Second Round: A Return to the Ur-Bar

by Garth Nix

  What would he give now for Egypt’s dry sand beneath his feet? He trudged the trench, boots weighed down with the cloying mud of France. His stomach churned. God! He could do with a drink. Brandy, to settle his stomach. Purely medicinal of course.

  A shadow resolved itself.

  “Evenin’ to you, sir.”

  Private Tommy Bennett. Of course. The remaining Bennett lad seemed like his own personal spirit come back to haunt him on a night such as this. He looked so much like Freddie. He couldn’t save one brother. He mustn’t let the other one die tomorrow.

  “Good evening, Tommy. What’s the word?” he asked.

  “The lads aren’t happy, sir. No rum ration again. SRD.”

  SRD—Seldom Reaches Destination.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Alastair asked.

  “About the rum, sir? I’m thinking it’s in some sergeant’s mess, sir.”

  “About the war. About tomorrow.”

  “That it’s going to be a bloody one, sir? Yes, sir.”

  “All this shelling is supposed to clear the way for us across No Man’s Land.”

  Tommy made a disparaging grunt.

  “What’s in your canteen, Tommy?”

  “Water, sir, just like it’s supposed to be.”

  Damn. He’d been hoping it might be something else. Tommy always knew where to get hold of contraband, even when the rum ration didn’t arrive.

  “If you fancy something a little stronger …”

  “Yes?” Alastair turned his affirmative into a question.

  “There’s a place …”

  “Where?”

  “I can’t really describe it, but I could show you.”

  Alastair waved Tommy forward, then followed him down the cut-through to a secondary trench. A young man with old eyes sat sharpening his bayonet on a whetstone by a makeshift door draped with canvas. Tommy nodded at the young man, then jerked his head sideways at Alastair.

  “Knock,” the young man said, without breaking the steady rhythm of steel upon stone.

  The light was fading fast. Alastair turned to Tommy, surprised to find his childhood companion already turning away. “Aren’t you going to share a drink with me for old time’s sake?” Alastair asked.

  “Not today, sir. It’s not my turn.”

  Alastair wanted to say that he wouldn’t be long, but right now, if given the chance, he’d make a run for it. That would only get him a firing squad. Would that be a cleaner end? Not really, but it would end the torment of wondering whether he’d let himself down, let Tommy down, let Tommy’s father down—again.

  He didn’t know whether he was more afraid of dying or of failing the men who relied on him.

  “Knock,” the young man said again.

  Feeling a little foolish, Alastair knocked on the door post and waited.

  The canvas curtain twitched back. Alastair couldn’t see anyone behind it, but in front of him was a set of steps dug into the earth. He looked at the young man with the whetstone.

  “Go if you’re going,” the young man said. “Or don’t. I couldn’t care less. But make your mind up. It won’t wait all day.”

  “What won’t?”

  “You’ll see when you get there.”

  Alastair trod on the top step and the curtain closed behind him. There was a warm glow at the bottom of the stair, but he couldn’t see whether he was descending through hewn earth or whether this was some sort of old cellar or root store that the trench diggers had uncovered.

  The sound of men’s voices in convivial conversation gave him his first inkling of what he might find. He reached the bottom and turned left into a vaulted stone space with tables and benches, some of them in nooks for privacy. He guessed someone had found a cellar by accident and made good use of it. Alastair tried to guess its age. It looked like the undercroft of a Gothic church.

  At the far end was a trestle table. A man was setting out tankards and a woman was wiping the bar. Half the tables were occupied and a blue cigarette haze was already adding a curtain of privacy.

  “Welcome, my friend.”

  The man behind the bar was tall, taller than Alastair, who was built like a beanpole. This man was well-muscled, evidenced by his arms showing below his short-sleeved tunic. His curly black hair, long around his ears, marked him as a civilian, as did his beard, oddly oiled and braided. Alastair wanted to take off his cap and run his fingers through his own short-back-and-sides stubble. He settled for rubbing his chin instead, only slightly rough with today’s whiskery shadow.

