In the Shadow of Your Wings

by J. P. Robinson

  His eyes narrowed and he looked like he was about to say more but a voice from behind interrupted him.

  “Who is it, Robert?”

  The voice, so much like Malcolm’s, made Leila’s heart lurch.

  Hughes turned as Thomas stepped to his side. “My recently hired cleaner, Ms. Annabel Durand, appears to have a severe case of indigestion.”

  Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Durand, you say?”

  Leila hesitated. “Y-yes sir.” She forced herself to look him in the eye. “My family on my father’s side was French.”

  “How interesting.” Thomas stroked his chin. “So was mine.”

  It was obvious that he had not recognized her... not yet.

  “My grandfather’s name was also Durand.” Thomas’s gray eyes probed her face as though seeking some sort of family resemblance. “He fled France after the revolution in the 18th century, then changed his name to Steele to ease the assimilation process.”

  Leila’s mind flashed back to the series of family portraits she had seen in the hall outside his office in Northshire.

  “How... interestin’.” She pretended boredom by stifling a yawn.

  Hughes rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, I’m so glad that you, Sir Thomas, have something in common with my janitor, but we do have more pressing issues to discuss than your family tree, do we not?”

  He stepped back, making room for her to leave.

  “If you’ll excuse me sir, I’ll just get back to work.” Leila moved around him, pausing only to turn off the light and close the door behind her.

  She dipped her head and made her way to her cart, mind reeling with what she had just heard. The Allies were planning a major offensive at a town called Ypres within the month. It was her duty to report on what she had just heard but, if she sent this kind of intelligence to Werner now, the German troops would have ample time to prepare a strong defense. An image of Malcolm rushing into a blistering wall of bullets flooded her mind. What if he is killed?

  Questions swirled within her like a hurricane—questions that she could not answer. She didn’t know if she could live with the knowledge that she had played a part in his death. A chill began at her feet and worked its way upward through her entire body. The time of decision had come.

  THOMAS TORE HIS GAZE away from Annabel’s back and focused on the tall, narrow-faced man who had stumped back to his desk.

  “The Canadians will be reinforcing the Algerian French troops at Ypres.” Hughes tapped the map with a sharp letter opener. “We’ve had reports of unusual movements in the German lines near Belgium but we can’t pinpoint what they’re up to. I suspect it has to do with Haber’s gas experiments.”

  “You said that my son will be at Ypres.” Thomas strode over to the desk which, aside from the map, was surprisingly clean.

  The spymaster nodded. “Malcolm arrived at Etaples three weeks ago.”

  “Only three weeks ago? And he’s already been deployed?”

  Hughes shook his head. “As the leader of this division of the Foreign Intelligence, I am kept informed of the placement of the sons of government officials, but I have no jurisdiction over military operations and have no authority over troop deployment.”

  “The truth is, Thomas,” he leaned forward, gentling his tone, “we need every man we have in the trenches. Someone has to pay the butcher’s bill.”

  Thomas set his mouth in a firm line.

  “Your son is serving his country. Be proud of that.”

  “Proud?” The father ran his hand through his silver hair. “I’m glad Malcolm has found the nerve to fight but I’m afraid that he has already lost the real war. If he is killed, what will happen to his soul?”

  Hughes shot him a sour look. “Do me a favor would you, old chap?”

  “What is that?”

  “Leave the mysticism at home.” The spymaster dropped into his armchair and began rubbing his temples. “This war is real enough without bringing unseen enemies into it.”

  Thomas picked up his hat and slung his coat around his shoulders. “Humanity is at a crossroads Robert, like it or not. We can choose faith and live...”

  “Or?”

  “Or we choose knowledge and destroy ourselves.” The words were raw but there was no point in sugarcoating the truth.

  Hughes steepled his fingers, eying him carefully. “For all our sakes, I hope you are wrong.”

  “I only wish I were.” Then, with a stiff nod, Thomas closed the door behind him.

