Among the Poppies

by J'nell Ciesielski

  She glanced down the line, counting each of them. Twice. “Where are the other men?”

  William didn’t look at her. Her stomach churned.

  “William. Where are the other men?”

  “Left behind.”

  The churning in her stomach turned sour. “We can’t leave them.”

  “They’re dead weight to the Germans.”

  “William—”

  His fierce gaze pierced her. “Wherever they’re taking us, the journey alone would kill them. Left here, they might stand a chance if our troops find them.”

  An argument tumbled over her tongue, but the hardness of his gaze stopped her cold. She swallowed against the tightness in her throat. Giving into the overwhelming sense of helplessness would do her no good now. Not with shells rupturing overhead.

  “Aufhören zu redden!” The guard shouted in William’s face, sending spittle everywhere. Grabbing the rope, he jerked them forward. “In schritt. Marsch!”

  Sunlight cracked over the dim horizon as they marched with the retreating soldiers. Gwyn’s feet dragged like lead as each step took them further away from the British line. Would anyone notice their absence? Would she see home again? During all her begging and planning to leave, she’d never told her father how much she loved passing the days with him in the garage. He often lamented that he never gave her the opportunity to grow up as a lady, but she told him that ladies never had any fun. He laughed so hard over that.

  God, I know You’re a little busy with both sides of opposition calling Your name at every turn, but if You could spare a moment for my small plight, I’d be grateful. Just a chance to see my father one last time. He deserves a better daughter than me, but he loves me anyway.

  By late afternoon, she was almost rethinking her plea. Gray clouds heavy with rain did little to cut the stifling heat. Her aching body longed to drop alongside the road and never move again, but William’s solid presence and steady footsteps behind her kept her spirit upright.

  Her wrists were torn and bleeding as the weight and movement of the prisoners behind her pulled against their connected bindings. Glancing down at her stained and crusted clothes gave her no hope of wrapping her wounds in clean strips once they stopped. If they ever stopped.

  “We should be close to their reserve line,” William whispered. Despite the dragging miles, he sounded as fresh as a newly minted engine. “See those trees ahead?”

  Throat ready to crack from lack of water, Gwyn merely nodded.

  “It’s where we should stop for a rest. Are you able to make it?”

  “Of course I can. If there’s a goal, I’ll make it.” Her feet screamed in protest, but she wasn’t about to admit that to him or anyone else.

  Heading so far north, they had to be close to the conquered Belgium border. The countryside bore the heavy marks of assault. Miles of fortified trenches crisscrossed the blackened fields. Deep tunnels dug in the earth like moles. The Germans had the clear advantage of time and position.

  The trees grew into a thick line that extended well down a back ridge. Metal flashed between the green leaves and dense underbrush. William was right about the waiting troops, but all she could think about was sweet relief from the sweat pouring down her back.

  Led over flimsy boards connecting the trenches, Gwyn tried to ignore the whispers from the German soldiers hunkered down in the pit. Hatred contorted their lean faces. The mumbling grew louder as they elbowed their comrades, pointing and spitting as Gwyn and her fellow prisoners trudged by. Curses stung her ears. She didn’t understand the words, but their meaning was perfectly clear.

  Crossing a shallow trench, a grimy hand snaked out and tugged on her trouser leg. Gwyn jumped. Her mouth opened to shriek, but her tongue seized in terror. She yanked her leg away, biting back the fear clawing at her throat. She kept her eyes forward, determined to not let them see her fear.

  “Hier. Hinsetzen.” At the back of the maze of trenches, the guard pointed to a wide pit carved under a tree. “Sitzen.”

  Gwyn peered down. It was large enough to hold several men and deep enough for them not to see out. Dried earthworms clung to blackened tree roots that rippled through the ground like bones. The rotting flesh and bark fouled the air. The fear clogging her throat rippled down her legs. She shuffled back. William’s solid chest stopped her.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered.

  She shook her head.

  “I’m right behind you.” His calm voice stroked her nerves. “Go, or the guards will be more than happy to oblige us.”

