Chapter Text
Where Youth and Laughter Go
Part One: The Dreamers
I see them in the foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats,
And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain,
Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats
And mocked by the hopeless longing to regain
Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats
And going to the office in the train.
-The Dreamers
Siegfried Sassoon
The arrival of the Royal Welch Fusiliers meant some new supplies and even less space. Thomas leaned against the wooden frame of a revetted trench wall—flat against it, as out of the way as he was going to get—and lit a cigarette as he watched the fusiliers pack in.
They were cheerful chaps, the lot of them, with helmets of Hadfield’s steel under a fresh coat of paint, webbing all clean and sporting an almost shocking variety of very neat facial hair.
They labored until they were set up at noon, and then were let free to see the bedraggled ruffians they’d have to share space with.
Thomas could remember a time when a turned cuff or a wrinkle in his waistcoat was enough to distract him.
Was William still muddling along at Downton, struggling to keep his collars clean and his waistcoat buttoned, forgetting where the dessert service was kept, and opening wine like an imbecile?
Probably, since William was full of patriotic energy. Experience said naming your hopes was enough to guarantee you a future doing the opposite.
William was probably banging out It’s a Long Way to Tipperary on the bloody piano in servants’ hall, with the staff clapping along.
Thomas dug out another cigarette. Not that he could spare them, but he’d recently come into a small inheritance upon the death of his sergeant. He concentrated on the antiseptic feel of smoke in his lungs.
And then a shoulder budged up next to him, jostling him so he coughed, and the friendly face of—Christ, a lieutenant—cocked him a grin.
Thomas levered himself off the wall and stood wearily at attention.
“Appreciate the thought,” said the lieutenant. “But unfortunately I’m here to filch a smoke break. Can you spare a fag?”
“Yes, sir, of course,” said Thomas, and lit him up as neatly as he would His Lordship’s cigar.
The lieutenant savored his first drag and exhaled it with his eyes still closed, smiling. “Just the thing after a long morning of trudging through muck,” he said.
Thomas had his measure immediately, from his robust good cheer to his posh accent: a country house and Cambridge and he’d want to talk cricket with Thomas in a minute.
Thomas just nodded, treating commissioned officers as he treated all his betters: agreeing with what they said while giving the hearty impression that he didn’t care.
“My name is Siegfried Sassoon, so you know. Second Lieutenant, Royal Welch Fusiliers, exceedingly obliged to you.”
Lieutenant Sassoon was a tall and athletic figure, with a broad jaw and a cleft in his chin. He had an even tan of someone who spent his time out of doors, and a bright smile under it—and Thomas briefly thought some of the things one could think in London, meeting a man like this.
How faraway was that life, too, where you could sound someone out with a coy phrase in the right place.
He’d imagined that was danger, those conversations, before he knew its true form.
“Thomas Barrow,” he said around the cigarette, then took it in his hand to speak more clearly. “Acting sergeant, not for long now you lot’ve come. Medical Corps.”
They shook hands, Lieutenant Sasson with enthusiasm. “Where’s home, Sergeant Barrow?”
“Yorkshire,” said Thomas, and turned his head.
“Well that comes off rather immediately. Do you miss it?”
Did he miss it? A struggle to make a place for himself that didn’t hang on some gentleman’s whim. Everyone watching, all the time. He’d hated the lot of them, at last, and he’d treated them recklessly.
But it was an unfair question, standing on slippery duckboard with bloodstains that wouldn’t come out of his tunic, and cold mud seeping into his puttees.
Of course he missed it; he fairly dreamt of it.
The broad lawn and Lebanon cedars, the staterooms and strapwork and elegant profile of the house—even the brisk comfort to be found in the servants’ hall amid the whistle of copper kettles and William on the bloody piano.
“What a question, when we’re standing here in a hole, a shout away from no man’s land? Of course I miss it.”
“That’s, well…rather a way of putting it,” said Lieutenant Sassoon.
Thomas didn’t respond. He wasn’t out to impress anyone.
They were silent for a minute more, until Lieutenant Sassoon stamped out the butt of his cigarette and they shook hands again.
“Well, I’ve got to shove off, it looks like, thanks for the company.”
“Sure,” said Thomas, neutrally.
“You’re a good chap, Sergeant Barrow,” the lieutenant paused, as if he expected more to the conversation. When it didn’t come, he stood up from the wall. “I’ll see you around.”
Thomas nodded and let the smoke hang in his mouth.