Sybil cuts her hair. It is impossible to keep it clean and free of tangles, not to mention ever present lice. It suits her surprisingly well too.
Mary does not. Her long, thick hair is an awful hassle to deal with, but unlike Sybil she does expect for her life to get back to normal after that ghastly war finally ends and she'll be damned if she doesn't look her best when she has people to impress again.
"Although," she says as she explains it all to Matthew when he finds her attempting to brush her freshly washed hair in the kitchen, "short hair is becoming fashionable in Paris, so maybe I will get one of those boy's haircuts anyway."
"I hope you won't try it," says Matthew, watching her fighting with a stubborn tangle with more fascination than it certainly warrants.
In all truth, Mary should be mortified that he sees her like that, with her hair wet, down and all dishevelled, but she is beyond caring. Her hair needed washing desperately and the kitchen is the only room in the house warm enough to do it. She probably should throw Matthew out, at the very least - he did get all red and apologetic at finding her like that so she doesn't think he would get offended if she did - but she hasn't seen him for weeks, and she has worried, and now she is too greedy for his company to give a fig about propriety.
"Oh, let me," says Matthew, reaching for her brush after hearing her resort to muttered curses at the stubbornness of a knot at the back of her head.
So this is how Sybil finds them, Mary sitting in front of the stove with her wet hair down and Matthew standing behind her, muttering his own curses as he's trying to untangle it. At least he sees what he's doing. To Sybil's credit, she barely lifts an eyebrow at the intimate scene in front of her.
"Are you staying for supper?" she only asks and Matthew shakes his head regretfully.
"I must be back before seven," he says. "I'm leading a working party at dawn."
Mary suppresses a sigh of relief. She does not like to think about the things Matthew will be facing next week, when his unit is going to be sent to the front lines again. At least working party should be safe.
"Any big action we should prepare ourselves for?" asks Sybil matter-of-factly.
Matthew gives her a look over the mass of Mary's hair.
"You know I am not supposed to tell you if there was," he points out. "But no, not so late in the year. At worst routine shelling and patrols turned into skirmishes."
Which, as they all knew, could be deadly enough to keep both the ambulance service and the hospital busy, but nowhere close enough to the number of casualties of a full-scale battle.
This one would come in the spring.
Sybil gets busy preparing a simple meal of toast and cheese as Matthew finishes brushing Mary's hair and pulls it into a thick braid for good measure.
"There you go," he says, and Mary tries not to notice how caring his voice sounds, or the gentleness of his hands as he positions the braid over her shoulder.
Sybil has no such qualms though and takes note of everything.
xxx
As soon as Sybil enters her bedroom, a bottle of wine and two glasses in hand, Mary knows she is in trouble.
"We," says Sybil ominously, as she sets it all on the table, "have to talk."
"I can't imagine what about," evades Mary, even though she knows it's not going to work, not with Sybil's expression set like that. Her baby sister is nothing but stubborn and determined. "Unless you have cooked up another hairbrained scheme with Branson."
Sadly, Sybil doesn't allow herself to be distracted.
"What is going on between you and Matthew?"
"Nothing," mutters Mary resentfully, reaching for her wine. She feels she might need it.
Sybil snorts, taking a sip of her own.
"And he was acting as your lady's maid out of cousinly politeness?"
"Obviously," says Mary, suppressing the pain of it as hard as she can. "Considering he is engaged to someone else ."
Sybil rolls her eyes.
"As if nobody ever broke an engagement. And considering how lousy fiancé he is to her, maybe he should."
"He is not lousy to her!" Mary exclaims immediately.
"He was brushing your hair ."
Mary scoffs.
"Hardly an adulterous act. He was just helping me out."
"Of course he was. And he would offer to do that for anybody else."
"He would, if such help was needed," says Mary stubbornly, half-convinced that she's saying the truth, even if Sybil's whole body expresses exceptional scepticism.
