Guns and Horses

Chapter Eight: The Last Brother

CHAPTER EIGHT

D A N N Y 

January 21' 1917

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The sunlight shone through the thin canvas tent as I stared up at the sky. The khaki sheet was wrapped around my body but I hadn’t slept, the stone ground had dug into my back making it impossible to rest, the month prier to my leave I had begun to rest wherever I could but after a proper bed and feather cushions my body bruised too easily.  Whenever my eyes had drop for a moment the nightmares returned in all their glory haunting me of death and loss. Part of me wished to flee, run away from this hell and go back to Scotland where I was safe. This wasn’t even my war it was the English against the Germans not the Scots against the Germans! But if I ran they would shot me for cowardice and there was no place for a cowards wife. I sat back into the ground and interlaced my hands behind my head.

There was a scuffing of feet outside my tent and for a moment, a fleeting moment, I thought it might be the German’s, broken past the enemy lines and here to shoot us in our sleep. Shimming myself out the sleeping bag I got into my coat and ducked out the tent. I thought perhaps Jim had arrived back thought he did normally mumble to the horses.

But it wasn’t Jim.

Fletcher stood in front of me, his face covered in grit and dust, his eyes wide with adrenaline and fear, his clothes covered in blood and his legs shaking so much he could barely stand. What was he doing here? I pulled back for a moment, worried he may turn and notice me, he was normally off with his buddies laughing and drinking not here with the horses. His hands clutched something so tight but I couldn’t quite see as he stood with his hands just out of my view.

“Fletcher?” I said as I walked closer, cautious of how he may react I had heard some men can turn after a battle.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered his eyes still on the wall behind the horses.

“About what?” I asked, thinking he wasn’t in the right frame of mind, I guessed he may want to forgive a past crime like how you would confess to a preacher.

“The ship, I was out of place, I shouldn’t have said what I said, you’d never done nothing to me, you’re just quiet you know.” He turned tears streaming from his eyes. “He wanted me to give you this you see, he wanted me to tell you that you have to send it, he didn’t want it lost and not sent.” I stepped back a horrible feeling settling in my stomach, I could only guess what he was explaining. “See once he told me that I knew you were a good man, you know, he trusted you.” He looked down at his hands, they were crusted with blood.

“Who Fletcher, Who’s dead?” I asked even though I could guess who he was talking about.

“He was brave to the end you know, he didn’t cry even though his stomach lay beside him, there was no way he could have survived it, the white intestines was mixed with mud and his hands, Danny his hands were so cold.” He stumbled towards me his clenched fists outstretched, I grabbed them to stop him from falling. “Jim. Jim wanted me to give you his letters, he forgot to send them before he left.” Fletcher dropped the paper into my hand and stumbled back his body no longer controlled by his fleeting mind.

The letter was covered in a splatter of mud, or at lest that is what I hoped it was. I had only seen him a few hours ago. Oh God, he was only sixteen, I should have told them I should have gone to my commanding officer and told him he was under age, it was my fault. I placed a hand on the fence to balance myself. Black Jack nibbled at my fingers and gently rubbed his lips against my arm, I reached up and stocked his head, unable to quite process what Fletcher had just told me. But before I could gather my thoughts I head Black Jack whinny and I turned to see Fletcher pointing his pistol to his temple.