“I'd go every night!” she exclaimed later, when we were back on the street.

  “I'd take you every night.”

  “That's sweet! You might get tired of me.”

  “Never!”

  We walked along the docks and crossed a bridge. The brick dock tower, which was over three hundred feet tall, overlooked the pier. Lights appeared in the distance, and Emily ran ahead. “A ship is coming in!”

  When I caught up with her she was shivering, so I offered my arm. “You are a gentleman,” she said, and pressed herself against my side. “The stars are glorious tonight. I could almost believe there was peace on earth.”

  I certainly felt at peace.

  “What did you do at home, Edward?”

  “I rode my horse, played hockey and baseball. Farm work, of course. I read. I really enjoy reading.”

  “You aren't a budding poet, are you?”

  “No! I'm not much for writing. Maybe letters. I do like history—Alexander the Great, the Roman Empire, and Kipling.”

  “What is it with boys and Kipling? I prefer Jane Austen myself.”

  I hadn't heard of her. “I sing, too.” Sing?

  “At weddings and funerals. My mother was a good singer; I got it from her.”

  She poked me in the ribs. “You're only trying to impress me. You can't sing.” 1 can!

  “Prove it!”

  My throat was dry. “I just have to think of a song.”

  She was grinning at her little game. I thought of “Mademoiselle from Armentiéres,” but I could only remember the racy version. Finally, I sang:

  “By the light of the silvery moon

  I want to spoon.

  To my honey I'll croon love's tune.

  Honey moon, keep a-shinin in June.

  Your silv'ry beams will bring love's dreams.

  We'll be cuddling soon

  By the silvery moon.”

  Her smile grew wider and I grew braver, finding my proper pitch. When I was done, she was momentarily speechless.

  “You have a wonderful voice!” She took my hands. “No one has ever sung to me before. Sing it again.”

  I did. She gave me a kiss on the cheek, making my heart skip.

  “This must be very odd for you.” She took my arm again. “Being here, that is. Ships. The ocean. Not at all like home.”

  “Home is just grass and cows.”

  “I grew up on a farm, too, remember? We had two Lincolnshire reds, a bull, a milk cow, twelve chickens, and three pigs.”

  We settled on a bench that faced the ocean. A ship was passing by the tower.

  “Your friend was transferred to Lincoln.”

  “Paul?” A sharp pain shot through my gut.

  “He asked about you several times.”

  I pictured him in his cot. I was such a terrible friend. “I should have visited him.”

  “Why didn't you?”

  I shrugged. “There wasn't time. And …” I decided to be truthful. “I—I don't know how to explain it. I just couldn't stand to look at him. He was such a go-getter and a very handsome man. Seeing him was … terrible …”

  “He needed your company.”

  I nodded. I knew, I knew, I'd let a friend down.

  She looked me in the eye. “But it's not just about him, is it? It's about what could happen to you, too. If you go to the front.”

  “No. Well … maybe. But Paul gave up. That's what I couldn't bear to see. Not Paul. And what will he do with his life now?”

  “It's easier when we nurses don't know the men before they come in; then we can only imagine what may have been lost. It's not that much easier, of course. And many good soldiers don't come back at all. Like my brother.”

  I turned to her in surprise. “Your brother?”

  “Yes. Robert signed up with the Lines Infantry and he died at Gallipoli.” Her voice cracked a little. I didn't know much about Gallipoli, other than that it had been a hard campaign against the Turks, somewhere in the Mediterranean near Constantinople. “We were told a sniper got him, but that turned out to be a lie to save our feelings. One of his school chums gave us the truth. He died from dysentery. Dysentery! It certainly wasn't the heroic end he'd been promised by the recruiting posters.” She seemed as if she were about to sob, but she got a hold of herself. “He had the thickest hair and softest hands; he always got blisters. He was a good poet. His grave is so far away from us I might never get to see it.”

  “My brother was murdered by the Huns.” It came out angrier than I'd intended, my mind's eye offering up the image of his legs, torn apart by bullets, once again.

  She put her hand on my shoulder. “How did it happen?”

