A/N: This chapter has some graphic war related scenes.

Chapter 11

1917

The only way forwards was movement and falling into the duty he had been given as Captain. Foyle had more than enough to do before he and his unit shipped off, and he was nearly glad to finally be on the way to the continent. Distance and duty; that would surely keep the unrelenting fog of emotion at bay, he decided.

They were rather a motley crew, and the men seemed to be getting younger and younger. The only ones left really, Foyle thought. Private William "Bat" Balcomb, from Battle, Sussex came to them when A and B companies joined to go to Belgium. He was all elbows and knees, ears still too big for him and spots on his face. Hair curly and blond, he had a wide, laughing smile. He looked hardly a day over sixteen, though he adamantly tried to assure them he was eighteen. His father bred horses and it was the boy's greatest desire to be a jockey. Or to play cricket for England. He was wild about both, driving the others in his unit spare with endless talk of wickets, bowls, and his encyclopaedic knowledge of horse racing.

On the long journey out to the reserve lines, he had introduced himself as "Billy Balcomb from Battle," and the other men had laughed at him for both his naivety and his enthusiasm. Foyle's lieutenant, Frederick Morris, never one to be easy on the younger troops, called him "Batty Billy", impatient with his endless talk.

When the lieutenant's harshness continued into the first week at the reserve camp, Foyle was surprised to find himself feeling slightly sorry for the boy. Deciding to keep an eye on him, Foyle took him under his wing.

"You can be my sort of Batman, if you like, Balcomb. It wouldn't be much, but it would keep you out of trouble."

"Work with you, sir? I'd like that, sir. I'm sorry about the Lieutenant. I can't understand it."

Foyle had grinned, "Morris? Oh, well he's more of a football man, you see. Can't stand cricket."

Morris had thought Foyle's idea slightly sceptical, but after a few weeks when Balcomb had shown his prowess with lobbing Mills bombs, and his overall mettle and easy manner, "Batty Billy" became affectionately shortened to "Bat".

Morris grudgingly admitted he was a crack shot when it came to the Mills.

"Bowling, sir," Bat had explained.

"What?"

"Bowling. I'm my cricket team's bowler, sir."

"Well, bugger me…" Morris had muttered, clapping the boy on the shoulder.

They'd all had a good laugh at that, but at last Bat was firmly admitted to the brotherhood of proper soldiering, and although still the baby of the group, was no longer treated like one.

For all his endless chatter and tireless enthusiasm, Foyle really liked the boy and often took time to make sure he was looking after himself. They all rubbed along well enough, and by the time they moved up to the support lines, Morris and Foyle had quite a decent unit. They all looked after each other, and there was a warmth of camaraderie that grew up quickly between them.

Lieutenant Frederick Morris was a sharp tempered man in his early thirties, rather stout and short, but he was damned good at soldiering and knew the equipment like the back of his own hand. He was an expert scrounger, and they were never in want of spare parts or an extra bottle of whiskey. Foyle felt quite grateful to him, and was glad to have him standing by him as his lieutenant.

Foyle was also relieved his new position hadn't made him an outsider. He was fair, but he also believed in discipline. It helped a man keep his head and it created an indifference to danger. If a man was focused and engrossed in his task, he was certain to be more efficient. Efficiency, Foyle decided, was the only way to survive.

They moved around a lot at first, in and around Ypres. It was not until August that they moved north of a slight ridge — then they learnt the significance a few inches of ground might make with an advantage. Things began to worsen from there; it was a scrabble…a desperate feeling of hanging on.

In the very few quiet moments Foyle had, his thoughts were never far from Caroline. If he thought about her his whole body seemed to freeze — better to keep moving and not think. Worrying about the men was easier than worrying about himself. He felt on the edge of a hysteria that he was constantly quenching. While he looked after his men closely, there was a recklessness about him when the skirmishing began. In quiet moments of desperation, when his spirits sank so very low, he hoped a bullet might claim him swiftly. The petty and self pitying thought of, that will show her, often came to mind, and he hated himself for such weakness.

The destruction that continued around him was hard to bear, but equally, his own dispirited dejection made it all the more intolerable. He was grateful for the distraction of the charge of his men, the mountains of paperwork and forms that seemed to come with being an officer, and the routine they were conditioned to. Foyle threw his energy into his duty to his men, but shirked looking after himself. It left him ragged and he thought it wouldn't be long before something gave, though he dreaded the thought of Home and Leave.

