I covered the greeting with my thumb. “Don’t you have some brandy that needs your attention?”
A boot came hurtling past, narrowly missing me but taking out both of our glasses.
“Not anymore,” Chaffre said cheerfully. “Listen, if we stick together, maybe no one will notice that we’re really just trying to be alone. No faire Suisse to worry about.”
I couldn’t tell if he was in earnest or hoping to get another drink out of me. He didn’t look nearly old enough to be there.
“We could watch out for each other. For boots and all that. I don’t know a soul here.”
A damp balled sock followed, landing in a heap on our table. “I don’t either.”
A recruit with shoulders like sawhorses stalked over. “That doesn’t belong to you,” he growled, and snatched the sock up from the table, spitting within a centimeter of my foot. “I don’t like thieves.”
Chaffre exhaled as the soldier left in search of his boot. “It would be good to have someone in this place to depend on.” He sat straight and easy, but his hands curled protectively around his now empty glass. “What do you say?”
I gestured for two more brandies. “Deal.”
Chaffre was true to his word. He was as persistent as a burr. With him sitting on my bed, polishing boots and keeping watch, I could read or write letters without fears that my mattress would be tipped or my head doused with water from over the center partition.
Though I hadn’t heard from Clare since that last letter in the spring, the one where she talked about the expedition to Mauritania, I still wrote, as often as I could. Not knowing where else to send them, I addressed them to the general post office in Laghouat, the last address I had. She’d make her way out of wilderness at some point. She’d find my letters waiting.
Lundi, de 20 octobre 1913
Dear Clare,
And to think I found school a slog. It has nothing on the army. I know by now you must be tired of hearing my epistolary complaints, but egads!
Despite the drills twice a day, our bunch is still trying to master “right” and “left.” Instead of a corporal, they need a dancing master. We might make more progress. But marching may be all that we can do. The rest of our soldiering, we’ve thus far learned from a series of books and pamphlets, which I think half of the recruits can’t read a word of. And those are the practical books. Did you know, yesterday we had a lecture on civic duty and, tomorrow, we’re to have one on mushroom farming? France had better hope that no one challenges us to battle. We may only be able to respond with a volley of morals and morels.
Must go…they are tossing Chaffre in a blanket again.
Yours,
Luc
I was always retrieving Chaffre. After those first few pranks, the others left me largely alone. But poor Chaffre, they waited for him when he stepped out to use the latrine. They lurked right inside the barracks with a wool blanket outstretched, and caught up my hapless friend when he came in. It was usually only after my shouted promises to buy jugs of wine for all the next day that they’d unfurl him. That may have been their intent to begin with. Uncle Jules’s inheritance was coming in handy.
Chaffre always shrugged it off with a smile and a “no hard feelings.” He was a funny kid.
Dimanche, le 23 novembre 1913
Dear Clare,
After a month, I think I’ve finally broken in my uniform. It’s really a ridiculous getup. The jacket comes down nearly to my calves and, underneath, the trousers are pulled up to my armpits (excuse the indelicacy). But just imagine, those trousers are as bright red as a cherry. The jacket and cap are dark blue. Is the plan to make us look too patriotic to shoot? Yet another reason why I could never be a real soldier. I’d never be able to attack. I’d be laughing too hard at myself to aim.
I do admit, though, that there is something comforting in all of the wool this time of year. It’s been icy. However, our uniforms would be far more comforting if the other seventy-nine men in my barrack would, on occasion, launder them.
Speaking of, the others have hidden Chaffre’s trousers again. I must go help him. Au revoir!
Luc
Chaffre sat on a bed next to me, mending his rescued trousers. “Thanks so much for helping me, old man.” His cheeks were pink. “Pass over yours and I’ll fix that rip you have in the seat.”
“You really don’t need to,” I said, folding the letter to Clare.
“You don’t want to be pulled out of line during roll call over a hole that will take me a few minutes to stitch.” He grinned. “I’ll keep you out of trouble. You’d do the same for me.”
Apart from finding his trousers and keeping him from the blanket tossing, I’m not sure I was as useful as all that. I didn’t want to turn their attention to me instead. But I passed over my trousers with a “Thank you.” I was all thumbs with a needle and thread.
He poked a finger through the hole, then smoothed it down with a finger. “Who is it that you’re always writing?”
“Clare. A friend.” I stretched out on my bed. “She’ll never be in the army. I have to keep her informed.”
“Of course you do.” He looked up and smiled. A balled-up pair of socks hit him in the side of the head.
“Mend these too, mam’selle!” followed.
Chaffre’s smile tightened, but he bent and retrieved the socks from under my bed. “No problem.”
Jeudi, le 15 janvier 1914
Dear Clare,
We’re beginning to learn topography, and to that I say, at long last, something useful. Now, when the French army is out foraging for mushrooms, we’ll be able to find our way back to the battle.
We have our first set of examinations coming up, though what they’ll be testing us on, I’m not sure. We’ve had recent lectures on mutual associations and beekeeping. Perhaps that? Poor Chaffre has been flipping through all of our books, worried that he’ll get some crucial question wrong and disgrace his family forever and ever. I keep having to reassure him that as long as we can walk in a straight line and can spout off the tenets of the Republic, we’ll be fine.
I tell you, Clare, I’m glad that this is all rather ridiculous. I’m not made to be a soldier. As a boy I was nervous just standing in front of the class to give a recitation. To stand and face someone across from a field of battle, to know that it’s kill or be killed, I can’t even imagine that. It’s much easier to relegate worries like that to the dustbin now that I’m training to be a very patriotic mushroom farmer instead.