  Taking a deep breath through her mouth, Gwyn edged into the pit. The ropes pulled as each man slipped down behind her. Once in the hole, the three men at the end of their chain plopped down, jerking the rope hard. Gwyn cried out as she toppled backward onto William’s feet. Tangy blood sprang from where she bit her lower lip.

  William dropped next to her and pulled her into a sitting position. Alarm etched his face as he cupped her chin in his hand. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He brushed his thumb over her cut. “You’re bleeding.”

  “I’ve had worse when Lizzie slipped a gear on a corner.”

  “I’ve not a clue what that means, but I know it didn’t involve trained men losing their nerve in front of a lady.” He turned a withering glare to the culprits. “You men. Has all sense of training left you completely, or did the sun soften your heads? Apologize to the lady at once.”

  With heads down, the men mumbled their apologies.

  “It’s all right,” Gwyn said. “Everyone is exhausted.”

  “Exhaustion is no excuse to lose one’s bearing, prisoner or not.” Gwyn rolled her eyes and patted the ground next to her. “Let’s rest before you decide on the courts-martial.” Shifting his weight back and forth, William finally settled next to her. “Better?”

  He grunted, casting another dark look to the end of the line. “Slightly. The bottom of my feet rubbed off about three miles back. I need to do a foot check.”

  “A foot check?”

  “Every day, if conditions allow, I have my men remove their boots and socks to check for infection, blisters, and rot. Trench foot is more crippling to a force than bullets.”

  Gwyn glanced around their dirt-packed hovel and touched the stinging flesh of her wrists. “If there is an infection, we don’t have a clean area or supplies to care for it.”

  Capturing her hands, he held them up for inspection. She tried pulling away, but he held fast. “You’re so concerned about the welfare of others that you didn’t tell me about your own injuries.”

  “No use discussing what can’t be helped.”

  His fingers brushed over her sensitive skin. Warmth tingled down her arms, spreading into every aching hole she’d tried to bury under the need to prove herself. Except now, under his steady touch, she forgot exactly what she needed to prove.

  “You haven’t read about some ancient Celtic herb to heal rope burns, have you?”

  Gwyn pulled away from her distracting thoughts and tried to focus. “If I did, the Celts could hardly help us from here.”

  “Maybe your trusty MacDonald has some stashed in a sporran.” William cast an eye over his shoulder to where the hulking Scot squatted in front of the last man, doling out his own colorful reprimands. The longer he talked, the thicker his brogue rolled out. “Though if he’s anything like my great-uncle, he’ll only carry a flask and an extra round of shot.”

  “I’d like to meet your uncle.”

  “You won’t be meeting him anytime soon. He’s a notorious womanizer and older than the Wars of Independence.”

  Gwyn stretched her cramped legs, rolling her ankles back and forth. “And now I want to meet him even more. For the long life of history, not the trifling.”

  “Doesn’t matter your intentions, his are completely dishonorable.”

  “Dishonor in your family? I don’t believe it.”

  “My mother’s side is a long line of miscreants
and cattle rustlers. Perhaps I shall prove it to you one day, but for now, I’m taking care of your wrists.”

  Frowning, he scanned the entire pit before turning his attention to the two guards lounging on the upper rim.

  “Medical supplies,” he called, pointing to Gwyn’s wrist. “The lady is hurt.”

  “Mund halten, Englisch!”

  A pulse ticked up his neck. “Medic.”

  The soldiers leaned together, conferring in low voices and pointing into the hole. Finally, one of them shoved to his feet and stomped away. A few minutes later, he came back with Major Trommler in tow. Gwyn’s heart crashed. Whatever that little man was doing there did not bode well.

  Standing on the rim of the hole, Trommler clasped his hands behind his back and smiled. Like a vulture seeing his prey struggling in a field. “Settling in comfortably?”

  “Could use a few chairs,” Roland called. It earned him a quick jerk on the rope from William.

  “Miss Ruthers needs medical attention,” William said. “Her wrists are torn and bleeding. Infection could set in.”

  Trommler’s thin eyebrows rose. “Is that so? Fraulein Ruthers, your injury, bitte?”

