Page 3 of The Last Kiss

He’s hanging on the old barbed wire…

He felt for his whistle, secure on its leather lanyard. His mouth was dry. From along the line came a rumpus, someone shouting and quickly stifled. It took men like that sometimes, the long wait. It broke their nerve. And who could blame them? This was tortuous.

He checked his watch. Six fifty-nine.

Time was crawling, he’d never known it to move so slowly. And yet too fast. Their lives were measured in moments now. He cleared his throat. “Fifteen-minutes,” he told the men.

Behind him, feet shuffled as the men moved about, making whatever peace they could, bracing themselves to meet their fate. It would be easier to be one of them. The weight of giving the order, of leading men to their ends, felt heavy as iron.

A shoulder brushed his, solid and steady. He glanced sideways and found West watching him. In the growing daylight, he could see the warm hazel of his eyes and the curl of his golden hair beneath his tin hat. West’s friendship was everything to him here. He’d made the last three years bearable, even pleasurable at times. It wasn’t right, of course, for a man like Captain Ashleigh Arthur Dalton, son of Sir Arthur, to be friends with plain old Private Harry West. But friends they were, closer than brothers. How many nights had they spent in conversation or in reading aloud to each other, playing cards with the men or in Ash’s quarters? How many nights had they hunkered down side-by-side in the support trench, sharing warmth and the comfort of each other’s presence?

And if anything happened to West today, Ash didn’t know how he’d bear it.

Well, he couldn’t bear it. Simple as that.

He’d rather die himself than lose Harry West.

“I’ve still got your book in my bloody pocket,” West said quietly, smiling ruefully as he tapped his hip pocket. “Hope it doesn’t get too wet.”

Ash had to clear his throat before he said, “Sherlock Holmes?”

“Aye, sir. Should have left it in the dugout with the rest of your kit. Sorry.”

“Well.” Ash huffed an approximation of a laugh. “If we’re pinned down for any length of time, perhaps we’ll read the next chapter?”

West laughed at that. He had a deep, contagious chuckle. “Imagine that, sir. Fritz stumbling over us sitting there, reading a book, happy as can be.”

Ash snorted, his tension easing for a moment. And then rushing back in as a dozen horrible images unfolded in his mind, each more likely than the absurd one they’d painted. He checked his watch. “Ten minutes.”

West nudged his shoulder again. Not so much nudged as pressed their arms together. Ash returned the pressure, taking comfort from it. He hoped West did, too. “Mother said they’ve had a terrific crop of apples this year. I hope — ” He glanced at West. “When this is all over, I hope you’ll visit me at Highcliffe House. Our cook makes a marvellous apple crumble.”

A smile tugged West’s lips. “I’d like to see your stables, sir. And perhaps take a ride in that forest of yours.”

“The New Forest? Yes, it’s beautiful. Especially at this time of year — with the turning leaves, you know. The colours…” His throat tightened with a terrible yearning for the trees and heathland of his boyhood. “Christ, this was woodland once, West. And there’s not a single damn leaf to see for miles.”

“There will be again. One day.”

There was some comfort in that, he supposed. He flexed his fingers on the ladder, tapping out that little tune again.

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

Time ticked on. “Five minutes, boys.”

“Captain Dalton?” West sounded different, low and urgent. He reached out and covered Ash’s hand where it rested on the ladder. “I want…” Their gaze locked and for a moment Ash saw in West’s eyes everything he couldn’t say, all the words neither of them could speak.

Ash turned his hand beneath West’s and wove their fingers together, squeezing hard. “Another chapter of Holmes later.” He made it a promise. “And a shot of whiskey at Toc H, if we’re lucky.”

After a lingering moment, West pulled his hand free. “Yes, sir.”

Ash checked the time. “Three minutes, boys.” His stomach pitched. “Affix bayonets.”

He managed his own, ruthlessly suppressing the tremors in his hands. Just as it clicked into place, the barrage stopped. The morning rang with sudden silence, Ash’s ears buzzing in the absence of noise. This was it then. “Two minutes,” he said quietly, heart pounding like a terrified rabbit’s. He had to swallow twice before he said, “First rank to the fire step.”

Behind him and at his side, his men lined up. Looking down the line, he could hardly bear to see their ashen faces, some fixed as granite, others mobile with fear, lips moving in silent prayer or other incantation. Ordinary men, ordinary boys staring death in the eye. God, but he ached with the pity of it all.

“One minute.” Thank God his voice didn’t shake. Eyes fixed on his watch, he lifted the whistle to his lips. It tasted chill and metallic, worse than the rum.

The minute hand ticked to 07:15.

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