In the Shadow of Your Wings

by J. P. Robinson

  It is a shame that the son of the renowned Thomas Steele does not willingly put on the uniform of his country.

  Malcolm groaned, recognizing the Prime Minister’s letter to his father. Inside or out, he could find no peace. He gripped the paper in both hands, ripped it into tiny scraps, then dropped back on the bed lacing his fingers together behind his skull.

  He stared up at the ceiling as pessimistic thoughts crowded his mind. He could not find work. He was publicly reviled. He had no means of supporting his wife. Things couldn’t be worse for him at the Front than they were in London. Or could they?

  He mulled over the thought, inspired, not by patriotism but by a desire to escape the public scorn that seemed to shadow his every move. What if Leila thinks I’m a coward? The question paralyzed him. Did his wife secretly hold him in contempt?

  The question clawed at his mind. It had only been six weeks since he had met Leila. They had gone from strangers to newlyweds in only half that time. How well do I really know her? More to the point, what if Leila doubted his masculinity?

  The memory of the mourning woman unexpectedly flitted across his mind. She had faced the death of her child with a conviction that unnerved him. Could he face his own death with such courage?

  No. Because, in the deepest recesses of his heart, he knew that, if he died, Thomas’s God would consign him to the blackest pit of hell.

  This thought gave birth to another. What would happen to them all if the Germans did win the war? The idea seemed surreal but, until a few weeks ago, so did the thought of a London in flames.

  He sat up, decisive now and glanced again at Leila’s note. There was only one textile factory within walking distance and there was only one road to it from their flat.

  He unlocked the door and peered cautiously out to be sure the harpies were not waiting to ambush him. Safe! Then, closing the door behind him, Malcolm veered left. He needed to speak with his wife.

  Chapter 7

  London, Great Britain. February 1915

  “Thank you again for this opportunity, Mr. Rasen.”

  “Report to 2 Whitehall Court at ten o’clock in the evening. Be prompt. Security will let you in.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Leila Steele let the door swing shut behind her, barely able to conceal the smile of victory that slipped across her face. Rasen, Falcon and Company was officially a shipping company that doubled as a screening facility for the British Secret Intelligence Service. Throughout the past three months, she had undergone a series of intense background checks for a position as a facility cleaner in the office of Robert Hughes himself. She had used the names of contacts supplied by Werner as references. Tonight, she had heard the news from Mr. Rasen.

  “I’ve done it.” In securing a position with Rasen, Falcon and Company, she had not only scored a breakthrough in her mission as a German spy, but she had also averted a crisis in her marriage. At present, Malcolm believed her personal savings covered their expenses, but it was only a matter of time before her husband began asking the wrong questions. Now, she had a feasible, and mostly-true, answer: she worked as a night-shift cleaner for a local shipping company.

  She cast a casual glance around her, noting that few pedestrians roamed the darkened street. Leila slipped into the shadows of a looming brick building and pulled the black wig off her head while shaking her blonde tresses free with a relieved sigh.

  She dropped to her haunches, jerked the non-prescription glasses she wore off her face and undid the clasp of her large pocketbook. The disguise was simple but effective. Shoving aside the few items that littered the bag’s false bottom, she shoved the wig and glasses inside, then carefully replaced its contents.

  Straightening, Leila glanced around again, buttoned her dark gray overcoat, then strode briskly down the street. Big Ben, the iconic symbol of London, heralded the arrival of the tenth hour with sonorous chimes and she sped up her pace. Getting a job was not her only mission tonight.

  She shivered. Ten o’clock on the Thursday night closest to the middle of the month. It was time for new orders to come from Berlin. Who will Werner send this time?

  The head of German espionage never came himself. He always sent different envoys, sometimes men and sometimes women. This meeting, like all the others, would last only a few minutes. She needed just enough time to verify her contact’s identity and slip a document beneath her coat.