  “Come in, have a beer. I’m Gil, and you would be … ?”

  “Alastair.” He offered his hand and Gil took it, his grip warm and powerful. “Do you have anything stronger than beer?”

  “The beer first, eh? I brew my own to an ancient recipe.” He nodded to a red-clay tablet about eighteen inches square hanging on the back wall behind the trestle that served as a bar.

  Alastair screwed up his eyes to read the writing, but the figures seemed to squirm in the flickering lamplight. He shrugged. “I’ll have a beer, then.”

  “Good choice. A beer for my friend.”

  The woman, middle aged with a kindly face, poured beer from a jug into one of the tankards.

  “You’re expecting more customers.” Alastair nodded to the tankards.

  “We always get a lot of customers on the eve of a battle. Men’s needs suddenly become more urgent when they stare death in the face.”

  Alastair knew. He took a gulp of his beer so he didn’t have to reply. It tasted slightly odd, though not unpleasant. The bitterness of the brew was offset with a honeyed sweetness. He took a long pull.

  “Ah, so you like my beer.”

  Alastair’s head felt as though it was full of bubbles. He’d only downed half the tankard. He couldn’t be drunk already.

  “Sit yourself down, my friend, while there’s still a table free. I suggest that one, over there.”

  It was in an alcove, a table just big enough for two, with a three-legged stool at either side of it. Alastair nodded his thanks, carried his beer across, and sat down.

  He took another swallow. When his nose emerged from the tankard, two more tables had been occupied. How had the men come in without him noticing? Where had they come from? He took another pull of his beer. Gil the barman had crossed over to sit with half a dozen infantrymen, not one of them more than nineteen years old, his hands describing some action or other. They all stared at him as if entranced, their faces serious, until he nudged the one to his right and laughed. The tension was broken; they all laughed with him. Six small clay cups materialized on the table. Gil took a flagon that had been tied around his waist and poured a few drops into each cup with a drink-up gesture. He watched each one of them raise a cup and left them to the rest of their beer. They’d been subdued, but now they were animated.

  One began to sing and they all joined in.

  Mademoiselle from Armentieres, parlez-vous,

  Mademoiselle from Armentieres, parlez-vous

  Mademoiselle from Armentieres, she hasn’t been kissed for forty years

  Inky-pinky parlez-vous

  They followed that song with another and another. Each time Alastair turned around, more and more of the tables were filled with soldiers, by their accents, some of them Canadian volunteers.

  Another table of regular British Tommies had arrived while he was wool-gathering over the Canadians. They started singing in opposition:

  Here we are! Here we are! Here we are again!

  Pat and Mac and Tommy and Jack and Joe …

  Alastair began singing along under his breath. He’d never been able to carry a tune, but he was happy to join in the chorus.

  Gil came over with another tankard of beer and sat on the stool opposite. “Why are you here, my friend?”

  Caught by the intensity of Gil’s gray-green stare Alastair felt compelled to answer. He tried to say, Because I wanted a drink, but ended up telling the plain truth. “Becaus
e I’m afraid.”

  “Take a look around you.”

  Gil sat back while Alastair took in all the tables. Not one stood empty, now, yet he’d seen no one enter.

  “Everyone’s afraid, but they’re all trying to hide it.”

  “Is it worth it, this war to end all wars?”

  Gil sighed and shook his head. “Worth it? That’s for you to say. But let me tell you, in all the wars throughout history, there have been men on the eve of battle wondering if they would be a hero or a coward.”

  Alastair took another swallow of his beer to wash down the lump forming in his throat.

  Gil leaned forward. “It’s not about winning and losing, you know. It’s about courage, about being terrified, but still doing what you have to do.”

  “I’m not sure I have that courage.”

  “Would it be your greatest wish to have that courage?”

