Alec

by William di Canzio

Despite the protests, things worsened for the military. England was now dispatching underage boys into battle, kids from the slums so needy they would lie about their birth dates for the sake of a meal and some clothes. And the army pretended to believe them. One of them approached Alec: “Mr. Scudda?” “No need for ‘Mister,’ I’m a soldier just like you.” The boy accepted the cigarette Alec offered. “But that’s ’ow we knew ya back then. We always called ya Mr. Scudda, and the gent was Mr. ’All.” “Whazzat—?” “Foo’ball, sir, of a Saturday afternoon, in the city, a’ the mission ’ouse.” Alec searched the boy’s features. “Not Billy Wrenn?” He grinned. His teeth had green streaks; still, the smile lighted his face. “Ya remember, then? Good fun, wa’n’t it? Yer a fuckin’ disaster a’ foo’ball.” Alec laughed. “True enough! But Billy, how could it be? That was but five years ago—the lot of you seemed no more than tykes to me then. You can’t be old enough—” He winked and said, “Sshh!” Alec judged him sixteen at most, likely younger. He smoked and spat and blustered and swore and gulped his tot of rum, but he had no need to shave, and he struggled under the weight of rifle and gear. Alec wondered how he would ever manage to wield a bayonet, should it come to hand-to-hand fighting. He tried to watch out for the boy. One chilly night in October they found themselves neighbors in the trench, positioned a few yards apart. Alec was wrapped in his blanket on his sleep-shelf, about three feet a...