Strange Strange World Box Set

Chapter 9: Warrick

Chapter 9: WarrickIt was only months later that the letter found me, and I learned that Harry had been killed by mortar fire on the second day of that battle, which had proved to be a victory for the allies.

The next letter from Thomas was much longer in reaching me, having to deal with not only the vagaries of the African postal service, but also with the caprice of the Army. I was in the trenches on the Western Front when it finally caught up with me.

I tipped my gas mask off my face and sat down to read it. I’ve been promoted to captain! And none of that, ‘Well, I reckon they must be hard up for officers,’ from you, Mr Synclaire! But…all joshing aside, my prickly Thorn, I’m so glad you’re well out of this.

He hadn’t received my letter telling him of Harry’s death, then, and my subsequent enlistment.

It’s a dirty, nasty business, this. The Hun are burning villages and murdering the young men who refuse to obey their orders. As for the women, I don’t even want to think of what has befallen them.

I could imagine, and I hadn’t been there to see the atrocities. The next lines were a trifle smudged, but after a bit of squinting, I was able to decipher the words.

I must tell you of a rather singular occurrence, he’d gone on to write. There was a tremendous explosion on Lake Tanganyika, and my men pulled the most amazing young man out of the water! He’s little more than a boy actually, not much more than eighteen, I’d say.” This from the maturity of his twenty-four years. I chuckled, but sobered quickly and read on. He’s the brother of a missionary who was at Udjidji, a small village in German East Africa. The poor sod had been killed by those bleeding Hun.

That last shocked me a bit. Oh, not that the Germans were capable of killing a man of the cloth, but that my old friend was swearing. Obviously this had affected him more than he was inclined to let on.

Just then my commanding officer strode by. “We’ll be going over the top shortly, gentlemen. Fix bayonets,” he ordered.

I sighed and tucked the letter away in the blouse of my uniform and gathered up my rifle.

* * * *

The fighting was short, fierce, and bloody. When we returned to the trenches, there were fewer of us, but the line had held. I cleaned my bayonet, struck a match to light my cigarette and settled in for the evening.

Taking out the letter, I scanned it quickly and found my place. The poor sod was killed by those bleeding Hun.

Roddy Sayer came down the Ruzizi River to Lake Tanganyika. At one time explorers thought the Ruzizi flowed north to the Nile—it doesn’t. At any rate, young Sayer was accompanied by this old riverboat captain, a Canadian chap, Pearson by name. And that’s not the half of it! Would you believe they actually succeeded in blowing up and sinking the Marie Christine, one of the German steamships that patrolled the lake?

I must say, I was impressed! The last word was underscored three times.

I wondered if my friend had sampled the young man’s charms, and what RSM Cutter had to say about it. Thomas could never admit his interest so blatantly in a letter that would be read and censored in the interest of military security, but that last line was enough to inform me of his fascination, and I felt a fleeting stab of loneliness. It had been too long since I had loved anyone, and none who much cared if there was a rival.

There were no other letters after that, but I chalked it up to distance and the demands of his command.

And then came the Battle of the Somme…

* * * *

If ever there was a bad year, 1916 was it. Just months before, the French had been left decimated by the Battle of Verdun, and now it fell solely to us British to assume full responsibility for the newest battle.

Within a handful of hours, there were over sixty thousand casualties.

* * * *

I regained consciousness in an ambulance, my right leg feeling as if it were on fire. A bullet had struck my shin—I knew that much, and the chap who had field dressed it told me it was a compound fracture—the bone had broken through the skin—but fortunately it wasn’t shattered.

When I was carried into the field hospital, I had my Webley—Fosbery clutched in my hand, and I pointed it at the doctor. He stood there, a surgical cap on his head and a mask covering his nose and mouth, and what looked like a butcher’s cleaver in his hand. His eyes were a rich amber, and I peered intently into that foxy gaze.

“I’ve got two legs, Doctor. If I come out of surgery with anything less than the two, I will come after you, if I have to drag myself over hell’s creation, and I’ll have no qualms in shooting off a favourite piece of your anatomy.” I dropped my gaze to his groin. “Trust me on this.”

A nurse slapped an ether mask over my nose and mouth, but before I slipped into unconsciousness, I thought I heard him chuckle.

When I regained consciousness once more, a doctor was sitting beside my bed, scribbling something on a chart. My leg was encased in plaster and suspended above the mattress by a metal frame. “Fairly clean break, Brevet Lieutenant.”

I knew I was groggy from the aftereffects of the anaesthesia but, “Are you sure you’ve got the right man? I’m not an officer.” I’d been promoted to sergeant simply through attrition, and I’d been content with that rank.

The doctor regarded me with a slightly amused twist of his lips. “You are now, soldier. Field commission. Congratulations. And I have every anticipation of your leg healing nicely. There may be a bit of a limp, but you should regain full use of it.”

“Thank you. Er…you are the doctor who patched me up, aren’t you?” I was fairly certain I recognised those amber eyes.

“I am.”

He was quite good-looking, a few inches shorter than me, I judged, with brown hair streaked with reddish-gold strands and those striking amber eyes.

I cleared my throat. “Doctor.” I looked away and patted myself down, searching for a cigarette, only to discover there were no pockets in the get-up they had me in. I sighed and met his interested gaze. “I apologize for being testy in the operating theatre.”

“Testy? Is that what you call it?” He gave me a fearsome scowl, then spoiled it by bursting into laughter. He found a cigarette—his uniform had pockets—placed it between my lips, and lit it.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. However, I have to tell you that an apology does not cut it, Lieutenant. I’m not in the habit of having handguns pointed at the…er…favourite part of my anatomy.”

I groaned, then choked on a mouthful of smoke.

