Free Flanders by Patricia Anthony

sir.”
    Dunleavy said, “Won’t say who he had it from. And he’s a smart mouf on him.”
    “Yes. That he does. Stand on one foot, Private.”
    “Sir?”
    “One foot, please.”
    I couldn’t balance for long. “Got a cold, sir. Makes me woozy.”
    “I see. Count backward from one hundred if you will, Private.”
    It was slow going, but I reached eighty-six when he told me to stop. Then we stood around and waited a while.
    “Sir?” asked Dunleavy.
    Miller said, “That will be all. Harter? Dismissed.” The batman put down his mending, got up, and followed Dunleavy through the door, closing it quietly behind him.
    Miller never took his eyes off me. “You are skirting the edge of drunkenness. Next time I might have you shot.”
    “Sir.”
    “At ease. You’re an interesting problem, Stanhope. I did not give you permission to sit.”
    My leg ached something fierce from where Dunleavy had thrown me down. “Yes, sir.”
    “You are perhaps the most amusing person I’ve ever known. And your cloddishness does not serve to completely disguise your intelligence.”
    “Thank you, sir.” The roses bothered me—they were a faded dusty color, as if the flowers had been too long away from sun.
    “It was not meant by way of compliment, Private. I intended to point out that you are smart and perceptive; and therefore I believe that you will take this suggestion in the manner in which it is meant: Do not spend so much of your free time around Private LeBlanc. He is a bad influence. I see that surprises you.”
    It shocked holy hell out of me. “Sir. Can I speak frankly, sir?”
    “I was under the assumption that this is a friendly talk, Stanhope. Not quite a dressing-down.”
    The dugout smelled of Earl Grey tea. A kettle sat on his primus stove, a plate of sugar cookies by it. If it was a friendly conversation, he would have asked me if I wanted a cuppa and a biscuit. I could near taste those cookies of his, Bobby. Sugar glistened like ice across their tops. They were yellow with butter, the way Ma likes to make them. I imagined my teeth sinking into the soft dough, crunching through that hard sweetness.
    “So what is it, Stanhope? I’m attentively waiting.”
    “Who am I supposed to talk with, sir? I mean, if it’s not LeBlanc, who else?”
    “Um. Odd. I was not under the impression that LeBlanc was acquainted with the English Romantic poets. Is he?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Then what is his attraction for you?”
    “Well, sir, he’s funny.”
    “Funny.”
    Miller saw everything. Hadn’t he seen the humor in LeBlanc? “That boy cusses up a storm, sir. And he’ll flat say anything that comes into his head.”
    “I see.” Those watchful eyes. Not like Pa’s, but something in them scared me. Abruptly he said, “Sit down.”
    My leg gave out. I aimed for the chair and collapsed, leaving Miller shaking his head and smiling. Well, I amused him.
    “Stanhope? I will tell you something in confidence. LeBlanc did not join the Canadian forces willingly. He was running from a spot of trouble. No. Don’t ask. I will give no details. But other than his brush with the law, I also find him—as did his fellow Canadians—insolent and surly to the point of boorishness. He does not follow orders and he fails miserably to get along well with others. He is an excellent killing soldier, but a poor excuse for a man. You are not. I need your cooperation, Stanhope. You would do me the favor, please, of helping your platoon run smoothly.”
    “If you need me so bad,” I asked, “then why the hell did you try to kill me?”
    Not as much guilt as I’d hoped for. The skin between his eyebrows creased. “What are you talking about?”
    “That time you sent Marrs and me for water, sir, and the Boche were waiting, and Marrs got shot in the butt. You had to have known they would be there.”
    “Is that what you’ve thought? Good Lord. I ... Why would I take it in my mind to kill you?”
    “You’d know best, sir.”
    He sat