Maggie Bright

by Tracy Groot

  “Poor sods. You wait all that time. Bit anticlimactic. Especially if you get bombed on the way to a destroyer. I’ll come back just for that. You see that happen, and all you see is bloody murder. Killing men who can’t shoot back. It’s just wrong. I don’t care if it’s war. It’s wrong. I’ll be back for that.” Peter nodded. “I’ll be back for a lifeboat I saw. Crewed by two kids, all shoutin’ and friendly and helpin’ the lads. One of ’em jumps in the water to help push a bloke up—gets strafed to pieces, cut right in half. Then a bomber comes, finishes off the boat. Blew it to kindling.” He pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Couldn’t see the name of the boat, so I named it in my head. The Endeavor. I’ll be back for that. I hope I get the chance to kill ’em just as defenseless.”

  “I’ll kill them now,” said Griggs with a shrug.

  “You have ammo for that?” Peter asked of the Bren.

  “One magazine left.”

  “Heavy things, they are,” Peter said vaguely, lighting his cigarette. Jamie noticed then how bleary-red his eyes were. There probably wasn’t much sleeping on the dunes. “They’re being slaughtered for us, you know. Right in front of our eyes.” He watched the surf. “They’re civilians. It’s just wrong. We’re supposed to do the saving. But we have to watch it every day, and not a bloody thing we can do. They keep coming, more and more of them. We have to watch when they’re blown to bits.”

  “Just shut it, why don’t you?” said Griggs.

  Peter blinked, looked at him in surprise.

  “Don’t mind him. He’s just ornery,” Baylor told him. “Since birth.”

  Griggs pulled up his gun and aimed for Baylor. Jamie felt a rush of weakness, and then Griggs swung the gun to the sky and let loose a continuing burst on a passing plane. The plane strafed their area, stitching a sand-pocked line right beside Griggs as men dove frantically for cover. Griggs continued shooting at it long after it passed, the only one standing when it came and when it left.

  “Belay that!” someone shouted at Griggs.

  “Oy! Get your man under control!”

  “It does no good, you moron!” A soldier sat up, brushing himself off. “You think we haven’t tried it? Save it for the German infantry, they’ll be here soon enough!” He looked around. “Everyone all right? Peter—you all right?”

  But Griggs, to the astonishment of all, took the Bren by the end of the barrel and slammed it repeatedly on the packed sand. The magazine snapped off, the stock cracked and broke apart.

  “Griggs!” Jamie bellowed.

  “It jammed,” said Griggs.

  “Oh, that’s smart!” an onlooker jeered. “That’s tellin’ ’em!”

  “He’s gone mad!” said Curtis, wildly looking about. “Where’s Balantine?”

  Effort noises erupted from the red-faced Griggs with each blow of the Bren upon the ground.

  Milton rose and went to Griggs, hands raised. “My name is Captain Jacobs,” he said. “My name is Captain Jacobs.”

  Griggs stopped, breathing hard, staring at the captain. He wiped spittle from his mouth, looked at Jamie, back at the captain. And the captain looked back at him, straight at him, brown eyes earnest beneath the dirty white bandage.

  “My name is Captain Jacobs.” He lowered his hands.

  Griggs looked at the ruined Bren in his hands, threw it aside. “All this time, you can’t come up with anything more interesting—”

  “That’s all you need to know, Griggs,” said Baylor, but the men turned at the sound of his voice.

  He lay on the ground, gazing proudly at Milton, blood running between the fingers clutching his side.

  “Do you know, the word exodus is actually Greek,” Baylor said weakly. “It means a departure. You’d think it would be a Hebrew word. It should be, shouldn’t it? I wonder what the Hebrew is for exodus.”

  Milton sat beside Baylor, watching the medic work.

  Baylor looked up at him. “You’d probably know the Hebrew. Locked up in that head of yours.” He winced, and looked down. “I’m not dying, man. Let’s keep it that way. It passed right through.”

  “Passed right through, and took a chunk of you with it,” said the medic.

  “Baylor?” Balantine appeared, carrying a box. He set it down. “What happened?”

  “Ah. There you are. I thought Griggs was going to take me out, but at least it was an enemy bullet. There’s an understatement—feels like an orange went through me.”

