Page 2 of The Last Kiss

When the job was done, he took his tea over to the narrow pallet on which he’d failed to find any rest. West joined him there and they sat shoulder-to-shoulder, backs against the sandbags, with the candle set on an overturned crate at West’s side. From his breast pocket, West pulled out Ash’s copy ofThe Hound of the Baskervillesand opened it to the right page. Ash sipped his tea and then offered the mug to West. “Go on,” he said when West declined, “I know you’ve had none yourself. We’ll share it. I’ll read first, then we’ll swap.”

And so he began. “Chapter Twelve: Death on the Moor. ‘For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my ears. Then my senses and my voice came back to me, while a crushing weight of responsibility seemed in an instant to be lifted from my soul. That cold, incisive, ironical voice could belong to but one man in all the world... ‘Holmes!’ I cried — ‘Holmes!’”

He read on until West nudged the mug against his hand and they swapped again, Harry reading while Ash finished the tea. Overhead the guns continued to smash the German lines — such was the plan, at least — and despite the noise, with West’s warm body next to him, Ash’s exhaustion finally began to overwhelm him. Setting the empty mug aside, he let his head sink onto West’s shoulder and closed his eyes. He didn’t move when he felt West’s cheek come to rest against the top of his head, but smiled as he listened to him read until the words blurred and slurred...

“Captain Dalton.” He was woken by West’s hand on his arm, a gentle shake. “Sorry, sir, but it’s time.”

West sat next to him still, but the book was put away and Ash could see first light creeping around the edges of the gas curtain. His stomach clenched, his heart racing sharply. Morning had arrived, cold and cruel.

West’s hand tightened on his arm. “We’ll have to finish that chapter later, sir.”

Later. It felt as longed for and unreachable as home.

“I’m afraid I dropped off. We might have to repeat some of it.” Their gazes tangled and locked, too raw for bravado now. Ash’s faux bonhomie fell away. “Good luck today, West.”

West’s throat moved as he swallowed. “You too, Captain.”

Above them, the barrage continued unrelenting, their guns firing five miles west, towards the village they were attempting to take. Had been attempting to take since July. What the hell could be left of it now?

“It’s six-thirty, sir.”

Less than an hour to go. It was past time he was outside with the men. Ash rose and West helped him on with his trench coat, buttoning it like a London valet before handing him his tin hat. Another pause followed. Then Ash said, “I don’t want to…to let the men down today.”

“You, Captain? Not a chance.” West squeezed his shoulder. “We’ll get through it, don’t you worry. We’ll get through it together.”

How to explain that it wasn’t for himself that he worried, that there was something he feared more than his own death? Impossible, of course. The best he could do was grip West’s forearm. “Together.”

There was no more to be said. Ash led the way out into the miserable morning where his men watched him from drawn, frightened faces. None of them had slept, counting down the hours until the attack, and he felt guiltily grateful for his short reprieve with West.

“Taff,” he greeted the dark-eyed Welshman sitting smoking on the fire step.

Taff’s fingers shook as he lifted the gasper to his lips. “Captain Dalton.” His guarded gaze moved to the dugout and back, aware as all the men were — as Ash was — of the unearned privileges his rank enjoyed. “Get some kip?”

“Hardly, with this racket.” Ash forced levity into his voice. “I dare say there’ll be post waiting when we get back to the relief trench. It feels like an age since you’ve had a letter. All of two days, I should think.”

Taff gave a reluctant smile. “My missus does like to write, sir.”

“And we all want to know what happened about…what was his name? Your neighbour’s story about the vicar and the missing pig.”

A flash of teeth. “Mrs. Evans. Terrible gossip, she is, sir. I don’t believe half of what she says.”

And so it went on, the excruciating duty of finding a word here and there for each of the men while they endured these last dreadful minutes of waiting, a grotesquenoblesse obligethat Ash probably resented as much as his sullen, frightened men. His rank gave him no special insight when staring death in the eye and nobody knew that better than himself. But Little Bill looked rough, scared almost out of his wits, and Ash spared him a firm hand on the shoulder as he passed. “You’ll have a story to tell your sweetheart when you’re home, eh?” The boy nodded, eyes wide and glassy. Ash resisted the urge to hug him. Instead he had the rum passed around and let Little Bill drink liberally.

He checked his watch. Six forty-five. Half an hour to go.

His head felt woolly, blood pounding in his ears. Fear did that, he’d learned. Scattered your wits, broke your nerve. He looked up into the sky, fading remorselessly to grey, and made out the tangle of wire above them. A scrap of uniform fluttered there, dank in the dank morning. Some poor sod, dead. Him, maybe, in a matter of minutes.

Terror closed his throat, accelerated his racing heartbeat. He felt clammy and sick. God, he hoped he didn’t lose his nerve, not in front of the men. Men? Boys, some of them. Beautiful and full of life when they were laughing together behind the lines, kicking about a football or telling off-colour jokes. Grey-faced now, they looked even younger than their too-few years.

An odd thought struck him: at least Tilney had been spared this dreadful bloody wait. His drowning had been sudden, unanticipated. The thought almost made him laugh, but he swallowed the terrifying bubble of hysteria. Dangerous, that. Rum lingered in the back of his throat and his watery guts squirmed. If he survived this damned war, he’d never touch the stuff again.

Carefully, he set one foot on the ladder that would take him over. How far would he make it before he was cut down? Ten yards, a hundred? Would it be a shell or machine gun fire that did for him? If he made it to the German lines, maybe a bayonet to the belly. Or would he get stuck on the wire? His fingers, of their own accord, drummed out a tune on the ladder as if playing a mute piano.

If you want to find the private, I know where he is,

I know where he is, I know where he is.

If you want to find the private, I know where he is,

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