11th June: Returning with gifts

Vickery had to hide a chuckle at that. "No, although it is an understandable mistake to make. A nightmare is ein Albtraum. It would make a good joke, though."

"A nightmare.. is .. is a horse beast that comes at night to haunt your dreams. So..." Pye looked at Vickery sheepishly. "I bet t' cavalry would have night-mares in their dreams! ..and me." He added with a small smile. "Mebbe they thought of horses when they gave it t' name.. couse they are scary things..."He nodded with small conviction that he was correct.

Freddie nodded. The huge horse galloping towards him had featured prominently in his dreams. He was not generally afraid of big horses, liked them even, but when it had come straight at him, snorting and his teeth bared, the big hooves pounding and raising dust with their iron shoes, it had been much more frightening than the man atop it, crouched low and his sabre only a small point.

A chilly feeling crept up his back. He had managed to forget these pictures, but now they came back. He had stood there, transfixed and unable to take his eyes of the huge beast. He hadn't even realized that the chasseur was a far greater danger, until he's sabre had sliced his cheek.

Unconsciously he touched the broad scar in his face. His eyes still unfocused, he slowly said: "Yes, manchmal they are night-mares!"

"Still, nightmares don't hurt," Cotton said. He had been intrigued by Rottländer's preparations for a dish he didn't know. He would have to ask him about it, but at a later date, when he wasn't anywhere near the Captain. Being able to offer the Captain something other than stew wouldn't hurt, after all. And he could always ask Maggie, as well, of course. Women always knew about these things.

"You'm safe enough now," he added, poking another few sticks into the fire.

"Did a horse do that to you?" Well, since all the talk of horses and the sight of the boy touching his scar made Pye come to the only logical conclusion. Though it was far less logical when he tried to imagine how a horse could cause such an injury. He peered at the kettle and smiled. He was as close to heaven as he could be. Food, more food and a bit more to be had and all smelling so delicious! Yep, this German lad could come to their mess any time, he was very welcome!

Startled, Freddie looked ready to run for a moment. But then his eyes focused on Cotton and the Captain. Cheeks flushing, he relaxed his stance.

"Yes, I know! I'm sorry, Sir! It ... will not ... vorkommen ... happen ... again."

The knowledge that Captain Vickery had witnessed this scene and might now see him as a coward or an incapable soldier mortified him. He wasn't! He always tried to be as good as the rest. He hadn't faltered one bit when next he had seen an enemy soldier. He would learn to shoot better. He would be the best rifleman he could be. He just hoped it was enough.

It took him a moment to realize that he didn't mind Cotton and Pye having witnessed this. Well, at least not very much. He would puzzle out what that meant later. Right now, the onions ought to be cooked.

Ducking his head over the kettle, so that the Captain didn't see his blush, he cautiously lifted the lid; the sweet, tangy smell alone told him that nothing had gone wrong and the dish was ready.

"Freddie." Pye murmured quietly. He was curious about the injury on the lad's face, but wondered if it was not his business at all to ask of it. He pointed his finger towards it. "....." He was quiet though. Letting the other brush it off as not a question at all, or choose to answer him instead.

"Is good smellin'." He added as compliment. "Real delicious smell." He said again with a happy smile.

Vickery shifted a little so he could put his empty plate down. His side was still painful, though it was not something he was willing to admit.

"We have all made silly mistakes," he said, straightening up a little stiffly. "But at least we are still here after them." He only wished he could remember his own 'silly mistake' - losing a whole day of his life did not sit well with him.

Freddie tried to stomach that. He hadn't thought that the Captain had ever made a mistake, silly or otherwise. But perhaps he only wanted to set a young soldier at ease. That was something the Captain would do. And he would even say such a nice thing to do it.

His view of the world thus once more in balance, he smiled shyly at the officer. "Yes, thank you, Sir!"

Tasting a bit of the sauce to see whether it was seasoned enough, Freddie considered Pye's half-question; he feltthat he would like to talk with him about it, perhaps even find out whether Pye had gotten his scar in a similar incident.

But right now he was Freddie the cook again, responsible that those who wanted got good food. Which meant that the Captain needed to be asked first, then Cotton. He should also run back and offer some to Captain Torrington; perhaps the engineer was by now hungry again. He had eaten little enough of the stew.

Then, when everyone was served, he and Pye would share what was left, and he would tell him what had really happened that afternoon. He thought that Pye might perhaps understand all the things he had felt.

Setting this plan in motion, he lifted an onion out and reverted to the one word he by now though to be one of the most useful in the English tongue:

"Sir?"

And now Rottländer wanted his attention again. "Yes?" he said, one eyebrow raised in query.

Perhaps he shouldn't have spoken. Freddie felt as if his face was doomed to glow red whenever the Captain said something to him. But now, firmly shocked out of his self-centered thoughts, he saw that the officer's posture was strangely stiff. His mine, as far as Freddie could read it, was guarded, not overtly distressed, but certainly not content either.

He faltered a bit, unsure whether he should simply sink into the ground. But food was always a good distraction, and he didn't think that not asking the Captain would have been acceptable either.

Proffering the onion on the spoon, he asked:
"Um, would you like some, Sir?"

Rottländer seemed embarrassed by something, but Vickery didn't feel he could say anything without risking making the lad want to shrivel up. He shook his head, smiling. "Thank you, no. I have had enough to eat. It does look good, though."

