In the Shadow of Your Wings

by J. P. Robinson

  Fritz pivoted at her words. Their eyes met in an icy, malicious silence. Each took the measure of the other, as though they were strangers now meeting for the first time.

  “So be it.” Fritz glared at her. “May God soon rid me of this enemy who calls herself my wife!” Then he flung the curtain apart, shoved past a deathly pale Hermann, and stormed off into the gloom.

  WERNER STAYED IN HIS position by the hall’s farthest door. Huddled in the shadows of a tiny alcove, neither the irate Fritz nor the incensed Clara had noticed the spy. I will continue to work against you. He ran the words repeatedly through his mind, mulling over their possible implications.

  His mind shifted back to the message he had received from Leila. It was a warning that the British government had turned someone in Berlin, someone who was close enough to Haber to interfere with his work if necessary.

  Our contact in Berlin will monitor Haber’s work and sabotage it as needed.

  His suspicious mind dissected every syllable of the conversation he had just witnessed. Clearly, Clara was willing to take whatever measures she deemed necessary to stop her husband from implementing his chemical weapon if she was excluded from its development. Did that include collaborating with Germany’s enemies?

  He tapped his chin with his index finger twice. What if the contact was not a member of Haber’s team... but his own wife? He had assumed that the possible turncoat would be one of the scientists, but the confrontation he had just witnessed provided another intriguing angle that could not be ignored by any means.

  Werner considered this line of thought for just a moment longer before quietly slipping from the alcove. He exited the university and hurried through the cold, empty streets toward his waiting automobile. The army planned to use its gas “disinfectant” during an offensive at Ypres, Flanders in only a few months. Time was running out.

  Chapter 6

  Etaples, France. February 1915

  “Line it up, men. Aim right for the wee spot between the Hun’s eyes. Not much of a brain there, you can be sure of that!”

  Will Thompson grimaced as he leaned into the small mound of malleable sandbags that bordered the trench, protecting his body from imaginary German fire. He glanced at the new recruits of his regiment, the Northumberland Fusiliers. Like himself, they were mostly young men who had volunteered to resist the tide of invading Germans.

  Wiping his forehead with his sleeve, Will turned back toward the target. He had told Eleanor he would be with the regiment called the Sherwood Foresters, but, upon arriving at Etaples, he had been reassigned to a different regiment. He had dashed off a letter to Eleanor telling her of the change but there had been no response. Her silence filled him with dread. Was she alright? Had something happened? Patience Will. Thousands of men formed up his division and the fact that she didn’t know where to find him was disturbing to say the least. But now another challenge confronted him.

  He rested the bore of his Lee-Enfield rifle on his palm and sighted down the barrel, aiming at the gorilla-like figure that represented the hated Hun.

  Hated by whom? The disturbing thought was like the persistent whine of a mosquito—barely noticeable but there all the same. Not hated by God. Not hated by me.

  “It’s not easy, is it?” A soldier to his right, jerked his head toward the target. “Killing a man’s not the same as killing rabbits.”

  “Yeah.” Will licked his lips. “It’s a bit different.”

  “Come on you bawfaces!”

  The strident voice belonged to their cohort’s leader, Lieutenant-Colonel James Stewart, whose thick Scottish brogue tinged his every word.

  “Remember that these reprobates want to rape your wives and murder your wee bairns.” Stewart shook a meaty fist. “Now hit the target or I’ll give each man a skelp you’ll never forget!”

  “Sounds like he’s trying to save the Huns the trouble of killing us!”

  Will didn’t smile at his neighbor’s weak attempt at humor.

  “Ready!” The commander’s bellow made his ears ring.

  Will focused on the dummy who charged, with gun aimed at his head, three hundred yards away. The man had been painted to look as real as possible and every fiber of Will’s being rebelled at the thought of shooting a man who had been made in God’s image.

  “Take aim!”

  He swallowed, ran his fingers through his shaggy brown hair then gripped the barrel of his rifle. Kill or be killed. That was the nature of war. He had answered his country’s call to arms out of a desire to protect his family but, now that the reality of war stared him in the face, he hesitated. The thought of spilling another man’s blood made his own blood run cold.

