“I would not object, but the troops already carry nearly fifty pounds in their kit.” He gestured toward the trees that lined the walled yard surrounding the warehouse. “Shall we seek the shade?”
The members of the Spirit Corps broke into knots of twos and threes as they left the confines of the warehouse. Likely, most of the mediums would go back to their billets at the old asylum, to rest before their next shift. If her own fatigue level was any guide, they simply must figure out a better staffing arrangement. With luck, her aunt would have found some new recruits on her most recent trip back to England.
In an odd way, Ginger envied the mundanes who would go on to their volunteer hospitality duty at the Women’s Auxiliary Committee’s hospitality room. The WAC provided a convincing excuse for the vast number of women who were in Le Havre and would, hopefully, help keep the precise nature of the Spirit Corps secret as long as possible. Serving tea to living soldiers sounded very appealing. Perhaps she could convince Ben to go out. After she had a nap.
Ben settled his hat back on his head and steered them to the long row of plane trees that lined the wall surrounding the warehouse’s large cobbled yard. Their papery bark peeled in a thousand shades of brown beneath vast spreading crowns of bright green. Ginger let him carry on in peace for a moment until they had reached some undefined appropriate distance from the warehouse.
He glanced back at the building and sighed. People still thronged around it on the way to and from their shifts. Stopping, he leaned against the trunk of a tree so his back was to the building. “Ginger … pretend I’m trying to wheedle a kiss?”
“Am I to take it that I won’t get one, then?” She smiled and turned her back on the building as well, shaking her head as if denying him. They had acted out this ruse before when he needed to listen in on something at a party. She would rather have had a kiss.
He took her hand, running his thumb over the backs of her knuckles. “Assume I’ve given my standard disclaimer about this being completely confidential, please.”
“Always.”
“We’ve received reports that the Spirit Corps is being targeted by the Central Powers.”
“Ah…” She resisted the urge to look back at the building. “Do they know where we are?”
“We aren’t certain, but they most certainly know about the program.” He let go of her and tugged at the cuff on his uniform jacket. “They’ve started blinding our wounded.”
“What—”
“We thought that they knew … reports that I can’t go into. But one of the reports that I can talk about came in today through the Spirit Corps—one you’ll hear about at the staff meeting. A soldier was left behind enemy lines, dying—all standard thus far—but when the Germans found him, they put his eyes out.”
She swallowed against nausea. Bad enough that these young men died, but to have their body desecrated in such a manner was an unlooked-for horror. “Surely that’s just brutality. They may not have even known he was alive. I mean, that’s part of what we count on, isn’t it? That our boys can stay behind after their positions are overrun, and report what they’ve seen.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “The last thing he heard was, Noch ein gespenstiger Spion … Another ghost spy.”
Chapter Two
During the year it had been in operation, the Spirit Corps had begun to turn the tide against the Central Powers, but it had been too much to hope that they could keep the mediums a secret for the entire war.
If the Germans now knew about the program … Ginger sighed and shook her head. “I’m not certain that there is anything we can do to stop them, but that doesn’t mean the Spirit Corps should be discontinued.”
“I don’t care about the program—I mean, I do, and we’ll talk about this at the staff meeting. The reason I’m telling you now is that I think the Germans’ next step will be to target the mediums. I want you to go away for a while.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Just until we can sort this out. Put some security precautions in place, that sort of thing.”
“The rest of the Spirit Corps. What are you doing for them?”
He took his hat off and ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, they’re British, aren’t they? This isn’t even your fight, since America hasn’t entered the war.”
“I beg to differ. My mother was British, and since I am also engaged to a British officer, I most certainly have a stake in England’s future.”
“And as your fiancé, I have a stake in yours. How many mediums have died from exhaustion or from losing their connection to their bodies? Hmm? And that’s before we add a threat to your physical self.”
