When Jim was woken up, it felt as if he had just fallen asleep. This was not too far from the truth, as it was barely an hour after they had gone to bed. He hurried to get his clothes and equipment together as the people around him were doing the same.
Christine seemed the fastest, and when Jim was still tugging the grey flannel shirt into his wool trousers, she was already fixing the webbing straps to the epaulettes of her battle dress tunic.
The webbing carried much of the equipment they would need in battle, such as a gas mask, a bayonet, a water bottle, a backpack, an entrenching tool, and ammunition.
Bones had gotten tangled up in the suspenders that held up the trousers, cursing about this period's clothing, the ungodly hour, and Spock's well-meaning comments that he should finish putting one strap over one shoulder before starting on the next.
The Vulcan had discreetly exchanged his cap for his helmet already to keep his ears covered and seemed to have no problems whatsoever with getting dressed.
Pavel was still fiddling with the puttees—the strips of cloth all the soldiers wore wrapped around the lower leg from the ankle up to below the knee—when the others were finished.
He soon got the hang of it, though, and they all moved out of the dugout at the same time as Lance Corporal Jones without arousing his suspicion.
Outside, they followed the stream of soldiers through the semi-darkness to the front-line trench. Their platoon stood in a line next to Thompson, and where soldiers had chatted more or less amicably before, they grew quiet now. There were no bangs of explosions to be heard, not from the Germans, not from their own lines, and for a moment, not a whisper was uttered.
"Fix bayonets!" came the order from somewhere down the line, and every soldier fixed their blade to their rifles. Leonard McCoy, having been exempt from this procedure yesterday struggled for a moment but succeeded just as he thought he would draw everyone's attention to his ineptness.
Seconds later the same voice ordered the whole company to face forward as other voices along the line were shouting the same order, and they all took a step forward, up to the fire step.
Leonard frowned down at the step, wondering how many people had launched themselves over the parapet by this route and never returned. Next to him, his friends were silent, busy with similar thoughts or with paying attention to the still unfamiliar proceedings.
"Stand to!" the voice shouted, and in a closed line, they stepped onto the fire step.
There it was again, the glint of bayonets along the zig-zag of the trench. Jim nudged Leonard in the side, and he quickly turned his look forward, towards No Man's Land and the enemy lines.
This was essentially the same ritual as yesterday, and by now they had realised this procedure was repeated every morning at dawn and every evening at dusk in case of an attack.
Moment by moment, it grew a little lighter as another April morning dawned. It was still chilly, and their breath left little clouds hanging in the air.
Shuddering slightly, Leonard McCoy thought that the weird design of his gloves did not help to keep himself warm. They seemed to be missing a thumb and index finger. Then, glancing at his hands holding his weapon, he realised why. They were specially made rifleman's gloves that kept the thumb and trigger finger free to operate the rifle. Everything around them was optimised to kill and survive. As optimal as this period could get.
With a small sigh, he looked back towards No Man's Land. Over the parapet, past the sandbags, he could see a stretch of wasteland and some barbed wire fortifications. He thought it would probably be unwise to try to see more. For that, he would have to raise his head out of the trench. And it was unlikely anyway that there would be more to see but the disfigured geography of No Man's Land, a wasteland stretching through the heart of Europe.
The lack of colour was depressing, as everything around them was a variation of brown or grey. The earth, the trenches, even their uniforms. And nothing seemed to indicate that it was April, that it was spring, the time of year when trees should sprout the first green leaves, and birds begin to nest, and when people should bury seeds, not bodies.
The bang of explosions made him flinch, and for a second, he thought they were under attack. But the explosions were too far away, up ahead. It was the British side, their side, firing shells to deter the Germans from attacking.
They stood there for a while, their gazes silently fixed up ahead toward the uncertainty of the wasteland and the brutal certainty of the explosions. The sun rose higher, and along the ranks, the soldiers drew breaths of relief as the critical moments passed.
When they were ordered to step down, they each received a ration of rum that they all drank under the eyes of the superior officers. As he swallowed the burning liquid, Leonard McCoy thought that it was indeed a strange world they had found themselves in, where you got alcohol for breakfast. But he remembered having read something about it bolstering morale, even if it wasn't good for much else, something he could believe all too well if he looked around. Everyone seemed rather glad about this point on the agenda.