He dreamt of her and woke angry at himself for letting her go. Thoughts of going to find her, having a stand off with Sir Charles and whisking her and the child away to safety often came to him in these half conscious moments of waking. It stung his pride. Any hope he tried to conjure was soon gone however, and 'pistols at dawn' faded into oblivion. He'd have to be alive for all that, and she had sent him away to what he thought of as a certain death. Why else would she have gone back to Sir Charles? She must believe he wouldn't last the winter.

Yes, Caroline, you've sent me to die…though I feel already dead…

Before they went up the lines, Foyle agreed with the men that a few hours in the nearby village would be acceptable.

"I want you all back by 9 o'clock. We've got an early start and I want you all sober."

A chorus of "Yes, sir", and grinning faces greeted him, and he grinned back. "And I'm not bloody well buying, so bring your pennies."

They walked into the village as night was coming on. Foyle watching the others carefully, more interested in their enjoyment than his own. He wouldn't have minded staying behind and having a rest, but he didn't want to be alone where his thoughts might catch up with him.

The tavern was already crawling with other infantry men; a sea of brown cloth with intermittent flashes of white of the working women. Foyle followed his men through the crowd. Morris was plonking a glass in front of Bat as he came up behind them.

"Don't get him drunk, Fred."

Morris grinned wickedly, "Wouldn't dream of it. Boy's got to learn to drink though."

Bat looked at Morris a little anxiously. "I say, sir, I don't think I'd like to be drunk."

Morris clapped him on the shoulder, "Don't worry about that, we'll look after you. And we'll find you a woman too." He laughed as if having made a joke and Bat looked uncomfortable.

"I'm not sure, sir…"

Foyle arched his eyebrows, "Take care, Fred. I want a useful unit tomorrow, not a half dead one."

"Half dead already, aren't we?" Morris shot back, raising his glass. "All right, we'll go easy, sir."

Foyle nodded and left them to it, finding a seat at a table in the corner to sip his drink and smoke a cigarette. He could watch quietly from here; he had no energy to be a part of the throng, and he only wished his brain might turn off so he could rest properly.

Sergeant Ian Lowe came past with another drink, but didn't stay long, his eye caught by a woman across the room. Then some of the others joined him; before Foyle knew it, he had drunk quite a lot and was beginning to feel light headed. A young woman came up to the table, white dress clinging to her many curves. She touched Foyle's arm and he looked up into blue eyes. She looked nothing like Caroline, but his mind thought of her at once. Nodding her head, she held out her hand to him. Foyle looked around, but he was alone again at the table. She spoke to him in Flemish, but Foyle shook his head to indicate he didn't understand her.

He tried French instead. "Je ne comprends pas…"

"Come with me, soldier?" she asked, smiling invitingly at him.

"Non, non, merci…"

"Come," she said again. She continued to smile at him, and Foyle felt drawn in.

He shrugged, "Yes, all right."

She led him towards the back and then up a narrow flight of stairs. He stumbled once or twice, the drinks beginning to take real effect.

Her hands were calloused and it occurred to him that she was most likely the daughter of a local Flemish farmer. How we all try to survive… He let himself be guided into a shabby room lit only by a candle. Her hands were already at his trousers and Foyle tried to give himself over to some sort of desire.

He could smell the stale sweat of himself as he peeled off his uniform's jacket. Life to him now was stale and his mind was numb, his actions only motions to be gone through: the daily routine, the marching, drinking, even this now…only motions. He kissed her roughly, pushing her down on to the bed behind her. A flame of anger licked at his brain, and his hands that tugged at her white dress were harsh and cold. He felt the young woman shudder underneath him. It gave him pause, thinking perhaps he was frightening her. Her eyes were dead and without sparkle; spirit crushed much like his own.

Foyle stepped away from her quickly and sat down with a thump, head in his hands. The anger had given way to sadness and shame, and his shoulders began to shake. Try as he might, he could not forget her. No amount of drink, no other women…he could not let her go. Though it had been months, the pain felt as fresh as ever. The young woman sat up, dress hanging off one shoulder, putting her arms around him.

"Maakt niet uit," she murmured quietly, reassuring him that it did not matter.