  But Stewart was right. If every man wasn’t ready to do his duty, the Germans would conquer all of France and England. He shuddered to think of what the merciless Huns would do to his little girl... and to his wife.

  “Fire!”

  Will closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger as a chorus of gunfire erupted around him.

  “Do you naw ken how to shoot, laddie?” Colonel Stewart’s shout jerked his eyes open. “Your target’s not even scratched!”

  Will flushed as he followed the commander’s gaze to the unscathed mannequin then glanced over his shoulder at the officer. “I’m sorry sir. It’s just—”

  “Just that the entire British army’s countin’ on you! Just that you’re lettin’ every man of us down!” Spittle flew from the Scotsman’s twisted mouth. “Do that on the battlefield, man, and the baw’s on the slates!”

  Stewart dropped his hard face inches from Will’s. “In plain English, if you do that again, you’re dead!”

  He huffed and spit on the sodden trench floor. “Right, now, let’s go at it again.” Marching down the line, he thumped a thick walking stick against his left palm.

  “You’ve got nine shots left, lads. Make sure you kill ten Huns with ‘em. Fire at will!”

  Will set his jaw and focused his breathing. His thoughts turned to Eleanor, the one woman whose touch turned his blood to fire. She was counting on him. He pulled the trigger.

  His mind shifted to his daughter as another bullet sped from the rifle. For Abby...my darling girl. The gun roared again. She had been a miracle, arriving in the second year of his marriage. He squeezed the trigger. He would protect her—no matter the cost to his conscience.

  Right now, she’s probably on her mother’s lap, smiling for all she’s worth. He worked the bolt, aimed and shot mechanically, thinking of those he loved instead of the enemy that he was supposed to hate.

  Click. Realizing the gun was empty, Will tossed it onto the ground and looked up. He became conscious of another presence and twisted to see Colonel Stewart standing over him.

  “Now that’s pure braw, lad.” Stewart nodded his approval. “That’s real class.”

  Eight neat holes riddled the tattered mannequin’s head and chest.

  The lieutenant-colonel laid his meaty palm upon Will’s shoulder.

  “No real soldier likes to kill, but we do what we must. For king. For country. For those we love.”

  He raised his voice and turned to the other men. “Today is practice. In three weeks, there’ll be a real Hun shootin’ back at you. When that time comes, keep the heid! Stay calm and remember that it’s him or you.”

  He thumped his stick against his palm. “Alright you bawfaces. Take a wee break then hurry back. We’ve got Germans to kill!”

  DAYLIGHT FILTERED THROUGH the grilled bars of Liverpool station, revealing a traumatized mass of Londoners who had fled to the underground railway stations to escape the death that fell from the sky. Crammed spaces and the murmur of thousands of voices prevented anyone from getting sleep. The stench of unwashed bodies and poorly functioning chemical toilets was enough to choke a man, but Eleanor noticed none of it.

  Bedraggled, and covered in grime and blood, the bereaved mother shivered as she stared at the bleak walls that surrounded her. She was a prisoner. Not one bound by chains but by
the confines of her grief.

  Eleanor pressed the dirty blue blanket to her lips, fresh tears spilling over her clenched eyes. Her shoulders shook as memories of Abby’s smiling face and rounded cheeks whispered through her mind, tearing at the depths of her soul.

  “My darlin’ girl.” Abby had been carted away and buried in a simple box in the local cemetery. There were no other mourners as she had no family left but Will. Will. The thought of her husband sent a fresh shaft of pain through her heart.

  She had not written to him in the month since his departure, knowing that she could never hide anything from him. If he knew that their child was dead, his concern would drive him mad. Right now, he needed to focus on staying alive.

  Eleanor released a ragged breath. She would write as soon as she could.

  “Excuse me. Can I sit for a moment?”

  She glanced up as a young woman, wearing a white cap and matching apron, eyed her through bleary eyes. A red cross was emblazoned on a band that curled around her upper arm.

  “Of course.” Eleanor sniffled, wiped her eyes and shifted over on the bench. “There’s hardly room to breathe in here.”

