“Un beau gosse.” The waitress nods. “Un bel homme. I hope you find him, madame.”

“Yes,” Edie replies.

Chapter Six: Harry

Chapter Six

Harry

North of Béthune, February 1916

HARRY WATCHED THE FLAT OF FRANCIS’S HAND MOVING OVER THE plaster wall. “Have you seen?” Francis asked as he turned.

Harry stood at his brother’s shoulder. The wall of the barn was carved with the dates when other regiments had passed through this place. There were initials and insignia and cartoons scratched into the wall. There were ciphers and monograms and shields. The walls of the barn were like the massed voice of the men who had been before them.

“It’s like a visitors’ book, isn’t it?”

“Frannie, could we leave something?”

“We should leave our mark,” said Will.

Harry watched as Francis cut away the plaster with his penknife, making the shape of his initials. He stood back and blew the plaster dust away. “Now you.”

“Yes.” The knife felt strangely heavy in Harry’s hand. The plaster yielded easily to its blade, making a sharp, clean angle. He was struck by the seriousness of his brother’s face. There was no glimmer of humor in Francis’s eyes. It seemed that this was no joke, or light act of mischief. He ran inspecting fingertips over his work before handing the knife on to Will. “Mind your fingers.”

They watched as Francis scratched the date in below. There was something oddly ceremonial about the moment, Harry thought. A strange, solemn sense of ritual. He recalled fragments of half-forgotten stories in which brothers mingled their blood. The action seemed to have more than its immediate significance, particularly when Will took both their hands.

“We stick together,” said Francis.

They all laughed at their own intensity then. Their eyes met, the moment and the emotion broke, and they mocked themselves with grinned curses. Harry knew, though, that he wouldn’t forget the image of their three linked initials.

THEY WERE TOLD that they were to march east the next morning.

“This is it,” said Will. “This is our turn. What is the point in us being here otherwise?”

Behind the bravado, Harry saw fear flickering over his brother’s face. He contemplated what their turn would entail.

“I’d put up with being pointless,” he said.

They marched for two days toward the war. On the advice of the old-timers they had packed their pockets with chocolate, cigarettes, and candle stubs. The wax was warm and pliant between Harry’s fingers; the cold air caught at the back of his throat. They told them that each one of them, fighting men and fighting fit, was equal to three Germans.