by Tracy Groot
Cecy seemed pleased, and then shyly displayed her dress. “I like pink.”
“So do I.”
“This is pink.”
Clare dashed at a tear. “So it is. Lovely sweater, too—a little kitty cat on it.” She touched the appliqué.
Cecy cupped her hands around her mouth. “Kitty cat says meow.”
“So it does.”
She went back to her garden. She squatted over it, surveying, then sat on the floor and began arranging.
Clare twirled the daisy by the stem. “I’d feel eviscerated, too.”
“I really can’t trust Butterfield,” William said coldly.
“By the way, I need to thank you.” Clare snatched a tissue from the bedside table and pressed it to her nose. “Mrs. Shrew said you saved my life.”
“That is an exaggeration,” he snapped.
“Not according to the Shrew. You stopped the bleeding. You took me to the hospital. She didn’t even know which one, you were gone so fast.”
Eyes on Cecy, he adjusted himself in the chair and said angrily, “Well, you wouldn’t have been hurt in the first place had it entered my thick skull that Klein could come by water. Such an obvious error.”
“I didn’t think of it either.”
“You weren’t supposed to; it’s not your job.”
“Not my job to think?”
“You know what I mean.” Less heated, and back to his discomfort, he said, “It’s why I’m here. I wanted to apologize.”
“For what?”
“For . . . you know.” He impatiently crossed his legs. Not for a moment did he take his eyes from Cecy. “Putting you in danger like that.” As if the next bit would cost him the most, he said stiffly, “It was unprofessional in the extreme.”
She stared at him. “You saved the documents, you saved my boat, and you saved me. That is hardly unprofessional.”
He steadfastly watched Cecy.
“Oh, William, don’t be ridiculous. Klein had a river tug, a crack team of bad men, and a warehouse in London ready to tear Maggie apart. Bad men will occasionally outthink us. My uncle did it all the time. And just look at Hitler.” She was starting to feel better. Chiding him seemed to do the trick. “Now. Mrs. Shrew was locked up and only heard scuffles and grunts. I don’t like that word, grunts, but it’s what she used. By the time she got out, you were gone with me, and Klein and the rest had vanished. She later tracked you down for details but said you were evasive.”
“What’s there to say?” said William, clipped and cold. “There was a fight; I grabbed the packet; he got away. Why do women always need the nth degree of detail?”
Cecy got up and went to William and climbed into his lap. She settled in as if she was accustomed to doing so, and he wrapped his arms about her and held her close. He rested his chin on her head.
“Cecy-Peacey is tired,” he said, rocking with her gently. His voice had gone low and rich. “Aren’t you?”
“No.”
He pulled back to look at her. “You’re quite sure about that?”
“Where’s Mummy?”
“Right. Time to get little vixen home. Up we go. Say bye-bye to Miss Clare.”
She slid from his lap and went to Clare. She patted her arm.
Clare smiled. “Thank you for the sweetie, sweetie.”
He nodded at Clare for good-bye, and said to Cecy, “Come along, then.” He shepherded her to the door.
“There’s to be a prayer service at Westminster Abbey,” she suddenly said.
“So I’ve heard.” He paused at the door, and said wryly, “Rather unsettling, isn’t it?”
“Well, that’s what I thought. Mrs. Shrew seems to think it a positive thing. Would you take me?”
Now serious, he said, “Clare, don’t be foolish. It’s too soon. You need to heal.”
“I can’t think of a better place.” Then, “I must go. For Captain Elliott’s son. For the BEF.” The little girl in the pink dress plucked petals one by one from a daisy. “For Erich von Wechsler.” She lifted her chin. “If you don’t come to get me, I shall go alone and will likely fall.”
For the first time since she’d met the man, William Percy smiled. It was quite charming, and produced an odd little lift in her stomach.
“Well, we can’t have that,” he said. “Where shall I pick you up? Here?”
Goodness, that smile. It was gone but she felt it. Or maybe it was the morphine.
“Rubbish. I’ll be home before the sun sets.”