  Chapter 10

  Etaples, France. March 1915

  “Stop the ambulance!” Veronica’s frantic squeal rebounded off the thin glass windshield as she pressed her hands against the dashboard and braced herself for the coming lurch.

  Eleanor Thompson slammed the heel of her mud-stained boot against the pedal of the rectangular vehicle, bringing it to a screeching halt. She yanked the handbrake and, with the engine still rumbling, flung open the door, and leaped to the soggy ground. Veronica was only seconds behind her.

  The morning air held a distinct chill and carried the unique stench of death. A few days of spring rains had transformed the streets of the military camp into a swamp through which thousands of soldiers and medical personnel slogged. Clouds of smoke drifted up from burn barrels, creating a hazy gloom that blotted out the feeble light of the sun. Death was the real enemy here—the death of men... and the death of hope.

  With a frantic wave, Eleanor caught the attention of a group of assistants who loitered around one of the entrances to the vast wooden hospital. “Quick, help us get the patients inside!”

  There were about twenty such medical facilities at Etaples, each servicing an endless stream of wounded and dying men. Each day, Eleanor prayed that she wouldn’t stumble across her husband on a stretcher. So far it seemed that God was listening but that was no guarantee that Will had not been hurt. Over a hundred thousand men and women bustled about Etaples; he could be anywhere.

  “Get this door open!” She slammed her hand against the back of the ambulance, pent-up frustration giving an extra edge to her voice. In the month since her arrival, she had been unable to find Will. What had initially appeared to be a simple task had mushroomed into an impossible ordeal.

  Eleanor, trusting in logic, had gone straight to military headquarters asking for information but the enlistment bureau had no record of a Will Thompson in the Sherwood Foresters. She had been told that it was possible he had been transferred to another regiment and his paperwork misfiled. Unless he reached out to her by mail and informed her of his new regiment there was no way of tracking him down. That, of course, was impossible as Will had no idea she had left London.

  The men moved around her, wrenching open the upper half of the ambulance door and withdrawing a pair of blood-soaked stretchers. Eleanor glanced over her shoulder, hoping as always to see Will’s tawny frame moving toward her. As always, she was disappointed. Nothing but a sea of white-domed tents and elongated wooden soldiers’ barracks met her eyes. Sagging against the side of the ambulance, she pressed her hands to her temples as the futility of it all flooded her mind. She was trying to find one drop of water in an ocean of humanity.

  “Eleanor, we need you.” Urgency tinged Veronica’s voice.

  Sighing, Eleanor set her shoulders, shrugging off the physical weariness that made each motion a struggle. “I’m comin’.” After one more backward glance, she shook her head then hurried inside.

  WILL THOMPSON’S BOOTS squelched in the puddle-strewn mud as he marched toward the canteen where he knew his cohort leader, Lieutenant-Colonel James Stewart, played cards each night. The sun was about to slip below the horizon. On any other night he would’ve been next to his bunk, praying for his wife or his daughter, Abby. But tonight was different. Tonight, it was not the Bible that he clutched in a crablike grip but letters—letters he had written to his wife just after leaving for Etaples. Letters that had been returned to him, unopened.

  Something’s wrong. He broke into a quick dog
trot, dodging milling soldiers and teams of ambulances. As Will ran, he glanced at the faces around him. They all wore a look of dazed confusion, as though humanity could not cope with the horrors of war it had unleashed.

  Leaping up a flight of creaking stairs to the wraparound landing of the wooden building that served as both a mess hall and entertainment center for the men, Will paused to catch his breath. The canteens strewn across the massive army base were a sort of shelter from the brutality of war. Outside, men skulked about with faces devoid of hope but inside, they reclaimed a shadow of life. Even the atmosphere of regimental discipline that separated officers from their men was slightly more relaxed.

  Will let the door swing shut behind him, trying to ignore the persistent voice in his skull that screamed at him to run as fast as he could back to London. He sucked in a deep breath. It wasn’t the exertion that had him winded but the sense of panic that swelled within him like a bomb about to explode.

