Lavender & Letters: A Reimagined 1917 Story

Lieutenant Leslie...

Disclaimer!

Although the story is heavily inspired by the Sam Mendes masterpiece, this novel is a work of fiction. Any reference to real people (living or dead), actual locations and historical events are solely used to lend to the fiction and appropriate cultural and historical setting. All other names, characters, places and incidents portrayed in this story are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance or reference to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental!

Enjoy <3 xx

Italics = Rachel's thoughts

April 6th 1917, The Front Line...

Debris, mud and sandbags are strewn amongst a small team of diggers breaking the dirt, pulling body parts from the soil and stuffing them into woven bags. The sight alone is repulsive but they go about it like they're pulling weeds from a garden. I don't want to stare, but it's too harrowing and fascinating not to; James and Michael have done this.

I recall letters with vague mentionings of maintenance on the front after an attack, boys pulling 'bits and pieces' from the dirt so that they can repair until it looks like it wasn't blown to hell days before. Less men than before doing the labour, meaning longer hours for those lucky – or unlucky depending on who you ask – enough to have survived the assault.

"Stay low." William gently warns when he overtakes and flings his rifle off his shoulder.

They climb the bags but I halt. Tenderised, cooked tissue and pink skin, joints and tendons are stuffed in those. They'll be squishy.

A digger notices the Lance Corporals. "God's sake careful there. You're stepping on the dead. That's our Sergeant." Tommy is warned with facts pointed and pressing.

Oxblood liquid seeps out the fabric and sticks on my soles. I tense into a shiver and step where I think there's more bone than muscle.

"Be better washing them out of this dugout with a bloody hose."

His jaw squares and lip thins at me, not a spark or slightest indication of surprise in his eyes, his utterances laced in displeasement. "You're a little late."

His deadly sarcasm sucks all moisture from my tongue.

"Do you know where the Yorks are?"

"The next bend you'll be standing on top of half of them." The digger scowls with a disassociating stare at the bags and the work yet to be done. "Shot to hell two nights ago."

It's all an inconvenience to him. No wonder men go insane. We slog to a small bay, my stomach's trembles lessen when I step onto mud. Someone is burning lice and the other is patting a scruffy Jack Russell and smoking a pipe as Tommy does all the talking.

"Yorks?"

"Yes, Corp."

"Where's Major Stevenson?"

"Killed a couple of nights ago, Corporal. Lieutenant Leslie has command." Christ.

He dryly laughs through brown teeth. "Why'd you idiots bring her? She's bloody useless."

When the humourless rumble settles, he soaks me with his parched gaze, his tongue licking the mouthpiece before drawing in a longer breath, using his moment to keep me here, like it would lead to something. "On second thought she ain't completely useless, if she doesn't mind being shared–"

"Where can we find him?" Tommy cuts with a knit brow.

The smoker's face sours at the boy and flicks his head down the trench, his next inhale short and rigid. "Next dug-out."