Chantelle grinned and busied herself filling a huge copper kettle with water as Michael divested himself of his remaining clothes. In spite of her promise, she stole a quick, furtive glance as he pulled his underpants off. He was not a bad looking boy she thought but he was too skinny. He didn't have the firm masculine build of Jacques. He was more delicate and slender, almost feminine, like her younger brother Roget. His hands were long and graceful like a musician's or an artist's. His body was nearly hairless, bar the unruly shock of brown hair on his head, that seemed a little long for army regulations, and the fuzz of hair about his crutch. His buttocks were well rounded and neat and his flaccid manhood looked at least adequate. He was quite a pretty boy really. He would be more at home in a café on the Boulevard Montmartre in Paris than in a soldier's dress in the trenches.

Michael hastily wrapped the robe about himself and Chantelle turned towards him with an amused smile. "So, give me your clothes and I will hang them to dry." Michael timidly handed over his bedraggled uniform and underclothes and, with a brisk, business like efficiency Chantelle arrayed them on racks before the fire. She had several large pots and kettles heating on the range too. From one of these she prepared a warm drink for Michael who took it with gratitude. To his surprise it was tea but unlike any tea he had ever drunk. It was weak by the standards of the tea he was used to back in Accrington and notably weaker than the standard army brew which was a noxious tannic liquid so strong it stained the mug brown. It was sweet with honey though and there was a heady alcoholic aroma rising from it. Chantelle had laced it generously with cognac. Michael thought for a moment about asking if he could have some milk in it as he was used to but he kept his peace and found the sweet hot tea surprisingly pleasant and warming.

"Are you hungry?" Chantelle asked him. Michael nodded eagerly. It was hours since he had last eaten and that only some bully beef and biscuits. He regarded Chantelle's preparations with trepidation however. She placed another pot on the big fire to heat up and he peered at it fearfully, uncertain of the contents. He hadn't had the chance to sample French cooking during his short time in France and he wasn't sure he wanted to. He'd heard alarming stories about frog's legs and snails. In the event he need not have worried. Chantelle had heated up the last of a pot au feu; a sort of rustic farmhouse staple casserole of mutton and vegetables not greatly dissimilar from the Lancashire Hotpot he was familiar with from home. She pulled up a chair at the wooden kitchen table and ladled out a generous helping accompanied with some good home-made bread. Michael fell to ravenously. It was delicious; almost as good as his mother's cooking.

As he ate Chantelle plied him with questions about his life in the army. He answered her hesitantly, reluctant to voice his fears and gnawing doubts. Chantelle perceived them in any case for she was a shrewd woman and could look behind the manly façade Michael tried to portray and see the frightened boy beyond. She felt a terrible sadness. How could they send such an innocent child to war? Living in such proximity to the front lines Chantelle was under no illusions about this young boy's chances of survival. Even if he lived he would be forever scarred by the experience; aged beyond his tender years when he should be chasing girls not seeking out death on a battlefield. Would his mother even recognise him if he ever came home? Would he be crippled or blinded by gas or come awake in the night screaming in fear as his nightmares brought him back to the front? What tragic folly! Did we value our young men so little that we could squander their lives as fodder for the guns in their hundreds of thousands? And now there was to be a great battle! Was there a God yet who might protect this fragile young man from the maelstrom to come?

Shaking the melancholy from her mind, Chantelle rose to prepare his bath. She hauled a large zinc tub from the kitchen storeroom, laid it before the fire and began to fill it with scalding hot water from her pots and kettles. She adjusted the temperature of the water in the bath and laid out a cake of soap, a bath brush and a large woollen towel. Michael watched her anxiously. Evidently she expected him to take a bath here in the kitchen! The bath itself was a fine idea. Hot baths were a rare luxury in the army. He just hoped that she would allow him privacy as he bathed.

"Have you eaten enough?" she asked him.

"Y...yes ma-am."

"Good! Then slip off your robe and get into the tub while the water is still hot."

"Er... aren't you goin' ter leave the room?"

Chantelle stifled a smile; amused by his timidity. "I don't think you have anything I have not seen before Michael." She shrugged. "But if you are too shy I will turn my back while you get into the tub."

She turned around and Michael nervously shed his robe and dipped a toe into the bath water. "Aiee!" he yelped. "It's too 'ot!" He withdrew his testing toe rapidly.

Chantelle grinned. "I will put some cold in it." she told him. She picked up a large jug of cold water and plied it over the bath as Michael tried to shuffle behind her, blushing furiously and trying to cover his private parts with his hands. "There now!" she declared. "It is cooler now. Come along now, get in and I will make you some more tea."