  Balantine took off his helmet and went to a knee beside him.

  “Where have you been?” Baylor asked crossly. His face was very white. “We were worried. You’ll never guess: Milton said something new. Go on, Milton, say it.”

  “I got lost coming back,” said Balantine. “Then someone pulled up with a load of bully beef.” He looked at the medic. “How is it?”

  “Come on, Milton, say it. He said a full sentence. Come on, old boy. Ouch.”

  “Bully beef?” the medic said, pressing a thick pad against the wound. “Where did they get that? Haven’t eaten in two days.”

  Eyes on Baylor, Balantine felt in the box for a tin and held it out to him. The medic took it with bloodied fingers, and dropped it down the front of his shirt.

  “How is it?” Balantine asked.

  “It did miss the vitalities, but he’s lost an impressive amount of blood. He’ll be all right—under normal circumstances, that is.” The medic threw a dark look at Griggs. “King Brutus here won’t let me take him to the aid station.”

  Griggs shrugged, and said to Balantine, “You said to keep us together.”

  The medic gave Milton a nod. “Come on, chap, let’s sit him up. I need to wrap the bandage. Sorry, mate, this is gonna hurt and I’m out of morphine.” He and Milton gently pulled Baylor to a sitting position. Baylor groaned. “Easy there. Right, hold him steady.” Milton kept his arms about Baylor’s shoulders while the medic finished wrapping the bandage. He tied it off firmly, checked its sturdiness, and ignored Baylor’s protest that it was too tight. They eased him down. The medic sat back on his heels and took up a handful of sand. He rubbed it vigorously between his hands to get rid of the blood.

  “Did you see that, Balantine?” Baylor, taking shallow breaths, nodded at Milton. “He did as asked. Well done, Milty. Elliott, he’s coming around.”

  “My name is Captain Jacobs,” the captain offered. When the men chuckled at Balantine’s amazement, the medic glanced at them all, puzzled. He shook his head, and got to his feet. He said to Balantine, “Look, if you’re in charge, you should know they’re not taking any wounded, not on stretchers.” He nodded at the loading ship in the harbor. “Stretchers take up too much room. Best get him to the aid station. There’s a temporary one set up over at the church, St. Eloi. Middle of town, south of the quay.”

  “He stays with us,” said Griggs.

  “We won’t leave him for the Germans,” said Jamie. His attention kept going back to Milton. He was his best yet. The expressions, the little things, like waving off a fly or rubbing sand from his eye; there was a new ease about him, and except for the new sentence from which he did not deviate, he looked and acted like any other bloke around.

  “Suit yourself,” said the medic. “But if you keep him here, he’ll have a long wait, no water, no food, and he needs both. He’d at least have that at the aid station. Thanks, by the way,” he said to Balantine, and tapped the tin through his shirt. “Well, carry on, lads. Off to save mankind.” He came to attention, snapped a comical salute, and clicked his heels. “Wish me luck.” He picked up his medic bag and left.

  “‘He stays with us,’” Baylor said. “I will treasure that speech. Griggs, it appears you are the pansy for at last, we know you are in love with me.”

  Laughter from most, but not from Griggs. “I should have shot you.”

  Baylor chuckled, and then winced. “Oh . . . oh . . .”

  “My name is Captain Jacobs.”

  “You couldn’t manage a little more Milton, could you?” Baylor ask
ed. “For old time’s sake?” He closed his eyes. “I’m tired.”

  “Don’t go to sleep just yet,” said Balantine, patting his shoulder and rising. “We’ve got to join a group west of here for our spot in the queue. They’ll call us down to embark when our number’s up. They say things are speeding up, with the smaller craft. They’re now loading from the beaches as well.”

  “We’ve seen it.”

  “Surf’s kicking up,” said Curtis, looking down to the water. “Unless it changes, won’t be loading there for long.”

  “Yes, and that’s why I was thinking of the word exodus. We could use a parting of the Red Sea, couldn’t we? We could use a miracle.” Baylor’s eyes were still closed. “Pharaoh’s army, bearing down upon the entire nation of Israel. Milton? How about you play the part of Moses, Balantine can be Aaron, and maybe Griggs could be God. Acts like him, at times.”

