smackenzie

Another benefit of being in billets – aside from the hot food, dry beds, and lack of rats – is that the men can clean themselves and their kit and coincidentally suffer more inspections to make sure they're doing so. Baths aren't unheard of in the trenches, but it's hard to clean yourself thoroughly with the constant threat of shelling or mortars overhead, and with the sure knowledge that whatever cleanliness you manage will last exactly as long as you're out of the mud. Which in the trenches isn't very long.

The men don't tend to take very long baths, because the entire battalion needs to be clean, and besides, there are a lot of other things to do. So Davies tries to make it as quick as possible, scrubbing himself all over, rubbing soap in his hair, cleaning bits of himself he hadn't thought could get that dirty. Not for the first time, he thinks that his dad would be appalled at the unhygeinic conditions at the front. His dad was always very big on cleanliness.

He steps out of the tub, squeaky clean and pleased with himself, just as Captain Bradford appears around the curtain that has been rigged up as an attempt at privacy. The two men just stand there, both of them surprised, blinking at each other. Davies is stark naked and dripping wet, and if was anyone else he'd either reach for his towel or make a joke, but Captain Bradford is looking at him in an almost contemplative way and it bothers him.

He remembers what his sister said in her letter, about the way the young man of the house where she works looks at her, and how working in a munitions factory with her skin turning yellow would be better than suffering it if he caught her.

The captain doesn't have quite the same possessive gaze that Davies imagines young master Braithwaite has, that look of "Because you're staff I can have you if I want and there's nothing you can say against me", but it's the look of someone admiring a teapot in a shop window, or a farmer admiring a cow that he wants to buy – the look of the predatory upper class looking down at the powerless lower class and liking what it sees.

"Haven't you ever seen a naked commoner before?" Davies snaps, a little more rudely than is acceptable.

Captain Bradford drops his gaze and blushes. Actually blushes. As if he's embarrassed at having stumbled on a naked man, or because he's been reprimanded for doing something naughty. Or, perhaps, as he stammers his apologies and backs out under the curtain, as if he's genuinely sorry for disturbing Davies after his bath.

Davies dries himself off as quickly as possible, gets dressed, and goes off to find a place to shave.

He doesn't see Captain Bradford until inspection later that day, when the men line up in perfectly straight rows and present themselves and their rifles for the company commanders. The captain goes down the line, nodding his approval, commenting on a crooked tunic here, a muddy boot there, a hat just slightly askew. He tells men to stand up straight. When he gets to Davies, Davies looks him in the eye, which is not something that high command has encouraged, searching his face for any reaction to what happened earlier.

Captain Bradford smiles the tiniest smile, nods his head, and says "Very good, Mr Davies" before continuing on.

And Davies is a little confused. Is he laughing at me? he wonders. Is he making fun? Does he think we share a joke now?

The ways of the upper classes are sometimes mysterious. He knows this. But he doesn't like it.

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