by Bill Walker
Even now, the question brought hot salty tears to her eyes. Of course, Sir Basil would not have been able to answer it. And even if he had, she knew the answer would have been as dissatisfying as all the others.
A sound outside the window interrupted her thoughts. For a moment she couldn’t identify it. And then she knew: It was the sound of a car door closing.
Throwing off the bedclothes, she ran to the window, pulled aside the blackout curtain and looked out in time to see Michael walking up the front walk, his little red Morgan parked at the curb. His gait was slow and measured, the pace of a man weighed down by exhaustion and the pressures of his job. Her heart went out to him.
Racing down the stairs, she waited until he’d opened the door, then flung herself into his arms. She buried her face into his neck and sobbed, her tears as much from joy as they were from fear. Startled, at first, Thorley embraced her.
“Oh, God, Michael, I was so worried, I—”
Her sobbing renewed itself, the tears coursing down her cheeks, as she collapsed against him.
“It’s all right, now,” he said, rocking her back and forth in his arms. “I’m all right, I’m fine.”
She kissed him then, ignoring his sour breath, tasting him hungrily, greedily. He started to speak, to protest, and she shut him up with another passionate kiss that left no doubt as to what was on her mind.
He pushed her back gently, and her hurt and puzzlement must have shown on her face, for he immediately took her back in his arms, caressing her as he said, “Don’t you even think that I don’t want you,” he said. “Not for a bloody moment. But we have to talk. Something’s come up.”
She felt the panic all over again and pulled away from him.
“Sir Basil came to see me two nights ago.”
Michael nodded. “He told me he would.”
“Why did he lie to me, Michael?”
He looked at her strangely. “What did he tell you?”
“That you were going to Lisbon to translate some documents.”
She saw his lips tighten with anger. “I might have expected as much.”
“What really happened?”
“I can’t tell you,” he said, sounding exhausted.
“Don’t start with the damned Official Secrets—”
Michael stalked into the sitting room, throwing his hat and coat onto a chair. “I have no choice, Lillian. I can’t tell you anything!”
“I’m your wife.”
“It doesn’t matter. I gave my word.”
His hard, determined look brought her up short, and she forced herself to calm down. “You’re right, I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter anymore, anyway. You’re home, and you’re safe. That’s all that matters.”
Michael walked to the hearth and studied the dying embers. His little boy lost look tore her heart. She went to him, enfolding him in her arms. “I can tell something else is bothering you. What is it?” she asked, after a moment of tender silence.
He looked away, as if to marshal his thoughts, then he turned back to her. “I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’ll just say it. They’re sending me to Egypt...to the front.”
His words rocked her.
“What?” she asked, standing back from him, her eyes like saucers.
“I leave for camp in three days.”
This was all too much. If she didn’t know Michael as well as she did, she would’ve sworn that this was some hideous practical joke. But the look in her husband’s eyes told her it was all-too-real.
“But how—how can they do that? You’re not a soldier.”
A heavy sigh. “Actually, I am. The only way they would let me go on the mission to Portugal was to accept a commission. I’m now a Major in the Royal Guards.”
“You could have refused. Why didn’t you? How could you do such a thing?”
He stared at the floor—his eyes focused on some imaginary point. “Because I was tired of sitting in dusty rooms listening to life going on around me. Because I couldn’t sit by anymore while thousands of my countrymen were dying. That’s why. And now the bastards are using it as leverage to put me where I can’t do them any harm.”
She grabbed him by his shoulders, forcing him to look her in the eye. “You know something don’t you? Wherever it was they sent you, you saw something they want to keep quiet.”
Michael nodded wearily and moved over to the brocaded love seat. He fell into it and the springs under the cushions groaned in protest. Lillian joined him, taking his hand in hers.
“They grilled me for eight hours, Lily. Eight bloody hours, asking me the same questions over and over again. And all through it I kept asking myself: Why is this so important? Why are they so bloody concerned about this one incident?”
“Was it that bad?”
He looked at her with haunted eyes. “I hope I never see anything like it again.”
“So, you asked them.”
“That was my mistake,” he said, shaking his head in disgust. “As long as I played the game their way, I was fine. But as soon as I showed them that I was more than their little wind-up toy, it was all over. They stared at me like I was some sort of bug, Lily. Even Sir Basil.”
“What did they say?”
“That I had no need to know. After all I went through for them. I had no need.” He shook his head. “And that’s when they told me that I was being transferred to Egypt, that a certain general officer required the services of a translator. Bloody crap. And they knew I knew it, too.”
“We’ll talk to Sir Basil,” she said, her voice taking on an edge. “We’ll make them rescind the order; we’ll threaten to tell their bloody little secrets....”
“You know I’ll never do that.”
“So, you’re just going to let them pack you off to the war, like a good little soldier. Let them have their way. Is that it?”
“Yes.”
Her lips trembled as the tears threatened to flow anew. “But, why, goddamnit?”
