the delicious wolves

3: you me and the weather

1917

The mud was cold and slick on Will Brand's riffle. His fingers were ice cubes trying to hold it steady. The company of a dozen soldiers moved through the woods, silent save for the sound of snow crunching under their boots. They were spread out, so Will could only see a couple helmets through the trees in the dim morning light. His eyes only looked for one soldier though.

Pat Bishop was a little south of him, looking just as exhausted and anxious as he felt. He had the face of a young lad, but his wide blue eyes seemed far older. Will sometimes didn't recognize those eyes as they stared into his own. Sometimes, he didn't even recognized his own reflection. Pat looked towards him, and gave him a tired smile. Will could only nod back, but the smile made him feel warmer, made him forget the uselessness of his gloves, or the fact that his socks were soggy and falling apart.

A branch snapped, and the sound echoed through the trees. The company halted as one, crouched down and held their riffles out, scanning the trees for the source of the sound. Maybe it was a deer, or a Frenchman. Surely this area was free of Germans. They stayed still and alert for long agonizing minutes, but no further sound followed. 

Their captain up ahead made the signal and they got up and began to march again. Will was just beginning to relax when the bits of bark fell onto his shoulder. He wiped off the bark, and then a few more pieces fell. Finally he looked up, and there he saw the German soldier with long black hair hanging from a branch.

With a shout the German let go of the branch. Will raised his riffle to shoot, but the man fell onto him before he could. He felt the wind get knocked out of him, and then his own riffle get pressed against his neck. He could see the German's face clearly.

He was a man with intense grey eyes like a stormy sky, with a good week's worth of stubble and long greasy dark hair. He was shouting something at Will, but Will was too frantic to hear anything. He would only later find out the man was screaming: "You'll never take me back to Germany alive!" in perfect English. He couldn't breathe and the world was starting to spin and blur. Then he saw the butt of a riffle impact with the German's head.

"We're the British, you bloody fool!" Pat screamed, training his riffle on the German, who was now rolling in the snowy mud in pain. The rest of the soldiers rushed back, forming a circle around them.

Will coughed, pushing himself up. "Shoot the bastard already!" It was painful to speak. He rubbed his throat as he reached for his own riffle. Just seeing the mud on the barrel he knew he was going to have to clean to damn thing if he ever wanted to fire it again.

"Who are you?" Pat's frightened voice asked.

The German pushed himself up to his feet, still cradling his head in pain. He was tall and lithe, and spoke in one of the poshest accents Will had ever heard. "My codename is Schreiter, and I'm a British spy."

1928

Outside the small cave the wind and snow had kicked up into another blizzard.

"Pat!" Will yelled and fell to his knees, cradling Pat's cold body in his arms. "No!" How could this be? It wasn't real, it wasn't real, it wasn't real. "Say something... say anything. I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." he whispered as his eyes filled with tears. "Please say something..."

Silence.

No, not complete silence. He heard a soft and far off noise, like a drum. With a sudden burst of hope he realised that it was Pat's heart. He was alive.