North Road {HS}

22. Harry

France, 1915

"Give me another swig!" roared Pierce after finishing a story about a beggar he'd known back home, "All this talking's got me parched."

The thing was that, thanks to Pierce's willingness to trade anything for a bottle of whatever he could get his hands on- this time had been relatively easy, just a few chocolate bars Margaret had sent us- he had to be far from parched. He had nearly drank enough to be swimming in it.

The other thing was that I was nearly as drunk as he was. I surveyed the men around me. We had been given a rare few days off the line. For a brief second my mind went to the men who had to be rotated in so that we could be brought off.

But the fire in front of me was enough to melt those thoughts from my head. Around it were men I considered friends. Our bellies were full of warm food and cheap whiskey. And our minds were at rest with the knowledge that we wouldn't have to go over the top. At least not tomorrow.

And today I was elated about those facts. Closest to happy I'd been in ages.

Maybe it was the fact that I was drunk. Or maybe it was the fire of camaraderie that burned in my veins on nights like these. I couldn't say.

Yes there were days I despised the soldiers life. Days I didn't know if I could carry the weight of another man on my shoulder. But as long as I kept these men here alive and wrote long letters home to my mum each week I would be okay.

Most days I could do both of those things. Words flowed from my pen. Words I couldn't stop. Full of heroism and the poecy of the battlefield. My mother never needed to know about the rats the size of a man's head or the stench that could only come from the dead and dying or the incessant cold and wet- I hadn't been dry in months. And keeping these men alive meant keeping myself alive. It had to be done.

But some days words ran out. Some days a man died.

"Lemme," I said motioning to the bottle held precariously in Pierce's hand as he spoke.

"I heard there's fresh blood coming in soon," said one of the men.

"Van's got through?" asked Pierce.

"Well obviously, you dumb fuck," I laughed, "Where do you think you got the whiskey?"

"I traded chocolate for it," he said matter-of-factly.

"Yes to someone so green he didn't bother to check that the chocolate was nearly three months old and full of maggots. Just traded outright," I said.

"True," muttered Pierce, "He was just a kid. Why would he have wanted whiskey anyway?"

"He's new to the line," I shrugged, "And he was at least seventeen. He'll be drinking like you in no time."

Pierce nodded his head looking reassured with the idea.

"Well that means if they broke through we'll get uniforms," said one of the other men.

I hoped he was right. Mine had a hole up the side into the armpit from a near miss with a bayonet. I had attempted to sew it shut but it had been on another night like tonight when Pierce had found another bottle and my stitches had been less than effective.

We sat in silence for awhile contemplating the things that might break through the line and get to us. Food, uniforms, but most of all more recruits. We were drawn thin. None of us had left the line for nearly three months before this.

Pierce went back to talking until the crunching of boots interrupted him. He turned to look over his shoulder and I followed his line of sight. It was a small group of men. Obviously new recruits.

So we turned back to what we had been doing and ignored them. No use in making friends with more people who would likely die. It was a sort of unspoken rule.

The sound of boots got closer but none of us looked up. Apparently one of the new guys didn't know that rule.

"Hello all," said the man that approached us. My eyes were still fixed on the label of the bottle in my hands tracing the bold font that had been worn in places as the bottle had been passed from hand to hand before it reached us.

"No offense, mate, but piss off," said one of the men.

"Let him sit and warm himself," argued Pierce, who was always good-natured, especially when drunk. I lifted my head to watch as he motioned to the boy who's back was to me to sit down next to him.

In my drunken state I appreciated Pierce's good-naturedness, even if it would only create problems in the future. It would be another person I would feel the crippling need to protect.

But when the boy turned around I was no longer drunk. Or maybe I was far more drunk than I had thought and I was hallucinating. Because the new recruit was none other than Lewis.

Lewis Prescott.

Margaret's Lewis.

And I knew that this wasn't just another soldier I would have to protect. This was THE soldier I would have to protect.

But Lewis just smiled at me with that lopsided grin that always seemed to be on his face and brushed his hair out of his eyes and said in typical Lewis fashion, "Good to see you, Harry."
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Believe me I know... I'm the worst. I don't know if anyone on Wattpad is still alive anymore.

I am, but barely. I was reading We Were the Lucky Ones by Georgia Hunter. This book actually killed me and sucked me into a black hole and kept me from writing but it was sooooooooo worth it. I highly recommend it to anyone who likes historical fiction, especially twentieth century history.

So... to those who don't hate me. How are you?

Any good Harry fic suggestions? Any good historical fics?

We're gonna be getting into a little bit of the character's history now. I promise I won't disappear again (hopefully).

Love you all.