Royal Beauty Bright

by Ryan Byrnes

  “Do your worst!” one of the Germans shouted at us.

  Wait a second.

  “They speak English?” I asked nobody in particular.

  “’Course they do. Half of ’em are our Saxon cousins,” Appleby muttered. “Some likely lived in England before the war. My own Uncle Gabriel is German. Moved to London to work as a waiter, was called back by the Kaiser when the war started.”

  “So they’re half British.”

  Appleby wiped his nose, “More or less.”

  “Then why are we even fighting them?”

  Suddenly, a few more guns went off; more Germans were firing at the dirt. Our boys answered back in a like manner, and soon we’d fired so many bullets into the dirt that giant brown clouds hung stagnant under the sunrise.

  “What is this?” Wallace threw his binoculars at the ground. “A fake battle? Where’s the discipline?”

  I was rather uneasy with the whole situation, knowing I’d directly disobeyed Captain Blanding. Thought there might be some punishment. After all, not fighting the enemy was the same as fraternizing with the enemy. And that was punishable by court martial.

  We kept up our work of firing at the dirt until noon, when finally, someone came to relieve us. The first thing I did after was find a quiet corner of the trench and piss. I buttoned my pants back up, slung my rifle over my shoulder, and sloshed through the chalky water over to the rest of the boys. I set up at an empty spot in the line and took aim at a little messenger pigeon fluttering over German heads. I missed. Damn. The sun started to sink again, and the German offensive we’d been warned about never came. Odd.

  “Captain Blanding got a telegraph from further up the line, said the Germans chose to attack at Ypres instead,” the boy at my right filled me in.

  “Well, that’s nice. So we can just keep this up until dark and then head over to billets?”

  “Looks that way.”

  The boy aimed high and shot down one of the pigeons. Across the turnip field, we heard clapping, and German voices going, “Yaa, yaa.”

  “Ooh, Good shot! You got a round of applause out of them,” I turned to him. “Say, what’s your name?”

  Crack!

  The boy crumpled to the ground, my face and the front of my coat spattered with him.

  Since we’d lasted until November, the sun set early, which meant darkness fell around supper time. I slopped some veggies and meat into my helmet, slung my rifle over my shoulder again, and spooned it out as we all set out on the road. Our stay on the River Avon had come to an end—at least for now. For the next two weeks, it was our turn to cycle out through the billets and get some rest. Me and my pals all marched in twos down the road as the other battalion marched up it. We nodded at each other as we passed but said nothing. I hoped they’d pull through without too much trouble.

  Marching was one of the more preferable activities for a soldier, I’d gathered. It didn’t require much thought or risk—although it was guaranteed to leave your feet covered in blisters—and I’d take that any day, judging how things were going. The road passed field after field overgrown with weeds and pocked with crater lakes. A few aeroplanes left exhaust trails in the clouds above us, which caught our attention for a little bit. Dogfights were always interesting to watch, and I wondered what it would be like to be in the air corps. Definitely more chivalrous than being an infantryman, no doubt. I nodded off a few times and then snapped awake to realize I’d carried on sleep walking. We marched just short of eighteen miles—yes, I’d counted the mile markers on the road signs. Soon, the village of Hazebrouck sizzled on the horizon, miraged by the dawn light reflecting off of the frost. Thank God.

  Since joining the army, I’d become very good at what I called half-sleeping. Sure, my eyes were closed and drool dripped onto my shirt, but I could still tell you how many men were in the room—particularly, how many of them were armed. It was a sixth sense I’d developed. To prove it, there were thirteen men in the room. Two of them were awake, staring at the ceiling. We’d left our guns leaned together by the door.

  Occasionally, my brain would wake me up on its own accord, as if to say, Watch yourself, Rodney, and for this reason, I hadn’t had a full night’s rest in four months. I rolled over onto the hay we stole from the locals, burying myself deep in it to hide from the world. Beams of dusty, white light forced their way in through the cracks in the barn doors, but I only buried myself deeper in the shadow of the hay.