  I told her what I knew of his death. She shook her head. “It's really hard, isn't it? We're so alike. I knew that when I first saw you. Neither of us belongs here.”

  But I belong, I wanted to say.

  She pressed herself lightly against me. “‘The war is killing our youth.’ That's what Robert wrote in one of his poems. So true. The war kills our young and makes the rest of us old before our time. I feel like a crone.”

  “You're far from that!”

  “Ah, Edward.” She patted my hand, then held it tight. “I'm going to France, to Etaples, on Tuesday.”

  I was stunned. Three days! She was shipping out before me. I'd pictured her waving good-bye to me on the dock.

  “Don't you have anything to say?” Emily asked.

  “It's what you want.”

  “What I want is for the war to end. It's not that putting dressing on a soldier's wound will stop the war, but maybe it'll end it a little sooner. That night when all the wounded arrived was the first time I ever saw up close what happens. Not just broken bones, but injuries from shrapnel and bullets. They do terrible things to the body. I have to help.”

  “I know how you feel.”

  “Do you really want to go? It seems so horrid.”

  “We could lose the war, you know. I don't want Hector to have died for nothing.”

  She touched my cheek; her hand smelled like flowers. “I wish we'd been born forty years earlier. We could be sitting here together without thinking of the war.”

  I grabbed her hand. “I'll … I'll miss you, Emily”

  “You don't even know me.” She must've seen the look on my face. “I mean, well, these are strange days. Everything I feel is … heightened, somehow. I'll miss you, too, I know that. I know that. I'll write, I promise. Maybe you'll be in France soon and we'll meet again.”

  “I'll ask for leave every day.”

  “Ha! You'll come and see me off, won't you? At three on Tuesday.”

  “Nothing could keep me away.”

  That got a smile.

  “Will you kiss me?” she asked.

  “Wh-what?”

  “It would be bad luck if you went to France and hadn't kissed a girl.”

  “I've kissed girls!” I lied.

  “You haven't kissed me.”

  Emily leaned very close, her sweet rose scent tickling my nostrils. Her breath and mine mingled; then our lips touched. I closed my eyes. Was I supposed to move my lips? Hers were so soft.

  “That was nice,” she whispered moments later, leaning against me. “So nice.” I put my arms around her and held her tight. I wanted to keep this moment safe in my heart no matter how long the war lasted.

  15

  The next day I brushed Buke. As I gently untangled the knots in his mane, his heavy odor reminded me of home.

  “Emily is amazing,” I whispered, glancing around to be sure no one was near.

  I relived our evening a thousand times. Dining, talking, a show, and a first kiss. Thinking about it made my heart race. And now she was going to leave!

  It was crazy to be daydreaming about her, especially during drill. Luckily, I'd made no boneheaded mistakes. Captain Trollope had even complimented me; Buke had again been fidgety and raring to go, but he'd stayed in his place in line.

  I walked back to our tent, through slushy mud. At home now, it would be so cold you'd take your life in your hands just going outside. I pushed open the flap and Cheevers jumped right into my face, swinging a letter around like a flag. “My brother wrote me! We're missing everything! Listen up! ‘Dear Mardy Sourpuss.’” Cheevers paused. “Isn't James funny? Anyway, he writes, ‘Last night Sims, Adcock, Sidney, and me blackened our faces, climbed over the top, clipped the Hun wire, and crawled up to their trench. Quick as a wink Sidney jumped over and bayonetted their watchmen. The rest of us followed, tossing Mills Bombs ahead of us, then mopping up with bayonets. Stab! Twist! Wipe! Stab! Twist! Wipe! I got three; I'm up to five now. We dragged one scrawny, squob-eyed Hun back with us. Adcock pegged out just as we crawled back in—a damn fine shot in the forehead. I'll miss the bugger. Sergeant says we deserve medals, but we settled for an extra rum ration.’” He lowered the letter. “Stab! Twist! Wipe! Now, that's action, eh, Bathe? Eh, Blackburn?”

  Jumping the bags! Hand-to-hand combat! All told as though it were just a stroll in the park.

  “I doubt it really happened,” Blackburn said. “You do come from a family of grandiose braggarts.”