  Gwyn pushed to her feet and stepped forward. The rope stopped her short, and the men at the end pretended not to notice. “Never mind.” Trommler held his hand up. The gleam in his eye gave no doubt how much he enjoyed the spectacle. “Hold up your hands from there.”

  Gwyn raised her hands, waiting while he pursed his lips and tilted his head back and forth. Heat slashed Gwyn’s neck and cheeks as the seconds ticked by.

  “Ja, ja. I can see that they are a little red.” Grabbing one of the guard’s arms, he started down the embankment with unsure steps and fingers clutched white around the other man’s arm.

  Securely at the bottom, he straightened his jacket. Reaching behind his back, he pulled out a black handled dagger and pointed it at Gwyn. “Let us take care of this problem for good.”

  “No!” Jumping back, Gwyn’s feet twisted in the soft ground, and down she went. Pain shot up her tailbone.

  Trommler waved the knife in front of him. “Wait. And before the rest of you men think of leaping in front of her, take a look at the guns trained on you.” With one quick stroke, he sliced the rope from her hands. “Much better, ja?”

  Relief engulfed her stinging wrists as she clutched them to her chest. “Thank you.”

  “Behave yourself, or I’ll regret taking them off.” Trommler climbed back to the top. Taking a canteen and small bundle of cotton strips from the waiting guard, he tossed them at her feet. “You don’t want me to regret something, I promise you that.”

  Gwyn blinked in surprise as her heart returned to a normal beat. Her hands were still attached to her body, and, hopefully, she could keep them that way.

  “Must the rest of the men remain tied?” she asked before the major could disappear.

  “Do not push your luck, fraulein. That pretty face will only allow you so many favors, and you’ve already used most of them.”

  “You shouldn’t test the Jerries.” William squatted next to her.

  Unscrewing the canteen cap, he poured water onto one of the strips. “They’ve got the weapons.”

  Gwyn took the strips from him and swabbed her wrists. The water was much too warm to refresh her pulse, but it was wonderful to clean the skin all the same. She took a sip from the canteen and passed it around to the other men. “We’re in a hole. Where do they think we’d run?”

  “Have you heard the phrase ‘give a man an inch’?”

  “Of course.” She rolled one of the strips around her wrist. It refused to stay put.

  William leaned close and held the end in place while she wrapped. He rubbed a finger gently over her palm. “Well, in the army we say ‘give a man an inch, and he’ll take your life’.”

  The military and their practical bleakness. Trained for war and taking other men’s lives in the name of duty. Gwyn breathed a prayer of thanksgiving that she didn’t have to live with that survival mindset. At least until recently, her life was blessedly comfortable.

  Weariness stretched up her bones as she glanced around the dirt pit. Of course, blessings were all in the eye of the beholder.

  Hours later, another mixed blessing blew in. The looming gray clouds opened, releasing the heavens. Gwyn lifted her face to the first precious drops. Plop ... plop … plop. Her parched skin soaked in the sweetness like an overheated engine run too many hours. She rubbed the backs of her hands, neck, and cheeks, feeling the layers of grime wash away under her fingertips.

  Plop, plop, plop. The steady drops saturated the hair on top of her head, cooling her scalp. She didn’t worry about the untamable mass to come once the mugginess set in. Nothing could take away the beauty of that moment.

  Splat. Splat. Splat. Mud splattered across the tops of Gwyn’s boots. The drops fell fat and heavy all around, digging into the earth as thunder rolled. The drips ran together, creating rivers that collected in a shallow basin at the center of the pit. Faster and faster the rain came.

  “William, I think we may have a problem.”

  “Just a little rain. Nothing we haven’t dealt with in the trenches.” He didn’t bother lifting a hand to wipe the rain dribbling down his face.

  “Only this time no one’s shooting at us,” Roland added with a half laugh. The other men joined in.

  Gwyn shielded her eyes and glanced up. Rain smacked her in the face. “It’s turning into more than just a little. And in the trenches, you at least had a way out.”

  “Captain, the lass is right.” MacDonald sniffed the air. “It’s more than a wee shower, no doubt. And she’s moving fast on a south wind.”