Ginger gestured back towards the entrance to Potter’s Field. “I see the toll of war every day. Every day. And every day I wonder when I will see you report in. Not if, but when. Whereas the danger to the Spirit Corps is very much an if. Even were that not the case, I am bound by duty as much as you.”
“Not so. As a man, I would be branded a coward were I to respond rationally to the danger of war. As a woman, no one expects you—”
“As a woman—!”
“Ginger—you are raising your voice.” Ben straightened and took her hand, raising it to kiss as a pantomime for any onlookers. At the touch, his eyes widened a little. Though not a medium, Ben was a sensitive and, as such, could see her aura clearly when touching her.
She wanted to yank away from him, but managed to tilt her head and smile. In another setting, the heat in her cheeks might look like a maiden’s blush instead of the anger it was, but Ben certainly could not miss that her aura had gone as red as her hair. With as sweet a voice as she could produce, Ginger simpered. “Oh, Captain Harford. You are so brave. I am only a simple girl.”
“That is not—” He stopped himself and bent his head, sighing. “Let me try again? If I were allowed to leave this pointless war, I would. But I would be shot as a coward. The expectations for women are different—I am not saying that they should be, only that they are. You have the choice to stay or to—”
An explosion cracked through the air.
Ginger was on the ground, face down in the bottom of the trench. Mud squelched between her fingers and filled her nostrils. Her side burned despite the cold of the mud. She couldn’t see for all the mud. Tubby was screaming again. Good God, couldn’t someone get the big baby to shut up? She tried to push up, but only clawed at the mud with one hand. The other—her other hand was gone. No—no! She wasn’t supposed to die in the bottom of the trench. She hadn’t even gone over the top yet. She had to get up, she had to get out of all of this mud. She had to—
“Ginger!” A hand rested against her back. “Ginger, darling … it was just a truck backfiring. Ginger?”
She coughed, her face pressed against the dry earth of the yard. It had only been someone else’s memory. Shuddering, she pushed herself up, with Ben guiding her. His hat was upside down in the dirt. Hands shaking, Ginger picked it up and brushed the dust away. “I am so sorry.”
“Darling, sh … don’t worry about that.” Ben took the hat from her and set it aside. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. With tender care, he dabbed the tears from her cheeks. “It was just a truck. The Huns won’t be able to get close enough to Le Havre to bomb it.”
“I didn’t—” Ginger took the cloth from him so she could wipe her own cheeks. “I thought I was … one of the reports today was a boy who died in the trenches.”
“Ah…” He pulled her into an embrace, and she leaned into the warm circle of his arms. For the moment, Ginger let Ben rock her in his arms and closed her eyes, concentrating on the solid physical sensation of his firm chest and the tickle of his mustache against her forehead. Surrounding her like a shield, his aura spread in the amber and rose of his love.
* * *
Before the war, if anyone had told Ginger that she would find paperwork and filing reports the most pleasant part of her day, she would have laughed, directed them to her social secreta
ry, and then gone off to a soiree. Now, though, the monotony of going through reports and merely reading about deaths seemed a welcome respite. During the shifts, aides ran reports immediately to central intelligence, who then telephoned the chiefs of staff so they could adjust their strategy. All Ginger had to do was present a weekly report on the efficacy of the Spirit Corps program, with lists of the mediums in active service and those lost to burnout or a circle failing to hold.
By the time she had left Ben to get her papers in order, Ginger was tolerably calm. Her legs, at least, were no longer shaking. Ben met her outside the meeting room and held the door for her. His aura had swirls of steel blue concern and a faint tinge of brick red guilt.
She laid a hand on his arm and leaned in to whisper. “Why are you guilty?”
“I have my reasons.” He opened the door. “And no fair peeking.”
“Thank you, Captain.” She narrowed her gaze at Ben, but he only gave her one of his winning grins, dimples and all.
As she entered, the men in the room rose to their feet, nodding in greeting. Captains Keatley and Lethbridge-Stewart each had a sheaf of papers as usual. Captain Axtell had dried mud on his uniform as though he had come straight from the field. Even his blond hair was dimmed by the layer of mud.
