Among the Poppies

by J'nell Ciesielski

  “Mr. MacDonald, I believe you’ve been in the trenches far too long if you enjoy the smell of moldy stone and unwashed men.”

  “And I say you dinna know stench or appreciate the sweet release from it until you’ve spent muddy months dug in with over two hundred Highlanders. You’ve never hated the smell of wet sheep so much.”

  “Keep the blithering down,” a man growled from where he tossed and turned in the corner. “Give a man some peace.”

  “Watch your tongue, you boggin’ mule. ’Tis a lady present.”

  “She don’t belong down here.”

  The Scot curled his massive fists and turned to the man. “Well, she is here, and I’ll give you this one time to not say another word about it.”

  Panicked about the damage his one hand could cause, Gwyn touched MacDonald’s shoulder. “Please. Everyone’s temper is short down here. It’s best not to exacerbate it.”

  “I’ll beat down every last one of them who dares to blink at you wrong.” With a mighty huff, he settled back. “Been at war so long men forget how to act around a woman, but I tell you true, it sure is nice to see one again.”

  “I don’t know what kind of women you’re accustomed to seeing, but I highly doubt I qualify as something pleasant-looking at the moment.”

  “Lass, I’m not picky these days. A mule smiled at me last week, and it was the happiest moment since my da bought me my first wee dram.” He slapped his bare knee. “Listen to me. Going on about pubs in front of a lady. Me mam would box my ears if she found out. Apologies, lass. This war—”

  “That’s the first time someone’s accused me of being a lady.” She scoffed, folding her knees in front of her. “I was born in a tiny room above a garage. A chauffeur’s daughter, nothing more.”

  “A garage is nothing to snub your nose at. Good honest job, driving, even if it is for the highborns.”

  “Oh, I’m not ashamed of it by any means. I’m quite proud my father can stand on his own feet.”

  “Something he’s taught you to do, eh? Not many girls jump at the chance to go to war.”

  A dry laugh crackled between Gwyn’s lips. “Yes, and look where it’s got me.”

  “I heard about you, you know. Word spreads fast when there’s a skirt near the Front. Trench Angel they call you. Bet that’s an interesting story.”

  Gwyn picked at the threadbare material covering her knees. “It’s not so interesting. Just a simple girl wanting more from her simple life. Seems curiosity got the better of me, and I fell down a rabbit hole thanks to a flat tire.”

  “Like Alice. Minus the tire.”

  More tiny feet scuttled in the corner. Whoever the new visitor was, he’d brought friends this time. “Are you a great reader, Mr. MacDonald?”

  He waved a dismissive paw in the air. “Never had the patience to learn all those squiggly lines, too many things to fish in the village loch. But my sister always had her nose in a book, and I’d beg her to read to me every night about giants and trolls, knights and dragons.”

  Where was their knight now, to come and rescue them from the pit? What would William say when he discovered she’d been captured? Maybe he’d been right all along. Maybe she should have stayed home where it was safe. The fear she’d battled so hard to keep down tremored through her chest. She took a deep breath to keep it at bay, but the action awoke her stomach. It growled like a dog fighting for its bone.

  She pressed a hand against her middle to stop the rumbles. “If they want to kill us, they certainly picked the slowest method possible.”

  MacDonald scratched the shaggy hair around the back of his neck. Chatts. Another slow method of torture. “If they’d wanted us dead, then they would’ve done it by now. If we’re lucky, we’ll be in for a prisoner exchange. Until then, get comfortable.”

  “You seem calm about the prospect. Have you been a prisoner before?”

  “Aye. Near Spion Kop in South Africa. You can’t imagine the heat. Then my da was captured the first time we fought in that desert land, and his da before him somewhere in Persia. We’re a long line of survivors, we Highland MacDonalds.”

  Tall and thick-shouldered, with bulky arms, matted red hair, and a gashed nose, Gwyn had no trouble imaging the lineage of his wild race clamoring from the high crags with their battle axes raised. “Your line of tenacity serves you well. Sometimes I wonder if any of us will survive this war.”