  As always, they would meet outdoors. She would have preferred to be inside the pub, but the risk of exposure was simply too great. London was a stick of dynamite. The recent zeppelin bombings coupled with a litany of fictionalized publications about German spy rings had ignited an atmosphere of near-hysteria. To be caught now would lead to consequences she dreaded imagining.

  Adrenaline coursed through her veins as the pub came nearer, but she slowed her pace and slipped into the shadows, watching, unseen, as a steady stream of women flowed into the pub.

  A soft chuckle escaped her lips. Three years ago, pubs were exclusively the domain of men, but the war had sparked a sense of rebellion among London’s women. Not that she minded the change. After all, she had met Malcolm in a setting much like this.

  “It’s a cold night.”

  A voice spoke up from behind her. Leila turned slowly to see a young man who also lurked in the shadows. His blond hair was covered by a British military cap and the khaki uniform of an infantryman hugged his well-muscled frame. He held a beer in one hand and an unlit cigar in the other.

  “Rather normal for this time of year.” She folded her arms across her chest as she gave the next line of the prescribed conversation.

  The man drank half the contents of his glass in one gulp and she nodded. So far, so good.

  “I don’t know.” He peered into the glass as though disappointed it was almost empty. “I think things will get a lot worse rather quickly, don’t you?”

  Leila smiled then shrugged while running her right hand through her hair—again, part of a prewritten code. “Some people say so. For me, I say things have to get worse before they get better.”

  The man emptied the contents of his glass, stepped out of the shadows, and set it down on a small, wire table.

  “Charles Johnson at your service.” He shook her hand. It wasn’t his real name and they both knew it. If she were ever discovered and tortured, Werner wanted her to be able to divulge as little information as possible.

  “Annabel Lewis.” It was the final piece of the puzzle. She stepped out of the darkness toward him. Reaching into his pocket he withdrew a small, nondescript package about the size of her palm.

  “Orders are inside.”

  She grabbed the thin package.

  “Were you able to find the key to your house?” Charles was asking if she had secured the housekeeping position for the British Secret Intelligence Service.

  “Yes.” Leila shoved the package beneath her coat. “It took a while but I was able to get in.”

  “Good.”

  “Things are getting harder,” she said. “I don’t know if I—”

  She bit back her words, pressing her finger to her lips, as the sound of footfalls reached her sharp ears. Someone’s coming!

  Panic flared within her chest. The steps were coming from the opposite end of the street. From this angle, there was nowhere to hide and no time to run. Images of a furious mob tearing her to pieces flashed through her mind. It could happen in a moment, given London’s mood. A man and woman alone outside at this hour could raise suspicions unless...

  “Kiss me!” She grabbed him by the lapel of his coat.

  “What?” Charles recoiled but Leila could hear the tread of feet getting closer.

  “Kiss me!” There was no time to explain. Without another word, Leila cupped the back of his neck and pulled him toward her.

  MALCOLM SHIVERED AND shoved his fingers into his pockets as he jogged up Tanner Street. Just ahead lay the textile factory. He slowed to a walk as he caught sight of a couple who remained outsi
de the pub, apparently drawing warmth from the passion of their kiss.

  The woman. His eyes narrowed as he came closer. The woman looked just like—

  “Leila!”

  She broke off her embrace and pivoted in his direction. The blood drained from her horror-stricken face as she glanced between her lover and her husband.

  Her accomplice spun on his heel and dashed off into the growing darkness, but Malcolm remained still, as though his feet had suddenly sprouted roots.

  Leila flushed as his cold, accusing glare ripped through her like the claws of a tormented beast.

  “Why?” He could barely speak. He could barely breathe.

  “Malcolm...”

  “You betrayed me?” The confusion and pain in his voice was almost tangible.

  “Malcolm, please.” She lifted a hand to her rosebud lips. “It’s not what you think. I—”

  “Not what I think?” He barked out a cynical laugh. “You expect me to believe that? After what I just saw?”