“That’s the morphine talking.”
“Perhaps. I feel bold.”
“Fancy a dash to the front with a pistol?”
“I’m glad I wasn’t drugged when I said that,” she said haughtily. “It came from my heart.”
“Bye-bye, Miss Clare,” said Cecy.
Clare melted, and blew her a kiss. “Bye-bye, darling. Visit me again, will you? I’ll take you for a ride on my boat.”
“See you Sunday.” William nodded, and they left.
Clare lay back on the pillows and stared at the ceiling.
A strong, cold man tenderly holding a little child.
Is there anything more fiercely attractive?
“I’M VERY HAPPY NOT to be the one who makes the decisions, but I’d at least like to know what is going on. Surely there is some sort of trap waiting for the Jerries—we’ll fool them somehow, we’ll pull something off. The leaders have something up their sleeves.”
The seven men trudged along in usual formation, Balantine and Grayling out front, Milton in the middle, Jamie and Baylor next, with Curtis and Griggs bringing up the rear. They moved through a long, grassy field under a fine, unseasonably sunny sky. At least, it was unseasonable for May in England; maybe here in Belgium, or France, or wherever they were, it was just right. A lively breeze shook the leaves in the trees, birds dipped and soared. Jamie shook his head. Hard to believe men were killing each other under a sky like that.
“Haven’t we historically allowed advances such as these, only to stick ’em in the ribs as they passed by?” said Baylor.
“This is a defeat,” Griggs announced. “Pure and simple. Whole army is retreating. There is nothing up their sleeves, Baylor, except hopefully a plan to get us home.”
“Well, you don’t have to say defeat so well enunciated,” Baylor said over his shoulder. He moodily readjusted his pack. “You hope it’s all worth it. You hope someone’s not mucking things up. Do you know that the German Army has not reached the English Channel—by land, at any rate—until now? Not once in the Great War, twenty years ago, did they get this far. Does that alarm anyone else?”
Talk fell once more to the retreat, and nothing new was said.
“All I know is a red Very light followed by a green Very light is supposed to signify withdrawal.”
“Yes, but they change it up to cause confusion.”
“We’re the confused ones.”
“‘Defenders ordered to disengage and head for Dunkirk.’ That’s the last I heard.”
“Where is everyone else?”
“We could be outflanked even now, heading straight into a German ambush.”
“There is no one else. They made it home and they’re laughing their guts out at the sods left behind. Your girlfriend left you for a victor.”
Nothing new, except what Milton could add: “To mischief swift. Earth felt the wound.”
“All right, then, Milty? Do you know, he seems a little better today,” said Baylor, pleased. “Don’t know how that can be, all this walking. All this not eating and not drinking. I feel like an empty cartridge.”
Talk fell once more to food and drink.
“Where’s our tea? The British Army marches on tea.”
“Or hard liquor.”
“All I want is a boiled egg. And salt.”
“A nice, lovely plate of chips and fried fish.”
“And salt.”
“I’d eat bully beef and be grateful.”
“My mother’s Chri
stmas pudding. I’m desperate enough for my aunt Isabel’s Christmas pudding.”
“When’s the last time he had water?” Baylor asked of Milton. He took off his helmet and wiped sweat from behind both ears. A red impression circled his forehead. He took off his glasses and wiped the sides of his nose. He tucked up the helmet straps and put it back on, then refit the glasses.
“That would be the last time any of us had water,” said Jamie. “And I can’t remember.”
“At least things aren’t so bad now, taking the back route,” said Balantine over his shoulder. “We have no refugees to deal with.”
“I believe that was my idea,” said Griggs.
“No, but we do have farmers who either want to kill us or refuse us food or water,” said Baylor. “Still can’t believe the bloke who wouldn’t let us drink from his well. What was his problem? What would that bloody cost him?”
“No clue,” said Jamie. “But then I’m still not sure if we’re in Belgium or France.”
Suddenly Balantine halted and held up his fist. The squad stopped, and eased to a knee. He watched and listened, a little longer than usual.