  His chest swelled on a heavy sigh. “Most of the lads had a target painted on them afore they even left home. Like young Grovers. Thank you for trying to help him, though in the end, it did him nay good.”

  Grovers. Gwyn couldn’t forget his boyish face turned hopefully to heaven. Peace on his dying lips. Would she have such peace at her last moment? Would she fall into the Almighty’s embrace or pitch into darkness?

  “Did you no good either,” MacDonald continued. “Look how low I’ve brought you. In a stinking pit with stinking men. I should never have asked you to come with me.”

  “You sought medical help. There’s no shame in that.”

  “From a woman, I sought help. And a braw job you did. A braw job. But you don’t deserve to be here, and I’ll never live the shame down.”

  “If I recall, you didn’t twist my arm.”

  “But you hesitated. You knew it wasn’t right.”

  Guilt flashed in her chest as William’s last words thundered in her head. “I only knew it wasn’t right to leave a man in need. What’s done is done.”

  He sighed wearily. “Aye, done.”

  Footsteps pounded across the floor above them, shaking dust from the rafters. A key turned in a rusty lock at the top of the stairs leading down into their pit. More cellmates? Gwyn’s pulse quickened. Her stomach roared. Perhaps some bread and water?

  Boots thumped down the stairs and paused on the last one. A head peered over the rail. “Medic!” he barked in heavily accented English.

  Gwyn’s pulse skipped an unsteady beat. MacDonald laid a heavy hand on her arm.

  “Medic.” The guard stepped down to the floor. He peered around at the sleeping men until his gaze stopped on her. He motioned her forward with one hand. “Come.”

  She started to rise, but MacDonald’s grip tightened. The guard took a step forward, reaching for the holster at his side. “Come,” he said. “You help now.”

  “It’s all right, Mr. MacDonald,” she whispered, unlatching his fingers. “I don’t think they want to hurt me. His commander probably has a scraped finger.”

  “If that’s true, make sure it festers,” MacDonald whispered, cracking his knuckles in the guard’s direction.

  The guard led her up the stairs, then down a series of long halls on the first floor, up a short flight of stairs, another hall lined with oil paintings of finely dressed gentlemen, and finally to a door tucked in the back corner of the building. Yellow light gleamed under the door crack. Pushing it open, she was greeted by a soldier’s back. Her guard said something and stepped aside.

  Gwyn blinked several times to adjust to the garish lantern light. As the dancing spots faded in her eyes, she scanned the tiny bare room and focused on the chairs positioned in the middle with two bedraggled men tied to them.

  She gasped.

  “William!”

  No. If he closed his eyes and opened them again, she would be gone. A figment of his exhausted imagination. William squeezed his eyes shut—wishing he had the use of his hands to rub the grit away—and opened them. There she stood.

  Eyes wide and jaw hanging down, Gwyn hadn’t expected to see him either. She took a step inside, body poised to rush forward. To him. A move that the Germans would gladly intercept.

  “Nurse.” William stopped her before she could give away their connection. “What a shame to see you here.”

  Her brow dipped in confusion. “And you, Captain,” she said with the same formality. “I can only assume I’ve been brought in for medical reasons.”

  William nodded his head to the left. “Captain Morrison was
razed by a slug. Lost a bit of blood.”

  Roland’s head lolled towards him. “I’m fine.”

  William frowned. “Is that why you’re slurring worse than a sailor on leave?”

  “I’m shot, Will. See how well you talk after that.”

  Gwyn spun to the soldier behind her. “This man is wounded. Why is he bound?”

  The German guard shouted a garble of words and shoved Gwyn on the shoulder. With a look that could curdle milk, she stepped away from him and knelt in front of Roland. Without a word, she ripped open his trouser leg to expose the wound. And sniffed it.

  “What are you doing?” Roland jerked away from her, but the ties held him tight.

  “Smelling is the best way to test for an infection,” Gwyn said. “Thankfully, you don’t smell like cheese.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.” Roland sighed. “Never was a cheese man myself. Upsets the digestion.”

  “It needs to be cleaned, wrapped tight, and changed every few hours.” She turned back to the guard. “I need supplies. Bandages.”