  Cheevers glared. “It happened! Your brother's still picking his nose in Italy.”

  Blackburn shook his head. “I need some air.” He marched out of the tent.

  Cheevers gave me a wink. “The air in here's clearer now.”

  He poured himself a cup of tea from the camp stove and sat down at the small table. “Enough about war! Time to think of love.” He laid out his paper, pen, and ink. “I've got to write another letter to my sweetheart. The problem is … which one?” He tapped his forehead. “I'll write my favorite, and when I'm done I'll send a copy to my other skirts. Changing the names, of course! Should I ask for gingerbread biscuits this time?”

  I shook my head and laughed. Cheevers was doing wrong, but he did it with such relish it was hard to lecture him.

  My back ached from all the riding we'd done, and I needed to take a walk, maybe even as far as the aid post. I pulled on my greatcoat and stepped outside.

  “You shouldn't listen to Cheevers.” Blackburn was a few steps away, a cigarette glowing in his hand. He let out the smoke. “He loves the glory a little too much.”

  “He's a good trooper.”

  “Oh, I know that. I'm just saying it's not all about charging like Indian braves. You have to keep a cool head, know when to charge and when to fall down flat. Cheevers is the type who's always charging.”

  I'd rather have him at my side than you, I felt like saying, but instead just replied: “He's my friend.”

  “Well, I don't need friends. I need dependable troopers next to me. We don't have to like each other, but I know tactics and I know my job.” He flicked the cigarette skyward. It arced to the ground, scattering ashes across the road.

  I tramped away. Blackburn was always reading manuals on fighting. But sometimes knowing or thinking too much could be a bad thing, like that time I read about how to properly swing a baseball bat, and didn't hit a single pitch for ages. Worse was thinking too much about what could happen to you. Every time I pictured Paul's broken body or Hector's last moments, I got nervous. In battle, images like that could cause me to freeze in the middle of a charge over the trenches.

  That was why Cheevers was so good. He wouldn't hesitate for a moment. Like Hector, he'd be a good man to follow.

  16

  Emily was trying to lug her trunk through the side door of the aid post. She was in her blue dress and had tied her hair back. “It's about time you got here!” Her cheeks were flushed as though she'd been running.

  “I had to sneak over. I'm on stable duty, but a friend is covering for me. We'll both get field punishment if I'm caught.”

  “He must be a good friend.”

  Once I'd admitted to Cheevers that I had to see a girl, he'd said, “Get on over there and give her a kiss for me.” I'd have about an hour before Sergeant Applewhite would notice I was out.

  “Just one moment, Miss Waters.” Major Purves, the regimental doctor, strode up. He was a tall man with warm eyes. “I couldn't let you go without saying good-bye.” I was suddenly jealous at the way she smiled for him.

  “That's kind of you.”

  “You're a marvelous nurse. I gave a glowing report to your superior. I'm sure you'll make a splash at Etaples.” He shook her hand and a blush came to her cheeks.

  “Thank you, sir! I learned so much from you.”

  “You'll do even better work there.” He glanced at me. “You take care of her, Trooper. She's quite the catch.”

  “I will!”

  Major Purves smiled at us and went back into the aid post.

  “The lorry's waiting,” Emily said. I lifted the trunk, surprised to find it so heavy. I imagined what was inside: books, combs, a hand mirror, dresses, and frilly underclothes— everything that helped make her Emily

  “Is there an anvil in here?” I asked.

  “Two, just so I can see you sweat.”

  I lugged the trunk to the truck. The smoke from the driver's cigarette curled out the open cab. I heaved the trunk onto the back of it.

  “How long until we go, mac?” she asked the driver.

  “Just a bit more load-up to do, duck!”

  She took my hand and led me around the side of the building, then folded both her hands over mine. I looked down at them, fascinated at how small they were next to my own. “You treated me well, Edward.” She tightened her grip. “I truly appreciate that. You're a good boy … good man.”

  “Thank you.” I'd rehearsed other words: I really care about you. I think you're wonderful. Nothing was big enough to express what I needed to say. “You're a good one, too … girl, that is.” I bumbled hopelessly along. “More than that; you're wonderful and …” Her eyes were so big I lost my tram of thought.

