The Ardennes

Alba had found the New Boy playing with Olaf's window a few times after she'd brought it back.
She was very stern with him, and told him that it belonged to a friend of hers, and it wasn't a toy, while hiding it as best she could in a variety of places.

"I know that," the New Boy said. He was busy with something very important, and besides it was his window too. She corrected him and resolutely declared that she would hear nothing else on the topic.

A few mornings later she had been milking Muselon, and was getting ready to take a bucket of milk inside before tending to the chickens for the Egg Money.
The New Boy burst into the barn, which was strange enough, yelling, "It's time! It's time - Hurry! You have to help him!"

Alba stared at him.
The New Boy was frantic. Hardly rational. He ran up to her grabbing her wrist, "I'll help, hurry! Time is different there..." The Boy plunged her hand into the bucket.

Alba gasped. The bottom of the bucket was freezing cold and dry -maybe even windy. She felt something. "Grab him!" The New Boy yelled at her.
Alba's hand came back up pulling a rough green fabric attached to something heavy. There was the sound of an explosion and she screamed, knocking the pail over.

The milk drained into the hay... The New Boy said, "That's ok. I think it's ok." He looked up at her and said it was nearly lunchtime, asking if they could make some sandwiches.
The bucket was empty.

Alba changed her clothes and they ate at the stump, and she asked him about everything but he pretended not to know what she was talking about. "We didn't have any water," he said, "but I think it was ok."

**********

Years later when Alba was married, while sitting on their porch and watching their children play with Azeban in the yard, Mitch would turn to her and ask if he had ever told her that story about Belgium. He wouldn't have. He'd mention how this one time, under fire, he'd found himself crouching over a bit of melted snow near what had been the cooking fire before shells started falling. He'd tell her a little about the war, about ghost stories, about being sure he'd seen guys from his battalion with some woman looking back at him. He'd say he found out later that they'd all already been hit. He'd have a strange expression and mention the archer's bow he thought she'd been aiming at him.
He'd tell her he got distracted. That he heard, well he thought he heard, Alba's voice, and for just a moment he thought a hand came up out of that puddle, soft and smooth, pulling him down into it - which was crazy. He'd say how he was pretty sore at getting his jacket wet in the cold, how he must have slipped, been delusional from lack of sleep and stress and the chaos. He'd mention being mad until he'd noticed a chunk of shrapnel which had punched a hole in his helmet the size of a quarter and knocked it off his head at probably just about the same time. He'd imagine that was the closest shave he'd had.

In her lifetime, Alba would never really put the two together.