(no subject)
He's a small boy, always was and always will be, barely five foot six in his boots. But there are smaller men in the British Army, sure, so it shouldn't truly come as shock to anyone. How dirty he is might raise a few eyebrows though. Covered from head to toe in layer upon layer of muck and grime and lice and bits of what might have been people at some point, but he doesn't notice anymore. Four years spent wading through the mud would get a man used to the queerest things and the filth went unnoticed up until now. But now, standing in a room of some great house, with no explanation or warning, and everything so clean and nice around him, he feels a small enough piece of Earth indeed. His boots were probably leaving marks on the fine carpet.
He stands there awkwardly for a moment, fingering the strap of his rifle and seeming to argue with himself. Then he speaks in a fine, high voice, his Irish accent ringing clear. "Excuse me? Could someone tell me where they all went?" You could get shot for deserting after all, and he doesn't want to risk it.
[Typist: William Dunne, an Irish soldier in the British Army during WWI. A bit broken, but he hides it. Also rather dead, but he doesn't know it. He's from A Long, Long Way by Sebastian Barry, one of the most lovely books ever.]
He stands there awkwardly for a moment, fingering the strap of his rifle and seeming to argue with himself. Then he speaks in a fine, high voice, his Irish accent ringing clear. "Excuse me? Could someone tell me where they all went?" You could get shot for deserting after all, and he doesn't want to risk it.
[Typist: William Dunne, an Irish soldier in the British Army during WWI. A bit broken, but he hides it. Also rather dead, but he doesn't know it. He's from A Long, Long Way by Sebastian Barry, one of the most lovely books ever.]