“You’ll have to do more if you wish to make up for that appalling display.” He grinned, and I suddenly realised he was possibly only a few years older than I. “Dinner, I think, once you’re able to get around?”

“I’d like that, Dr…uh…Mr—?”

“Mr Fox Sullivan at your service, dear chap, but no need to be formal. Call me Sully. Everyone does.”

“I’m not everyone. I’ll call you Fox.” The name suited him. He had the sharp features of a fox.

He blushed and then smiled, a shy smile for such an assertive man. “All right. Well…well, I must continue my rounds. Try not to make my nurses irritable, will you? I swear they can be more frightening than the Hun.”

I chuckled as I watched him leave the ward, then lay back and bent my left leg to conceal the bulge in my hospital blues. I was a gentleman, after all, and wouldn’t want to shock the ladies. I closed my eyes and began to consider how difficult it might be to make love with my leg in a cast.

* * * *

Each day Fox would stop by to see how I was recovering—he was surprised by how quickly I’d dispensed with the pills I was given for the pain—and we’d share a cigarette and a cup of tea or a glass of wine while he brought me up to date on the latest news from the Front. I waited impatiently for him to follow through on his dinner invite.

Finally, a week or so later, Fox asked me to his tent when the doctor who shared it with him was busy in the operating theatre. He helped me onto his cot and lowered my hospital blues over my hips. I was rather surprised to find he had already slicked his passage. He coated my shaft and settled himself comfortably on my rigid c**k.

Hot, rippling muscles contained my c**k, clenching and then releasing as he raised and lowered himself. It had been a long time—years—since I’d been buried in a tight arse. The only solace war brought where hasty hand jobs, and this…this proved almost as good as what I’d had with Thomas.

Fox’s eyes glowed like yellow gold, and he leaned forward, bracing himself on my shoulders. His touch, as light as it was, caused a flash of pain, and I couldn’t help grunting.

“What is it, Rick?” He stroked his palm over my hair.

“My shoulder…”

He brushed aside the top of my hospital blues. “I don’t see anything.” He dripped a kiss to my shoulder, then rested his forearms on either side of my head and settled his mouth on mine. His arse rose and fell, our tongues duelled, and I reached between us to get a firm grip on his c**k.

He raised his head and gave a crooked smile. “My God, you’ve got a talent!”

“Never mind. Just kiss me.”

He laughed and did as I ordered.

Privacy could be an illusion, so we had no choice but to hurry to completion.

And I was pleased to note that as it turned out, having a broken leg didn’t prove to be a problem at all.

* * * *

We continued our friendship until I was sent back to England to convalesce a short time later. He promised to write. I promised to write back. Both of us knew it was unlikely we would.

Once in England, I instructed my driver to take me to Greenbriers rather than going to Thorny Walk.

Father was in Town along with John, both of them aiding the war effort, and Thorny Walk House was in covers for the duration. I’d written to Lady Eugenia, and she’d graciously offered to have me stay at Fortescue Manor.

Three months later, not even a pronounced limp would keep me from the fighting, and I was back on the front lines.

* * * *

The war dragged on for two more years. More died, more would carry scars—both mental and physical—but finally, on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918 the last shot was fired.

I wasn’t going to be demobbed—demobilized—just yet, but I was fortunate enough to be stationed in Paris, which had gone mad with joy at the War’s end.

That particular night, I returned to my barracks to find a letter waiting for me. It was in a lilac envelope and smelled faintly of the delicate flowers; it was from Lady Eugenia.

I shut my eyes against the pain. Thomas was gone. What else could she be writing to tell me?

My fingers clenched shut on the elegant paper, crumpling it, while my eyes burned and my throat tightened. Finally, I drew a breath, opened my fingers, and tried to smooth out the worst of the wrinkles.

My very dear Warrick, she wrote. It saddens me deeply to inform you that Thomas was seriously injured in a skirmish with a German battalion in Africa. His company suffered some casualties, the most devastating of which was the death of RSM Cutter. He gave his life to save my son’s.

Oh, thank God! Tears streamed down my cheeks. Thomas was still alive!

I have not seen my son yet, as his doctors wanted his condition to be more stable before sending him back to England; however he’s coming home via military transport, and you know how quickly they can travel. We anticipate his arrival within the next week. The next page was spattered with what had to be teardrops. Oh, Warrick, he’s lost an eye!

Lost an eye? One of those beautiful, tourmaline eyes? I felt as if I were about to vomit.

I was the scion of a long line of Synclaires, however. I drew in a steadying breath and got myself under control.

From what we have been able to gather, it was done by a sabre s***h. RSM Cutter shoved him out of the way and took the second blow that would surely have killed our dear boy.

Please, Warrick, if it is at all possible, please come to see him. He’ll need someone to boost his morale, and you would be ideal…

I didn’t bother reading the rest of the letter. I went to see my commander.

“Sorry, Lieutenant. I’m afraid I can’t give you leave just now.”

Goddammit.

I had no choice but to send a telegramme to Father. The last thing I wanted to do was ask a favour of him, but for Thomas…Oh, for Thomas, I definitely would.

Father. In desperate need of leave Stop You know people Stop Requesting your help in this matter.

The next morning, I was called to my commander’s office. “It appears you have friends in high places, Lieutenant.” He handed me the paper granting me emergency leave.

“Thank you, sir.”

I sent Lady Eugenia a telegramme assuring her I’d arrive at Greenbriers as soon as possible. Then I packed my kitbag and caught the night train from Paris to Calais.

The weather was notoriously unsettled this time of year; I just hoped I’d be able to find a boat that could take me across the Channel.

If not…goddammit, I’d bloody well swim across.