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Two Fusiliers
Robert left on a Wednesday. He came back on a Monday. There were four years in between. And it was the in between, of course, that was so interesting. It's usually the in betweens, he found himself thinking as he watched Nancy come down the aisle in her white lace. Apple cheeks. She had apple cheeks.
Siegfried had never had apple cheeks. He was a thin man; even after regaining his appetite he'd been thin. Robert had a tendency to fuss over him, earning himself the occasional "bugger off, you mother hen." But it was a fond "bugger off." There was nothing but fondness between the pair anyway.
It was always the in betweens that were so interesting.
First Battalion Royal Welsh Fusiliers. They met in the mud and the muck. Siegfried was still smiling those days and Robert had been shocked by the gleam in the man's eye. He was an audacious person, daring in ways that Robert hadn't figured out yet. Mad Jack.
++++
"Recall," Siegfried said once when Robert was visiting him at Craiglochart and they were sitting in a secluded place on the grounds, Siegfried's head in Robert's lap, "the time the water in the trenches were up to our waists and we saw a man walking toward us, holding, not his rifle above his head, but a cat, and the cat was the most well fed thing I'd ever seen."
Robert laughed and nodded, stroking his friend's hair.
"I commented, asking how it was a cat could be so fat in a place like this. And you said yes, when all the rats had been eaten by the men already."
Siegfried nodded and smiled up at him. "Those tasty, tasty rats."
They had to joke, because if they didn't, they would go mad. Madder. They were less insane this way, laughing at eating rats and the time Andrews had fallen asleep standing up and had sunk up to his ankles in the mud without noticing before they'd had to lever him out.
They had to, or they would weep and they were both tired of weeping.
++++
The first time Siegfried kissed him, Robert had hit him. How typical. They were barely men, after all, just boys, more scared of each other than the death that waited for them over the top of the trench. They called him Mad Jack for a reason, though, throwing himself into anything he thought worthy of his effort, and apparently kissing Robert was one of those things. The kiss had been softer the second time around, the surprise not quite taken out of it, hands coming up to tangle in too-long hair. Robert's knuckles were cut up from trying to force the bolt into his mud-jammed gun. "We're officers God Damnit," he said once, "give us proper weapons."
Siegfried had given his colt to a private whose rifle was useless, a man from the South of Wales who couldn't read. Was that what it meant to be a leader? Robert wondered as he and Siegfried fell asleep against the wall of the trench that night, arms wrapped around each other, Siegfried's warm breath ghosting across his throat like the feather touch of a child's fingertips.
++++
Robert wrote Siegfried a letter before leaving to marry Nancy. I love you it said and that is impossible. I've loved you since the moment I saw you in that clean pressed uniform, watching the returning troops slouch past with dead eyes and hollow bodies. I can't love you, but I do and so I'm leaving.
He didn't get a response until three months after his wedding night, during which Nancy, sweet Nancy, had clung to him and closed her eyes. He loved her too, in a way, but she was so soft under his hands, and their kisses were brief little things, not the hard bite of a man's mouth. He missed calloused palms and the way Siegfried liked to press a daring knee between his legs during their stolen moments in the hallways of Craiglochart.
When he did get a letter back it had only two words. Selfish bastard.
Two more moths went by and he got another letter.
I love you too.
++++
Robert's poetry felt foolish whenever he would write it, but then someone who finish the last line of a particular bit and look up at him. If it was a civilian they would say nothing, just look. If it was a veteran, they would weep.
He'd never thought he would be able to bring a man to tears. That had always been Siegfried's job, but he imagined that when he had read that letter, Siegfried, too, had wept.
Robert didn't see him for a year after the wedding, then one evening there was a knock on the door and he answered it to find the man in his uniform, hands folded in front of him. They looked at each other for a long minute before Siegfried extended one hand.
I still love you, the piece of paper read. Robert found a stub of pencil in his pocket.
And I you.
Nancy was visiting her sister in Wimbledon. They slept in the guest bed, warmed each other with breath and hand and the press of bodies. They stayed up until the sun struck them in the face; sharing the words they'd been putting on pages in each other's absences.
They sat in pleasant silence over breakfast, the cracking of toast, the swish of tea. Then Siegfried flipped through one of the journals he'd brought with him and drew out a page of paper.
I am making this statement as an act of willful defiance of military authority because I believe that the war is being deliberately prolonged by those who have the power to end it... he read. Robert felt his chest seize up at the words. He ducked his head and closed his eyes.
I'm sorry, he answered, once Siegfried was done reading. I'm sorry I didn't stand with you. What a coward, he felt. But they'd been discussing his execution and Robert had suddenly found he couldn't bear the thought of a world without Siegfried in it.
Don't be sorry. Siegfried stood and moved to kneel next to Robert, laying his head in his lap. You saved me. In more ways than one you saved me.
Rivers and I, Robert said as he stroked the man's hair, other hand still wrapped around his teacup. He felt Siegfried laugh, rather than saw.
Yes. Rivers.
It was the first they'd spoken of Siegfried's time in Craiglochart, the time in which their feelings had been truly recognized, the time in which Rivers would leave during his appointments with Siegfried so that Robert could come and hold his friend while he wept.