  Balantine motioned with his head to Jamie, and they stepped a few paces away. “How is he, really?” he asked quietly.

  “You heard the medic. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  “How do you think he’ll do? Do you think he can—?”

  Griggs joined them at that moment, and Balantine looked less ready to talk. It was a little odd, really; technically, Griggs was in charge by order of enlistment. But it came clear to all of them where Griggs’s skill lay, and it had to do with leading men in combat, but not in other ways. He seemed to look to Balantine for those other ways much as Jamie did.

  “Do you think he’ll manage?” said Balantine.

  “He’s a pansy, but he’ll manage,” said Griggs.

  “I heard that,” Baylor said.

  Jamie said, “I think he’ll be all right. We’ll help.”

  “Yes, but you heard what he said.” Balantine rubbed the back of his head, thinking hard. “They won’t be able to lay him out. If they see that he’s wounded—”

  “We’ll prop him between us.” Griggs said over his shoulder, “You can suck it up for a small amount of time, can’t you, Baylor?”

  “Now that I know you care, I’ve got something to live for.”

  Even Griggs cracked a smile. But Balantine looked out at the sea.

  His shoulders came down. He looked at the other two. “Look, it’ll be a hard crossing. If he’s already lost a lot of blood, how will he stand it? What’s better: risk it and lose him, or—”

  Jamie grabbed his arm and pulled him a few steps farther away, Griggs following. “Do you really want to leave him for the Germans?” Jamie tried hard to keep his tone low. “How do we know how our men will be treated? Will there be a prisoner exchange? We don’t know. We have no idea! Balantine, listen: when I first met you, you said you’d never leave a man behind.”

  “That was before this!” Balantine hissed. “If it comes to wondering if he’ll even survive that passage, there’s a choice to be made!”

  “We’ve lost Grayling,” said Griggs. “No more.”

  That came closest to deciding it.

  After a long moment, Balantine nodded.

  He called Curtis over. “You and Griggs scrounge up some water, as much as you can. I don’t care what you have to do, just get it. We’ll stay put ’til you get back, and then we’ll head for our group. See if you can find something to lay Baylor on to get him down there. Mind our position as you go; I got lost coming back.” He looked about, and pointed inland. “Look—we’re straight out from . . . whatever that is. That bombed redbrick place with the yellow canopy.”

  Curtis and Griggs collected canteens, and started off.

  “‘We’re gonna hang out the washing on the Siegfried Line . . . ,’” a few men sang nearby with gusto, one raising a bottle to the sky.

  “Bring us back some of what they’ve got,” Jamie called after Curtis and Griggs, and Curtis called back, “We’ll do our best!”

  “Too late, mate!” one of the singers roared. “This is French champagne! We got it all, and we ain’t sharin’!”

  “Oy!” one of his compatriots remonstrated. “That ain’t fittin’. Where’s the manners yer muvver raised you wif? We share with the wounded.”

  “We do?” said the first, perplexed.

  “Oh, aye! It’s fittin’! It’s noble! You, there—rouse up a bottle and share wif the man what’s spilled his blood for England.” He held up his bottle to Baylor. “To the man!” Then he resumed leading the men in song: “‘We’re gonna hang out the washing on the—’” he cupped a hand to his ear, while the others roared, “‘Sieg-fried Line!’” One came unsteadily over with a bottle of champagne and handed it to Milton, sitting next to Baylor. “Cheers, mate!” he said to Baylor, raising his own bottle, and then he staggered back to his group.

  Balantine and Jamie went back to Baylor.

  “From imposition of strict laws to free acceptance of large grace,” Milton was telling Baylor. “From servile fear to filial, works of law to works of faith.”

  “Is that how you like your bedtime stories, Baylor?” Jamie asked, settling down beside him. He took the bottle from the captain. “Here’s your warm milk.”

  “Those thousand decencies that daily flow, words and actions,” Milton said. He gazed at the sky. “Love leads up to heaven—is both way and guide.”

  “You hear that?” Baylor opened his eyes. “He almost sounds happy.” He looked up at Milton. “Do you know, Captain? I wish I had served under you.”