  Some of the boys spoke—something about taking a bath and finding a change of clothes. I exhaled comfortably, feeling the gentle pressure of the hay closing off the world around me, and the warmth my body worked all night to stoke up. I was safe. My back ached and my stomach roiled, but nothing could distract me from my sacred work of sleep. In that moment, all was right in my life. I had only several desires. Breathe. Curl up. Adjust legs. Adjust arms. Pull bedding closer. Disappear. Everything else faded to the radio static of jumbled and incoherent directives from my brain’s inner drill sergeant.

  Youneedtogetupgetwashedgetfoodgogogobeforeitsalltoolatethere’sGermanscominggetupgetwashedgetfoodcleanyourrifleonetwothreefouronetwothreefour…

  My forehead throbbed, and I realized I was probably dehydrated. Rolling over, I took a swig out of my canteen and tried going back to sleep. Couldn’t. Eventually, I rolled out and creaked open the barn door. I held my hand up against the sun, squinting. In those early minutes after waking up, everything was blinding and fuzzy; when I was a boy, I’d tell my dad there was fire in my eyes. The notion occurred to me that I was still a boy and had no right to look back on my halcyon days with nostalgia. Few of the other men out there had lived full lives already; none of my pals had ever held a job outside of the army.

  When boys are young, Dad always said, they can be molded to fit whatever life adults expect of them—the piano, the gun, the bottle. Following that logic, I sensed I was nearing the end of my malleable lifespan. The only profession I had ever known was the army. I knew my numbers but never made it past algebra. I could read but didn’t know the first thing about Shakespeare. However, I knew to think twice about sticking someone in the ribs because your knife would get stuck and someone else would finish you off first. I knew how to auction off a pack of cigarettes for two pairs of dry socks. I knew how to dodge for cover at the slightest mention of the word shell. But I’d never been in love, never held a job, never opened a bank account, never found God. So whenever I got to feeling down during the quiet times that I so feared, I thought to myself that all the other men were going through the same thing and having other humans to struggle alongside can even make Hell worthwhile.

  I paced down the road, past the creaking windmill, and through a scattered herd of cows broken out of a pasture. The frost had evaporated a few hours ago; it was about noon, so the grass was hard and cold. Didn’t bother me—my only concern was if it was dry or not, and it was, so I walked barefoot, airing out my blisters and letting the grass tickle feeling back into my numb feet. I even took my shirt and coat off and walked around in my suspenders and trousers, just for the sake of some sun. My clothes were ragged, torn, and scraped up, and if an officer saw me, he’d probably write me up for a bad uniform. But the sun on my skin was glorious and worth the risk.

  Out in the turnip field, amidst the harvest stubble, I saw a crowd of soldiers naked under a stilted drum of water. They each got a good soaking, rubbing their hands through their hair and washing the mud off their faces. Getting their bath and a clean change of clothes, no doubt. Weren’t Wallace and Appleby talking about finding a bath? I approached the men.

  “Ah-ah. Officers only, soldier. It’s reserved.”

  God damn. It’s like I’m a second-class citizen.

  “Yes, sir!” I saluted and turned on my heels.

  Across the field, behind some trees, I found another crowd of naked men. They were bathing under improvised showers—coffee cans with holes poked through, which they filled with water out of a central barrel. I spotted Luther am
ongst them.

  “Morning.” I walked up behind him while dropping my suspenders and throwing my pants in the pile of dirty clothes.

  “It’s not morning. It’s afternoon.”

  “Well, then good afternoon.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not a good afternoon.”

  Well, pardon me for reaching out. Luther’s eyes traveled down to my body. I flinched. “Goddamn, mate, don’t you have any boundaries?”

  “Are you afraid of me, Rodney Stoker?”

  “What the—?” I shook my head at him and quickly walked over to Wallace and Appleby, who were taking weak showers from punctured coffee cans.