  “To know that I’d not disgrace myself tomorrow, and not let down my men? Yes, I could wish for that, but also… there’s a woman. I only met her once. But I’d like her to know that I found my courage.”

  “What if you could tell her yourself?”

  “I’d like that more than anything, but she’s stationed at Couin. She’s a nurse at the main dressing station. If I had a car or even a fast horse, I might be able to make it there and back by the morning bugle call, no one any the wiser, but … Ah, who am I kidding? I can’t leave. Not tonight of all nights.”

  Gil raised his eyebrows and looked smug. “Look over there.”

  Sitting at the bar, her back to him, was a slim figure in a nurse’s uniform, her cap in one hand and blonde curls catching the lamplight.

  “Amelia,” he breathed.

  Gil ambled over to the bar, tapped Amelia on the shoulder, and whispered something in her ear. She turned and her face lit with pleasure. She hopped down from her stool and threaded her way through the now-crowded room, placing both hands in Alastair’s extended ones and sitting down in the nook. Their fingers twined across the table and for a minute neither spoke, then they both spoke at once and laughed.

  “I never thought …”

  “I didn’t expect …”

  “How have you been?”

  “All right. And you?”

  “Perfectly bloody if you want to know the truth, but much better for seeing you.”

  “That uniform suits you. Makes you look like an angel.”

  “I think that’s what it’s supposed to do. Or a nun.”

  “Perhaps it’s to stop your patients getting ideas.”

  “It’s good when they do. It means they’re getting better. Usually they’re too weak to do anything about it.” She laughed. “Don’t worry, my virtue isn’t in danger.”

  “If I had my way it would be.”

  She blushed and giggled.

  Gil came over to them and set two small clay cups on the table. “You two children seem to be getting along splendidly.”

  Alastair grinned. He couldn’t recall being happier since their stolen night in Paris.

  Gil poured a few drops from his flask into each of the cups. “You both told me your hearts’ desires. Do you remember?”

  “Impossible desires,” Amelia said.

  “Do you each know the other’s greatest wish?”

  Amelia looked Alastair steadily in the eyes. “He wants to be a good officer and lead his men well.”

  “And she wants to save every poor soldier who enters her hospital.”

  Gil huffed out a breath. “Close enough. These two cups, my children, will give you your heart’s desire, but only for one day. Alastair, your gift is bravery. Amelia, yours is compassion. One kiss bestows the gift of immortality for twenty-four hours. You may use it once. Think carefully. Use it wisely. A second kiss releases the spell.”

  Amelia looked dumbstruck,

  Gil was bonkers, but Alastair didn’t want to offend him. “Dutch courage without the rum.” He raised the cup to his lips and tossed the liquid down his throat. It burned. Then a delicious warmth spread through him. He wasn’t sure he believed what Gil said, but a tot of something powerful couldn’t hurt.

  Amelia touched the cup but didn’t pick it up. Alastair nudged her foot under the table, jerked his head towards the cup and then sideways to Gil.

  “Yes, you’re right. It would be rude not to. Thank you, Gil.” She drank the contents down and gasped at the ferocity of the liquor.

  Gil patted her on the back and left them to talk.

  “Do you believe him?” Amelia asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Well, here you are, then.” She leaned across the table and kissed him full on the lips. The sweetness took his breath away. When he came up for air he tried to kiss her again, but she turned her head away.

  “Just once. You have twenty-four hours of immortality.”

  “It’s time, children,” Gill called.

  Alastair looked around. All the other tables were empty and the barmaid was sweeping up. “Have we talked all night?” He asked Amelia.

  “I believe so.”

  “Exit one at a time, please,” Gil said. “Amelia first.”

  She squeezed his fingers. “You know where to find me.”

  “I do.”

  She gave him one backward glance before rounding the corner. He heard her feet on the cellar steps.

  “And now you, my friend,” Gil said.

  “Will I see her again?”

  “You’re asking me? Do I look like an all-knowing god?”

  “You’re a kind man.”