"Let's leave Matthew's feelings for you and his engagement aside for a moment. You love him still, don't you?"
"Of course I don't," Mary lies through her teeth. "Would I ever admit to loving a man who prefers somebody else?"
Sybil literally drops her head on the table, which Mary considers much more dramatic than their conversation warrants. Maybe she is starting to feel the effects of the wine which at least is excellent. She wonders where Sybil got it.
"If Matthew prefers somebody else to you, I will eat my hat," Sybil says, clearly exasperated. "But you didn't accept his proposal, so he probably decided he had to move on."
Mary takes a big sip of her wine to drown the cutting pain at that statement.
It does not work.
"And he did. He is happy with somebody much better for him than me."
The look Sybil gives her is frankly incredulous.
"Who are you and what have you done with my confident, superior sister?" she demands. "Since when do you feel not good enough for anybody?"
But there are some things Mary is definitely not going to confess to her innocent little sister – even if she suspects Sybil wouldn't react by sending a letter to spread the news to the world at large as another younger sister she could mention. So she just shakes her head, thins her lips and pours herself more wine.
xxx
Mary lies in bed which seems to be spinning which tells her that she should have refused at least the last two glasses of that most excellent wine and also that she is surely going to regret it much more in the morning. Which suits her fine right now. She has much experience with regretting her life choices. Sometimes she thinks she has hardly done anything else since March 1913.
That night... if only she did something different then. Screamed, like she threatened. Treated his earlier words seriously and locked her door. Missed the hunt entirely and went with Edith and Matthew to see the local churches. Never invited Evelyn in the first place. So many missed chances to avoid the outcome. She has considered them all over the years, each and every one of them, all too late to count.
That night was just the first in the chain of her regrets. She has so many others... Like falling for Edith's stupid little challenge after the salty pudding dinner. Would she and Matthew figured out their relationship if they didn't fall apart over it for months and wasted so much time? Or not answering his proposal immediately. She still would need to confess all to him, anything else would be marrying him on a lie, but why, why couldn't she have told him that she loved him, that she wanted nothing else more than to marry him first? She could have figured out how to tell him the rest later, before they married, but at least he would have been in no doubt about her feelings... Or at least she could have told him during Sybil's ball... maybe not about Kemal, she could never have spoilt that magical night by bringing up him, but she so wishes now that she told Matthew she loved him when they were kissing in the rose garden under the stars. It was the most beautiful night of her life and she treasures the memory of it. The last night they were happy together and so in love... Before she ruined everything for good and hurt him so terribly in the process. She thinks about his tormented eyes during their last fights that summer and cannot forgive herself. It's one thing to know that she is responsible for her own heartbreak, it is so much worse to know that she is responsible for his .
She is still unsure about her decision to ignore Carson's advice about confessing her feelings to Matthew. On one hand, she is yearning so much to tell him... but then she remembers Lavinia's tear-streaked face and how much better she is for Matthew than Mary could ever be, and her resolve strengthens. She is not going to mess up Matthew's life again, she's done more than enough of that. He got over her, he moved on, he is happy with a wonderful girl. Any confessions of hers would only bring him pain and destroy the amazing bond they managed to miraculously build after everything that's happened.
Once again, she resolves to keep silent.
xxx
This , thinks Mary, is not a good day .
Which is quite an understatement.
As expected, she woke up with a hangover, cursing Sybil, wine, her own stupidity, the war and the world in general. The only blessed thing which gave her some comfort was the fact she had an afternoon shift and thus had time to get herself in order beforehand, which she mostly did.
The headache still lingers though, although by this point she is not sure if it isn't caused by her current circumstances. Which, to be honest, are dire indeed.
She and Phryne have been sent 12 miles outside the town to pick up the wounded from a skirmish happening at that part of the front. Not Mary's favourite assignment – she has a healthy respect for the shells and she can hear them all the way at St Omer which, in retrospect, should have given her a clue that the skirmish was growing into something bigger. Alas, it is not until they arrive and are met by a frantic looking lieutenant that the extent of the 'skirmish' is made clear to them.