  Shouts echoed from the trenches. Metal scraped against metal as the Germans undoubtedly hurried to cover their guns and powder storage. Their guards huddled together, stuffing the ends of their rifles beneath their jackets and lowering the brims of their hats as the rain slanted sideways.

  “Chaos all around. No one paying any mind to us now.” Roland pointed to the guards. “This could be our chance, Will.”

  “We have to get them down here first.” William squinted. “Or at least to the edge.”

  Gwyn eyed the guards, the pit rim turning to sludge, and her fellow captives. Hope tingled in her veins. Escape.

  “How do you plan to get them there?” she asked. “They’d be mad to risk their footing so near the edge.”

  “Mad … no, I’ll settle for uncertainty.” With eyes set like a trained hawk, William examined every inch of the rim and pit before turning to Roland. “Get face down in the mud.”

  Roland balked. “Are you insane?”

  “We need a distraction to get them down here.”

  “You expect me to put my face in this cesspool? How am I supposed to breathe?”

  “Turn your head to the side. Make it believable that you’ve been struck faint.”

  “I’ve never fainted a day in my life. How am I to make that believable?”

  “Like this.” MacDonald smacked him in the back of the head. Roland fell face down in the muck.

  “Not what I had in mind, but it’ll have to do.” William turned to Gwyn. “Scream.”

  “But I …” Gwyn shook her head. “What if they don’t believe us?’

  “You want out of here? Scream.”

  Opening her mouth, Gwyn let forth the worst sound she could conjure. The guards shouted at her, but she kept going, hopping around and pointing at the downed Roland. Her fellow captives joined in the ruckus.

  “Was ist da los? Ist dass der mensch tot?”

  Gwyn fell to her knees beside Roland and shook his shoulders. “Help! He needs help!”

  More German shouting as the guards pointed down to the pit. They couldn’t leave a prisoner dead, especially not a valuable officer. Gwyn waved her hands in the air, motioning them down.

  The shorter of the two ventured over the edge, sliding his way to the bottom. As he bent over Roland’s prost
rate body, MacDonald punched him in the back of the head. Bone cracked, and the man landed face down.

  His companion fumbled for the rifle caught under his jacket, his slippery hands unable to grip the butt.

  “Get the knife!” William pointed to the fallen guard.

  Gwyn flipped back the edge of the jacket and ran her hands around his waist. Yanking the knife from its sheath, she sawed through the men’s ropes.

  William scrambled up the embankment and grabbed the soldier’s foot, dragging him into the pit. Fingers clutched around the rifle, the man tried to fire off a shot, but MacDonald ripped it from him and butted him on the side of the temple. Red blood streaked down his face as he crumpled into the mud.

  “We don’t have much time.” William climbed up the slope and peered over the rim. He turned back and held his hand down to Gwyn. “Come on, now.”

  Gwyn clawed at the earth as her feet slipped in the rivers of mud. She stretched her fingers towards William, but the sludge slid her back down into the pit.

  MacDonald hooked an arm around her and boosted her up. “Up you go, lass.”

  Sprawled at the top with William crouched next to her, Gwyn’s heart beat in her throat as the other prisoners crawled their way out. Roland flopped next to her like a spineless fish.

  “Watch it, will you? Bleeding Scot.” He moaned, gripping his head. “I’ll have a headache for a week thanks to you.”

  MacDonald tucked his newly acquired rifle close to his side and swiped the mud from his mouth. “Better than drowning in a stinking hole.”

  “Keep close, heads down, and make for that copse to the west,” William said.

  Gwyn squinted through the sheet of rain at the fuzzy outline of trees just beyond an open field. Her heart thrummed in her ears as she calculated the distance. They were sitting ducks if the Germans spotted them.

  “Ready.” William’s voice rose above the rain. “Go.”

  He shot forward. Gwyn kept right behind him, running as fast as her legs could pump. The bogged earth squished beneath her feet, throwing her off balance. Her muscles screamed against the pain, but she wasn’t going down. Not this time. Wind tore at her hair, lashing it across her face like whips.