Page 7 of These Old Lies
“I was sorely tempted at times. And the roads in France are a fucking nightmare. No maintenance at all.” Charlie took a long sip of his beer and then looked away from Ned. “There is one thing I want to know. I don’t really remember much of my last day at the front. But I have this memory, or rather, I have this impression—” Charlie cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “—that you were there?”
Ned lost a piece of his soul that night in Flanders, unable to show anything more than a casual interest that one of the best parts of his life might be dying. Creeping into the hospital tent at night, begging Charlie to stay alive. Then making a decision, a decision that Ned considered to be the one and only heroic thing he had ever accomplished in his life, no matter how many medals he wore to the Armistice Day services.
“I helped get you to the dressing station,” Ned answered. Now it was his turn to shift uncomfortably in the booth. “Needed to make sure the doctors didn’t chop an arm off.”
Ned held his breath. Would Charlie ask more? About what Ned had seen?
“Hard enough living through the war the first time,” Charlie muttered.
Silence descended on them again as they sipped the remnants of their drinks. Ned had imagined a thousand and one different ways this conversation would go, and not one had ended with this fragile truce.
The sun shone through the dirty windows in the pub, fragmenting light across the dust. Ned let himself breathe and enjoy the moment. A pub, a drink, Charlie.
“I guess we never really did talk that much,” Charlie said, and then slyly glanced over at Ned over the rim of his pint. “But, then again, you often had your mouth full.”
Ned nearly choked on his wine, shocked that Charlie would acknowledge their past so casually. Ned found himself blushing. “If memory serves me right, you seemed all too happy to monologue away, and I didn’t think it would be polite to interrupt your train of thought.”
A genuine smile spread across Charlie’s face, and he raised his glass. Together they clinked drinks.
The familiar banter, like an echo from the past, made Ned feel warmer and more relaxed than any wine. “Tell me more about these hats.”
“Oh shut up, you bastard.”
“No, really, I’m fascinated.”
“Why don’t you tell me more about your fancy life? Heiresses and scandal, I hear?”
Ned was struck with inspiration. “Would you like tickets to anything? It’s not all bohemian nonsense. I don’t know if you want to take your lady friend to see the jazz bands.” If Charlie could rise above his anger at Ned, then Ned could put his own romantic yearnings aside. “It would really be my pleasure, if only to see what you look like doing the Charleston.”
“I’m an excellent dancer!” Charlie looked almost indignant.
“There is an American band at Claridge’s next week. I can have two tickets sent.”
“That’d be grand.” Charlie looked genuinely pleased.
Ned felt a bit lightheaded. He had come to the pub not daring to hope for more than an awkward conversation. Now they were planning to go dancing.
Of course meeting Charlie Villiers would be nothing like he thought it would be. Nothing would be more typical of the man.
4 Hide and Seek
Hébuterne, May 1916 / Charlie
It was a stupid fucking plan.
That had been Charlie’s immediate conclusion when the orders went out that the division would be digging three thousand yards of new trench in the span of a single night, moving the British front four hundred yards closer to the enemy.
The lieutenant for Charlie’s platoon, an arrogant wanker by the name of Pemberton, had proudly given a speech arguing that while this task might seem daunting, it reflected the brilliant strategy of General Hull. Moving the line closer to danger would allow them to break the German defences and turn the course of the war!
Bullshit, Charlie had thought.
Lieutenant Pemberton spinning tales to the new lads was no different from a Covent Garden hustler—deception through sleight of hand. Charlie knew how this was going to end, with lots of young men going over the top, weighed down by shovels and pickaxes, only to die in a bloodbath of German shellfire, with nothing more than a set of shallow ditches to show for it.
The question facing Charlie at the moment was whether he would even survive long enough to find out how much of a stupid fucking plan it was. The powers that be had selected him as part of the cover party for one of the ten groups of engineers who would be creeping into No Man’s Land to mark out the new trench lines.
“Who did you annoy to get this duty, Villiers?” Henderson teased as he checked and re-checked his rifle.
“Surely the shorter list is who didn’t Villiers piss off?” The second voice Charlie was less happy to hear. Charlie had served with Smythe since before the 1st London had even been formed, and it always surprised him that the man was still alive. Or, specifically, that no one had taken the opportunity to kill Smythe out of sheer annoyance.