"The bloody Huns are coming over," he says, looking nervously over his shoulder as yet another shell falls barely few dozen meters from them. "Take them and get the hell out of here! The lines will be overrun in minutes."
Neither Mary nor Phryne question his order and they drive away the moment the wounded filled the back of their ambulances. Those men are lucky. With the lines overrun and the battle going strong into the night, there will be hours until the next load can be picked up. If they won't have to wait for the German medics instead, of course, if the Huns manage to take control of the territory.
The drive is nightmarish, the booming noise of the guns seemingly echoing from all directions. Smith's mouth is turned down grimly, although he remains silent, as usual. The wounded in the back moan every time the car hits a bump in the road which happens all the time with the state of the road as it is.
The dusk is falling when they are stopped by two British soldiers at about halfway point to St Omer.
"You cannot go forward," warns the shorter of them. "The Huns broke the line ahead. The fighting is heavy, there is no way you will get through. We will be lucky if they don't take the town. You have to go back."
Panic claws at Mary as she tries to decide if she is more terrified for Sybil, who remains in town apparently in danger of becoming a target, or for herself, considering what she must tell the soldiers.
"We cannot go back either," she says, and she is surprised how calm and collected she sounds. She feels neither. "The lines are overrun there too."
She sees the soldier's eyes widen, the whites of them stark in the encroaching darkness. The deafening noise of guns never ceases.
It's the taller of the two who speaks first though.
"Your ladyship!" he exclaims, clearly startled, and startling Mary in return. She is rarely addressed by her title here. "Wakefield, it's Lady Mary!"
"Captain's Lady Mary?" asks the shorter, apparently Wakefield, as Mary manages to get a better look at his companion.
"William!" she greets him, sudden and confusing mix of hope and fear filling her chest. William is Matthew's batman, if he is here... The explosion of a particularly close shell makes her question if wishing for Matthew's presence is a right thing to do. It's obviously not a good place to be currently.
"Is there any other way out of here?" asks Smith practically, his mouth turning even more downwards when Wakefield shakes his head. In the meantime, Phryne comes over from her ambulance.
"We're surrounded then?" she asks, grimacing at the confirmation. "Some of the wounded will die if we don't get them help fast."
Mary agrees but as much as she hates it, there is nothing to be done about it. They are trapped between two lines of heavy fighting like in the middle of terrible scissors, and there is no road to get them out through the middle. They will be lucky if the scissors don't close over them here, putting them in the middle of the battlefield.
Corporal Wakefield clears his throat.
"We were here as a working party, to repair the road," he smiles wryly, the whiz and explosions of shells making it clear that their work turned out to be entirely pointless. It's unlikely much of the road will survive the night as it is. "When the things heated up, the captain ordered us to take cover in an abandoned cottage about half a mile from here. Mason and I were sent to inform the command about the situation and ask for orders, but I will carry on and he will lead you to the cottage. The lads will protect you and the wounded best they can."
Mary and Phryne nod and Smith has no objections, but William shakes his head.
"Better I go with the message, Corporal, and you lead them back. I run faster," he says with an easy grin. Wakefield looks torn for a moment – obviously acting as the messenger is the more dangerous task in the circumstances and, with his higher rank, he feels obliged to volunteer himself for it as he just did – but then he gives a half-shrug and acknowledges William's point.
"That you do, Mason. Godspeed!"
William salutes and disappears in the shadows, as Corporal Wakefield gets into Mary's ambulance, squeezing himself in next to Smith, and points the way.
The cottage really is nearby and they reach it within minutes, a good thing since it is completely dark now and they dare not turn on the lights in fear of making themselves targets.
The sentry stops them and Wakefield hastens to explain the situation.