Leonard, Jim, Spock, Christine, and Pavel used the soldiers around for orientation. And as the others began to clean their rifles, they did the same. So far, nothing they had done seemed to have aroused any suspicion, and they were quite happy with their performance.
Lieutenant Edwin Thompson and Sergeant Clark Merriweather, on the other hand, were not but for other reasons.
"Try keeping movement in the open trenches at a minimum," Thompson said to the five of them and anyone in hearing range. "All of you. The Captain told me that of the entire company, my platoon was out in the open the most. He advises you to use dugouts and roofed sections of the trench system to gather if must be. He says the first bombardment yesterday happened because there was too much movement, and it's a wonder none of you was hit by a sniper."
Merriweather clapped Spock on the shoulder as the two turned to go. "Especially you, Grayson. At your height, you better take care of your head. It might get the attention of a sniper when you stand up straight in the wrong place." He stepped back from Spock to address all of them, and a rare smirk appeared on his haggard features. "Don't waltz around, everyone, this is a trench, not Oxford Street."
Spock raised an eyebrow. "Oxford Street?"
The question was directed at Jim, but Thompson had heard it and turned back around. "Yes, Oxford Street, London. They're opening more and more stores there every year, a grand new department store only seven years ago."
"Selfridges, I think, it's called," Merriweather added.
Thompson nodded. "Oxford Street's set to become one of the busiest shopping promenades in Europe." He shook his head and frowned at Spock. "You must know it, yesterday you told people you boys were from the capital."
"Of course," Spock said quickly. "I merely do not frequent the commercial places as much."
"I figured," Thomson murmured. "Just be careful and don't get shot."
He and Merriweather walked away, not appearing to be particularly surprised by Spock anymore. The Starfleet officers felt more and more convinced that Thompson in particular had resigned himself to the opinion that Spock was simply a bit odd. And he hadn't even seen his ears yet.
After the morning's manoeuvres, they got proper breakfast when under an unofficial truce, food was brought in from further back, and after that, each of them was assigned duties for the day.
"We need to be more careful," Jim said in a moment alone with the four others as the other soldiers were out of hearing range, and the five of them hadn't separated yet to pursue their tasks but were sitting under a wooden roof, on a bench built into the trench wall near the bunker. "Not only in regards to snipers but also in regards to our identities." He nodded over at Pavel, Christine, and Spock. "We should take care to use the names you chose in front of others. If we don't, it might lead to awkward questions."
"If possible, I would advise using them even when among ourselves," Spock added. "For the sake of avoiding confusion and reducing the risk of inadvertent blunders."
"Might be better," Christine said and nodded. "I don't know how I'd explain you calling me Christine or referring to me as 'she'."
"At least we already call you Chris," McCoy murmured. "Using male pronouns for you, calling Pavel Paul and Spock Jack might take more getting used to."
"Even more reason that we do," Jim said and stood up. "Come on. Duty calls."
The others stood up as well but went their own way as each of them had gotten a different task for today, additionally to the self-imposed task to internalise three new forms of address.
Yesterday, as they had been getting to know the others from Jim's section, they had told people they came from London. At least they would be able to answer a few questions about the capital city in a pinch, other than most other places in Great Britain. But even that could lead to slip-ups as Spock's short exchange with Thompson had shown. Slipping up in regards to their names might be harder to explain.
Once the official duties were over, they found themselves back on the bench by the bunker, under the roof, together with Franklin and Eli Jones this time. Spock had spent the last hours refilling sandbags together with Franklin, Christine was returning from sentry duty with Eli, and the others had spent their time with various repairs.
With their work done, the soldiers were free to pursue personal activities, such as writing letters. But when Eli asked if he should bring paper for them as well, Jim quickly said there was no one left to write letters to, before they had to invent relatives and addresses additionally to names. Eli merely nodded understandingly and got paper for himself only.
"Give her my regards, will you?" Franklin said as Eli started writing.