From behind his desk, Brigadier-General Davies peered over his glasses at her. His aura was tinged brown with annoyance. “No Lady Penfold today?”
“She sent me in her stead, sir.” As her aunt had done with almost every general staff meeting. Lady Penfold was the titular head of the Spirit Corps, only because of the dratted British insistence upon a title. Not, of course, that they would give a woman a rank in the army proper. Not even if they were doctors, or ambulance drivers, or mediums. In any event, if they wanted the person who understood the spiritual mechanics of the corps best, they should have had Helen here.
“Mm.” He turned to the papers on his desk. “Well then, might I prevail upon you to make us some tea? My man is terrible at it, and I would kill for a decent cup.”
Ben cleared his throat before Ginger could respond. “I can have Merrow do that, sir.”
His soldier-servant, Pvt. Merrow, had not yet left the room with the other aides. He jumped as Ben spoke. The wiry young man’s aura was quite shot through with pinks of embarrassment. The poor thing’s shoulders were perpetually hunched, as if he were constantly afraid of coming to notice. But he immediately went to the door with a murmured, “Very good, sir.”
Trying and failing to catch his eye, Ginger said, “Thank you, Private Merrow. That would be very kind.”
“Damned if I don’t envy you, Harford.” Captain Axtell slapped his hand against his leg, raising a cloud of dust. “My fellow can’t make a decent cup to save his life. Or mine.”
“It seems my books are what save your life.”
“Right! Ho! You have that true enough.” Axtell boomed with laughter at odds with the dark reds of his constant anger.
Ginger stepped a little away from him. While he’d been away at the front, she’d forgotten how easily Axtell laughed and how viciously bleak his aura was. The combination of laughter and rage made him seem more dangerous than Keatley, whose dour expression was at least matched by mossy browns of disappointment.
Brigadier-General Davies rapped his papers against the desk, straightening them with a series of sharp taps. “Shall we get down to business, gentlemen? And Miss Stuyvesant.”
Ben pulled out a chair for Ginger and nodded to it to ask her to sit. The other men settled into their usual spots around the table, putting reports down in front of them.
“Let’s get right to it.” Davies peered at one of the papers. “The Spirit Corps passed us a report today that confirms what we’ve been suspecting for some time now. The Germans definitely know about the program. Blinded one of ours and said, ‘Another ghost spy.’ Now, my first question is: Why did they blind him? Will that have any effect on the men’s reports?”
Ginger shook her head. “No, sir. If soldiers carried their wounds with them into the spirit realm, most of them would be unable to report at all.”
He grunted. “So why blind them?”
“I would expect because they don’t know any better. Perhaps a sign of their desperation?” She shifted in her chair so that she faced the brigadier-general more directly. “I mean, the Germans have less experience with spiritualism, so they may misunderstand the capabilities of ghosts.”
“I thought a German invented it.”
Ginger clasped her hands together in her lap to hide her annoyance, grateful that Davies could not read her aura. “A German? No. Or do you mean Emanuel Swedenborg?”
“That’s the fellow.” Davies pointed his pen at her.
“Ah. He was Swedish. And—and, though mediums have occurred naturally throughout history, there were enough charlatans that it wasn’t considered scientifically provable. So, really, we count the beginning of the formal study of spiritualism as 1847, which is when the American Andrew Jackson Davis wrote his seminal book. The movement spread to England, but it’s been slow to take hold on the Continent.” Ginger tapped her nose, thinking. “In fact, Germany likely has a dearth of trained mediums, given their history of burning witches.”
Lethbridge-Stewart grimaced. “The mustard gas they introduced last September … I wonder if they actually created it specifically to blind our Tommies, and the lung damage was a side effect.”
Ben said, “I had the same thought. It would explain why they’re increasing the frequency of gas attacks.”
“Right. Our boys can’t report on things they can’t see.” Davies turned to Ginger. “Or can they?”