  The noise spawned by clusters of raucous soldiers coupled with John McCormack’s tenor voice singing It’s a long way to Tipperary made his eardrums throb. His eyes swept the room for only seconds before he recognized his commanding officer’s broad back.

  Will lurched forward, overturning a chair in his haste. He shoved it back in place and pressed his way through the crowds. Stewart sat in a corner of the room at a round table. As he drew nearer, Will noticed that several officers stood on either side of the lieutenant-colonel while about a half-dozen troops flanked Stewart’s opponent.

  Plumes of cigar smoke wafted toward the vaulted ceiling as the sea of spectators crowded around the table.

  “Lieutenant-Colonel Stewart, sir!” Will jerked to a halt with a stiff salute.

  At that moment, the Scotsman dealt his winning hand. “Ha! Dinnae ah say boy, that you’re a chancer?” He howled in triumph and clapped his cards on the table. “Now away with you. Go boil your head!”

  Applause rose from the officers around him while hoots and jeers erupted from those nearest the loser. Stewart threw a vicious grin at his opponent—a young, dark-haired man who looked more like a waterlogged rat than a soldier.

  “Lieutenant-Colonel Stewart, sir!”

  Stewart swiveled toward him, cheeks flushed. “What are you goin’ on about, man?”

  The noise died down and the eyes of all present focused on him but, ignoring the crowd, Will came directly to the point.

  “It’s my wife, sir. All my letters have been returned.” He waved the letters in front of his superior’s face. “She would never do that unless something has happened.”

  Stewart arched an eyebrow. “She’s probably happy you’re gone lad and makin’ the most of your absence. Face it man, the wench’s probably tired of you. She’s probably run off with some other man.”

  A wave of heat flushed through Will’s body. “You’re speaking of my wife, Sir. With respect, I must insist that you not slander her character.”

  A murmur of indignation rose from the officers. Stewart exploded out of his chair then glared down at Will with bloodshot eyes. “What is it you want, you bawface?”

  “I’m requesting leave to go back home and find out what has happened to my wife and child. It may be that—”

  A mocking laugh brought him up short. The lieutenant took a few steps closer and the fumes of alcohol on his breath made Will gag.

  “Ah yes, I remember you now.” Stewart folded thick arms across a massive chest. “The sissy boy who didn’t want to fight.” He rolled his eyes. “Request denied.”

  “Please sir, we’ve all heard the reports of the enemy bombings in the East End. That’s where I live.” Will threw the letters on the table. “I’m entitled to two weeks of leave!”

  He couldn’t just sit here without knowing if Eleanor was alright. And Abby. Dear God, is my daughter alright?

  “Two weeks leave after completin’ fifteen months in active combat.” The lieutenant’s lips screwed into a thin line. “You might be a coward but you’re a good shot. We’ll need that when we leave for the Front at the end of the week. Forget your wife and do what any real man would do—get to a brothel.”

  “But sir—”

  “Enough!” The lieutenant slammed his fist on the table, scattering poker cards and plunging the room into sudden silence. “Speak to me about this again and you’ll be charged with insubordination! We’re in a war, man.”

  He pivoted and snapped pudgy fingers at his still-seated companion. “Hey there, loser. What’s your name?”

  “I am Malcolm Steele.” The black-haired man drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

  “Steele?” Stewart tilted his head to one side. “No relation to... Thomas Steele by any chance?”

  Rising, the younger man glared at him. “I have no idea who you’re talking about. Sir.”

  For a few moments, Stewart was quiet and when he did speak, the contempt in his voice was almost tangible. “Well, you had the impudence to tell the troops that you could best me in a game of cards.” He spread his hands with a wide grin. “Obviously ‘all your eggs are double-yolked.’ In plain English: you’re nothing but an old windbag!”

  Approving chuckles rose from the other officers. “Well said, Stewart. Well said indeed.”

  “And now,” he jerked his thumb toward Will’s chest and raised his voice so the entire hall of onlookers would catch his next words. “You both are going to become the best of chums. You’re on kitchen duty until dawn.”