  “I wasn’t always, but occasionally I have a soft spot for a pretty face. Hers, not yours.” He laughed. “Now get out of here while I’m still feeling benevolent.”

  Alastair climbed the cellar steps, lifted the rough curtain, and stepped out into a French July dawn. The roar of the guns seemed muted, though he was sure it was just the way he was hearing them.

  “All right, sir?”

  Tommy Bennett’s voice startled him as the guns had not.

  “I am.” He looked around. “You didn’t see a young woman leave here, did you? About two minutes ago?”

  “No, sir, no one else came out or went in. I’ve been here all night in case the captain came looking for you. I’ve got your back, sir.”

  “And I’ve got yours, Tommy.”

  By seven o’clock Alastair stood in line, pistol in hand, ready to go over the top.

  Seven fifteen came and still the guns and the howitzers pounded Jerry’s trenches

  His heart thundered in his chest. His mouth was too dry to spit, but his hands were steady.

  Seven twenty-five—twenty-six—twenty-seven—twenty-eight—twenty-nine.

  At seven thirty precisely the shelling stopped.

  “First man over the wire gets a three-day pass,” Alastair yelled.

  “Make it seven days and you’re on,” Tommy said by his left elbow.

  They leaped for the ladders together.

  * * *

  Amelia thought she knew what bloody was, but she’d seen nothing like the casualties coming in on the morning of the first day of July 1916. Man after man was stretchered in from the forward dressing stations, swathed in blood-soaked bandages. Some had head wounds, others had limbs shattered to bloody pulp or guts spilling out. Some poor devils had multiple wounds. Those with single bullet wounds were the lucky ones. Amelia’s white apron was soon red with blood, her uniform soaked through beneath it, but each time she tried to snatch a minute to go and change, someone called to her. Press here. Twist there. Clamp that. The operating theatre looked like a butcher’s shop. The corridors and treatment rooms were no better. The waiting room looked like hell.

  Orderlies left men on stretchers, in corridors, on truckle beds. The hospital was drowning in blood.

  “Miss, help, please!”

  Amelia turned.

  “You’ve got to help him, miss.” A young man had heaved himself off his stretcher and crawled to the man lying next
to him, leaving a trail of red across the already sticky floor. “He saved my life. Bravest thing I ever saw. He pulled me out of the wire, right from under a Boche bayonet. And he was already covered in his own blood. Said something about my dad.”

  She looked down.

  Alastair.

  “You’re Bennett.”

  “Yes miss. How’d you know?”

  “He did it.”

  “This one next.” Dr. Lennox paced through the lines of stretchers and pointed at Bennett.

  “No, not me. The Lieutenant’s hurt worse than me. See to him first.”

  Dr. Lennox glanced at Alastair, bent over him, and lifted a corner of the bloodsoaked dressing on his chest.

  “He’s dead. Who the hell brought him in? We haven’t got room for the living. Get this corpse out of here.”

  Alastair’s eyes flew open and he clutched the doctor’s arm.

  Lennox gasped, shook himself free, and took a swift pace backwards, then pulled himself together. “Easy soldier.” Lennox turned to Amelia. “Heart-shot. If he’s not dead now he soon will be. Have the orderlies put him somewhere he can die in peace. See if there’s a priest free.”

  “I know him.”

  “Christ, I’m sorry. It’s hard enough when they’re anonymous.”

  She nodded, unable to speak again.

  “Take five minutes. No longer. The living need you more. Say your goodbyes. You’ll do him more good than a priest anyway.”

  Bennett was still yelling that they should save the lieutenant as they carried him into a treatment room, blood dripping from his bandaged leg.

  Amelia managed to get the attention of two orderlies and they carried Alastair into the room on the side of the house designated as the hospital’s chapel. Lord knows, there were plenty who needed the solace, staff and patients alike. The chapel’s French windows looked out onto the shrubbery and the shady greenery imbued the room with a gentle forest light.