Royal Beauty Bright

by Ryan Byrnes

  Luther stepped over the barbed wire, shuddering as he passed the fallen Appleby, now shiny with frost. A white down had settled on the bodies; they looked like pearly mounds, misshapen pieces of toffee dusted with sugar. And from some unseen heaven, snow floated down to Earth, and the flakes caught in Luther’s hair, his eyelashes, his beard, and fluttered down to perch on his shoulders and kiss his tear-stained red cheeks. No Man’s Land was desolate and beautiful and, like the scene within a child’s snow globe, was enameled with sparkling ice and gently falling snow.

  From the German side, a pointed helmet rose to reveal a mustached face. On the British side, the men shuddered, wishing Luther farewell. But then the German climbed out, too.

  “Shoot him,” Captain Blanding ordered the snipers.

  The guns remained quiet.

  The German was wearing a long coat with tails that blew behind him like a magician in a fairy tale. His gloves were fingerless, and he carried no gun. By the time he reached the center of No Man’s Land, he stopped, face to face with Luther. On both sides, legions of soldiers leaned in close to hear the words they exchanged, but nobody could make them out. The soldiers each watched their neighbors for guidance, unsure if the social boundaries still held sway. They searched each other’s eyes for a spark, for a sign that this moment, this day, would be different.

  Another Brit climbed out of the trench, and his neighbor saw the spark and knew he must climb out, too.

  Luther and the German shook hands.

  Mum and Dad,

  Happy Christmas! We are enjoying our Christmas at the front much more than I’d anticipated, for this was surely a day I will remember even when I am an old man.

  Believe it or not, I met a Fritz today. The soldiers saw fit to drop their guns and celebrate good will for Christmas, so we all headed out into the battlefield with the agreement that nobody would shoot until at least Boxing Day, New Year’s if we’re lucky. We shook hands and passed around some tobacco. I traded ten cigarettes for a German helmet, which I am sending back to you in the post as a keepsake. One of the Brits managed to lash together a football out of some medical tape and newspapers, and we had a good kickabout with the Germans. Nobody kept score, but it was a nice break from being shot at all day long.

  Thank you for your gift. The dry socks have left me in good spirits, and I look forward to seeing you after my service is up.

  With love,

  George

  Dearest Susanna,

  My, what a wonderful Christmas this has turned out to be! A spontaneous truce has broken out between us and the Huns, and I found myself this morning hung over in the German trench, a roast mutton in one hand. I thought all this time the Germans were starving, but they have been living like lords compared to us. They have bread and sausage every day, and beer is always available. I have never met a more cheerful group.

  This morning, I chatted with a chap named Friedrich. He was born in Saxony and then went to live with his uncle in London, where he worked as a bellboy at the Grand Trafalgar Hotel. We talked some politics about Parliament and our hopes for the next PM, and I’d say he’s a pretty straight fellow. We exchanged addresses so that when the war ends, we can visit each other’s families.

  Susanna, how I love your name! Your gift made me teary-eyed and filled me with warm strength. I cannot say how much you mean to me—my memories of you have compelled me to survive and cooled my fears in times of chaos. Imagine I am in your arms.

  I will return to you.

  Charlie

  Uncle Jacob,

  You once spoke to me of honor and discipline, and I heeded your words. Keep this letter somewhere safe because you may need to procure it before a military court. The facts are, I have become entangled in a mutiny of my peers. All along the front, Brits have thrown away their guns and are fraternizing with the enemy. It started on Christmas Eve, when the Huns started caroling, and a mad romantic got the idea in his head to walk out into the field and join them for a song and a drink! They proceeded to engage in drunken celebration and general ruckus throughout the night. In the morning, when they woke around noon from their hangovers, they fashioned a football out of rubbish and started an organized match. My fellows pressed me hard to participate; they wanted me to help bury the dead and clear the battlefield for a football pitch. I give you my word that I heartily refused and remained in the bunker with my commanders. Some of my fellow troops even considered deserting, and I was quick to remind them the punishment for desertion is death.

  More letters will be coming soon.