“Because I made a commitment, Lily. Because I want to make a difference. And they know it. Are Sir Basil and the others a bunch of treacherous bastards? Too right, they are. But I’m not going to stoop to their level. I can beat them at their own bloody game.”
“And what if you don’t?” she said, hating the quaver in her voice.
“My chances are better than good,” he said, caressing her face. “After all, I’m just a translator. I’ll be well back from the fighting most of the time. I’ll be fine. The truth is, it doesn’t really matter what they want. I need to do this, Lily, or I’ll go stark raving mad.”
And there it was, that blasted insufferable male ego that always raised its ugly head whenever reason tried to prevail. Like some prehistoric leviathan lumbering through a forgotten rain forest knocking down everything in its path, it would stumble blindly into whatever trouble it could, taking her husband along with it.
She cupped his face with her hands. “No. You don’t need to. You only think you do. I’m not blind, Michael. I see all those nasty looks, too. The ones from all those smug, self-important prigs who think they know what’s best for everybody else. The ones who think that you must be shirking your duty just because you fight from behind a desk. Somebody has to do that job, or the men in the field would be lost.”
Michael smiled at her, took her hands from his face and kissed them. “You’re right, dearest. But I don’t have a say anymore. I’m in for the duration and these are my orders. Would you rather see me in the glasshouse?”
“You can resign the bloody commission.”
“Yes, I suppose I could. And assuming I didn’t end up in prison anyway, I would very likely never have a proper job again. Or would you prefer being married to a penniless academic?”
She looked into his eyes and saw that his heart was set, and there was no other way to reach him, save for one.
“I would rather your son have a living father in jail or destitute, than a dead one he’ll mourn the rest of his life,” she said.”
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He stared at her, his mouth gaping. It would have been funny under any other circumstances. Now, it only made her want to cry.
“My what?” he asked.
“I’m pregnant, Michael. We’re going to have a baby. I had it all planned to tell you over dinner the other night. Then this....”
She watched as a panoply of emotions flitted across his face, ending with a sad, ironic smile and a weary shake of his head. “Funny how things happen,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Just that if I’d known this two nights ago, I would have refused the mission, and they would have given it to someone else. Now, I can’t turn back.” He reached for her again. “I don’t want you to think I’m abandoning you, sweetheart, because I’m not. But I’ve got to do this. For me and our baby. I want him to grow up in a world where he’ll be free. And I’ll want him to be proud of me. Is that so wrong?”
She shook her head, tears stinging her eyes. “No, it isn’t.”
“Good. Then, I’ll ask Sir Basil to look after you, make sure you and the baby have all you need. It’s the least he can do.”
It was at that precise moment that Lillian realized she’d lost her own private war, that Michael would be leaving her to follow a destiny that might ultimately rob her of him forever.
Suddenly, she felt the irrational urge to tell him everything she’d hidden from him, the whole truth about her past...and about Paul. But she knew it would destroy him. And that she could never do, for employing that most secret of weapons would destroy her as well.
Swallowing her fears, she vowed to make the next three days the happiest they had ever known in their married life. And yet, even as she made this promise, she’d already begun to think of herself as a widow.
Chapter Eighteen
Rain fell in torrents out of a gunmetal sky while the squad stood braced at attention, the fifty-pound packs on their backs growing heavier by the second. The Sergeant Major, a stocky bantam rooster with an acne-scarred face and a penchant for smoking stinking cigars, paced back and forth in front of them, screaming out expletives in a gravelly tenor, the cords on his neck standing out like white stalks against the dark brown of his leathery skin. His beady black eyes glittered with a kind of mad glee that made Thorley wonder if the man wasn’t shy a marble or two. Certainly, the prospect of a five-mile double-time march through the woods—the second that day—was not the product of a balanced mind.
“...And I bloody swear to God in his bloody infinite wisdom, that I have never seen such a bunch of lazy tarts in all me life. For two fucking weeks we’ve made this goddamned march, and you’re still fagging out like a bunch of fucking infants before we’ve even gone halfway. Good bloody Christ, my own mother could make this march faster than you girlies! Well, let me tell you this, you worthless strings of piss, you will do this march twice a day until you make it, or so help me, I will rip off your bleeding heads and crap down your necks! Is that clear?”
“YES, SERGEANT MAJOR,” they all screamed in unison, their voices already showing the strains of having shouted this many times.
Thorley felt a wave of dizziness wash over him, and he fought to maintain his rigid stance as the rain beat a steady tattoo on his helmet.
He was so bloody tired.
It seemed that, aside from the routine workouts, part of the conditioning involved sleep deprivation. Up at the crack of dawn, they were kept running from one activity to another until they fell into their bunks at 9:00 p.m., exhausted.
There was the two hours of calisthenics every morning, followed by two hours of rifle practice. Thorley didn’t mind the weapons training so much; in fact, he rather liked the idea of trying to better his score every day. And after four weeks of intensive daily training, his skills had become considerable: he was one of the few in the squad who’d made Marksman.
