Under Her Uniform

At last, she spotted Southey’s slender figure on a makeshift sandbag fire step. He fired repeatedly, trying to pretend he was more than one man—at twenty rounds a minute, he could make a good job of it, she knew.

She could barely hear the answering fire from their opposing trench, only see puffs of dust as the bullets thumped into the sandbagged parapet.

Dirt flooded into the trench, blocked her way. Flung to her knees, Hailey spit out grit, scrubbing at her eyes with her filthy sleeve. A single shell only this time; was the other side short of ammunition? Hoarding it because they already had the range? The shell had been some little distance away. The shooting had stopped. She sat up cautiously.

To her left, Southey hunched in the dirt. His helmet had been knocked askew; his features were filthy, and vulnerable from shock. “Bloody Christ on the bloody Roman cross, that was close.” One of the sandbags shifted abruptly; he lurched to one knee. He laughed, shakily. “Bob. A hand here.”

A weakened area of plank revetment creaked alarmingly. Hailey coughed, spat more mud, coughed again. This was very far from her fantasy of the two of them. She took off her service cap and banged it against her thigh, dislodging splinters that had just missed her face. “We’re to withdraw to Z3 before dark,” she croaked. She crawled over dirt and split sandbags to reach Southey.

He grinned shakily. “Z3’s finished?” Slowly, he unfolded from around his rifle, fumbling as he tried to strap it to his body. She watched his hands, long-fingered and slender beneath their coating of grime. Pretty hands, in a masculine way. She could see them trembling.

“It’s not really finished.” Hailey checked her own hands, small, grimy and coarse with callouses. Not shaking, though she was breathing raggedly. “Nice new latrine, though.”

“Surprised I didn’t piss myself just then,” Southey remarked. “Few more like that, we won’t need any latrines.”

Hailey chuckled and offered him a hand down. His grip was tight and sweaty; his usual easy grace wasn’t in evidence as he scrambled and slid from the remains of the fire step. His boots sank into the new layer of soft dirt, and he grabbed Hailey for balance. His left palm landed on the pocket of her uniform tunic, and even through layers of wool and cotton, Hailey felt the pressure of his grip on her breast for one hot moment. Heat flared in her face.

It was too bad she wanted him so much. That made it harder to ignore. If she’d really been a man…well, there were things men got up to here, in the dark, that no one talked about.

Southey didn’t notice her reaction as he righted himself, this time managing to get his rifle slung properly. He had no idea Hailey was female. No-one at the Front did, save Meyer and Daglish, and her former captain, Ashby. She wanted to keep it that way; she’d hardly be allowed to stay in the army, even as an officer’s batman, if anyone knew she was a woman. As for Meyer and Daglish, their secret was even more imperative to keep: sodomy was a crime.

A shot thumped into the parados. A breathless moment, then sand ran out in a stream. Southey stumbled; she grabbed his arm, tugging him until he regained his balance on the thin path of splintered duckboards. They found the correct communication trench and began wending their way towards Z3, trudging single-file, Hailey leading. There weren’t any duckboards here yet, nor any parapet, so it was hard going. They had to both keep their heads down and watch their feet.

It was growing darker. Soon men would crawl out of their trenches and swarm about like ants, replacing and repairing the day’s destruction, and praying the nightly bombardment wouldn’t obliterate them.

Southey said, out of nowhere, “Mason’s got himself a girl.”

Hailey stumbled. “Where—”

“Girl from Amiens.” He pronounced it like a Frenchman; he had told her that his mother was French. “She never saw a colored man before. Mason’s eye-deep in romance.”

Mason was their best sniper, and Southey’s closest friend in the regiment. “He’s not going to desert, is he?”

“Mason? Never! But his mind’s on her. And mine’s on him. Worried, you know. What if he’s dreaming on her rosy nipples and gets his bloody head blown off? Where’d we get another sniper, then?”

“Do you want me to tell Captain Meyer to have a word with him?”

“Won’t do a damned bit of good, will it?” A few more steps. Southey said, “Just wanted to tell someone. That’s all.”

Hailey wasn’t used to receiving confidences. She was a little surprised to get this one from him, because so far as she knew, he only confided in Mason. Though of course, in this case, he couldn’t tell Mason. She grunted and kept walking. Maybe it was because of when they’d thought Captain Ashby was dead, all those months ago.

Southey had been kind to her then, as she’d been distressed and unable to entirely hide it. They’d spent several evenings playing cards and talking, mostly about their families. She’d told him about her mother and sister, confessed how she felt caring for them was a burden sometimes because her sister could work, too, but would not. He’d described all his brothers, and his gentle father, and his mother who could have been a drill sergeant if she’d been a man. He’d given hilarious imitations of her French-laced directives to her children.

Hailey hadn’t thought about any of that much, since. It wasn’t smart for her to be too close to anyone. It was too dangerous for her disguise. But…it was there, between them. Those long nights, quiet and intimate.

A few minutes later, he said, “Word is, you keep secrets like a tomb. Besides, I know you wouldn’t tell anyone. You’re a good fellow, Hailey.”

There wasn’t any answer to be made to that, but she could tell there was more coming. She stopped and leaned against the trench’s slanted wall, removing her cap and wiping her forehead. Now would be a good time for a drink of water.

Southey leaned next to her and held out his canteen. “I’ve tea in mine.”