  Sincerely,

  Vincent

  Dear Grandmother,

  Happy Christmas! Today has shown me that there is some good left in the human race; it refuses to fade. I have fared better than most in the combat, for the thought of little Jenny motivates me. Tell Jenny that her father is safe and sound and that Santa Claus visited the troops. We all decided to forget the war for a little bit and exchanged gifts with the Germans! They really are decent gentlemen, which strikes me as funny since just the other day we behaved like animals toward each other. I’ve managed to ride my bicycle over behind the German lines and do a bit of exploring. I swore to them I wasn’t a spy, which was good enough. They invited me to drink in their officers’ bunker, a rather spacious fortress, but I politely refused because I was afraid high command would find out and arrest me for treason. Besides, I’m not much of a drinking man, and you know that!

  Anyhow, I am sending Jenny a gift of sweets that all of the soldiers received from the Princess. Tell her I am glad that she has behaved well and received high marks in her studies.

  God Bless,

  James

  ~ JIM BAKER ~

  Dawn blazed white in the vales and turnip farms near Ploegsteert Wood. Ice glimmered on the telegraph lines, the barbed wire, the radio antennae; it filled in the cracks in concrete pillboxes where the steel beams were once exposed. The crusty charred faces of brick walls and gashed tree trunks were masked, and all sharp angles and hard edges softened under the pressure of sloping drifts.

  Only the roads did not sparkle. They were dark and muddy, and the deep-rutted tire tracks had churned up the snow into half-melted slush that slosh sloshed for every passing vehicle, like my post lorry that grumbled down the road, the engine grill spitting out a shimmering mirage that had fumed for hours, for miles, nonstop all through the night between villages. I pulled up next to the reserve trenches where the beasts of artillery loomed, their massive iron nozzles plugged with snow. I opened the door and stepped out, boots sinking into the slush. Knowing the old lorry might not restart in the cold, I left the engine running and headed down the causeway into the trench, where the entrances to the dugouts and pillboxes were anointed with wreaths. I heard shouts in the distance and saw an ambulance on the flat horizon, but no gunshots split the day.

  “Hello?” I called, and only the swirling flurries answered.

  No answer, but in the distance, I heard shouts and cheers.

  Peeking inside a dugout, I saw empty beds and crates of ammunition.

  I crunched through the snow. I passed into the next ring of trenches—the frontline that looked out on the turnip field. It, too, was empty. The din was louder, though, and I glanced up at the edge of the trench, just above my head. I trembled as I approached the ladder, climbed up, and poked my head over the top.

  “Good God.”

  No Man’s Land was flat and clean. The bodies that I’d heard lay unclaimed for days or weeks had been removed, and the tangles of barbed wire were smoothed over with snow. Men laughed and ran and grabbed each other by the shoulder. Some lucky bloke had procured a leather ball for a kickabout. German and Brit played football like old friends, cupping the ball with their feet and sending it flying with wide kicks that they step step stepped into, the ball sailing high with a spray of snow. They gave hearty handshakes and spit tobacco while legions of snowmen wearing scarves and medals and pointed helmets watched from the sidelines and two boys tackled
each other into the drifts while others lounged nearby, playing cards or writing letters. One of the Germans sat while a Brit lathered his sideburns in foam, shaving him clean with a razor. Another napped against a snowman, hands folded peacefully.

  I exhaled. The cruelty of the world fell away. Sometimes, sweetness survives, I thought. But Luther was nowhere to be seen.

  “Luther!” I cupped my hands and sent his call over the field. A couple of the men noticed and waved at me. “Luther Baker!”

  I climbed the ladder and went out to meet the soldiers. “I’m looking for Luther Baker. Know him?”

  They laughed. “Luther—the man who lives in No Man’s Land? The one who started this whole thing? Sure we know him!”

  “How do you mean?”

  They slapped me on the back and handed me a cooked chicken leg. “We were due to start another offensive, but Luther, God bless him, just climbed up out of the trench, marched over toward the German line, and shook hands with a Hun. Merry Christmas, indeed!”

  “Where is he now?” I asked.

