Thank you! :D I'm glad you're enjoying my story so far! Sorry I wasn't able to post an update last night - I only got about 400 words in after our big Seven Fishes Christmas Party before stupid sleep snuck up behind my chair and knocked me out (usually we have that Feast on Christmas Eve, but not everyone could make it today so we had it yesterday instead). But, after cooking and baking so very much stuff yesterday and the day before, I don't have to make anything today. Hooray for leftovers! :D So now, here's:
Part II
Logan had joined the effort at the Western Front back in summer, when the United Kingdom's declaration of war on Germany automatically pulled the British dominion of Canada into the fray. Since then, he'd seen action in Belgium and France, watching the body count pile up as the infantry's positions grew ever more entrenched, until his small size and fierce disposition led his commanding officer to recommend him to the fledgling Royal Flying Corps to train as a pilot: a shining knight of the air.
This was his first assignment since completing his training - flying reconnaissance over the trenches that scarred the fields of southern Belgium. He flew an Henri Farman observation plane that looked, at first glance, like a child's toy of wood and paper, but was really one of the more reliable machines available.
In a reconnaissance plane, the observer was in charge, not the pilot, and Logan had gone up with several senior officers during the few weeks since arriving at his new post. Lately, though, he'd most often been paired with Major Smith who, he'd discovered, the rest of the men found to be even more of an enigma than the surly Canadian newcomer. Rumor had it, the major had been a doctor of some sort before the war. Academic or medical, no one seemed to know.
But, Logan didn't care. As he'd growl to anyone who braved his stony glare long enough to ask: a man's past was his own business. 'Nuff said.
There's a sort of camaraderie that can grow in silence. A mutual respect for personal space and secrets. It was clear to everyone the major was brooding on something. That he'd likely suffered some terrible loss.
Logan didn't press, and he didn't pry. He had secrets enough of his own.
Major Smith accepted that.
Which was why, when the major signed out a mule-drawn cart and ordered the lieutenant to drive across the snowy fields in the direction of the forward trenches, Logan didn't question or hesitate. He simply drove, his eyes sharp and his heightened senses on full alert.
The major had a certain talent for getting past guards. A flash of paper, a few glib words, and the pair were ushered through every checkpoint until they reached the front line. Beyond that sloping, muddy wall of earth lay the shell-pocked wastes of No Man's Land that stretched between the British and German trenches.
The enemy was so near, Logan could actually smell the Hun soldiers, and he bared his teeth, feeling his hackles rise...
"Major Smith!"
Captain Adderson dismissed the private who had notified him of the officers' arrival, then ducked out of his low, board-lined dugout and set his cap over his dark, dust-flecked hair. Like all the men around them, his pale face, trim mustache, and woolen, khaki uniform were smudged and stained with mud, and the dark half-circles under his eyes indicated how long it had been since he'd had a full night's sleep. Nevertheless, he kept up an alert and energetic posture as he approached the two visiting officers.
"What the bloody hell are you doing here, old boy?" he greeted cheerily, his eyes and teeth shining oddly in the moonlight as he shook the major's hand. "I must admit, I never expected to see you flying folk down in the mud with the rest of us lowly trench rats."
Smith grinned - a broad, toothy smile that changed his whole face.
"Adderson, old man," he said. "I know it's unorthodox, frowned upon, what have you. But, when I learned you were stationed so near our base... Well. I couldn't pass up the chance to wish a Merry Christmas to an old friend, now could I? Not in these uncertain times."
The brightness faded from the captain's smile.
"Of course, old man," he said. "But, don't stay out here, sir. Come in, come in."
He led the way back into the small, dark hole from which he'd emerged. Major Smith had to duck almost double to make it through, and even Logan's sharp eyes needed a few moments to adjust to the dim lamplight within the cramped, stuffy space.
"We keep our lamps and torches hooded up here," Adderson explained as he placed his cap on a peg. "This close to the German lines, even lighting a cigarette outside can be risky. Beyond that, bright lights do wreak merry havoc on one's night vision."
Logan nodded approvingly, casting his gaze over the rough, earthy hole. Wooden supports helped secure the dirt walls and ceiling. There was a small table, a storage box, and a couple of sleeping spaces. His sensative nostrils tingled with the strong scents of fresh dirt, candle wax, tobacco, and lamp oil.
"It's good you've come now," Captain Adderson was saying as the three of them took a seat around the table. "We had a miserable stretch of wet weather before this. Mud practically up to our knees. Things are starting to firm up with this cold snap, though."
"Then, you might appreciate this present I've brought you," Major Smith said, reaching into his coat pocket to pull out a pair of thick, knitted socks.
Captain Adderson accepted the warm-looking socks with something like reverence.
"Got a parcel a few days back," the major explained. "A knitting circle up in Manchester got it in their heads to knit socks and gloves to support the war effort."
"Well, the notion is certainly appreciated," Adderson said. "Thank you, sir. But..."
He knit his brow, his dark eyes honing in on the major's quirking expression.
"I know you, Smith. You're a wily one, and no mistake. If you've come here, it's ten-to-one odds something's going to happen in this place, and soon. Something outlandish, peculiar, and dangerous enough never to appear in an official report."
Smith chuffed a laugh and pulled out his watch.
"Lieutenant," he said to Logan, "your hearing's sharper than mine. Tell me if you hear anything—"
"Captain! Captain Adderson, sir!"
A young private with round glasses and a face raw-red with cold ducked into the dugout, only to come to quick attention when he realized the captian had guests.
"My apologies, sir!"
"What is it, Private?" Adderson demanded, turning a dry glare to Smith.
"Somethin's goin' on over at the German lines, sir," the private reported. "They've got their trenches all lit up. Lieutenant Saunders thinks they're schemin' somethin', sir. He said to inform you right away."
"Of course," Adderson said, and sighed angrily. "Go tell the lieutenant I'll join him shortly."
The private dashed away into the darkness.
Adderson crossed his arms.
"Well, you Black Spot?" he demanded of Smith. "You harbinger of chaos. Is there anything I should know before I venture out there to risk my neck? Or, should I say, anything you're willing to tell me?"
"Not a thing," Smith said, his expression decidedly impish.
Adderson curled his lip, then stood and straightened his uniform.
"Right," he said, reaching for his cap. "Then you two won't mind coming with me."
"Not in the least," the major said lightly. "Will we, Lieutenant?"
"No, sir," Logan said, his face entirely expressionless.
While it was true he didn't know what to expect, he felt he'd learned more about Major Smith in these last few minutes than he had in all the weeks they'd been flying together. The strange exchange between these two apparently old friends had hinted at a side of the stern, somber major Logan had never expected was there.
And, it had his curiousity piqued.
To Be Continued…
Note: During WWI, many civilians formed knitting groups to try to aid the war effort. These knitters were women, children and men who filled their free moments making warm socks, gloves, scarves and other garments to supplement military uniforms, which too often lacked sufficient warmth and comfort. In some places, these offerings were called "comforts." Some knitting groups in the US started sending garments to support the overseas war effort long before the US officially joined WWI in 1917, inspired by civilian knitters who had done the same for soldiers during the American Civil War. The effort became so popular and widespread, the military grew concerned about 'rogue' knitters, disapproving of some of the more colorful garments these civilians were sending to the troops. So, official knitting patterns and stitches (like, as legends suggest, the Kitchener Stitch, which provides a way to graft a sock's toe closed without a bulky, uncomfortable seam) were developed to encourage knitters to produce practical, khaki-colored socks, gloves, etc.
Until next time, thanks so much for reading! Your reviews and comments are always welcome! :)
Merry Christmas Eve! :D