He'd told the Board that Siegfried Sassoon had shell-shock to save his life, so that he would be crazy, rather than a traitor. It turned out he was both, and neither, of course. He would hold the slight man while he wept and they would both think of the dead eyed men with the hollow bodies.
Siegfried had never had apple cheeks. He was a thin man; even after regaining his appetite he'd been thin. Robert had a tendency to fuss over him, earning himself the occasional "bugger off, you mother hen." But it was a fond "bugger off." There was nothing but fondness between the pair anyway.
It was always the in betweens that were so interesting.
First Battalion Royal Welsh Fusiliers. They met in the mud and the muck. Siegfried was still smiling those days and Robert had been shocked by the gleam in the man's eye. He was an audacious person, daring in ways that Robert hadn't figured out yet. Mad Jack.
++++
"Recall," Siegfried said once when Robert was visiting him at Craiglochart and they were sitting in a secluded place on the grounds, Siegfried's head in Robert's lap, "the time the water in the trenches were up to our waists and we saw a man walking toward us, holding, not his rifle above his head, but a cat, and the cat was the most well fed thing I'd ever seen."
Robert laughed and nodded, stroking his friend's hair.
"I commented, asking how it was a cat could be so fat in a place like this. And you said yes, when all the rats had been eaten by the men already."
Siegfried nodded and smiled up at him. "Those tasty, tasty rats."
They had to joke, because if they didn't, they would go mad. Madder. They were less insane this way, laughing at eating rats and the time Andrews had fallen asleep standing up and had sunk up to his ankles in the mud without noticing before they'd had to lever him out.
They had to, or they would weep and they were both tired of weeping.
++++
The first time Siegfried kissed him, Robert had hit him. How typical. They were barely men, after all, just boys, more scared of each other than the death that waited for them over the top of the trench. They called him Mad Jack for a reason, though, throwing himself into anything he thought worthy of his effort, and apparently kissing Robert was one of those things. The kiss had been softer the second time around, the surprise not quite taken out of it, hands coming up to tangle in too-long hair. Robert's knuckles were cut up from trying to force the bolt into his mud-jammed gun. "We're officers God Damnit," he said once, "give us proper weapons."
Siegfried had given his colt to a private whose rifle was useless, a man from the South of Wales who couldn't read. Was that what it meant to be a leader? Robert wondered as he and Siegfried fell asleep against the wall of the trench that night, arms wrapped around each other, Siegfried's warm breath ghosting across his throat like the feather touch of a child's fingertips.
++++
Robert wrote Siegfried a letter before leaving to marry Nancy. I love you it said and that is impossible. I've loved you since the moment I saw you in that clean pressed uniform, watching the returning troops slouch past with dead eyes and hollow bodies. I can't love you, but I do and so I'm leaving.
He didn't get a response until three months after his wedding night, during which Nancy, sweet Nancy, had clung to him and closed her eyes. He loved her too, in a way, but she was so soft under his hands, and their kisses were brief little things, not the hard bite of a man's mouth. He missed calloused palms and the way Siegfried liked to press a daring knee between his legs during their stolen moments in the hallways of Craiglochart.
When he did get a letter back it had only two words. Selfish bastard.
Two more moths went by and he got another letter.
I love you too.
++++
Robert's poetry felt foolish whenever he would write it, but then someone who finish the last line of a particular bit and look up at him. If it was a civilian they would say nothing, just look. If it was a veteran, they would weep.
He'd never thought he would be able to bring a man to tears. That had always been Siegfried's job, but he imagined that when he had read that letter, Siegfried, too, had wept.
Robert didn't see him for a year after the wedding, then one evening there was a knock on the door and he answered it to find the man in his uniform, hands folded in front of him. They looked at each other for a long minute before Siegfried extended one hand.
I still love you, the piece of paper read. Robert found a stub of pencil in his pocket.
And I you.
Nancy was visiting her sister in Wimbledon. They slept in the guest bed, warmed each other with breath and hand and the press of bodies. They stayed up until the sun struck them in the face; sharing the words they'd been putting on pages in each other's absences.
They sat in pleasant silence over breakfast, the cracking of toast, the swish of tea. Then Siegfried flipped through one of the journals he'd brought with him and drew out a page of paper.
I am making this statement as an act of willful defiance of military authority because I believe that the war is being deliberately prolonged by those who have the power to end it... he read. Robert felt his chest seize up at the words. He ducked his head and closed his eyes.
I'm sorry, he answered, once Siegfried was done reading. I'm sorry I didn't stand with you. What a coward, he felt. But they'd been discussing his execution and Robert had suddenly found he couldn't bear the thought of a world without Siegfried in it.
Don't be sorry. Siegfried stood and moved to kneel next to Robert, laying his head in his lap. You saved me. In more ways than one you saved me.
Rivers and I, Robert said as he stroked the man's hair, other hand still wrapped around his teacup. He felt Siegfried laugh, rather than saw.
Yes. Rivers.
It was the first they'd spoken of Siegfried's time in Craiglochart, the time in which their feelings had been truly recognized, the time in which Rivers would leave during his appointments with Siegfried so that Robert could come and hold his friend while he wept.
He'd told the Board that Siegfried Sassoon had shell-shock to save his life, so that he would be crazy, rather than a traitor. It turned out he was both, and neither, of course. He would hold the slight man while he wept and they would both think of the dead eyed men with the hollow bodies.