"I will alert the captain," the man says grimly, returning in a moment with several soldiers, led by a figure so familiar Mary recognises him even in the weak moonlight.
"How many wounded?" he asks briskly, only barely discernible widening of his eyes giving away his shock at seeing Mary. It seems to her an age, not barely a day, since he was brushing her hair in her kitchen.
"Four in my ambulance and five in the other," she answers promptly.
"How bad?"
She grimaces.
"Bad," she admits, "none of them able to walk, all stretcher cases."
Matthew nods and directs his soldiers to help Smith and Rory, the orderly partnering Phryne, with getting the wounded out of the ambulances and into the cottage.
"It's going to be a tight fit as it is," he explains with a sigh. "But at least it is better than out in the open. The night is going to be cold."
"And noisy!" adds one of the soldiers carrying first stretcher. "The Huns started quite a party!"
"Let's just hope they don't bring it to us," says Matthew, offering Mary his arm. "Although I doubt we will get much sleep anyway."
The cottage is small, dilapidated and dark, lit just by several torches. The air is so filled with cigarette smoke Mary nearly chokes. It is also awfully crowded, even more so with the addition of nine stretchers which take most of the previously left free space. It's the addition of two women which seems to cause much bigger stir among the soldiers though.
"Hello, sweetheart!" says one of them, giving Mary a very appreciative leer. "Not much place here. Want to sit on my lap?"
"Thompson!" thunders Matthew and the crowd falls silent.
" Lady Mary is my cousin and a volunteer who endangers her very life to pull your sorry hide from under fire if you need it," hisses Matthew, his eyes icy. "And you will refer to her with the respect she deserves."
The room remains quiet for a long moment, the men looking at their captain with wide eyes. Mary assumes he is not usually so short with them.
"Be gentlemen, lads," adds Matthew sternly, looking his men into eyes, his own brow furrowed. "The ladies deserve your best behaviour."
"Wow," Phryne whispers into Mary's ear. "You never told me that your cousin has such a commanding presence. He never seemed like that the few times I've seen him at St. Omer."
"He's not usually like that," whispers back Mary. "It must be the situation."
It's interesting to see Matthew as the leader of this group of men. In fact, Mary is fascinated. She tries to reconcile the man in front of her with the one uncomfortable with ordering around his valet and utterly fails.
"It's terribly attractive though," concludes Phryne and Mary cannot in all honesty disagree, however much she misses her gentle, unassuming solicitor. Which is good, because she doesn't retain much hope that he is ever coming back, not after everything.
It doesn't take long for Phryne to hold court among the soldiers, all flirty and joking and delighting in their attention. She is young, but she knows what she's doing, and Mary sees that the men are too mindful of their captain's warning and his watchful eyes to get out of line, so she leaves Phryne to her own devices and sits down tiredly in the corner next to Matthew, a cup of supposed tea pressed into her hand.
"I'm sorry about Thompson," says Matthew, accepting his own tin cup of tea from Corporal Wakefield. "He is a good man, really, just a bit rowdy sometimes."
"Thank you for coming to my defence, but I have handled worse," says Mary and immediately sees that this was a very wrong thing to say. Matthew's expression becomes thunderous again.
"I hate the thought of you forced to deal with things like that," he says and it is clear to her that it really bothers him very much.
She shrugs, trying to convey to him how little she cares.
"As long as it's just talk, jokes and marriage proposals, I don't mind."
She treats as a success that Matthew gapes at her, shocked out of his brooding.
"Marriage proposals?"
She rolls her eyes.
"Oh, yes. Every other week or so. None of them serious, of course, but some of the men do try."
Before Matthew can answer – and she sees that he is definitely interested in the topic – a series of deafening explosions temporarily halt all ongoing conversations. A private runs in and approaches Matthew as fast as he can while forced to step and hop around the men and stretchers taking every available square of the floor.
"Captain, sir," he says breathlessly. "The Huns sent the Gothas to bomb the town."