Cringing in embarrassment Michael stepped into the water. It was still too hot for his comfort and he gasped as he lowered himself down into the tub. It was awkward washing himself with only one hand for the other was trying to retain some modicum of his modesty by concealing his genitals. Chantelle was trying not to laugh as she prepared another drink for him. This young boy's innocence was charmingly endearing. She was enjoying the sight of his young body too although she was careful to limit her perusal of it to furtive glances. He was too thin though. She hoped, if he survived the war, he would find some nice girl somewhere who would feed him up a bit.

She finished the preparation of his drink and brought it over to the bath tub. Michael hunched in the tub blushing scarlet; his hands still clamped over his genitals. She held out the mug to him and he released one hand to take it tentatively. She noticed for the first time that he had a scar on his shoulder. She frowned and reached out a hand to touch it. "You have been wounded?" she asked.

Michael flinched at her touch and swallowed. "Er.... er no. I gorrit playin' rugby at school."

She stroked a finger along the scar and smiled. "Are you good at rugby?"

Michael shook his head. "No... not very." he croaked in a hoarse voice. It was true. He'd hated rugby at school. It was a sport for big strong boys not sensitive, slightly built young men like Michael.

She rested a hand on his shoulder and smiled at him. "Give me the brush," she said, "and I will scrub your back."

Having his back washed was sheer torment for Michael. Her hands upon him and her close proximity sent shivers through his body. She dipped a pan into the water and doused his hair, lathering up the soap to shampoo it for him. She was leaning over him as she did so and her breasts were very close to his face. Her thin nightgown was damp from her ministrations and he could see the shape of her nipples protruding against the material. He seemed to have trouble breathing and, in despair, he felt his penis twitch into life and become erect. He prayed fervently that she would not see it.

But of course she did! However much he tried to conceal it behind his hands his penis betrayed him, the tip of it questing at the surface of the bath water. Chantelle leaned forward and fixed her eyes on it, the flicker of a smile dancing on her face. She raised an eyebrow in amused appreciation. "Oh la la! You are a big boy for one so thin!" she remarked conversationally.

Had the ground opened into a chasm and swallowed him up Michael would have regarded it as a fortuitous circumstance at that moment. He had never felt so mortified in his entire life. "I...I'm sorry." He croaked despairingly. But Chantelle's interest was aroused and she reached down to pull his hand away. "'Ere! Wot are yer doin'?" Michael protested in horrified outrage.

Michelle grinned at him. "I am just looking." she told him unreassuringly. "Don't be shy. I have seen men before you know." She took a long appraisal, murmuring to herself in French, as Michael squirmed in embarrassment. "You should not be shy." she told him. "You are a big boy. Most boys they would be proud to be so big."

Michael cringed. "Oh 'ell!" he muttered miserably.

Chantelle smiled gently and stroked his back with her hand. "Do you have a girlfriend Michael; some little English rose back home perhaps?"

Michael swallowed and nodded feebly. "Aye... well sort of." He tried to think of Rosy but her face seemed a long way away now.

"Sort of?"

"Well there's this lass back 'ome I were goin' out wi' on and off."

"I see. She is a lucky girl then. Un grande jeune homme comme toi! Elle sera heureuse avec une bitoune comme ça!"

"Eh?"

Chantelle grinned and nodded at his penis. "I say your girlfriend must be very pleased that she have such a big boy as you."

"Oh 'ell! She's.... well she's never seen.... ah mean she's not seen us wi' out me clothes on."

Chantelle raised her eyebrows in surprise. "What? Never?"

Michael shook his head. "No."

"You have never make the love with your girl?"

Michael swallowed. "No. She's... well she's a good girl like. Wants ter save it fer when she's wed."

Chantelle frowned and her hand caressed his back more languidly. "And you Michael? Are you saving it too?"

Michael grimaced sheepishly. "Er I aven't 'ad much option 'til now. Me lass did let us kiss 'er once but that were all."

"You have never been with a woman?"

"No ma-am."

"Not even a pute... a whore?"

"Oh 'ell no!"

Chantelle was appalled. The boy was a virgin! They had sent him off to war without even that he had known a woman. He might die in the battle coming and have never known bliss in a woman's arms! Perhaps it was because she was French but to Chantelle it was the most horrible thing imaginable. Surely life could not be so cruel. Surely fate could bless this young man just once with the joy of a woman before the war took his life from him. Suddenly she felt very sad and protective for him. She allowed her voice to sink to a sultry low whisper. "Then it is time somebody made a man out of you Michael."

She slid her hand into the bath water. Michael jumped as he felt her fingertips brush his erection.