  “He was playing football with us just a moment ago.” The two men looked around, squinting into the sunlight. “There he is!”

  In the midst of the football kickabout, my big brother squatted on his hams, rolling truffles out of snow. Thank you, God, Zeus, Buddha, whoever it was out there pulling the strings. My brother was safe.

  “Luther?”

  He rose from his truffles upon hearing my voice. He trembled where he stood as I ran toward him.

  “Luther!”

  I clamped my arms around his blood-stained khaki, holding him close until his trembling turned to strength.

  “Little brother,” he shivered into my shoulder while I dusted the snow out of his hair and off his uniform. He stunk of every bodily fluid I could imagine, a fair helping of smoke on top of that.

  “Are you hurt at all?” I asked, searching him up and down for cuts. He had winced when I hugged him, suggesting hurt ribs. His eyes were sunken in dark bags, most frightful of all.

  “Merry Christmas,” was all I could say before pulling him in again for another hug.

  I'd never hugged anybody that long before. And he'd never let me hug him before at all. More and more soldiers stared. Not wanting to attract attention before I made our getaway, I guided Luther back through the trenches, past the bunkers, and the beasts of artillery.

  “How did you come here?” Luther asked.

  I hadn't much time for greetings. I had a strict plan, and this was the perfect time to execute it, while everyone was distracted by the truce.

  “Take this,” and I stuffed some papers into his hands. “And don’t show them to anyone.”

  “What are these?” Luther squinted at them.

  “Tickets to Algeria. You’re leaving this hell hole.”

  ~ ETHYL BRAND ~

  Snow-buried fields sailed past, and while the ambulance driver squinted into the flurries, I sat in the passenger seat, working the hand-crank siren until my wrist was sore, then switching to the other hand.

  “Out of the way!” I stuck my head out the window and called to some mule carts.

  We swerved around them; my nurse's cap flew off my head and vanished behind me. The engine growled and sputtered black smoke out the tailpipe as the frontline sliced the horizon. I squinted at its radiance—a fresh dusting of snow had rendered the mire pure as opal.

  Screech. The ambulance kicked up an arc of sludge, and I leapt out. The medics manning the auxiliary trenches had Rodney waiting for us. Rodney was wrapped tight in a blanket, but I picked up and edge and peeked under it. His uniform hung in shreds off his skin. His face shone red, crusted over with black dirt and gold pus. He reeked of smoke. Someone had already bandaged his hand, his chest, and one of his thighs. They'd done a decent job.

  Rodney moaned and mumbled as we loaded him in the ambulance.

  I bent over his stretcher. “Is Luther safe?”

  The burnt husk of a man didn’t respond, so I shouted the words until his mouth moved. I leaned in to hear his words.

  “Free from fear.”

  “Luther,” I repeated. “Is he safe?”

  “Alive … in danger.”

  “Where is he?”

  “No Man's Land,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  But he fell silent. I felt his pulse. Weak, but still beating.

  “Keep cruising!” I shouted for the ambulance driver. “There's a second soldier who needs treatment.”

  “Where to?”

  “I don’t know! He said ‘No Man’s Land.”

  The driver slammed his foot on the pedal, and the ambulance's canvas covering flapped as we sped parallel with the trenches. I squinted out the window through the raw sunlight reflecting off the snow, looking for Luther. Stretching out before us was a moonscape—rubble heaps tall as a house and craters just as deep. The ambulance smashed through a fence, rattling my bones. Rodney winced, but he didn’t even have the strength to scream. Why'd they make these ambulances so cheap? They had the shock absorption of a wheelbarrow. There was nothing else I could do for Rodney other than roll up my coat as a cushion under his head. We needed to get him back to the hospital fast. But not without Luther.

  “What's that brewing over there?” the driver shouted over the rumbling engine.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Have a look,” he pointed. “See that ruckus down there?”

  I followed his gaze to the pearly turnip fields, now crawling with soldiers.

  “Are they—are they playing football?”

  “Looks like Trafalgar Square!”

  Our eyes met and the driver gave me a bright laugh. “Has the King called for a ceasefire or something?” he asked. “I never got the news.”