Mary's hand flies to her mouth in horror. Sybil! Suddenly she feels Matthew's hand grasping her own in a comforting gesture and for a moment it is the only thing keeping her sane.
"Is the town dark?" he asks urgently and they both relax at the same time when the private nods. With all the lights off and the windows covered there is a chance the bombs won't reach too many targets. It's hardly the first air raid St. Omer has endured.
The private returns to his post outside, keeping watch, and the hum of multiple conversations resumes, despite the ongoing cacophony of explosions outside. The fighting is still several miles off; they are safe for now, and there is some hope they will remain so – if the Germans are repelled. If the British forces are pushed back though, the lines broken for good, not just temporarily stretched, they may not live to see dawn. All it would take is one bomb falling exactly on their heads. And if they are captured by the German soldiers instead... Mary shudders and desperately searches for distraction.
"Why are you hiding here?" she asks, very happy that she and Phryne could join them instead of trying to face this night on their own but confused by the opportunity.
Matthew catches her meaning instantly.
"Instead of joining the fry outside?" he asks quietly. They are sitting in the corner, as far apart from the others as possible in the tight and crowded space, but it's mostly the hum of all those people talking, moaning or snoring that obscures their words as long as they keep their voices down. "We were sent to repair the road; we are neither prepared nor assigned to fight today."
"But you have your guns," she notes questioningly.
"And we can defend ourselves if we are accosted here. By we don't know how the battle is going or where everybody is placed. If we just randomly joined it, we could end up killing our own comrades with friendly fire. The battle may look chaotic from the inside, but usually most of it is planned to the smallest details."
"Except for the outcome, I guess," says Mary sardonically and Matthew shrugs.
"It's like chess, really. You must plan for the enemy's actions and reactions, but they are planning for yours too. And then of course there is a lot of chance in everything. But it wouldn't do for us to jump straight into action when nobody expects us to be there."
"So we wait and hope?"
Matthew looks at her seriously.
"Unless we decide that we are safer in the open than here, yes. Try to rest, Mary. We all might need our strength tonight."
xxx
They remain sitting in their corner, too tired to talk by now. Mary's head rests on Matthew's shoulder but he can see that she's not asleep, despite visible exhaustion. The noise of heavy fighting outside never ceases, the staccato of the machine guns mixed with whiz and thunderous explosions of shells. They are thankfully still too far to hear the yelling. His men, long used to sleeping through absolutely everything when they have a chance, have mostly nodded off hours ago.
The cottage provides shelter from the elements and helps them hide from the enemy, but if they are surrounded, it is going to be more of a trap than a citadel. Matthew's brain unhelpfully brings up multiple memories of fighting Germans in close combat, with the added nightmare of Mary in the middle of it all, and he feels sick to his stomach. Whatever happens, he must get her safely out of here, he simply must. He digs fingernails into his palms to stop their shaking at the thought that he might not be able to.
He wonders if she realises how truly precarious their situation is. She looks calm, calmer than he is, that's for sure, but more careful observation allows him to notice small markers of tension. She knows then, or at least she suspects enough to worry, even if she is very good at hiding it.
"Do you have your gas mask?" he asks suddenly. She smiles and pulls her coat open, revealing it hanging at her belt.
"Never going anywhere without it anymore. Once was more than enough for me," she looks at him seriously and quietly asks. "Do you expect it will be necessary?"
He swallows.
"I hope not," he says. "But with the way things are going..."
She nods, asking nothing more. But she reaches for his hand, her fingers colder than they should be.
Oh God, what if he won't be able to keep her safe?! He has accepted the likelihood of his own death years ago, he knows he survived much longer than he should have already, but the very thought of her dying here with him...
She squeezes his hand, as if in response to his distress, and he forces himself to calm his breathing. He must stay strong for her. He cannot add to her fears by revealing his.