Things were awfully quiet, and Balantine seemed on edge. Presently, he gave the okay and they resumed the march.
“What I want to know is who is holding the perimeters,” said Baylor. “By some luck of the draw, some random turn of fate’s wheel, here we are because we were not on the outskirts when the balloon went up. They are buggered, and we are not.”
“I’d rather have someone else buggered than me,” said Griggs.
“What will happen to them?” Baylor wondered. “Will they be taken prisoner? Killed?” He added darkly, “Both?”
“I can understand a fighting withdrawal better than this,” Jamie muttered.
“They are the ones fighting. Giving us a chance to get to the sea. But what will happen to them?”
“They’re doing their duty,” Grayling said over his shoulder.
“How many of us will get to Dunkirk by their duty? Who will be left behind?”
“Shut it, Baylor,” said Griggs. “You think too much.”
“I’m with Griggs on that,” said Grayling. “Our orders are Dunkirk. That’s it. Stop thinking.” He added dryly, “You’re a soldier, you’re not supposed to think.”
“There’s a very dark truth in that,” said Balantine cheerfully.
“It just unnerves me, no communication.” Baylor pushed up his glasses. “We are cut off. How do we know where things stand?”
“Baylor, shut up,” said Balantine, now walking backward. “It doesn’t do any of us—”
A dull pocking of bullets, and Grayling fell.
A heartbeat of shock, then all was confusion and shouting and trampling.
“Take cover!” Balantine roared, grabbing Grayling by the collar.
Jamie hauled Milton down beside him, looking wildly about. Cover? What cover?
“Where are they shooting from?” shouted Griggs.
“Get down! Take cover!”
“Can anyone see? Where are they shooting from?”
“Seest thou what rage transports our adversary . . .”
“Where’s the shooter?” Griggs bellowed.
“Baylor, get over here,” Balantine shouted. Hand on his helmet, Baylor ran at a crouch to where Balantine had dragged Grayling, a place with not much cover at all, just a few low bushes. He unshouldered his kit and knelt over Grayling.
“Over there!” Jamie shouted to Griggs, and pointed to the east side of the field at a collection of white beech trees. Behind one huddled a gray-helmeted form. Milton tried to stand up and see. Jamie hauled him back down.
Griggs dropped low and took aim. But his rifle jammed, and cursing, he brought it to his knee, frantically slamming the bolt with the heel of his hand.
“Griggs!” Jamie tossed over his Bren.
Griggs threw aside his rifle, grabbed the Bren, flicked off the safety, set it to multiple bursts, took aim, and fired on the copse of trees.
Jamie saw movement and shouted, “Over there, left!”
Griggs trained the Bren left and gave a burst.
What had they walked into? A recon squad or a whole regiment?
Another muffled pocking of bullets.
“We’ve got to get out of the open!” said Griggs. He looked about, then pointed west to a slope across the clearing, maybe fifty yards away. “Other side of that hill! Curtis, when I start shooting, get them over there and then turn and cover me. Move!”
“He’s not going anywhere,” said Baylor of Grayling, sitting back. “He’s shot in the chest.”
Balantine tore off his helmet. “Grayling!”
“Griggs, get them out,” Grayling said thickly, waving him off.
“We’re not leaving you!” Balantine shouted.
Grayling felt for his .38 sidearm, and before anyone could move, put it under his chin and pulled the trigger.
After several heartbeats of shock, Griggs snatched Balantine’s helmet out of his hands and shoved it on his head. He pushed him into Baylor, and then went to a knee with the Bren.
“Curtis, get them moving! Now, now!” He hauled the Bren to his eye and fired. “Move!”
“Come on!” shouted Curtis.
Jamie grabbed Milton, and ran.
“Mercy first and last shall brightest shine,” said the captain softly.
No one told him to shut up. They knew he spoke of Grayling.
They knew that these strange Milton words were just for him, and with them, the captain told them what sort of soldier was he.