His silent sobs broke and he began to cry in earnest, a strangled sound coming from deep within him, face red from behind his fingers.

"Shh, wat is het?" Her voice had become soft and real in seeing his distress and when Foyle looked up, the light of life had come back into her eyes. He slumped into her arms, hand over his face to stifle the tears.

She gathered him up to her, rocking him, "Arme man…" she whispered. Poor, poor man. Foyle let himself be soothed — her purpose of bringing him here not entirely gone to waste.

August 1917

Bat stood shivering against the earthen wall, teeth chattering uncontrollably from an inner cold — a cold brought on by a constant fear. Foyle saw him in the half light of morning, and felt a sudden pity. The boy was on guard duty again; only yesterday he'd returned to the dug out, drenched to the skin, teeth chattering like they were now. Foyle had rolled out of his bed and made the boy get in after putting on dry clothes. Bat had a thick cricket jumper, the knitted wool now a dull and dirty cream, and Foyle had made sure he'd pulled it on before he got into the warm bag.

"No use to me if you catch your death from this rain," Foyle had said firmly.

The unit had come up to the front lines only yesterday. It was always a hectic time as they took charge of a trench, relieving the other men and preparing for the next push. The place seemed to heave, men coming from the most unlikely places along the zig-zag trench. The place stank like something rotten from the week long rain, and if a man stepped off the duck boards he was likely to be in over his boots in mud.

The artillery guns had gotten stuck half way up the line, and communications, were as ever, hit and miss. Bat had helped with the horses pulling the heavy loads, familiar with how to lead them and urge them on. Foyle had received the orders: the push was to be the next day or the day after.

"If they were a bit more definite, we might actually get somewhere," he had said crossly to Morris, chucking down the papers on the table in the main dugout.

And now here they were, day of the push upon them. A runner had brought the confirmation under the cover of darkness; it was to happen at 7:30, before the Bosche began the "breakfast shelling". They had two hours to go.

Foyle went up to Bat, tipping back his tin hat to better see the boy. "Anything to report, Private?"

"No, sir."

Foyle looked carefully over the parapet from where they stood, but he saw only grey shadows and rain. It was as if the world had been blurred at the edges.
He ducked back down, holding out a cigarette before lighting his own.

"Another two hours."

"Yes, sir."

They were alone in this corner of the trench: Shaftesbury Avenue, they called it, having given each communications line a name after a road in London. Surrounded only by mud, it was quiet save the soft pattering of rain. It seemed to unnerve Bat as much as the shelling. The Bosche had kept up a regular stream of strafing during recent nights, peppering the parapets and lobbing grenades about every half hour. He had grown noticeably worse in the last week: more jumpy. Foyle had put it down to tiredness. They all could do with a decent sleep; in proper beds…with soft women to wake up to. Caroline, where are you this rotten morning?

He took a deep drag on his cigarette. Bat was having trouble lighting his, and Foyle reached into his pocket again to pull out his lighter. Their fingers touched and after the cigarette was lit, Bat reached out to grip Foyle's arm tightly. "Chris," he began, his voice small.

A sudden careening sound, deep and guttural drowned out his words.

"Bloody Bosche seeing if we're awake," Foyle muttered, ducking as a cascade of earth rained around them.

Bat's eyes went wide and his other hand grasped Foyle's heavy Greatcoat. He was nearly scrabbling at the other man, and Foyle felt alarmed.

"Easy, Bat," he said putting an arm on the boy's shoulder.

"I can't stand it, Chris," Bat said, "I feel like jelly inside."

He seems like jelly too, Foyle thought, shaking and shivering like that. Foyle wasn't sure what to say at first.

"You will stand it. You must. We'll get through it, you'll see," he said finally.

Bat shook his head, tears springing up from his eyes, streaking through the dirt on his face. "You may, but I won't."

"That's a silly thing to say, Bat. None of us know what will happen."

Bat looked down, eyes closing in despair, and Foyle found himself putting an arm around the boy, patting his shoulder. Bat still gripped his coat, as if afraid to let go.

"I'm not a coward, honest, Chris."

"I know you aren't, Bat."

Bat raised his head, leaning in suddenly and putting his mouth near Foyle's ear, "I'm afraid…not of dying, but of the pain of it all…"

The boy's nose nudged Foyle's cheek, head eventually resting under his chin. Foyle shifted away from the sudden intimacy, but said quietly, "Stick close to me when the time comes, and you'll be all right."