  “Can I have one of those?”

  Wallace handed me his can, which I dunked into the barrel. I drew it out, and the weak little streams of water wetted my hair. Can by can, I washed the smell out of my armpits, the grime off my face and neck, and scrubbed the rest of myself as best I could.

  “What’s the schedule for today?” I asked Appleby.

  He grabbed his uniform from the pile and pulled on his trousers. “First, we find something to eat. After that, we’ve got drills, shoe shining, medal polishing, a lecture from some officer on STDs. You know, same old.”

  Although my uniform was still a mess after my bath, I felt clean, and I walked the streets in a state that verged on bliss. What a wonderful morning. I met up with Luther, Wallace, and Appleby at the café, and we each had ourselves a baguette. Appleby said he wasn’t hungry and dropped a stick of bread in each our hands. Good man, Appleby. Good man.

  About that time, into the café walked a nurse, about my age, with a red cross patched on her apron. Her hair was pulled back tight under a hat. Her wrists and shins were all wrapped tight in white cotton, and I couldn’t tell if she was a nun or not, but I felt sick toward the boys who eyed her like she was a piece of meat.

  “Luther, I’ve been looking for you! Thank God you’re okay.” She reached out to give him a hug, but he backed away from her, eyeing her hands like two swarms of bumblebees.

  Luther gave her a curt nod. “Good afternoon, Ethyl Brand.”

  Ethyl Brand? No wonder she looked familiar!

  “I tried to find you before they released you from your evaluation at the hospital, but you’d already gone,” Ethyl said. “I am outraged that I can’t get anyone to take the doctor’s word that you’re not fit for the front.”

  “They made me go back,” Luther said. “I didn’t like it.”

  “Luther didn’t do any fighting, Miss,” Wallace stepped in. “The Huns attacked at Ypres instead, so we kind of just stood there and puttered around for a few days. It was a waste of time, really.” Then he stepped closer to Ethyl. “Perhaps you could put in a word to one of the higher-ups that some of our boys are going easy on the enemy.”

  Ethyl looked at Luther, then to Wallace. “Do you trust this man, Luther?”

  “No.” He said it without any hesitation.

  “What about him?” she pointed to Appleby.

  This time Luther hesitated, but then shook his head. “No.”

  “Is there anyone here you trust?”

  Luther knit his brow for two seconds. Then, he pointed at me. “I can always trust that Rodney Stoker will be afraid of me.”

  “Rodney Stoker?” Ethyl turned and looked at me in surprise. Then she frowned. The frown wasn’t a disapproving kind of frown, though, but more a thoughtful kind of frown, like a philosopher thinking deep thoughts. Her jaw clenched, and I could tell she was gritting her teeth, weighing her options. Finally, she nodded, and said, “I have an offer for you. If you’re interested, come with me.” Ethyl motioned to Luther who stood and followed her out of the café and back down the road toward town. With nothing better to do, I followed after them.

  “I’ve heard it said that the best employee is a fearful one,” she announced. “I’m not sure I agree, but I need to know why you fear Luther.” The way she spoke, she sounded like a minister or a professor.

  “I guess I’m used to people following rules. Luther, he doesn’t get rules. He’s almost completely outside the rules.”

  “I almost killed Rodney Stoker when we were kids,” Luther said.

  Oh boy. I exhaled.

  “Rodney Stoker and my brother were fighting, so I pushed Rodney Stoker and he fell on a rock and split his head open and almost died.”

  “Luther,” Ethyl said, “the last time we spoke about this, you said you weren’t allowed to talk about it.”

  “Mum told me never to talk about it, but Rodney Stoker didn’t die because he’s right here and he knows what happened and my mum isn’t here so what does it matter?”

  We’d walked back up the road, past the windmill, past the abandoned barn I’d slept in last night. Further up was a cluster of buildings where the roads all met. That was Hazebrouck.

  “Rodney,” Ethyl turned to me, “how would you like to be home free?”