They had taken cover behind the hill, and when no one pursued, pushed on northwest mile after mile until twilight. On the outskirts of a deserted town, they fell in for the night in a long concrete greenhouse, with a slanted ceiling open to the sky. The moon, a few days past full, shone brightly.
The men had fallen in exhausted, some sitting against the concrete wall, some against the dry trough running down the center of the greenhouse. Only the captain now stood, gazing at the moon.
“With good still overcoming evil, accomplishing great things . . .”
Balantine dragged off his helmet.
It was Grayling’s benediction, spoken in moonlight over a grave they never had a chance to dig.
“For so I formed them free, and free they must remain. God toward thee hath done his part.” All watched one hand come slightly from his side, saw his fingers stretch and reach out a few inches toward them, as if to bless, as if to commission. “Do thine. And to the end persisting, safe arrive.” The hand held, then relaxed at his side.
“He wants us to get to Dunkirk,” Baylor said softly.
“Yes, I think we’ve worked that out,” Griggs said, in a mild return to sourness. He began to take apart the Bren.
“He knows Grayling bought us time,” Jamie said to Balantine. “He could easily have said ‘Grayling toward thee hath done his part.’”
Grayling and Balantine had been in the same unit for eighteen months, before the war began.
“He would’ve died of that chest wound in an hour,” Baylor said to Balantine. “He did a brave thing, mate. I’ll never forget it.”
Balantine put his helmet on, and pulled it low over his face. He wrapped his arms about himself, and slid a little lower on the wall.
“Tomorrow we strike north and don’t stop until we hit the sea,” said Griggs, cleaning the Bren by moonlight. He’d offered it back to Jamie earlier, but Jamie told him to keep it since he was a better shot. It was Jamie’s way of saying, Well done, and I’m glad you’re a better soldier than you are a mate. “Elliott, take first watch. Curtis, you’re next. I’ll take last.”
Exhausted, hungry, thirsty to the point of torment, Jamie made himself get up. He followed the captain’s gaze to the moon.
Month after month of others doing the thinking for you, others telling you where to go, what to do, and suddenly you’re cut away and cut off, floating free with no direction, no orders, nothi
ng but confusion. Where was everyone? What was the overall situation? Did anyone at home know what sort of straits the BEF was in?
“We’ve got to make it home,” Jamie suddenly said, looking at the men. “Who will defend them?”
“Oh, we’ll make it,” said Griggs. “I’m too angry not to. Now get your arse out on watch. The rest of you, get some sleep. That includes you, Captain . . . whoever you are.”
“Jacobs,” Jamie said, watching him watch the moon. “He told me the other night.”
“He did?” said Baylor, sitting up, looking from Milton to Jamie. “What else did he say?”
“That was it. One word.” He touched Milton’s arm. “Come on, Captain Jacobs. Get some rest.”
He checked the captain’s bandage but found he didn’t need to change it; the wound was giving off far less fluid and actually looked a bit better. He took him to a corner and got him settled in, then went outside to look for a likely spot to keep watch.
He checked his wristwatch for when to rouse Curtis, and then settled snug into the split of a tree to gaze for moving shadows in this foreign, moonwashed landscape.
Did those at home know that Belgium was caving in? Did they know that France was being overrun? Did they know the army was running for its life?
The Empire responds to the King’s call. And at Westminster Abbey, heart of the Empire, the statesmen, the soldiers, the ambassadors, and hundreds of ordinary men and women join the mighty congregation. Her Majesty Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands arrives a few moments before Their Majesties.
No one here today could foresee the grave news that has come from Belgium. All the more, it is well for us to show the world that we still believe in divine guidance. In the laws of Christianity, may we find inspiration and faith from this solemn day.
—PATHÉ NEWSREEL
There was a short service of Intercession and Prayer in Westminster Abbey on May 26. The English are loath to expose their feelings, but in my stall in the choir I could feel the pent-up, passionate emotion, and also the fear of the congregation, not of death or wounds or material loss, but of defeat and the final ruin of Britain.