Foyle saw him nod. Then Bat added in an awful, grave yet childlike voice, "Will you put me out of it, like we do with the horses…if I'm badly hit?"

Shuddering, Foyle stepped away and said more sharply than he intended, "Don't talk such nonsense. You'll be fine. Now buck up, before your long face affects the others."

Bat rubbed his face and squared his shoulders as best he could. "Sorry…"

"They'll all be stirring now. It's time to write letters and have a bite…you've got some paper?"

The boy nodded. Foyle softened, "Hang in there, Bat. We all need each other to be strong now and keep going. We'll be back in time for tea — you'll see. I'll send Lowe up so you can come get something to eat. All right?"

He nodded again and Foyle walked back along the trench towards the dugout, feeling worried. The boy's face haunted him; he had looked so ghastly.

Sat at the table, oil lamp burning softly, Foyle picked up his pen. He wrote to his parents, and after checking his watch, he began another letter. He wasn't sure why he wrote it, but the words came all the same.

My Dearest Caroline,
I stood looking out over the grey and thought of you this morning. Where were you? In bed, asleep? Our child moving under your hand? I shall never believe otherwise; it reminds me, you see, of a normal life beyond the wire and mud. What was peacetime like? I can't remember. There's a push on — it's been raining non-stop, and I feel half drowned and wonder if I shall make it. I don't know if I want to anymore. I will think of you and the child as I always do before we push onwards. You told me once, do you remember, that you were my heart and that you would for evermore be in the blood in my veins. You shall always be a part of me, my darling. If my blood soaks this Belgian field, and I am to never see you again in this life, you and I will perhaps again be one. Perhaps in death, which I have been so steadfastly denied, I can return to you and the days of peace we found. To walk beside you in the shadows and watch our child grow.

I imagine my father coming to tell you the news; these letters never make it in decent time…your butler will announce him: 'Sergeant Foyle' and you will think it's me, and he's just misheard the rank. But it will be poor old Dad come to tell you I've died; he'd feel compelled to do so, I know him. They'll all tell you it was a worthy death, but don't believe them. It's awful; no glory and no sense. I feel it in my bones, Caroline. We have come this far, but I don't believe it will last. Not this push. And my men…their blood will be on my hands, you see. I can't seem to feel anything any more — I've even begun to forget what it's like to be clean and dry; the fire within me is dying, Caroline, and yet I love you so strongly sometimes I feel I might burst from the feeling.

Foyle broke off suddenly as Morris came in with his breakfast. "Half an hour, sir."

He nodded, looking at his watch. "Half an hour. Right. The men getting up and ready?"

"Yes. Pack of nerves mostly, Chris. This damned rain — making everyone jumpy."

"Had a look over earlier, can't see a blasted thing."

Morris nodded gravely, "We're to regroup with Parker's unit by the wood, but we can't even bloody see it from here."

Foyle thrust the unfinished letter into his pocket and pushed his breakfast to one side, drawing out the map they had pored over the night before.

Morris swore. "It'll be like a soup out there."

The two men looked at each other and Foyle sucked his teeth. Both desensitised for the most part, there was instead an edge of frustration of the logistical side of things. They wanted to do a thing properly: Morris couldn't stand to have things done shoddily, and nor could Foyle. He stood, nodding towards the doorway.

"Come on."

"Words of wisdom?"

"Never been much good at that…" Foyle chewed his lip in agitation.

At twenty past seven, the men stood in their lines. Foyle went up and down, checking their guns and equipment. He gave them each a nip of whiskey to warm them against the rain. Stopping beside Bat, he nodded to the boy.

"Stick by me," he said in a low voice.

The rain poured off their helmets. He went up two rungs on the wooden ladder, taking a last look over his men. Reminded of chess pieces, Foyle wondered how they all stuck it. If they all turned tail and went home — the Bosche too— would there be anything to fight over? He tried not to think of the light in their eyes that may soon be gone. They seemed so small and vulnerable as they looked up at him, faces pinched and white. He felt his bowels clench unpleasantly.

"Fix bayonets!" he ordered in a voice that sounded unlike his own.