  A roar of approval swept through the hall, followed by a caustic mixture of jeers and taunts. Will’s heart fell through his shoes and dug a hole in the ground. His despair wasn’t caused by the dread of washing dishes until dawn. It wasn’t the stinging blow that Stewart had just dealt to his pride. It was the feeling of sheer helplessness that clawed at him like a maddened animal from within, gnawing at his faith and spitting out the bloody remains. He was stuck in this training camp while, just across the Channel, zeppelins had destroyed the East End of London. At best, his family was in danger. At worst...

  He refused to complete the thought, swallowing down the panic that lodged like a stone in his throat. They’re alive! They had to be. With a cold glare, Will saluted, stifling the urge to lash out at the man. There was no alternative but to bide his time... and pray.

  Chapter 11

  Etaples, France. March 1915

  The sun had fully slipped below the horizon by the time Eleanor stepped out of Saint John’s hospital and into the cool night air. Rows of electric lamps towered above the sprawling camp, illuminating the ground but obscuring the more distant light of the stars. Grinding her teeth, she strained to see past the glare of the lamps and catch sight of Polaris—the star that she had fondly renamed “Will” and he, in turn, had dubbed “El.”

  She forked her fingers through her hair as a faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. They had only been married for two years but that was the nature of their relationship. Neither could find a sense of direction without the other and now...

  Her shoulders drooped. Now, when their daughter’s life had been snuffed out; now, when she needed his strength and guidance more than ever before—now, she couldn’t find the North Star of her life.

  The steps behind her voiced a tiny squeak of protest and Eleanor looked over her shoulder as Veronica closed the door. Veronica slipped her white bandanna off her head and let it drag in the dirt as she stumped down the stairs.

  “I’d ask how you’re doing,” Veronica plopped onto the stairs and let her head loll backward as she glanced up at her friend, “but I know you’d be lying if you said you were anything else but exhausted.”

  Eleanor dropped beside her, pulling her knees against her chest and catching sight of her own white uniform. More like red with white spots. After three weeks of helping with amputations and mending shattered bodies, the sight of blood had become as common as mud.

  “Look at us,” she gestured toward her friend’s chest, “we look like a pair of butchers.”

 
“Except we save lives instead of taking them.”

  “Not all lives.” Eleanor’s voice was quiet, an image of her daughter’s grave flitting through her mind.

  “El, the real butchers are out there.” Veronica pointed to the darkness that swallowed the distant fields. “You’re doing what you can to stop them from slaughtering us all. Your husband is too.”

  “That’s just it, Veronica.” Eleanor’s voice cracked as she voiced the thoughts that had tormented her since her arrival at Etaples. “Will’s out there somewhere, but I don’t know where. Is he cold? Is he wounded? Is he... dead?”

  Veronica gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “You’ll find him. Your faith will bring you two together. I’m sure of that.”

  Eleanor released a deep sigh. Faith. “Sometimes what I see blinds me to what faith sees. Bein’ here and takin’ care of the wounded helps. I’d have gone crazy stayin’ in London alone.” She smiled, a brave attempt at keeping her worst fears at bay. “Thanks for roundin’ me up.”

  Veronica groaned as she pushed herself upright. “I’ll leave you alone but don’t stay out long—it’s not safe. All kinds of men are enlisting now and not all are knights in shining armor. Ward Sister wants us all in our rooms within twenty minutes.”

  Eleanor nodded and, as the door thumped shut behind her, stood, peering up into the light-streaked darkness. A cool wind blew across her face, stirring up a sense of restlessness. The shrill cry of a train, as it pulled into the depot carrying a fresh load of suffering men as its cargo, screamed out through the evening air. The train.

  The depot normally had a large conglomeration of men and women who had been to the Front. It was possible that someone there had heard or served with a man named Will Thompson. She hesitated. It was a slim hope at best and not without its risks. She could be physically assaulted or, even worse, she could be mistaken for a loose woman. VADs were held to a strict code of propriety. To infringe upon that code could mean expulsion from a cause that was helping to heal the tattered fragments of her life. Was it worth the risk?