"You want me to give your regards to Sarah?"
"I thought you were writing to Mother." Franklin sighed and pulled a folded piece of paper and a pen from his breast pocket. "Guess it's my turn today."
"You could write to her more often, you know?" Eli said without raising his eyes from the letter. "Other than me, you don't have a fiancée to consider as well."
"I could have sworn that with your looks, a lot of women would be more than willing," McCoy said, curious as ever.
"It wasn't the women that were unwilling," Franklin said curtly and turned his attention to his letter. As always, he did not seem very communicative. While Eli gushed about his fiancée and told them how they had met, all the while writing his letter to her, Franklin was watching Angus Hutchinson and Thomas Cooper engage in friendly bickering some metres away as they slowly emerged from the dugout on their way to lookout duty.
Their platoon had dubbed the dugout with beds 'The Langham', after the grand hotel in London. Other platoons nearby had probably given their accommodations, if they had them, similarly sarcastic names.
When the two privates were out of sight, Franklin Jones turned his attention back to his piece of paper, quickly scribbled a page, put it back in the pocket, then took out a small book from another pocket and started reading.
Meanwhile, Eli had finished his letter, stretched and leaned back against the trench wall. "You almost get bored when it's quiet like this," he said and stifled a yawn. "But I won't complain. It'll get bad again soon enough."
McCoy looked into the round, all of them, apart from Franklin who seemed engrossed in his book, silently sitting around with nothing to do. "Oh, I know something useful to pass the time," he said, stood up and vanished into the bunker.
The others heard him talk to someone, and then he came back with a small basin of water, a cloth, soap, and a tub of what appeared to be pure grease. He ignored the questioning looks of his shipmates, knelt down in front of Spock and started taking off his shoes.
"What is it you are trying to achieve?" Spock asked and pulled his feet away.
McCoy shrugged. "Greasin' you up."
Spock raised an eyebrow. "Greasing me up?"
McCoy sighed and looked back up at him, hoping he'd just cooperate. If he explained in detail what he was planning and why, Eli and Franklin would grow suspicious of their ignorance. They were watching them as it was. Their interaction had even prompted Franklin to put aside his book.
"Yes, you mustn't neglect the routine foot inspections," McCoy said and glared pointedly up at Spock. "You know that we're supposed to regularly inspect each other's feet, use soap and foot powder, change socks, and administer whale oil to each other's feet on a daily basis to maintain good foot health. Otherwise, you might get trench foot."
"What's trench foot?" Pavel whispered to Christine.
"You don't want to know," she whispered back, "but I'll tell you later."
This time, they needn't have whispered. Franklin and Eli were too amused by McCoy and Spock's interaction to care what they were saying.
"Whale?" Spock asked and actually looked slightly nauseous. "Like George and Gracie."
"Yes, whale." McCoy sighed again. "I don't know what kind of whales, Spock. I'd bet they used sperm whales. Now, you can't save this one. Will you let me treat your feet?"
Spock nodded at last, and Leonard proceeded to unwrap his calves and take off his shoes and socks. As he washed his feet, he wondered if Vulcan feet were as sensitive as their hands. He had never asked or looked it up. Why would he have? And it was too late now.
"Your feet seem nice and healthy still," he said and reached for the vat of fat.
"More than that," Franklin said from next to Spock. "I haven't seen feet that soft and fresh for months."
"Bet they won't stay like that," Eli added. "Not with us walking around in the mud. Sometimes I wonder exactly what kind of stuff's in that."
"Better don't," Christine said. "From the smell of it, we don't want to know."
"From the smell of it, I already know," Leonard McCoy grumbled as he continued to grease up Spock's feet. "I bet it gets real nice when it's raining."
"Wet from both directions," Franklin mumbled and shuddered at the thought of it. "Sometimes a dugout floods."
McCoy shook his head in disbelief. "How primitive," he muttered to himself.
Jim shot him a warning look, but not only did Eli and Franklin not seem to suspect anything, but they nodded in agreement.