The clattering soon subsided and it felt as if they all held their breaths as one. Standing there in the mud and rain, they seemed like some creatures from an underworld, come up out of the earth to find themselves in hell. Tightening the grip on the whistle with his lips, Foyle checked his watch. Now. He blew a lungful of air through it, a tinny sound shrieking over them. Up and over and then he was running, pistol held out before him. His mind went numb and all thought stopped, action taking over.

It became a blur of brown — uniformed men racing forwards, mud and clods of earth raining about them as first one explosion, then another crashed around them. They bloody knew we were coming…Foyle swore out loud between pants of breath. A tree was flaming against the grey. With the rain they could not see very far ahead. The mud clutched at their boots — the ground seeking to return them to the place whence they had come.

Looking across, he saw Bat beside him, panting hard, the others advancing with them side by side. Morris was yelling and Foyle wondered how he had the breath for it. Whistling and zipping bullets went past them. He heard shouts, followed by cries of pain and he felt a flush of panic. A cry came from somewhere to his right, and then another. A shell went off ahead of them to their left, and Foyle ducked instinctively. He looked again at Bat, who was keeping pace with him marvellously. The noise around them was immense.

Another boom echoed, followed by sharp whistling. Bat cried out, stumbling. At the same moment the ground beneath Foyle's feet seemed to open and he felt his stomach fly into his throat as he lost his footing and went tumbling forwards. Something heavy careened into him from behind and his vision went dark.

It was the cold rain on his face that restored him to consciousness. He heard far off muffled sounds. It sounded as if he were underwater and though he shook his head, his ears still rang. There was something sticking into his back and he tried to shift. A low groan, more horrible than anything Foyle had ever heard before sounded behind him. He sat up, squinting through the rain.

"Bat!" he cried, clambering to his knees.

Moving next to the young lad who was half buried in mud and dirt, Foyle realised a shell had gone off in front of them, caving the ground. They must have tumbled in. He looked up briefly, the battle is up there…how long have we been here? He felt a moment's fright at being discovered by the enemy and he quickly turned his attention back to Bat.

"Can you hear me, Bat?" he fairly shouted in the boy's face, his ears still ringing. He thought his voice sounded distorted.

Bat's eyes flickered. "Chris? Help me, Chris."

"I'm here, Bat, I'm here."

Foyle undid the strap of the boy's helmet and tugged it off gently. He put the back of his hand against his mouth reflexively as he saw the blood that had pooled in the helmet. His blond curls were now all red.

"Bat?" he croaked, not sure of what to do.

Bat didn't answer but looked at him with eyes that begged no more, please.

"We'll get you out of here, Bat, don't worry," Foyle said with a conviction he did not feel. He looked about wildly for any help, but only dead men lay around them. He felt hopeless and terribly alone, and his hands began to shake. The instinct to live suddenly rushed through him however, and he swallowed back the bile that was beginning to form in the back of his throat.

Bat's hand, slick with warm blood, found Foyle's, gripping it weakly, and he knew he could not leave the boy to go for help. He heard still the far off sounds of battle and Foyle swore mightily, mostly for Bat — his face had gone a deathly white and his eyes looked strange. The boy's lips were moving, so Foyle leant down to hear him.

"Like the horses, Chris…"

Foyle shook his head, "Not yet, my lad. You hang in there." He grasped the boy's shoulders to pull him upright — he would carry him out if he had to. Bat shrieked and as the dirt fell away from him, his flesh under his left arm seemed to give way.

Foyle turned away and dry retched, stomach heaving upwards emptily… the poor boy had been practically disembowelled.

"I'm sorry, Bat," Foyle cried, gritting his teeth. Putting one of his hands over the wound, Foyle lifted him ever so gently to free him from the blanket of earth. Foyle took off his belt and tried to bind the boy's uniform to his side to hold back the flow. Bat's eyes had closed and Foyle hoped he had lost consciousness so he wouldn't feel the pain.

Whispering to him the entire time, Foyle carefully lifted him into his arms. He made for the direction of the planned regroup to the West, thankful for having pored over the maps so carefully with Morris.

With each step Foyle murmured over and over, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

It was the last thing he remembered before the world went dark again.

A/N: This takes place around the Third Battle of Ypres; I've made a generalisation of the battle here rather than base this chapter on a specific one. I'm grateful to our guide at the Ypres Salient who so tirelessly explained what went on and showed us just how much difference a few centimetres of ground could make…