  The guard replied in German, but Gwyn shook her head and repeated her order. Again the guard spoke in German.

  “He doesn’t understand you,” William said. Why hadn’t he paid better attention during his language classes instead of drawing pictures of horses in the back of his lesson books?

  “Surely he’s not completely daft. It’s obvious what I need.” She pointed at Roland and made a wrapping motion around his leg. The guard yelled to someone in the hall. Minutes ticked by before a brown sack was thrown into the room.

  Gwyn rummaged to the bottom of the bag. “Seems they’re not much better off than we are with supplies, but at least they have Lysol swabs.”

  Her fingers tugged at the leather straps around Roland’s wrists. Face scrunching in concentration, she dug her thumb under a knot and wiggled it to make an opening. “I’ll have you a tad more comfortable in a jiffy.”

  The guard leaped forward and snatched her hands away. “Ihn nicht berühren!”

  William strained against his bindings as angry red finger marks bruised her wrist. “Touch her again like that, and it’ll be the last thing you ever do, Gefreiter.”

  The guard mottled purple as his hand flew to his rifle. Contempt flashed in his eyes.

  “Go ahead.” William dropped his gaze to the rifle. “We’ll see what your commanding officer thinks when you’ve bloodied two prisoner captains without his order.”

  “Enough. Taunting him won’t help our cause.” Gwyn rubbed her wrist. “The issue at hand is Captain Morrison. I can still clean the wound with him bound.”

  She bent her head to the task, swabbing, wiping, and dabbing while Roland made pathetic noises through clenched teeth.

  Black and purple ringed her eyes, dulling their green brilliance. Somewhere she’d found a string to tie back her dark hair, but thick pieces had wriggled loose to flop over her brow and ears. How long had she been here? And how had the Germans found her? William cursed himself. He should have tied her to the hood of her ambulance when he’d had the chance.

  “Done.” She wiped her hands on a small swath of unused bandage and turned to him. “Now let’s see about that gash on your cheek.”

  William turned away from her reaching hand. “It’s nothing. A scratch.” A scratch from landing on a pile of rocks when he was shoved in the back of the head with a Mauser rifle.

  “A scratch with dried blood,” she said. “I’ll clean it before it gets infected and heals with a nasty scar.”

  Heat rushed in his veins at her soft touch. Gentle as the kiss of the wind, she cleaned the area, never once meeting his eyes. Probably for the best. One glance and she’d see how the astringent stung like bees on fire.

  He dropped his voice. “Have they mistreated you?”

  “I’m a prisoner of war, Captain. Not a guest at the Savoy. But no, I’ve not been mistreated.” Her gaze flitted to meet his. Desperation leaped from her eyes. “The men below need food and better care. Some of their wounds are festering.”

  “Men? And they’ve kept you below with them?” The ropes cut into his wrists as he clenched his fists to stay under control. “How many of them are there?”

  “Eight.”

  “Ranks?”

  Her hands stalled for the first time. “Mostly enlisted, and two lieutenants, I believe. I have trouble remembering what all those stripes and stars amount to.”

  Rocking back on her heels, she took quick inventory from his face to his feet. Discomfort wriggled down his spine at her inspection of his pathetic appearance.

  Boots scuffled outside before the door sprang open. Major Trommler sauntered into the room, a twist to his thin lips. The spotless uniform hung limp on his skinny bones, and his straight black hair was slicked back into a high shine. William doubted the man had seen one day of combat.

  “Ah, the nurse has arrived. Wunderbar.” Trommler circled his prisoners, each footstep creaking the floorboards. “How convenient to have such an angel patch you up. Is it not, Captain Morrison?”

  Roland blinked hard as his head rolled to the side. “I’d take a hairy-armed monkey if he knew what he was doing, but a girl is nice too.”

  Trommler clapped a hand on William’s shoulder. “And you, Captain Crawford? What do you think of our angel?”

  “Nurse Ruthers has done a fine job.” William resisted the urge to sink his teeth into the man’s pale knuckles.

  “You’ve met the fraulein before?”