Pye observed quietly. He stretched out a bit and smiled. Officers always had so much to eat, that's why they could turn food down. But then they were rich men, of high birth, with houses full of riches that a mere commoner could not even imagine. Perhaps not all were such, but Pye imagined that they were.

Except maybe that officer from the 95th, who was raised from the ranks. He was not rich because he'd never been. He wondered how many different dishes the other lad could cook and if he would cook more of them for the lot. "Wot'.. Gabe, could he come ter stay in our mess?"

"Um. He's welcome to, although he may not want to." Cotton shrugged. The lad might not want to - he'd probably prefer to mess with men who could speak his own language without struggling, and where he didn't have to struggle to speak a foreign tongue to make himself understood.

Did he want to join their mess? Freddie could barely believe that Cotton thought he might decline. True, it was exhausting to have to find words in English, but at least he could learn the language here. No-one told him to go bother somebody else for translations. And no-one had called him an old housewife or ridiculed the way he liked to clean up everything.

But no-one had asked him officially yet. Thinking that perhaps the two other riflemen might like to discuss this in his absence, he looked around for a clean plate to bring some onions to Captain Torrington. Unsurprisingly, there wasn't any; he hadn't thought to bring one from the captain's tent. Well, he would have to get one then. Or perhaps ask the captain whether he wanted to eat something more; but in Freddie's experience people ate more if they could smell the food, and he wasn't sure whether his English could do justice to it.

He handed his wooden serving spoon over to Pye and asked as if he hadn't heard the other lad's words before:
"Can you servieren ... serve? I need a new plate. For Captain Torrington."

Before Pye had time to react to this, Freddie was once more dashing away, startling a bypassing sergeant and barely managing not to get entangled in a nearby tent line.

"Ser..." The lad blinked and then nodded. He turned around to captain Vickery again. "Sir, yer ..yer really don't want any of this?" After him he thought to ask Cotton for his plate, but he did not dare not ask the captain first.

He shifted a bit, glancing at the plates and sniffed at the food which made him smile very happily and fondly. So good. He may have just eaten, but he could eat some more, once everything was served. "Gabe... if he'll want to... can he join our mess? ..if he.. i mean. Would you let 'im?"

Cotton shook his head in despair as Rottländer ran off, nearly running down Sergeant Fischer and Captain Vickery's tent in quick succession.

"I ain't goin' to tell him no," he said hastily, suddenly realising that Pye might take his gesture the wrong way. "Someone needs to tell him he don't have to run everywhere, that's for sure. Life ain't a foot race!" He chuckled. "He fair wears me out watchin' him run everywhere."

What it was to be young and eager, he thought ruefully.

"I can tell him... if'n I can tell him that he's allowed to come if he wants to..that is, if he will want to." Pye spoke and shook his head. That boy was fast. Run one way, bolt the other, scamper back and then duck around to return.

Perhaps if he was told that running might not be to the liking of officers, he would slow down? "...though... he does get to places faster n' walking." Which was a given fact.

"That's as may be, but he makes my head spin doing it," Cotton replied, unperturbed. He had been a farm-worker for as long as these lads had been alive, and it had taught him that there was generally no need to run from one place to another, unless there was something on fire. Of course, he could move sharply enough when the need arose, but he didn't dash around like a demented hen, either.

"It helps if yer don't follow him on every turn, Cotton." Pye answered cheekily and grinned. "So...." He glanced sheepishly at Vickery. "If... him don't want anything. Gimme your plate.. .as you's next." He held his hand out to take Cotton's plate which he would fill with the contents of the kettle.

Cotton chuckled. "I dunno, that's about what." He pulled his own plate out. "There'll be all the more for the rest of us, if you don't want any more, sir," he added, looking across at the Captain.

"I may be persuaded to try some of that onion," Vickery replied. "Not too much, though. A spoonful or two, no more than that." He leaned forward to reach for his plate, but Cotton got there first.

"Don't you go pullin' your side, sir, please."

"Here Cotton.. Hold this close ter here..so I'll fill it." Finally Vickery had decided that he would eat a little more. "Sir.. you'll say when it's enough?"

At this moment Freddie put in a brief appearance again, scurrying around the tends with crockery in both hands.

When he saw the Captain accepting some onions, his smile easily rivaled any rocket's glare, but he didn't pause to appreciate the sight. Dumping the used cutlery and plate into a bucket, he quickly drew his sleeve over the one unused silver plate he had brought, held it out for Pye to fill, and was running off again even before Pye could lower the spoon.

Over his shoulder, Freddie barely managed a delighted "He says he 'will taste some'!", before negotiating the corner of Captain Vickery's tent, the plate held with both hands before him.

"..He.." Pye blinked. "Is eager, n' fast." He blinked again. he was only able to fill the plate and then the lad was off, reminding him a bit of an overexcited puppy. That he did not trip, fall and have everything tumble to the ground, was a miracle. He certainly made the corner successfully.

"Um..." He decided not to whisper while the captain was here and though he wanted to say that Friedrich's officer would soon find himself to be very portly with all the food lavished upon him, he kept that to himself as well.

"You are determined to make me get fat, aren't you?" Vickery said, accepting his plate back from Cotton. It was full, holding far more than the one or two spoonfuls the Captain had requested.

"'T'ain't right, if we have more to eat than you, sir," Cotton replied.

Vickery took a forkful. "Where did you learn to cook, Rottländer?" he asked, swallowing. "This is delicious."