  She reached for him, but he jerked away. “Don’t touch me, woman!”

  Leila pulled back as though he had slapped her. “Woman? Since when do you call me that?”

  Malcolm’s lips curled back in a snarl. “Since I found you in the arms of someone else.”

  “I—” Her voice was a feeble croak.

  “I’m not man enough for you, is that it?” He ran his fingers through his slick hair. “You needed a soldier, some guy in a uniform!”

  “Of course you’re man enough.”

  “I gave up everything for you!” Fury contorted his face. “And still that wasn’t enough?”

  “No. I mean yes! You’re enough. It’s not that at all.”

  “Then what is it, Leila?” His voice rose with every syllable and, by the time he said her name, Malcolm was screaming.

  A small crowd collected outside the door. She stared at him, her mouth flapping wordlessly.

  “Just like I thought.” Sneering, Malcolm spit at her feet. “You lied to me, so you could meet someone man enough to go to war.”

  He jerked the white feathers—trophies of his flight from a pack of teenage girls—out of his pocket and threw them in her face. “You know that you married a coward. Now you’ve grown tired of the shame.”

  “I love you for who you are.” Leila stepped forward, arms extended. “Please, you’ve got to believe me.”

  Malcolm recoiled from her touch. “If this is your idea of love, then I spit on it!” Fury made his throat tight, but he forced the words out anyway. “Goodbye, Leila.”

  “What?” Her hand flew to her throat.

  “I’m going to the Front. I can’t take this humiliation any longer.”

  He spun on his heel, but she grabbed his sleeve and spoke again, her voice shrill. “Malcolm, you can’t do this!”

  “So now you’re my father?” His shove sent her sprawling on the ground. “Now you’ve become Thomas, dictating what I can and can’t do?”

  Hurt shone in her eyes but he was past caring. The pain of her betrayal ripped through him like the fresh stab of a knife each time he looked at her face. To stay with her now would be to die a thousand times each day.

  He was running, but that’s what cowards did best, wasn’t it? He preferred to run. From her. From the shame that assaulted him on all sides, eating at him like a cancer. From Thomas. From himself.

  “Malcolm, please, listen to me.” Leila pushed herself to her knees, hands clasped together. “I’ll explain everything, I swear it!”

  “With more lies?” His laugh was positively caustic. “What could you possibly say that I could believe?”

  She bit her lip, pressing down until a trickle of blood began to flow. “I’m not who—”

  Leila choked back her words, eyes darting from his face to the murmuring crowd around them. She staggered to her feet, blood trickling down her chin. “I-I can explain if you’ll just listen.”

  Malcolm jerked his wedding ring from his finger, spat on it, then tossed it to the ground. “I don’t ever want to see you again.”

  He ground the ring under the heel of his boot then, pivoting, he shuffled off down the street.

  “Malcolm!”

  There was no turning back. Not now. Not ever. Shoulders stiff and head held high, he broke into a run, leaving a muttering crowd and a disconsolate woman behind him.

  “ALL ABOARD! LAST CALL for Hastings!”

  Eleanor stepped to the edge of the platform, her eyes fixed on the small group of young women that chattered excitedly around Veronica Coughlan. They were dressed in blue uniforms overlaid with white aprons and matching hats. A scarlet cross on their arms marked them as part of Veronica’s entourage.

  “I’m so glad you came!” Veronica smiled and wrapped Eleanor in her arms. “We’re just getting on board.”

  “I’m still not sure I’m makin’ the right decision.” Eleanor returned her embrace. “But you’re right. I can’t just sit around in my own misery when others are sufferin’.”

  Pulling back, Veronica glanced around. “No luggage I see.”

  Eleanor shrugged. “I’ve nothin’ left but the clothes I’ve got on.”

  “Then come with me and we’ll get you into uniform.” Her friend smiled and took her hand.

  Eleanor stepped onto the train but glanced back, overcome by a sense that everything in her life was about to change.