  William didn’t dare glance down at Gwyn as his mind raced. “Nurse Ruthers was assigned to my unit, but she is not military affiliated. She is a civilian, and therefore, I ask that she be released without—”

  “She was found aiding British soldiers. Civilian or not, I cannot allow her to roam free.”

  “With all respect, Major, she doesn’t deserve to be here. Especially not kept alone in some hole with a group of soldiers.”

  Trommler’s thin eyebrows rose. “Are you saying your men lack honor?”

  “My men are trained with the highest degree of loyalty and service, but men are men. It is for Miss Ruthers’ sensibilities that I request she be moved to private quarters.”

  Stopping behind Gwyn, Trommler’s small eyes bored into the back of her head. William sensed the battle in the man’s head. If he granted the request, he’d be giving into a prisoner’s demands, but if he sent her back to the slums, then this honor he talked about would be turned to mud.

  “Fraulein Ruthers, do you find your quarters unbearable, as the good Captain has pointed out?”

  Gwyn’s hands knotted the knees of her trousers. “I would not keep my worst enemy in such conditions.”

  “You would like to be removed from them.”

  Standing to a height that forced the major’s chin up, she leveled him with a gaze that could cripple most brass in their boots. “I wish to remain with the men because when our troops smash through your lines and march into Longueval, I want to make it easy for them to find all of us in one place.”

  Trommler’s head reared back. His mouth opened and closed like a fish. With trembling fingers, he smoothed the gold buttons down his tunic until they calmed. “Brave words, mein lieber. Perhaps you should have been in uniform after all.” Snapping his fingers, he brought one of the guards to his side. “Feldwebel, our lovely guest wishes to return to her holding cell.”

  The guard grabbed Gwyn by the shoulder and shoved her to the door.

  “Oh, and Fraulein,” Trommler said. “If you should need anything, don’t hesitate to keep it to yourself.”

  It took every ounce of willpower for William to not tear through his bindings and run after her. A boot in a Jerry’s face would win him no grace with the commander, so he sat with blood pounding in his ears louder than a battery of guns.

  Trommler grabbed a chair from the corner and dragged it to sit in front of his captives. With excruciating slowness, he propped one booted foot atop the opposite knee and brushed away all wrinkles
from his jacket before turning a half sneer to William.

  “And now that I’ve had my cigarette and coffee, and you’ve been nicely cleaned up, we can continue with our questions.”

  CHAPTER 15

  An odorous wall of soiled clothes, unwashed men, and mold hit William in the face as soon as the basement door swung open. His stomach churned, the back of his throat longing to gag. And this was where they kept her.

  “Next time keep your mouth shut, Will.” Roland grumbled behind him as they eased their way down the rotting stairs. “As officers, they may have kept us upstairs. With fresh air.”

  “They’ve already got one lieutenant and a woman down here. We’re nothing special.”

  Wet coughing sounded in the dim space below. Shuffling and hushed voices. And scampering clawed feet.

  “Captain Crawford?”

  Gwyn.

  His foot touched the stone ground. Dim morning rays peered in from a window cut high in the wall, highlighting the lounging figures on the floor. All eyes fixed on him, but he sought only one pair. A small shape moved from the corner, dwarfed by a hulking shadow.

  “Welcome to our quarters, Captain,” Gwyn said.

  William checked himself before rushing forward to gather her in his arms and assure himself that she was well. Only with his arms around her would the fear of the past few hours be put to rest, and once he’d felt her warm and safe against his chest, he would shake the ever living daylights out of her for not staying by the ambulance as ordered. But all that would have to wait until the dozen pairs of eyes weren’t trained on him.

  Gwyn turned her attention to Roland. “Captain Morrison, I see your leg is well enough to stand on.”

  “Hurts like the dickens,” Roland muttered.

  A snicker came from the shadow hovering behind Gwyn.

  Roland’s lips pinched. “Is there something funny, Sergeant?”

  The shadow stepped forward, revealing a bear of a man with shaggy red hair dressed in a filthy Highlander’s kilt and tunic. “I was just thinking you should swap injury stories with Duncan over there. He gets lonely with the only leg wound.”