Page 74 of The Unknown Birds

The score was tied two on two when one of the Italians tripped over a tackle and twisted his ankle. He was helped off the pitch by a Scot on his left side and a German on his right, and though he insisted he was uninjured, his commander forbade him rejoining the fray, leaving the Allies one man down.

Rook called on a few different fellows to sub in, but everyone’s head was thick with drink, so Captain Davies removed his greatcoat and jogged onto the field of play to the loudest cheering yet.

“Give ’em hell, sir,” Rook said.

“It’s been quite some time since school,” the captain replied skeptically.

“Easy as marching, sir,” Cooper assured him.

The game resumed, and Captain Davies held his own. He could mark his man well enough, and rusty or not, his footwork was as good as anyone else’s except for Coop.

“You’ve been holding out on us, sir,” Ash called as she ran past him, grinning.

Then, with the Germans closing in fast, the captain passed Ashley the ball, and she turned and kicked it as hard as she could towards the goal. It slipped in, though barely, and the Allied crowd erupted as loud as Big Bertha’s screaming shells.

Dusty blew the whistle—Allies winning, three to two.

“Brilliant shot,” Captain Davies said, wrangling Ash around the neck with one arm. “You may have a bright future after the war, but we must have a very serious discussion about which team you join, and why it should be Wolverhampton.”

“Only as good as the assist, sir. And I suppose it’s West Ham for me,” Ash told him.

“Abominable,” he scoffed, releasing his hold and shoving her playfully away.

In truth, West Ham was the hometown favorite, rivaling only Millwall, but after knowing Cooper, Ash would be a fan of The Arsenal to her dying day.

As the sun threatened to show itself in the eastern sky, the opponents shook hands with their counterparts one last time. They exchanged chocolates and pots of jam, and then headed back into their burrows to prepare for the rain of fire that would likely descend the moment the Yuletide spell was broken.

“Thank you,” Ash whispered to Rook, settling back against the trench wall, listening to the blessed silence, a half-drunk smile upon her face. She felt as though, in refusing to fire, Rook had brought about a miracle that night. And she had needed it. They all had.

The ever-present smirk turned up one corner of his mouth. “Happy Christmas, Little Bird.”

“And God bless us, every one,” she whispered.

Chapter 22

Piave, December 1917

Though B Company expected to go into billets the day after Christmas, no relief arrived, and as the days wore on and word trickled down the line that hostilities in the mountains had ended, they grew restless in the trench along the river below.

“You’re certain of the date?” Captain Davies asked Sergeant Major Chapman, glancing at his pocket watch.

“Bristol’s Own on the bloody twenty-sixth, no doubt about it,” Chapman replied.

“Perhaps they were held up. Have we a line to HQ?”

“What—here?” Lieutenant Hawkins scoffed. “Send Tomasson.”

But the captain merely shrugged, unwilling to let Hawkins think he ran the show. “They’ll come when they come.”

There was little enough activity from the German line anyway, and Ash wondered if Davies was less than keen to let some strangers loose on their holiday pals.

With things grown relatively quiet, the captain spent more time visiting his men, sharing meals and tea, even the odd hand of rummy—as though the Yuletide festivities had knocked down some barriers of rank which previously kept him at a distance. Or maybe he was just as tired and homesick as they were.

“Care for a biscuit, sir?” Ash offered on New Year’s Eve. “The last of my Christmas haul.”

He looked into the tin, where only the simplest treats remained, selected one, and closed his eyes, letting the rich, creamy flavor dissolve on his tongue.

“Butterplätzchen?”