McCoy diligently applied the grease to the Vulcan's feet, careful not to miss a spot. He slipped his fingers between his toes and felt him squirm ever so slightly under his touch, as he had found a ticklish spot. The admonishing look he shot down at him in answer to his smirk only confirmed his hunch. When he was done, he pulled a new pair of socks over Spock's feet and moved on to Jim, leaving Spock to tie his shoes by himself.
Moments later, Lieutenant Thompson emerged from the bunker, Sergeant Clark Merriweather, as often, in tow.
Spock, who had just finished putting his footwear back on, quickly straightened his helmet that had slipped slightly to the side and pulled it firmly down on his head.
Thompson stopped in front of him.
"What's the matter with your helmet, Grayson?"
"Nothing, sir."
Thompson tilted his head as he looked at him from each side, his eyes following the curve of his ears to where they vanished beneath the helmet. He hadn't seen him outside in the full light of day before and seemed intrigued by what the helmet could hide. Too intrigued.
He reached out and before anyone could react, snatched the helmet from his head.
Spock quickly clasped his hands over his ears, but of course, this did nothing to dispel Thompson's suspicion.
"What's the matter with you now?" he grumbled. "Take your hands down."
Spock pursed his lips but kept his hands up, safely covering his ears.
Thompson sighed and said, in a gentler tone, "Don't be silly. Take your hands down. Please."
Seeing as Thompson would not budge, and he could not keep running around with his head in his hands, Spock threw an apologetic glance at Jim and slowly lowered them, revealing his ears.
Franklin and Eli's eyes widened in astonishment and so did Clark Merriweather's. The Sergeant was so rapt, that his nervous twitch, usually present around his eyes or in his fingers, ceased completely. Thompson, on the other hand, frowned. He grabbed Spock's hair and tilted his head from side to side to get a better look.
Unnoticed by him, four of the others were exchanging rather panicked glances. Pavel looked on grimly, positive that their disguise was now up. McCoy and Christine started to worry about what would happen to Spock now that he had been exposed like this. And Jim was frantically trying to make up an explanation. A birth defect perhaps? A quaint rite of initiation? A knife attack? A rice picker again?
But their wild imaginings and catastrophic fears were interrupted by Thompson himself. "I've seen worse disfigurements," he said after some tense moments and let go of Spock's head. "Your surgeons did a fine job." He nodded approvingly and gave him his helmet back. "Don't be afraid to show what they did to you," he added as he and Merriweather sat next to them, "scars you got fighting for king and country."
Silence fell as Thompson let his feet be inspected by Chris. Merriweather meanwhile was treated by McCoy after he had finished with Jim. After a while, curiosity got the better of the Lieutenant, though.
"Grayson," he said slowly.
"Yes, sir?" Spock asked.
"It was shelling that did that, wasn't it?" The Lieutenant's tone was unusually soft, with that depth of understanding that only the ones who had seen the horrors of the bombings could muster.
Spock nodded. "Yes, sir." If Thompson had made up an explanation by himself, it was probably better to agree.
There was another pause as Thompson looked at him sideways. He stroked his moustache once or twice and tilted his head again.
"Don't take it personally," he said at last, "but did some of the shrapnel enter your brain?"
There was a moment of astonished silence.
"I am not sure. Sir," Spock said.
By this time, Thompson had already made up his mind. Again. "Must have," he murmured and put his hand on Spock's shoulder. "Don't get me wrong, you're a decent fellow. But you're a bit different to the rest of us."
When his foot inspection was done, he turned to go in the direction of the communication trench along with Merriweather. But after a few steps, he stopped and turned back. "Used to have a cousin like you," he said and smiled sadly. "Brilliant kid. Thoughtful, intellectual, a bit out of this world since the horse-riding accident. You take good care of this one, will you, boys?"
Jim nodded. "We will. What happened to him? Your cousin?"
Thompson averted his gaze. "She died in childbirth. This last summer," he mumbled, and this time, left for good.
Eli and Franklin had kept out of it the whole time, only watching mildly curiously. But after the Lieutenant and the Sergeant had left, Eli broke the awkward silence.
"Can I see your ears again?"
Spock had put on his helmet again but took it back off at Eli's request.