He starts nodding off himself, too tired to keep his eyes open anymore, when he spots Mason in the doorway, dirty and exhausted, but visibly wired in a way which makes Matthew instantly alert. He gestures for Mason to come over.
"Sir," whispers Mason, throwing a concerned eye at Mary. "They are getting closer."
Matthew swallows hard.
"How far?"
"A mile at most, probably less."
Matthew immediately shakes Sergeant Stevens awake.
"Wake everyone up and prepare for retreat. We're getting out of here," he orders.
Stevens looks doubtfully at the stretchers.
"It will be mighty hard to get around in the dark while carrying them all."
"Do you propose to abandon them here, Stevens?"
The sergeant straightens his back.
"Absolutely not, sir. Just stating the fact."
Matthew nods tiredly. Stevens is right but they have hardly any choice. They are not going to be fast in the circumstances, so they must leave before their only way out is cut off. The problem is that the only way out is a trek through the muddy fields, both treacherous and without much to offer for cover until they reach a small copse behind it. But to risk making their last stand in that cottage... No, they have to go.
He goes back to Mary.
"Wake up Phryne," he says. "We're leaving."
Even in the dim light he can see she pales, but her nod is resolute.
"They are near then?"
"Yes," he stops her before she can go. "Mary... do you know how to shoot?"
She swallows visibly.
"A bit," she says. "Phryne's better. Why?"
Making sure that his hand is well hidden between the two of them, he offers her his pistol. Mary's eyes widen.
"Are you even allowed to give it to me?" she asks incredulously, keeping her voice quiet.
He scoffs.
"Of course not. So better don't tell anybody."
"But what about you? Won't you need it?"
He points at the Lewis gun by the wall.
"I started carrying this with me. German snipers like to pick out officers. With this gun, I look less like one from afar. They know British officers carry pistols."
She accepts his but narrows her eyes suspiciously.
"And you will be able to defend yourself without it?"
He nods.
"Lewis gun is better for long range anyway. I don't want you without anything. Just don't shoot any of us, alright? That would get me in trouble."
He doesn't say just don't die even though this is what he wants to say the most. Terror for her is nearly choking him. Even if she is armed – even if she actually knows how to shoot and he is not wholly sure whether he believes her – he is painfully aware that his pistol is not going to help any against a machine gun or a shell and they are quite likely now to face both.
xxx
Mary wonders if that night is going to haunt her nightmares forever. They are crouching and crawling through a field, the soil soggy from October rains. Dawn is approaching, but the field is covered in thick fog, thickened by the smoke from the ongoing battle. The air smells like gunpowder and burning, but there is more yelling and shooting now then shelling. The fighting must be wrapping up but it's impossible to tell if the people they can hear through the fog are friends or foes, so they struggle on, as quiet as they can. Mary tries not to think about Matthew's gun in the pocket of her coat.
Matthew has put her, Phryne and wounded in the middle of the group. They are dragging five stretchers with them, four of the wounded she and Phryne originally picked up yesterday having died in the cottage during the night. They left them there to be picked up later, when it's safe. The question if they could have been saved if they reached the hospital in time is another thing Mary tries very hard not to think about.
She barely can think as it is. She is exhausted, frightened, cold, wet and coated in more mud than she ever thought possible. She has been driving or walking through mud before, of course, nobody who ever was nearby the front could avoid familiarising themselves with the phenomena, but she has never trudged through it like that, crouching or sometimes even on all fours, the cold squelchy wetness seeping into her clothes and seemingly into her very bones. She has whole new appreciation for Matthew's virulent abhorrence of it. She even thinks she might apologise to him for making fun of him for it.
He is ahead of her and it is obvious that he is well used to such treks. He moves purposefully, with easy grace and alertness of a predator – most of the soldiers do, but Mary pays attention only to him. It strikes her that however much he complains about the mud to her, he hardly seems to notice it now, even though he is even dirtier than Mary; his focus solely on getting them all out. She thinks that if she had to end up crawling through a muddy French field among fog and gun blasts, she could not imagine anybody who would make her feel so safe, for all her fear.