But what he couldn’t stand was the constant verbal assault. He couldn’t see how this made a man tougher. All it did was wear him down, day after day after day. Then again, it made perfect sense. The army didn’t want someone with spirit and initiative, they wanted an automaton that followed orders.
Thorley pushed those thoughts from his mind when he realized the Sergeant Major had asked a question. Then he realized those tiny obsidian eyes were burning holes through him.
“So glad you could join us, you bloody git, sir!”
There it was, the “sir” spliced in before or after every choice piece of invective. Because Thorley was an officer, the Sergeant Major could not just spew his venom without paying obeisance to his rank. Somehow, the addition of that simple appellation made the rest all right in the eyes of the military. It was just one more bit of craziness in a maelstrom of insanity.
“See, Ladies,” the Sergeant Major continued, “we’ve got ourselves a dreamer, here. Fancies himself quite the soldier, he does.” The Sergeant Major stalked over to Thorley, placing his battered nose mere inches from his own, the pores of his skin looking like lunar craters.
“Sir, you are a lazy, good for nothing turd, who spends far too much of his time using his tiny brain to dream about pulling his pud instead of learning how to save his worthless life and the lives of his fellow turds! Am I getting through to you, sir?”
“Yes, Sergeant Major Bell!” Thorley shouted.
“Good! Then get down and give me thirty pushups, you scumsucking shit—sir!”
Without a second thought, Thorley threw himself down into the mud and began doing pushups, counting them off one by one. The pack on his back, now soaked with the rain, felt twice as heavy, making each pushup excruciating.
It was hard to believe he’d been at Sandhurst for almost a month. Somehow it seemed longer, as if he’d spent half his life there. He let his mind drift back to his goodbyes with Lillian at Victoria Station. He’d told her that he loved her, and when she began to sob even harder, that of course he would return. And that was why he didn’t protest when Sir Basil had told him that he’d be going to Sandhurst for a foreshortened course in basic training. He wanted to prove to himself that he could do it. He also wanted to learn as much as he possibly could about being a soldier. The Sergeant Major was wrong about him in that one respect. He didn’t dream, he watched...and learned.
In another week, he would leave for Egypt for a stint at Abbassia Barracks in Cairo, where he would learn desert survival techniques at the Officer Cadet Training Unit. From there, it was on to his assignment as Chief Translator attached to the Long Range Desert Group, commanded by Lieutenant-Colonel Guy Prendergast. The prospect both excited and frightened him, for no matter how much he professed to want it, he still wasn’t at all sure that he would pass muster.
Completing his last pushup, he sprang to his feet and resumed his position in line. The Sergeant Major gave him a curt nod. “Very good, Major Thorley, now perhaps you’ll lead this march. ALL RIGHT, you gits! Squad...right turn...by the left...Quick march!”
The march lasted for two hours, and Thorley was gasping and wheezing by the time he reached the finish line among the first group to finish. Too winded to care that he’d finally come in first instead of last, he flopped onto the ground and tried to keep from passing out. All he wanted was to lie there and let the rain wash the last vestiges of mud and sweat off his face. But the Sergeant Major had other ideas.
“Get off your bloody arses, you tarts! Do you want to puke your guts out, too? On your feet, NOW!”
Everyone groaned and rose to their feet.
Brady, a rangy Irishman with a shock of carroty hair and a crooked grin, turned to Thorley and whispered, “To know him is to love him, eh what?”
Thorley smiled. In school, Corwin Brady would have been known as the class clown, always offering the witty remark or the pithy observation that had escaped everyone’s notice.
But Thorley had to admit he admired Brady, because the man had no fear. He’d done something Thorley would never have done: come right up to Thorley on the train to Sandhurst and introduced himself.
“And I think you should be the one to tell him, Brady, maybe with a bouquet of petunias.”
“Now there’s a pretty thought,” he replied with a characteristic chuckle.
After the last stragglers stumbled to the finish line, Sergeant Major Bell ordered them all to the showers and then to mess. For the third night in a row it was bangers and mash, along with limp cabbage and tea with milk. Sugar, regrettably, had been an early casualty of the war. Thorley longed for Lillian’s deft hand in the kitchen, though Brady seemed in his element.
“Cabbage is in our blood,” he said. “It’s the Irish national flower.”
“I thought it was the Shamrock.”
Brady scowled. “That’s just for the tourists. It’s the bloody cabbage.”
“You’re round the bend, Brady,” Thorley laughed. “You’ve had too much of the national drink.”
“There is that.” Brady winked and took another mouthful of cabbage. “I’ve been meanin’ to ask you something, if I may. And you can tell me to go to hell if you like, but why’s a man like you, a major no less, sweatin’ along with us subs and lieutenants? I would’ve thought you’d have done this a long while ago. Did you tell the wrong general to piss off, now?”
Thorley felt a glimmer of panic. It was one of the reasons he’d wanted to remain aloof from the others in his squad. He decided to tell as much of the truth as he could, knowing that this would be easier to recall than an outright fabrication.
“I got tired of working behind a desk, so I volunteered.”