  “What is it?” Rodney mumbled.

  “The fighting's stopped,” I said. “I can't explain it. They're making snowmen and playing cards and sharing rations. I can't explain it.”

  He stirred. “I must be in heaven.”

  ~ JIM BAKER ~

  “Climb in, Luther,” I pointed into the back of the mail lorry, where I had emptied a large cargo crate with lid just for him.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Just get in the crate,” I pointed. “Now.”

  Luther stood there with his arms crossed and a petulant frown on his face. “What’s Algeria and why do I have tickets for it?”

  “I’m taking you to see Mum.”

  After I invoked Mum, Luther climbed into the crate without another word, and I shut it over him. I wasn’t a mean brother; Luther had been enthralled with small spaces his whole life. Back at home, he'd take naps regularly in the cupboard. I spun around to check if any blokes had watched the scene play out. The coast was clear; all the soldiers were occupied with the truce. Perfect distraction, too. A ruddy miracle, if I'd ever seen one.

  I slipped into the driver's seat and gripped the wheel. My hands shook so much that I wondered if I'd be able to steer. I had left the lorry running because I wasn’t sure if it would restart in this cold.

  Vroom vroom vroom.

  Slowly, we rolled through the slush, gathering speed as the site of the No Man’s Land truce shrank behind us. My stomach churned even though I'd barely eaten. I kept looking around to make sure nobody was watching us. Luther shifted around in the back of the truck.

  “Cut the clatter back there! Just a little farther and we’ll be in the clear.”

  A chorus of giggles replied. Not Luther's giggles, but little girls' giggles. A foot to the brake pedal sent me lurching forward. I pulled over to the side of the road, flung open my door, and marched around to the back of the lorry.

  “Where the bloody hell are they?”

  I made a pigsty of the truckbed, spilling mail sacks all over until I found them. Three little girls curled up in the corner with their Santa Claus dolls, cheeks full of toffee. The Moreau sisters—Celeste, Bernadette, and Adele. They had made a festivity of picking over the shiny Chris
tmas boxes intended for the troops, shaking out every morsel of candy, piling the empty boxes at their feet.

  “Peré Noël!” they greeted me.

  Celeste offered me a chunk of toffee.

  “I told you to stay at the church,” I chucked the toffee in the snow. “How did you even manage to sneak in the truck? Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?”

  Not only did I have to get Luther to Algeria, but now I had to deal with these girls, too. While I lectured them, Adele snuck a piece of toffee to Luther. He slipped it in his mouth, and a smile broke over his face.

  “You've had enough sweets for today,” I snatched up an armful of the brass Christmas boxes from them, tried to stuff mail back into the sacks, and yelled at Luther to get back in the lorry. As I gathered handfuls of mail, a letter caught my eye, and I held it up. It was the same letter I’d seen on the train. The official looking one addressed to Ethyl Brand. Ethyl Brand!

  “Someone’s coming!” Luther yelled and clapped his hands over his ears. I turned to see an ambulance careening straight at us.

  I shoved the letter back in the sack, pointed my finger at the girls, and hissed, “Hide!”

  ~ ETHYL BRAND ~

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. “Stop! That's Luther!”

  The ambulance driver slammed the breaks, and Rodney's stretcher slid in the back. I knew I was risking Rodney’s life. I promised him I’d get him the best care. But I wasn’t heading back to the hospital without Luther.

  I hopped out of the ambulance, onto the snow sludge, approaching the pulled-over mail lorry. I'd never seen a mail lorry just parked on the side of the road. A flat tire, perhaps? But what on earth was Luther doing there? How had he gotten away from his unit? I thought he was injured. I couldn’t make sense of it, but a nagging thought caught me off guard. Desertion. No! Luther was coming to the hospital with me, I would treat him for his wounds, we would receive his letter of leave, and he'd be sent on his way home. Officially. Not as a criminal. That would not do. When I walked to the rear of the lorry, I gasped. Luther crouched inside a wooden crate, three little girls poked their heads from behind mountains of post sacks, and directing the whole fiasco: Jim Baker.