Page 1 of The Last Kiss

CHAPTERONE

12th October 1917, Flanders, Belgium

Ash’s fingers had grown stiff and cold around the pen. He’d lost track of how long he’d been sitting there, staring at the blank sheet of paper before him, watching it waver in the flinching candlelight. Above him, the guns thundered on, spitting their full-throated hatred at the enemy.

There were, perhaps, two hours until dawn.

Dislodged by the bombardment, dirt sifted down onto his makeshift desk — something West had cobbled together to allow him to take a stab at writing the letter before the next push. If only the words would come.

The gas curtain across the doorway stirred and Ash looked up as footsteps clumped down the wooden stairs. They weren’t very deep here; firing line dugouts never were. He was lucky to have this modicum of privacy and didn’t object to the intrusion. Welcomed it, in fact, because he recognised that steady tread and the broad figure that accompanied it: Private West, his batman. And friend, though propriety kept them from admitting as much.

“Thought you’d be sleeping, Captain.”

Ash smiled. “You thought no such thing.”

“Hoped then.” West had to stoop beneath the corrugated iron ceiling; he was a fine figure of a man, taller and broader than Ash. He set a mug of tea on the desk. “Made you a cuppa, sir.”

“I won’t ask by what miracle you managed that.” Laying down his pen, Ash wrapped his cold fingers around the enamel mug and inhaled the steam. Not much like the tea his mother would serve at Highcliffe House, but a bloody luxury in the firing line. He lifted it to his lips and took a sip. “I hope you made one for yourself, West.”

An equivocal wave of one hand — no, then. “Did you get any sleep, sir?”

“With this racket going on?”

“You need your rest. Busy morning ahead.”

Yes, busy was one word for it. Ash’s guts went watery in anticipation of what was to come. “I have to write this blasted letter to Tilney’s mother first. She deserves — ” He put down his mug with a thump, sloshing the tea, embarrassed that his hand had started shaking. Again.

Thing was, he couldn’t stop thinking about Jimmy Tilney.

The lad had bought it a week ago, during a night time reconnaissance patrol. Under fire, Tilney had fallen into a flooded shell hole and, despite their frantic efforts to reach him, he’d drowned in the mud. Over the years, Ash had grown numb to death, but that desperate drowning haunted him day and night. Tilney had been barely more than a boy and one of Ash’s men. He should have been able to save him.

West squeezed his shoulder, making Ash jump. He hadn’t noticed West move around behind the desk, and that wasn’t the first time he’d lost track of things in the last few days. Thoughts of Tilney kept intruding and distracting him. “We did what we could for him, sir,” West said. “Nothing more we could have done. Not with those sodding machine guns at work.”

The weight of his hand was a warm comfort and Ash leaned into his touch. He needed to write this bloody letter and put an end to the matter. “I don’t know where to start, is the thing. I’ve got no comfort to offer his poor mother.”

“Then tell her the truth.”

“The truth?” Startled, he looked up into West’s grim face. His eyes, a warm hazel in daylight, gleamed darkly in the guttering candlelight and his sunny blond curls were dulled to tarnished gold. But for all that, he was a beautiful man. Beautiful to Ash, at any rate.

“Tell her Jimmy was a fine lad. Tell her he made his friends laugh and the local girls swoon, and that we enjoyed listening to him playing that sodding penny whistle. Tell her he served his king and country with honour and that he died bravely.”

“He died crying for his mother.”

West squeezed his shoulder again. “Spare her that, sir. But the rest is true — or, true enough.”

“Trueenough.Perhaps, if the people at home knew the real truth, they’d find a way to end this...this bloody farrago of a war.”

“She’s his mother, sir.”

“I know. But it feels like lying. I don’t want to lie anymore, West. Bad enough that I’m the one who...who...” Suddenly, he could taste the metallic tang of the whistle in his mouth. Hear its sharp screech in his ears.

Over we go boys. Good luck!

“Drink your tea, sir. And write your letter — you won’t rest till it’s done. Then maybe we could read for a spell, until... Until it’s time. We left Watson at a dramatic moment yesterday.”

Despite everything, Ash found a smile. West had the astonishing ability to cheer him even in the bleakest of circumstances. “Yes. Let’s do that.”

He picked up his pen and began to write, plucking out as much truth as he could find and offering what small comfort was possible. God knew it wasn’t much. After all this time, it should have become easier and yet each letter was harder than the last. They all felt like lies.

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