  I nearly choked. “What do you mean home free?”

  “I mean, how’d you like to be free from fear, free from fear of Luther?”

  “You sure you’re not a preacher? Besides, I’m not afraid of Luther.”

  “Luther thinks you are.”

  I thought of how every time Luther waved, I flinched.

  “Okay,” I said, “what of it?”

  “I’m a nurse. And if one day you’re out on the front-line and take a bullet, and the soldiers rush you to the hospital, there’s not much the doctors can do for you. Everyone is usually busy. On a normal day, the hospital is filled well beyond capacity. But what if you just have to say my name, and I’d give you all my attention. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds like you only treat patients who do you favors.”

  She stared at me, like she knew I wasn’t done talking. And I wasn’t.

  “Okay, what’s the trade?”

  “Cover your ears,” she muttered to Luther, and he obeyed like a marionette on a string.

  Then she turned to me. “Keep Luther alive.”

  “That’s it? How am I supposed to do that? And what if I fail? Would you really just leave me to die?”

  “I might.”

  “You’re raving. Wait a minute, who gave you the authority to put me on Luther duty? What’s my commanding officer going to say?”

  “Don’t worry about that. Will you do it?”

  “This is ridiculous. If I see Luther—or any other soldier—in trouble, first thing I’d do is help him out. I don’t need bribes.”

  “First thing you’d do? Really? You wouldn’t put your own life first? You see your fellows die every day, and I imagine it means nothing to you. You just pick up their gun and continue shooting. I’m asking you to put Luther’s life first. To put your own life on the line if his is at risk.”

  I stopped and stared at her. “How dare you think I’d do any different? That’s what we do for our brothers every damn day! You don’t know what I’ve seen or what I’ve done or how I feel about any of it. You don’t know anything about me!”

  I gave a half-rotted fence post at the edge of the road a swift kick and nearly broke my toe, but Ethyl didn’t say a word. She just watched me like one of those Greek statues with the empty stone eyes, and right then I wanted to show her what it was like in the trenches, what it was like marching, what it was like in the cold when your feet were frozen and your belly was empty and you’ve seen your mate blown to bits.

  Ethyl did not flinch.

  I exhaled and stuck out my hand. “Okay. You’ve got a deal.”

  ~ ETHYL BRAND ~

  To: Mr. Michael Surrey, Leamington Courier

  From: Ms. Ethyl Brand

  Dear Sir,

  Your wonderful publication has done much to enlighten and enthuse me over the years toward the aims of social justice. Motivated by your fine journalists, I have spent my youth seeking meaning in the world, and I think your publication could gain from my vast experiences. For one year, I serve
d as a missionary on the Niger River, where I taught English. I fell ill with malaria and returned to England just last year, where I volunteered with the British Red Cross. In that capacity, I served the wounded soldiers on the Western Front.

  I have a unique perspective on world events that you would be hard-pressed to find in most others of my age, and I think my perspective would draw in both female readers and young people seeking the exotic. Currently, I have written several pieces reporting my experiences as both a wartime nurse and a missionary in Africa, although I assume the nursing would be of greater interest to your paper.

  I have fair writing skills, considering my work as an English teacher, although you may read for yourself, as I have attached a sample of my work for your consideration.

  You may remember me from my youth or be acquainted with my family, as Leamington is the city that raised me. I understand you are in contact with many other publications as well, and I would be appreciative if, should you not find my work to your taste, you would pass this message on to your peers.

  Sincerely,

  Ms. Ethyl Brand

  9 November, 1914

  P.S. If you respond during December 1914, please do not mail to the return address, but rather to the Baltic and Corn Exchange Hospital in Calais, France.

  Attached: “The Emptiness of the Age”

  The Emptiness of the Age

  Ethyl Brand

  I returned to Europe because I knew what I would find there. The decision to volunteer for the British Red Cross required little thought. Nay, I would not live with closed eyes, now that they had been opened. I could not.