The young soldier leant forward with undisguised curiosity and looked at each of Spock's ears. "They're pointy, all right!" he exclaimed. "Can I touch them?"
Spock's lips pressed together into a thin line. "I would rather you not."
Eli continued to stare. "Do they hurt?"
"They do not," Spock answered calmly, patiently letting Eli visually examine him.
A grin spread on the young man's face. "You look like a fairy-tale creature from stories my nan used to read to me. Like elves or goblins."
Franklin snorted. "The fairy tales didn't say anything about their ears."
"No," Eli said and shrugged, "but I always pictured them as having pointy ones."
"I have heard worse," Spock said, shooting Doctor McCoy a poignant look.
McCoy smirked back and made a mental note to introduce their fellow soldiers to his nicknames for Spock sometime soon.
After the foot inspections were finished, he brought the equipment back into the bunker. And when he came back, he excused himself to try to catch a bit of sleep because, in his own words, no one could know what would happen at night.
"Words of wisdom, Len," Chris Chapel mumbled and followed him to search for a free sleeping hollow somewhere.
When the two had left, the others were joined by someone they hadn't spent much time with so far. William Ryder, the tall poetic guy.
"Do you want to come over and play a game of cards with me and some others?" he asked softly and pointed towards the next bend in the trench.
"I'll come!" Eli quickly agreed and jumped up. "Are you sure we're not too many for cards?"
Ryder shook his head so that the light brown hairs protruding from under his helmet bounced. "Henry and I have three decks between us. If you bring yours, it's enough. So, anyone else apart from Eli?"
Jim and Pavel nodded and stood up simultaneously. "We'll come, too," Jim said, then turned back around. "What about you, eh, Jack?"
Spock shook his head. "No, thank you."
Jim shrugged. "Suit yourself."
The four of them left, leaving Spock and Franklin to themselves after the latter had also refused to join them. Instead, he immediately turned his attention back to his book.
Spock did not mind this lack of attention. On the contrary, he welcomed the quiet that now settled in the company of Jones. Franklin Jones seldom spoke when not necessary. He struck Spock as quite considerate, thinking much before he said anything. And when he did, he appeared intelligent and well-spoken. If asked, Spock might even have gone so far as to say he enjoyed the other's company.
For a while, there were only the sounds of faraway explosions, Franklin turning the pages of his book and the murmur of quiet discussions around the next bend.
After a while, Spock felt Franklin tap him on the shoulder.
"I'm finished with it. Do you want to read?" he asked, offering him the now-closed book.
Spock thanked him and took the book. It was an adventure novel, perhaps more along the lines of what Jim would like, but Spock started to read, nonetheless. After a while, he noticed Franklin had fallen asleep next to him, slumped against the wall of the trench, and he took care to turn the pages quietly.
Thus passed the afternoon. After a while, Jim came back after having been thoroughly beaten at cards and proceeded to watch over Spock's shoulder as he read. He had offered to give him the book, but Jim had declined, and Spock suspected that he did not really care about the book but rather about being here with him and spending time with him.
In the presence of Franklin Jones, even though he appeared to be dozing still, they dared not talk freely, but even so, Spock knew what Jim was thinking and feeling. As their commanding officer, their lives were his responsibility. It was a responsibility that to Jim Kirk was not only a formality of their service but utterly personal. Every life under his command held an unassailable worth to him, so that he, who was so bad at accepting no-win scenarios, almost took it as an insult when one of them was taken. If he didn't take it as a personal failure, that is. This applied even more so in a situation such as this where the governing bodies of the Federation and the advisory organs of Starfleet seemed but a distant shadow in the future. Spock knew Jim's unrelenting effort to keep everyone alive would be tasked at every turn. For what could one man do against the horrors of this war?
The soldiers around them had long ceased to be parts of a possible illusion to them. It was dangerous and vain to assume they were. It was bad enough that to history, they would be but an afterthought, a footnote if they were lucky. The dignity with which they faced this futility had touched Spock to an extent he had not expected. And so he would play along. The point of non-interference had long passed. And though killing was abhorrent to him, the grasp of futility extended to him as well. He would play along as long as it meant he could also prevent the loss of life, even if it was just one.