Which is of course when they run – well, stumble – into a small party of Germans, just as they reached a copse of birch trees which turned out to be occupied already.
"Get down!" orders Matthew, pushing Mary forcefully down behind one of the trees, as the Germans realise what happened and reach for their weapons. A bullet hits the tree exactly in the place where Mary's head has been just seconds before as she gasps in shock at her fall and the near miss.
What happens next is pure chaos, at least to Mary's ignorant eyes. The British and the Germans jump at each other in a clash of yells, bayonets and shots. She and Phryne are hiding behind their tree, Mary barely restraining instinctual need to close her eyes and cover her ears – she would have, if she wasn't too terrified to do so. She notices Phryne grabbing a gun from a soldier fallen just a meter from them and starting to shoot – she really is better than Mary, her aim true. Mary tightens her hold on Matthew's gun, her grasp slippery with sweat, her hands shaking. She desperately wants to help but she's afraid she is going to hit a friend instead of foe with how much she trembles. She wishes she was home as she has never wished for anything in her life. She wishes for it more than she has ever wished even for Matthew or Downton. She just wants it all to end.
Then she spots Matthew falling and a German soldier raising a bayonet over him, ready to strike, and time stops.
It is as if the pandemonium around her ceased to exist. Mary can only see the two men in front of her, frozen in motion, her mind blank in sheer horror at the tableau she has first row seat for. She comprehends instantly that she is going to witness Matthew – Matthew! – die before her eyes and her whole mind shrieks internally with terror and protest. She's not thinking, she is not capable of thinking, there is no time for it anyway. She wants to call Phryne for help, but she is facing the opposite direction, her back to Mary's; before she will manage to turn around the German will strike. Mary doesn't even notice when she raises her gun – Matthew's gun, would he have been able to defend himself better if he hasn't given it to her? – and aims. She has only enough time to pray she won't hit Matthew herself and then she shoots.
xxx
As soon as the fight starts, Matthew's mind switches to instinct and routine. He pushes Mary down but cannot focus on her anymore or they are both likely to die. The melee is sudden and messy and unexpected on both sides. There is no time for strategy; it's not this kind of fight – they are just two groups of tired men desperate to survive another day. The sun has risen, but the fog is still thick, adding to surrealism of the scene. Their numbers are close, but it's clear that the Germans have been fighting the whole night and are on the brink of exhaustion; there are more corpses on the ground in grey uniforms than in khaki. Matthew allows himself a spark of optimism and this is of course when he stumbles upon a root and falls down.
He looks up and sees his death.
The soldier over him is short and stocky, with brown eyes and deadened expression of one who has spent a long time at the front and if he had any scruples in the beginning, left them well behind ages ago. He raises his bayonet over Matthew and there is nothing Matthew can do, not lying on his back like this, there is no way he can react or roll away before he is pinned to the ground by it. He has no time to think much either, just enough to feel the deep unfairness of it all, of dying like that when he barely had time to live, but then again death in this war is rarely fair. He wants to close his eyes but he cannot take them away from the man who in the next heartbeat is going to become his killer.
And then the soldier is falling himself, blood on his chest and gurgling on his lips, bayonet released from his suddenly loosened grip, falling uselessly next to him. Matthew ascertains swiftly that the German is properly dead and whips his head to see who came to his rescue.
With wide eyes he stares straight into Mary's shocked face, his own gun still grasped firmly in her shaking hands.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Being trapped overnight in a cottage full of soldiers due to unexpected heavy fighting happened to two volunteer ambulance drivers Elsie Knocker and Mairi Chrisholm, as described in a fascinating book "Elsie and Mairi go to War" by Diane Atkinson. The ending in the birch copse is my invention though.
Weekly marriage proposals from soldiers are a phenomenon Lady Dorothie Feilding mentioned in her letters home.