Iâve been writing about officer heroes again -- this time in a romance novel. The hero is an East End lad who was promoted from the ranks and wounded in WWI. The heroine sometimes time travels by accident. Itâs called Time Enough, and itâs hella fun to write.
I went inside. There was a light on in the kitchen. Mrs. Lawrence was sitting at the kitchen table. I hesitated on the threshold. She heard me and looked up. "Hullo, luvvie," she said in a distracted voice. She looked back down.
On the table was spread out a khaki uniform. "Charlie's?" I said, coming into the room.
Mrs. Lawrence nodded. "The one he was wounded in. They gave it back to us, as if there'd be anything we could do with it," she said. "My John's uniform came back too, but we burnt it."
I looked down at uniform. It was scorched and torn in places, and there was a dry brown stain working up from the ragged end of the left trouser leg. Mrs. Lawrence pointed at another brown mark on the left arm. "That was a piece of shrapnel," she said. "Lodged in âis forearm. Could of gone septic, but thank the Blessed Lord it didn't." She pointed to a singed patch near the shoulder. "That was a near miss." Then down the leg. "That was what sent him 'ome, o'course. I thank the Lord daily that 'e came back to me. Uniform came back still filthy wif that grey mud and covered with--stained everwhere. I washed it five times. The mud came out. But not the rest."
I reached out to touch the row of gold buttons running down the tunic. The memory gripped me so suddenly I scarcely had time to react.
I was knee-deep in grey mud. Around me, men screamed and struggled to set one foot in front of the other. "Forward, lads!" someone shouted. Beside me was Charlie, in uniform, his knuckles white around a revolver. Hair stuck slick to his neck. Rain came down in droves all around us. I heard a whistle, and then was almost knocked off my feet as the world became grey around me. Shellfire, sending mud flying.
"How far to the objective, Mr. Lawrence?" said someone.
"Another mile," Charlie replied, pointing. "The Lancashires are ahead of us." Then, "B Company! Stand your ground! Forward!" He struggled, stumbled, planting both hands in the mud. Righted himself.
Another whistle, another boom. Closer this time. Another whistle. Then the world upended itself. I found myself lying face-up, looking at the heavy grey sky. When I rolled over, I saw Charlie, covered in mud, blood seeping through his uniform, not moving.
Then I felt the bands starting to wrap around my chest. The memory wrapping around me, preparing to pull me into it. No. I threw myself backwards and when my vision cleared I was sitting on the floor of the kitchen, the back of my head throbbing from where I'd whacked it against the wall.
I closed my eyes and listened to the blood rushing in my ears. My racing heart.
"What in the blazes was that?" Mrs. Lawrence demanded.
"Nothing," I said. "I just... I'm sorry." I climbed upright, testing out my shaking legs. Dear God. I'd almost gotten pulled back to--where had Mrs. Lawrence said Charlie was injured? Ypres? "I should go to bed."
"Be careful with âim, Emma," said Mrs. Lawrence as I made my way out of the kitchen. "He's everything to me." [x]
(As an aside, if anyone knows anything about pensions for officers promoted from the ranks and wounded... could you message me? Internet not currently being very helpful and Iâm trying to avoid a trip to the National Archives at Kew. :D)
