Hamish was saying, “I won best of three in the canteen.”
Suddenly, without warning, Rutledge could feel himself slipping back, reliving a night in France.
He had been invited to the canteen by his men. It had been his birthday, and he never knew how they’d found that out. Darts was a working-class pastime, but he’d held his own with a good elbow and a better eye. He’d been grateful not to disgrace his men in front of the other onlookers.
Hamish had stood them all down, the quiet young Scot already respected by his men, his corporal’s stripes still new on his uniform.
It had been a brief respite from the Front, tired men pulled back for a few days of rest after a hard week of fighting, and nowhere to go in the rain and the mud and the dark save the popular canteen set up in a small stone barn—all that was left of a French farmhouse—that had been too rat infested to serve as a field hospital. Rumor was, officers turned a blind eye to the use it was put to by a trio of enterprising Welshmen, miners at home outside Cardiff but sappers now.
Someone had found a great gray and black tomcat, and it soon made short work of the earlier residents. A broom and some odds and ends of scavenged paint, and a rough bar built from whatever wood could be found or stolen, and the canteen was in business. A large oil painting of a French officer of the Napoleonic wars had materialized from somewhere, hung at one end of the barn by a length of scorched rope. It had become a habit to salute the officer on entering.
Evenings were usually rowdy, some of the strain and fatigue draining away as young soldiers old before their time had tried to forget the war.
He and his men had walked through the door and lifted the blanket behind it. Lamps had been hung from the rafters, the room was smoky from cigarettes, and the scent of moldy hay still lingered. Rusted kettles were whistling on a wood stove that gave off sufficient heat to keep the building just barely comfortable.
When Rutledge took the mug of steaming tea handed to him by one of his men, he nearly choked on the first swallow. In lieu of sugar, someone had added a liberal spoonful of brandy to it. But he said nothing, aware of anxious eyes on his face.
They had played darts after that, though the numbers on the board were badly worn and the colors had faded to a uniform brown. But the sisal still held each throw firmly where it landed.
At the end of the evening, Rutledge had returned to his quarters feeling not relaxed but burdened by guilt. How many of the men who had shared this wartime birthday tonight would be alive by month’s end?
Ten had died the first day back in the line. And he’d heard a year later that the Welshmen had died outside Ypres when a tunnel they’d been digging had collapsed prematurely, burying them alive. By the time help reached them, it was too late.
Rutledge brought himself back to the present as a lorry driver, a man his mates called Jimmy, said, “Loser buys drinks all round.”
There was general agreement to the terms, since the general opinion was that the man from London would pay the accounting.
Rutledge found the rough line drawn on the floor, put the outside of his right foot against it and considered the target. This one was worn too, but from long use, not from rain and mud and countless journeys across northern France in haversacks.
He forced his mind to concentrate on what he must do.
Hamish warned, “They’ll want to see your mettle.”
His fingers closed around the first dart. Worn, like the board, and comfortable in his grip. He pumped his hand twice, gauging his shot, then threw firmly toward the board.
It landed precisely where he’d intended—in the wood above the board. From the bar, Smith called, “Here! That’s my wall.”
“Sorry,” Rutledge apologized as the lorry drivers and even the farmers slapped their knees and bent over laughing at his expense.
He waited for the racket to die down and took his second throw. This time the dart landed in the number ring, between eleven and fourteen.
There was more laughter, and the bald-headed man said to Smith, “Set them up, man, this ’ull be a short leg.”
“Nay, he hit the board, didn’t he?” another driver answered. “We could go on all night.”
The point of the game was to put his dart somewhere in the pie-wedge-shaped section numbered 20.
Rutledge took aim for his third and final throw—and this time his dart landed perfectly in the triple in section 20.
There was an intake of breath, and someone said, “You’re a damned lucky man.”
He’d made his three. He walked to the board, pulled out his darts, and scored his throw, amid much joshing.
It was still his turn.
This time the section was 19, to the bottom and left.
His first dart hit the black.
One man said, “Not bad, for a toff.”
He missed his other two throws, and went to retrieve his darts.
His opponent, a slim, dark man called Will, came forward to take them from him, and showed off his own skill, earning a second turn and then a third. But he was off on his next throw and that jarred him just enough to make him miss again. He wound up losing his turn, and went to fetch the darts for Rutledge.
Rutledge threw well this time, keeping pace with his opponent. There was partisanship among the observers now, the farmers taking his part and the drivers banding together behind their man.
Rutledge could have hit the outer bull with ease, but he chose to put two throws into the inner bull, the third one missing its mark.
Still, he had finished the leg just behind his opponent. There was general celebration and someone slapped him on the back as Smith handed him his glass before setting up for the rest of the men.
They stopped after splitting two more legs, sitting down at the bar or the nearest tables instead to talk to Rutledge about London and eventually the war. Four of them had served in France, while the other two had been in the navy.
Rutledge let them talk and then led them into stories about their experiences on the road.
“Ever give a lift to someone who wanted to go to, say, Liverpool or York?”
They shook their heads.
“I’d be sacked,” one of them said, “if it got out.”
“Not for any amount of money,” the bald man added. “Can’t say I like company on the road.”
“Why, do you want to go to Manchester tonight?” Will, the thin man asked, finishing his beer. “I’ll give you a lift.”
“I’ve been to Manchester,” Rutledge answered him. “Once is enough.”
They laughed, and someone said, “Nay, Manchester’s not all that bad.”
Soon talk shifted to the struggles these men faced making a living wage, the hardships of being away more often than they were at home, coping with the growing tangles of traffic and the winter’s toll on the roads.
“Although it’s a damned sight better than being shot at by the Hun’s aircraft, I swear,” one of the men said. “My mate was blown up by the Red Baron. I saw that Albatross coming in and blew the horn but there was no time. Never is. He was carrying shells, and my windscreen blew out with the force of the blast. They never did find anything of my mate to bury. I took his wife a bit of the lorry, that’s all I could do. If anyone had been sitting beside me, he’d have had his head took off when something slammed into the seat and carried it through into the bed. I don’t miss France, I don’t.”
Hamish said, “They’ll no’ tell you, if they had taken up yon dead man.”
But Rutledge had been watching faces as he’d asked his questions. And if Partridge had got himself out of Berkshire with a lorry driver, he’d have wagered it wasn’t one of these men.