  “You can thank the Huns for that!” The woman plopped onto the hard bench and extended her hand. “Veronica Coughlan, at your service.”

  Eleanor shook her hand absently. “Eleanor Thompson.”

  Veronica sighed and glanced around at the thousands of men and women who slept in the spaces between the tracks and crowded the darkened corners of the tunnel.

  “Who’d of thought it would come to this?” She shook her head. “Thought it’d be a quick war but now...” Her voice trailed off.

  “No matter how it ends, there’s no gettin’ back those we’ve lost.” Eleanor’s voice was soft.

  Veronica fell silent at this remark. “You’re right.” Her eyes shifted to the blanket Eleanor clutched between pale, trembling fingers. “Your son?”

  Eleanor bit her lip, choking back a scream of helpless rage. “My daughter,” she said at last. “Killed in a zeppelin raid.”

  Veronica threw an arm around her shoulder. “I’m so sorry.” She glanced around the room. “Is your husband at the Front?”

  “At a training center in France. I-I haven’t been able to tell him. If he knew he’d—”

  “He wouldn’t rest until he made sure everything was alright.” Veronica twisted a ring on her finger. “I know. My fiancé was also that kind of man.”

  “Was?” Eleanor looked up.

  Veronica’s eyes were suddenly too bright, as though she also knew the pain of sudden loss. “Killed last August in the Battle of the Mons. As was my brother.”

  Eleanor gripped her hand. “Both in one day? H-how did you survive?”

  “I became a VAD for the Red Cross.”

  “A what?” Eleanor’s brow crinkled.

  “A Voluntary Aid Detachment. We help the medical personnel on the frontlines. I’m back in London, looking for volunteers.”

  She slanted Eleanor a glance. “Have you ever thought of it?”

  “I know nothin’ of nursin’.” Eleanor shook her head.

  Veronica laughed, a sound that seemed obscenely out of place in the gloom that filled the station.

  “Not many do. You’ve had a baby which means you have more experience than most.” She sobered. “When I lost everyone I loved, it was through caring for broken bodies that my own broken heart began to heal. Maybe the same thing will happen to you.”

  “But my husband—”

  “I’m taking a contingent of women to Etaples in two days.” Veronica rose as she spoke. “Come with us. There’s a war on out there and we need all the help we can get.”

  She cast her eyes around the milling crowds of refugees.

  “We’re taking the eleven o’clock train to Hastings. From there we’ll cross the Channel to Etaples. You can stay here, locked in fear and pain, or you can join us and make a difference.”

  Eleanor stared up at her, unsure what to do or say. She had lived her whole life in the East End of London. Although it was only a few kilometers away, France might as well be at the other end of the world!

  “Think about it.” Veronica flung the words over her shoulder as she pressed her way through the crowd. “What have you got left to lose?”

  THE DYING RAYS OF THE setting sun did little to dispel the cold that penetrated Malcolm’s bones. He clenched his fists as he stalked down Tooley Street toward Leila’s flat, trying to keep blood flowing in the icicles he had once called fingers.

  Misery had plagued him in the month since he had left Northshire. Skyrocketing food costs in a country at war had consumed the money Thomas had provided. They were now surviving on Leila’s childhood savings.

  Leila. Malcolm’s brow furrowed, and his pace slowed as he neared the end of the street. She deserved better. His attempts at finding work had been futile. No one wanted to hire a man who wasn’t at the Front. He had no visible injuries and he was young. In the eyes of most, he was a shirker.

  Malcolm shivered. He had no coat and the clothes that he had worn for the past month were almost threadbare. His divorce from fashion and comfort was yet another casualty of the war against Thomas’s draconian rule. Despite the constant rumbling in his belly and the desperate need for funds, Malcolm refused to bend.

  If you ever change your ways, then come back home.

  Thomas’s words echoed in his mind. No doubt he had intended to show Malcolm that there was hope of a reconciliation but, as far as Malcolm was concerned, those words had cut him off more cleanly than anything else Thomas had said that night.

  His nostrils flared as he barged ahead. Change my ways?

