Wildflowers In The Ruins: A 1917 Story

Chapter Four. Roses

Friday April 6th, 1917:

"Fuck me! They really HAVE gone," exclaimed Blake incredously.
Schofield shot him a look and I stifled a smile, biting down on my lip.
"I've heard worse," I said, forgiving his choice language.

Blake ventured down the slope first, followed by Schofield. It was easiest to slide down on my bottom. Sensing by the fright I must look, a little more mud wouldn't make a difference now.

Halfway down, the mud became rain- soaked sandbags followed by sturdy, thick wooden boards. Swinging my legs over the side, Schofield stood directly in front facing me square on, whilst Blake continued forward with his back to us both.

Schofield unexpectedly offered his right hand out to me in the exact same way a man would do to the object of his affection at a county ball, is if to say 'May I have this dance?' Accepting it as graciously as I could muster, I gently gave my left hand. His eyes locked in mine and I couldn't help but smile at his gallantry. His mouth stayed set firm, but I felt a warmth behind his eyes: " thank you." My voice sounded shaky and there was something else. Noticing again his height, stature and masculine countenance alongside that heavy, aggressive bayonet, yet how gently he'd taken my hand... something oddly became excited inside me, like a firework slowly sparking.
'No Jane!' I mentally scolded myself, yanking my wayward thoughts back into line. 'Stop! This is not the time or place to be having such an innapropriate imagination!'
Dropping the last few feet onto hardened ground, hurriedly I pulled my hand away. He turned to Blake and they continued a few steps before slumping back against the firm walls, reloading their rifles.

Blake squinted at Schofield: " 'Yer hand alright?"
"Put it through an effing German:" was his reply.
"She patched it up al'wight," continued Blake cheerfully: "you'll be wanking again in no time."
Schofield turned his head away from my direction but I still heard "wrong hand."
Heat seared from the tips of my ears to the lobes. Remebering who I was with, and how men discussed these habits freely and without habition, I cleared my throat and gave the pair of them a pointed glance.
Blake's snigger stopped abruptly and the three of us, him leading, stepped forward. We cautiously turned a corner to the left and then a right. With no inkling of where we were headed, I followed from the back.

Blake stopped abruptly, deliberately kicking over a tin bucket. Ash spewed out, peppered with glowing embers. They fizzled and crackled making contact with the floor.
"They're not long gone," clarified Schofield as we took another left, further into the catacombs. The retreat had happened sooner than I'd hoped. The wooden walls reached much higher now, growing above our heads as the sides closed in and a cloying, musty smell grew.

We then reached more of another open area, like the one we'd arrived in. Schofield instinctively cocked his bayonet up, swirling on his heels to the left and Blake to the right, a mirror image of his companion.
"No good," were Blake's words as I noticed the dead-end he was referring to. Schofield carefully carried on, as the trench bared round to our left. We then took a right and as Schofield rushed ahead to check something which appeared to be a landslide of soil, sandbags and artillery cases, Blake stilled.
Schofield turned to us:
"Blocked," he whispered decidedly, shaking his head.
Blake had spotted something and coming up to him I saw it too:
A wooden rectangular entrance which looked dark and foreboding leading to goodness knows where.
"This might be a way through," replied Blake.
I had to admit, it certainly looked our most promising option so far.
"Please, God, let it be our way out" I exhaled.
Blake feigned surprise: "well, I've never been called that before. Down 'ere on earth I'm known as Tom."
His words couldn't help but make me smile, despite the sumounting terror of where we actually were.
"Jane," I replied warmly, with a nod. If these truly were my last moments, at least Blake and I will know each other's first names, I thought resignedly. Perhaps Schofield had heard too, but he was producing his torch and stepping around me to my right. His left hand gently came out to hold me back, without any physical contact. After a few steps, he motioned with that poor, bandaged hand for me to follow, all the while staring straight ahead.