“No, sir. Or … more properly, while it is possible for a ghost to linger in an area and observe things after death, the dead have no sense of time passing. That’s why our soldiers are conditioned to report in directly upon their death, else they might linger for days or weeks with no awareness that time had passed.”
“Any way to mitigate that?” Lethbridge-Stewart leaned forward in his chair.
“Even if there were, the longer a spirit remains on this side of the veil, the more likely it is to lose coherence.” At his look of incomprehension, Ginger simplified her explanation. “Ghosts shed their memories without a body to anchor them. The hauntings you’ve seen have diminished to a single point of trauma.”
“Still—”
“Please. Consider what you are asking.” Ginger looked around the room at the men. All of them, save the brigadier-general, were in their prime, with the lean, fit physique of soldiers. “Would any intelligence be worth trapping our boys in the memory of their death?”
Axtell swore and shuddered visibly. The dried mud on his clothes was a grim reminder that he’d seen the horrors of the war more recently than any of them, save Ginger.
In that silence, Merrow opened the door with the rattle of a tray full of cups and saucers. The company turned as one at the welcome aroma of strong tea. Flinching, Merrow blanched visibly at the scrutiny.
Young men like him, full of fear, were braver to Ginger than brash fools like Axtell. Surely Merrow had lied about his age to join up; he couldn’t have been more than seventeen, but neither his age nor his fear kept him from doing his duty. Nor would Ginger allow the simple fact of her sex to give her reason to shirk. If Merrow could fight, then by God, so could she.
Brigadier-General Davies took his tea from Merrow and waited until the young man had left the room again before returning to business. “Axtell, is there any indication that the Huns know where the mediums are located?”
“Nothing from my usual sources. Calling the mediums ‘the London Branch’ seems to be effective misdirection. The decoy hospitality huts here are working, so people continue to believe that the Spirit Corps are just a part of the WAC.”
“By contrast to Axtell…” Ben took a cup from the tray Merrow had left. “I’m hearing murmurs in my network, sir. I’d say it’s only a matter of time before they guess where Potter’s Field i
s located.”
Sighing, Davies nodded. “I am afraid you have the right of it. And have they figured out how the conditioning ritual itself works?”
“Hell if I know.” Axtell wadded up a piece of paper and tossed it at Ben. “It’d be easier if I knew what the ritual entailed.”
“Not my department.” Ben held up his hands with a grimace, but his aura went yellow-green with caution.
There were a handful of people who knew how the soldiers were primed to report in. Ben was not one of them. However, he had been instrumental in getting the program up and running, and the other men were aware of that much. It wasn’t surprising that, as intelligence officers, they might try to prompt him for more information, even while knowing that he was unlikely to give it.
“Still…” Axtell shifted in his seat. “It’s deuced hard looking for signs that people know how something is done when I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”
The brigadier-general snorted. “The classification level is high enough that I don’t know either.”
“How the hell they can keep it a secret when they condition the entire bleeding army is beyond me.” Axtell shuddered and then chuckled. “It gives me the creeps, knowing that the Spirit Corps mucked about with our minds like that and not a one of us remembers it.”
“Let us count our blessings that the conditioning is holding, rather than being frustrated that we don’t know the process.” Davies made a mark on his paper, and his aura filled with orange frustration. “Meanwhile, we shall have to make plans for the evacuation of the corps. Perhaps relocate them preemptively.”
Ginger managed not to roll her eyes at that suggestion. “That is not a possibility, I am afraid. The soldiers are primed to report to the nexus at this location, rather than to a specific medium.”
“That seems stupidly shortsighted.” Keatley, who to this point had not spoken, looked up from his ever-present papers.
“We had no way of knowing who would be on duty. And given the rate of attrition among the corps, if we had primed men to return to mediums, a goodly number would find their way across the channel to haunt some poor woman who could do nothing with the information.”
Ghost Talkers Page 2