  It was a shame that he closed his eyes before he saw the look on Milton’s face. Jamie couldn’t wait to tell Baylor later. You should have seen it, Baylor. He looked like you were one of his men.

  Milton laid his hand on Baylor’s arm. “Be strong, live happy, and love. Thou to mankind be good and friendly still, and oft return.”

  “Will do,” Baylor murmured. “Wish I had paper to write this down.”

  Jamie worked the cork off the champagne with his teeth, and watched a ribbon of mist curl from the bottle. He went to take a drink, and then handed it to Milton. “You first, Captain Jacobs. Cheers.”

  Milton took the bottle, turned it in his hands, seemed to read the label, and then looked to the sea. He watched the waters and then the sky, and absently handed the bottle back without taking a drink.

  Jamie received it with a sigh, glanced at Balantine, who was looking at him. He gave a little shrug and took a sip—and then made a face. “Oh, that’s nasty! How can anyone drink that?” He wiped his mouth and handed it to Balantine. “What I wouldn’t do for a good stout from Evelyn’s. I’d eat her soggy chips, too.”

  He suddenly felt a dizzy wash of fatigue, and wondered when he’d lain down last. He stretched out on the ground for the first time in what seemed like days, and groaned for the pleasure. Felt like he was melting into the sand.

  “I could sleep for a week.”

  He had no sooner covered his face with his helmet, than a drone of the next bank of planes came, and with it men shouting, “Incoming! Incoming!”

  MURRAY AND WILLIAM MILLED ABOUT the lobby of the Port Authority building near the Tower with dozens of other volunteers. Most had come when they heard from those with family and friends in the Royal Navy that volunteer crews were needed; others learned from coworkers or neighbors whose crafts had been requisitioned.

  “Clare’ll be mad she missed this,” Murray said.

  William sipped his coffee. He wished he had time to change his clothing. He still wore his suit for the office, and his shoes could not be more unsuitable. He looked around, peeved to see men outfitted exactly the way he wanted to be: deck shoes with sailcloth trousers and warm jerseys beneath rain slickers. One chap wore the gear of the Royal London Yacht Club, topped by a yachting hat with the club’s insignia; contentedly smoking a pipe, he looked as though he were ready for a pleasure cruise.

  He kept an eye out for John Elliott and Minor Roberts but didn’t see them in this crowd. They’d likely already gone over. He wished them well and hoped Mrs. Shrewsbury did them justice with her prayers.

  Men from every wa
lk of life crowded the lobby, waiting for assignments and doing the same as he, sipping coffee or tea and looking about. He recognized some from the Royal Yacht Club, and nodded to an old instructor from the first yacht he’d crewed when he was in his teens. He smiled a little, recalling that first lesson in how to tie a bowline. Something about a rabbit chasing round a tree, jumping into the hole . . .

  “Glad I’m not the only one dressed for Whitehall.” A man who looked like he had stepped off Savile Row stood next to William, sipping coffee from the same sort of paper cup. “I didn’t dare run home. Terrified I’d miss out.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” William sized up a few men nearby. “I think we could take those two—I fancy that one’s shoes.”

  “I like the other’s slicker. Shall we give it a go?”

  “Hmm. Perhaps not. That one’s got more muscle in a single nostril than I do in both biceps.”

  They shared a chuckle, and the other said, “I’m Peter Goodson. Someone told me you’re William Percy. Hero of the—”

  “Complete bollocks. Every word. I should know, I wrote it.” William put out his hand. “Very long story.”

  Amused, the man shook his hand. “Sounds like an interesting one.”

  “Not half as interesting as this.” They looked around at the milling volunteers. “So what do you do for a living?”

  “Typographical designer. My friend over there is an advertising exec with Montblanc. He’s my weekend sailing mate—my wife gets seasick just walking on a dock.” He gestured with the paper cup. “He’s talking with a car salesman, and that other bloke is a garbage collector. All walks, eh?”

  “All walks.”

  “It’s rather heartening, you know, this pulling together. Glad for a chance to do our bit. I get tired of inked fingers as my red badge of courage.” He raised a brow, and took a sip. “I do hear things are interesting over there.”