  “Chatty as always.” Her smile made me flush with emotion. I likely wouldn't see it again for months, maybe even a year. Or longer. I wanted to hold her tight to me, but I was paralyzed.

  The horn honked. “So soon,” she said softly, and pulled her hands away, reaching into the pocket of her dress. She handed me a silver locket. I opened it, discovering a picture of her in her nurse's uniform. She wasn't smiling, but she looked poised and beautiful.

  “It's what girls do, I guess—give pictures of themselves to boys.”

  “I'll keep it right next to my heart.”

  Emily reached out as if she were going to pull a com from my ear. I jumped a little. “I'm not going to pinch you.” She drew me toward her and we kissed gently. I tried to hold her but she'd already backed away. “That was our second kiss.” She put her finger to my lips. “Your lips better not touch another girl or you won't get your third.”

  “I'll wait until kingdom come and longer.”

  “You won't have to wait that long, I promise.”

  I followed her to the back of the truck and helped her climb up. By then three other nurses had boarded, and Emily squeezed in next to them, straightening her skirt as she did. The truck gave a roar, then backfired and growled its way down the road. She waved, looking rather melancholy, and I waved back. My eyes were locked on her as she grew smaller and smaller and finally disappeared over a hill.

  17

  I checked my mail every day. A week after she left I received a postcard from Emily with a picture of a field camp hospital in Etaples, a coastal city in France. On the back she'd scribbled:

  Dear Edward,

  Kept quite busy! Not even time to breathe. Will write more later.

  Yours truly,

  Emily

  Truly? Yours truly? Not even Sweetly yours? Still, she'd made it safely, and I was being selfish, expecting her to write more. Obviously, she was hard at work.

  I wrote back to her immediately:

  Jan. 30, 1918

  Dear Emily,

  Now that you're gone the sun has stopped shining. We have to train in the dark. It's really quite a nuisance. Could you please come back, if only to give us a little light by which to do our duty?

  Wisecracks aside, 1 do hope things are going well there. 1 know you must be terribly busy, but if you get a moment, walk out to the ocean and look toward England. You'll see me on Buke, drilling and drilling and drilling. We trained in the lance this week. 1 felt like a knight. Next is the sword. It seems old-fashioned, charging machine guns with swords, but the higher-ups say they're effective. I'm not sure 1 want to test their theories.

  Well, back to drills. 1 do wish 1 could drop by and see you, but 1 suppose that'll be months from now.

  Very warmly yours,

  Edward

  Two weeks passed without news, though I checked the mail every day. Our squadron rode the twenty-five miles inland to Lincoln to join the entire regiment for further training. Townspeople gathered on the streets and cheered as we rode up the steep hill, past Lincoln Castle.

  The barracks were three times the size of ours, with two flanking wings and a large courtyard. We drilled day and night—more than five hundred yeomanry galloping across the barracks' grounds or cutting through Rise-holme Park. I was astounded by the thudding of hooves and the sound of metal on metal as five hundred swords were drawn at once. Surely our enemy would wilt before us.

  On the third day Sergeant Applewhite brought our mail. One letter for Blackburn, from his brother; three from girls for Cheevers; and one from Emily for me. She'd dabbed a bit of perfume on it, which made me sniff like a hound dog before I opened it.

  Feb. 14,1918

  Dear Not-So-Bright Edward,

  I know. I know. You're wondering why such a cruel greeting. Well, you did say in your last letter that the sun wasn't shining without me.

  I'm sorry for not writing sooner. I do the work often nurses and there is no time to rest.

  All is well here according to the newspapers, but not judging by the wounded 1 see. We are kept busy “mending” (that's what we call it, as if we are stitching together shirts). 1 see a steady flow of men hit by shrapnel and bullets. Some look lifeless; others ask how soon they can go back to the front, as though they haven't yet had enough of fighting. Shrapnel is an evil invention that takes a terrible toll on a man's body. The guns are always firing. We hear them roar and we know another man, or ten, has lost his life. I am told this is actually the slow season and the spring will bring a flood of patients. Oh, joy!