as loud and and strong as ever.

It only took a few minutes before the rest of the squad stood up as well, providing such harmony as makes angels weep with joy.