Promises Made Under Fire

By Charlie Cochrane

A British soldier in World War I fulfills a fallen friend’s request and makes a few discoveries in the process in this heartwarming M/M historical romance.

France, 1915

Lieutenant Tom Donald envies everything about fellow officer Frank Foden—his confidence, his easy manner with the men in the trenches, the affectionate letters from his wife. Frank shares these letters happily, drawing Tom into a vicarious friendship with a woman he’s never met. Although the bonds of friendship forged under fire are strong, Tom can’t be so open with Frank—he’s attracted to men and could never confess that to anyone.

When Frank is killed in no-man’s-land, he leaves behind a mysterious request for Tom: to deliver a sealed letter to a man named Palmer. Tom undertakes the commission while on leave—and discovers that almost everything he thought he knew about Frank is a lie . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Feb 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781426895128

Charlie Cochrane

Charlie Cochrane writes gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries, but with an increasing number of forays into the modern day. She's even been known to write about gay werewolves — highly respectable ones.Her ideal day would be a morning walking along a beach, an afternoon spent watching rugby, and a church service in the evening, with her husband and daughters tagging along, naturally. She loves reading, theatre, good food and watching sport.Charlie was named Author of the Year 2009 by the review site Speak Its Name.

Book preview

Chapter One

France, 1915

First light. A distant sound of something heavy being moved. A thin curtain of rain—the sort of misty, drizzly rain that soaked us through to the skin. Prospect of something for breakfast that might just pretend to be bacon and bread.

Good morning, France. An identical morning to yesterday and bound to be the same tomorrow. Tomorrow and tomorrow, world without end, amen.

I looked up and down the trench. The small world I’d become bound in was now starting to rouse, stretching and facing a grey dawn. The men were stirring, so I had to get out my best stiff upper lip. If I showed how forlorn I felt, then what chance had I of inspiring them?

Morning, sir. Bentham, nominally my officer’s servant but in reality a cross between a nursemaid and a housemaster, popped up, smiling. Breakfast won’t be that long. You and Lieutenant Foden need something solid in your stomachs on a day like this.

Aye. I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything else until I’d got my head on straight.

Tea’s ready, though. He thrust a steaming mug into my hands. Add telepathist to the list of his qualities. Maybe when I’d got some hot tea into me then the world might seem a slightly better place. Quiet, last night.

It was. I was going to have to enter into conversation whether I wanted to or not. I don’t like it when they’re quiet. Always feel that Jerry’s plotting something.

He’s probably plotting even when he’s kicking up Bob’s a dying.

Bob’s a dying?

Dancing and frolicking, sir. Not that I think Jerry has much time for fun. Bentham nodded, turned on his heels and went off, no doubt to make whatever we had in store for breakfast at least vaguely appetising. I took a swig of tea.

Is it that bad? Foden’s voice sounded over my shoulder.

Do you mean the tea or the day? You’ll find out soon enough about the first and maybe sooner than we want about the second.

The perennial ray of sunshine. He laughed. Only Frank Foden could find something to laugh about on mornings like these, when the damp towel of mist swaddled us.

Try as I might, I can’t quite summon up the enthusiasm to be a music-hall turn at this unearthly hour. I tried another mouthful of tea but even that didn’t seem to be hitting the spot.

If you’re going to be all doom and gloom, can you hide the fact for a while? The colonel’s coming today. He’ll want to see ‘everything jolly.’ The impersonation of Colonel Johnson’s haughty, and slightly ridiculous, tones was uncanny. Trust Foden to hit the voice, spot on, even though his normal, chirpy London accent was nothing like Johnson’s cut-glass drawl.

Oh, he’ll see it. So long as he doesn’t arrive before I’ve had breakfast.

Foden slapped my back. That’s the ticket. Don’t shatter the old man’s illusions. He smiled, that smile potentially the only bright spot in a cold grey day. In a cold grey life. Frank kept me going, even on days when the casualty count or the cold or the wet made nothing seem worth living for anymore.

How the hell can you always be so cheerful?

Because the alternative isn’t worth thinking about. Why make things more miserable when there’s a joke to crack? They weren’t empty words—that was how he seemed to live, always making the best of things. He wasn’t like a lot of the other officers, plums in their mouths and no bloody use, really. The men loved him.

I bet it’s not raining at home.

I’d take you on if we could prove it one way or the other. It always seems to rain at home. Home was one of the less salubrious parts of London, or so his accent told me when we first got posted into the same regiment. Maybe that’s why we’ve all learned to be so cheery. Bad weather seems to follow the Fodens around.

Apparently there were Fodens or Fodens-in-law all over the country, spreading like a warren of rabbits. He’d managed to establish a connection with almost every man in the platoon because one of the family had sung the praises of one of the local pubs.

Well, they say God sends his rain on saint and sinner alike. I smiled, despite myself—that was the effect my fellow officer had on us all.

I wonder if there’ll be any post today? Foden pushed back his cap and rubbed his brow. Some of the men could do with a bit of cheery news from home. He always seemed to have an instinct for how the men felt, something that went over and above the call of officerly duty. Inspect their feet, yes, but how could we order them to their deaths if we thought too much of them?

If they’re very lucky they’ll get as much as you do.

He was rarely without letters, his wife sending something twice a week.

But it’s quality of letters which counts, not quantity. He rolled his eyes. I wouldn’t wish the monthly report from my aunt in Islington on anyone. Not even Jerry.

"I didn’t realise they were that bad." I never got to find out why her communications were so much to be dreaded, because Bentham came with our breakfasts and the normal business of the day swallowed us up.

* * *

When the post did come, it brought a letter for me from Winchester, in mother’s elegant hand, no doubt cheery and full of news, although not overtly affectionate. We’d never been that sort of a family. I always replied in a similarly cheery vein, using our little code—we