  The old man was as stubborn as a mule. Why couldn’t Thomas see that his world of righteous regulations was falling apart? There was no more absolute right or wrong. No one had a right to judge him. He could do as he pleased, and if Thomas couldn’t see that, then he had no place in Malcom’s world.

  He turned a corner, grimacing as he caught sight of an immense war poster plastered onto the side of a factory that had once made sugar. Now it made bullets.

  The cream paper displayed a mustachioed Lord Kitchener, Secretary of State, who glared in disapproval at the young man before him. His accusing finger jutted directly at Malcom’s face and the words, Your country needs you, screamed out at him.

  Malcolm blanched.

  His mind wandered back to the distraught woman whose child had been killed the night of the zeppelin raid a month ago. Leila’s flat was in another part of London but, when passing through the East End, some decrepit shadow of compassion had compelled him to stop and help the victims.

  God gives... God takes... The words she had uttered crawled about in his mind like a living thing. Beyond her words, the expression on her face had immobilized him. He had seen naked grief, yes, but also incomprehensible serenity and courage. In the face of such sudden loss, how could she be so accepting? It wasn’t complacency; it was something else... something he couldn’t define but envied none the less.

  The sound of voices behind him jolted Malcolm from his reverie. Pivoting, he caught sight of a group of young women rounding the corner.

  “Oh, look girls,” the leader pointed at him. “There’s another brave Tommy about to volunteer!”

  They surged toward him, but he shook his head.

  “No, no, you’re mistaken,” Malcolm thrust his arms outward, palms extended. “I-I’m not volunteering.”

  “And why not?”

  This from the leader, whose expression had morphed from excitement to utter contempt. She put her hands on the shoulder of the young woman on her right.

  “Tell Angie here why you’re at home and her father and brother are risking their lives. You’re not a fraidy-cat, are you?”

  Scornful boos and hisses erupted from the throats of the other women.

  “No!” Malcom shrank from their collective intimidation. “It’s just that—”

  “Just what?” Angie
stomped forward, eyes flashing, while her cronies tightened their circle. “Not man enough?”

  “I-I just—”

  “He’s a coward!” Flecks of Angie’s spittle sprinkled his cheek. “Feather him girls!”

  A sick feeling roiled in Malcom’s gut as the young women jerked a white feather—the symbol of a coward—from their lapels and tried to shove them in his hair.

  “Afraid, are we?” Angie’s screeching laughter mocked him. “Well go on and show the world just how much of a man you are!”

  Malcolm stumbled backward. “Get away, you harpies!” He flushed as he pushed himself clear of their accusing fingers and darted down the street, the echoes of their shrill cackles dogging each of his steps.

  Panting, Malcolm rounded the corner and staggered to Leila’s flat.

  “Leila!” He hammered at the door. “Leila, open up!” He could hear the screeching women getting closer. Despite the cold, he wiped perspiration from his brow, pulling a few feathers loose in the process. A renewed sense of desperation seized him, and he slammed his fist against the door. “Leila!”

  A small slip of paper wedged into the doorjamb caught his eye. He grabbed it.

  Malcolm,

  I’ve gone to the textile factory to enquire about a job. I’ll return after nightfall. Don’t wait up for me.

  With a loud grunt, Malcolm crumpled the note and rattled the handle. Leila was one of the few people he knew who insisted on locking every door and window of her home.

  Why? He wanted to scream with frustration. In times like these, locks were his worst enemy. The voices drew nearer. His throat tightened. Those witches could not discover where he lived!

  Malcolm shoved the paper and feathers into his left pocket. As he did so, his numbed fingers brushed against a cool metal object. The key! He had never used keys at Northshire. A servant had always been ready to whisk him to his room no matter how late the hour. He often forgot that he had a key to her flat.

  He rammed it into the lock and breathed a sigh of relief as the handle turned.

  Malcolm slipped inside the flat and slammed the door shut, then locked it behind him. When he was sure the danger had passed, he flipped on the electric lights and collapsed on the bed. A small white feather, blown by a gust of air caused by the slamming of the door, drifted to the floor and landed next to a wadded-up piece of paper. Malcolm reached for the crumpled ball and smoothed it out.