  “Goodbye my darlin’.” Her eyes misted as her mind flew to her daughter’s grave. She had covered it with Abby’s blue blanket this morning, so her daughter wouldn’t be cold as she slept in the dark earth. Wiping the corners of her eyes, Eleanor took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. The future beckoned, mysterious but alluring. It called her to a town at the edge of a war zone. It called her to Etaples.

  THE SHRILL CRY OF THE train’s whistle sounded like the wail of a dying cow. Malcolm gazed out of the rain-spattered window at the green countryside which sped past him. Pain. Everything seemed touched by the cruel hand of agonizing pain.

  He had lost his mother, been banished by his father, and betrayed by his wife. The war bereaved multitudes, causing an incalculable amount of pain—all because of greed and ambition. Heaven itself wept tears that fell as raindrops because of the evil that lurked in the heart of mankind.

  Pain. Undeniable, unending anguish that belied the existence of a loving God. Where is God in all this? God had betrayed him when his mother had died. What good had his fervent prayers done? What had Thomas’s ludicrous devotion accomplished? Now Leila had given the coup de grâce, delivering him at last from the tattered remnants of his naiveté.

  His face of granite hardened further at the biting memory. I guess, in a sense, I owe her a debt. Leila had opened his eyes to see that he could depend only on himself. Her betrayal had kindled a sense of direction. He had nothing left in England and his only remaining option was to go to war.

  The army held death in one hand but, in the other, it offered the chance at a new kind of life. Thomas had found success in the military, so why couldn’t he? He would thrive, ultimately earning a reputation greater than that of the man he once called ‘Father.’

  “Man shall not live by faith alone.” Malcolm intentionally misquoted the Scripture. He would not succeed by faith. He would prevail by the sword.

  Pushing the ache in his heart to one side, he closed his eyes in an attempt at sleep. He—not God and not man—would shape his destiny. The future beckoned, dark and powerful. It called him to a life of glory. It called him to Etaples.

  Chapter 8

  Berlin, Germany. February 1915

  “The general will see you now, Frau Haber.”

  Clara’s pulse quickened as she followed the short, balding assistant into the office of General Erich von Falkenhayn, head of the Oberste Heeresleitung—Germany’s military command. The heels of her black pumps beat out a staccato rhythm on the wooden. Falkenhayn, a thin man with a drooping mustache and a flattop haircut, rose and stepped around his black desk.


  He thrust his hand forward. Clara took it while trying to keep her fingers from trembling. She pulled her eyes away from the mass of decorations on his black uniform and let them roll over the room. A map of Europe blanketed the desk, streaked with jagged lines and large red X marks. Her keen eyes picked out the war zone closer to Belgium and France called the Western Front. This was the area the Kaiser believed Fritz’s poisonous cloud could help him conquer.

  “I agreed to this meeting only because of the service your husband continues to render to our nation.” General Falkenhayn’s voice cracked like a whip, jerking Clara to attention. “I have heard of your attempts to thwart Herr Haber’s efforts and I must say, Frau Haber, that your involvement in your husband’s affairs does you no credit.”

  Her heart sank. “Y-yes, General. I thank you for your time.”

  “Do not waste it.” He gestured toward a chair then sat down.

  A frown flickered over Clara’s face, but she hid her irritation behind a bright smile and sank into a small leather armchair while considering the man before her. He wore authority as easily as some men wore shirts. Nothing would be gained by either flattery or threats.

  “My husband’s aim is to change warfare as we know it. Like Fritz, I am a patriot who seeks to be needed and spent in the service of her country.”

  “Unfortunately, Frau Haber,”—the general’s drooping moustache twitched as he spoke— “it is not the Fatherland’s policy to send women to the Front.”

  Clara bristled. “Of that I am aware.” Easy Clara. You can’t browbeat this man.

  She softened her tone. “It is my belief that, despite my sex, I can contribute by saving the Fatherland from the greatest error it has ever made.”