In the Shadow of Your Wings

by J. P. Robinson

  “What’s gotten into you?” Veronica arched an eyebrow.

  Flushing, Eleanor glanced at her feet. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you comin’.”

  Veronica took her elbow and pulled her away from the patient in the bed. “Something’s wrong, El, I know it.” She gave her an appraising look. “I can see your pulse hammering in your throat and you’ve broke out in a sweat.” She paused. “Now that I think about it, you’ve not been yourself for about a week. Want to talk about it?”

  “I can’t.” Eleanor lifted her eyes slowly. “That is... not just yet, if you don’t mind.”

  The nurse held her gaze for a long moment. Perhaps she was suffering some delayed reaction to the bombing in the East End. “You’ve been through a lot, El.”

  “I’m survivin’ though not by my own strength.”

  “I envy your faith, you know.” Veronica’s lips thinned. “I buried mine with what was left of my fiancé’s body.”

  Now it was Eleanor who reached out and pulled her close. “It’s never too late, Veronica. Those nail-pierced hands are still reachin’ out for you, tryin’ to show you how much God cares.”

  The nurse clung to her for a moment then pulled away, eyes damp. “I can’t see it that way, Eleanor. I’m sorry. We all have our way of coping with this.” Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Faith is your thing but for me...”

  She took a deep breath and collected herself. “Right. I, um, came to ask if you could take the spare ambulance down to the depot. There’s a train on its way back and it’s carrying a lot of wounded. Some of the ambulances are already on their way but they’ve radioed for backup.”

  Veronica held out the key and Eleanor slipped it into her pocket.

  “Get going.” Veronica pushed her toward the door. “I’ll have some beds ready by the time you get back.”

  Eleanor nodded and hurried through the gauntlet of beds to the closest exit.

  “God,” Veronica watched her go with a furrowed brow, “if there is a God, help her. No one deserves a miracle more than she does.”

  WILL THOMPSON TWITCHED as his eyes skittered around the small compartment of the armored train that would take thousands of fresh soldiers to the frontlines at Ypres-Salient in Flanders. Thick steel walls encased him and a hundred other men on all sides. Like cattle, they were being shipped to the slaughterhouse. Like cattle, they would not return.

  His boots clunked dully on the metal floor as he shifted on his feet. The train was built to keep men in and the enemy out. A double line of narrow slits, called loopholes, lined both walls, allowing soldiers to fire if attacked while en route. Little air infiltrated the armored carriage and the body odor of a hundred tightly packed men made the atmosphere nothing short of oppressive.

  There were no seats—everyone stood or slumped against the metal walls. Most of the men had seen action and were already mentally reliving the war’s horrors. Others like himself had no idea what really waited out there.

  Leaning his Enfield rifle against the steel wall, Will pulled his gear closer with his foot. The idea of killing still seemed somewhat obscene and he eyed the weapon with distaste.

  His biggest problem was internal. The nervous tension within him was like a coiled spring begging for release. He didn’t fear death but the uncertainty of not knowing the fate of his wife and child clawed at his mind, threatening to drive him mad. Malcolm had not returned after Will had agreed to do his share of the work and he had no idea where to find the rat.

  Faith, Will. Remember keep the faith. He chided himself for worrying but his mind conjured up vivid images of Eleanor and Abby surrounded by ruthless Huns. Coughing, he fidgeted while mentally bombarding Heaven’s gates with a fusillade of prayers.

  “Oi, could you stop that?” A surly voice called up from the ground. “I’m trying to sleep ‘ere.”

  “Sorry.” Will ground his teeth together unable to keep still. They had a few minutes before the train pulled off and he needed some air. He left his pack where it was and, pressing his way through the crowds that lined the train’s dank interior, he moved toward the bolted metal door at the far end.

  He tugged at the door, ignored its squeaking and the groans of those nearby, then stepped out onto a wooden platform that was thronged with boarding soldiers and medical personnel. A fresh breeze, tinged with a hint of rain, hit his face. Will sucked in the air savoring the moment.

  His gaze swept along the milling crowd, a small sea of tan uniforms with occasional spots of white. Turning in the other direction, Will’s attention was drawn to a slight figure who stood rigidly at the car’s entrance a few feet away.

  “I don’t want to enter that dirty compartment.” The man covered his nose and glared at the soldier next to him. “It reeks!”

  Will’s stomach tightened into knots. That voice. I know that voice. Then the reticent soldier turned in his direction and, before he could think, Will was running toward him.

  MALCOLM FIRST BECAME aware of Will’s presence when the taller man grabbed his collar and slammed him against the brick wall of Étaple’s train depot. None of the bystanders made any attempt to help him, but that was no surprise. The gloom that darkened the camp was so pervasive, it almost made the bombing of the East End seem like a birthday party. Each man was locked in his own world, secure only in the knowledge that he could die at any moment. Now, as he stared into the irate face of Will Thompson, Malcolm wondered if this was that moment.

  “You lied to me!” Will tightened his grip on Malcolm’s collar, pressing his forearm against the smaller man’s throat.

  “No,” Malcolm croaked out the words. “A simple... misunderstanding.” His arms flailed and Will pressed harder.

  “Tell me what you know, now!”

  Malcolm nodded. “Breathe... can’t breathe!”

  Will released him with a shove and Malcolm doubled over, coughing, as he heaved air into his lungs.

  Finally, he straightened. “I meant to come back that night but I was... detained.”

  Tugging at the tan sleeves of his uniform, he sniggered as he looked in Will’s direction. “You didn’t mind, did you? I’m sure you did such an excellent job with all those dishes.”

  Will clenched his jaw. “You’re here now,” he said in a tight voice. “Tell me what happened in the East End.”

  Malcolm licked his lips, shifting uneasily. It was not a topic that he wanted to discuss but there would be no putting Will off any longer. That much was obvious.

  “Walk with me.”

  Will eyed him warily but followed him to the railing of the platform. From this vantage point, the rest of Etaples was visible as well as a small inlet of water that pooled in from the English Channel, what the French called La Manche, or “the Sleeve.”

  Malcolm sighed and closed his eyes, mentally reliving the fatal moment when he had stopped at the East End. When he spoke, his voice carried a sense of finality.

  “It was just before dawn. The zeppelins had been pounding further down and had begun making their way toward London’s poorer districts.” He ran a hand through his slick hair and glanced at Will.

  “The noise was deafening. Bombs falling. People screaming. Houses being ripped off their foundations. It was like nothing I’ve ever heard before.” He stared off into the distance.

  “I helped a woman who was looking for her baby. We found her. The girl was—” His breath hitched. “She was dead. Crushed under the rocks.”

  He shook his head seeing, not the bustling port, but a slim, dark-haired woman whose heart was about to be ripped out of her chest. Eleanor.

  “All I noticed was the corner of a blue blanket sticking out from under a pile of stone. But she saw it and started screaming the girl’s name. ‘Abby! Abby!’ We pulled—"

  Will’s heavy hand fell on his shoulder, whirling him around.

  “Abby?” His eyes, mad with sudden terror, searched Malcolm’s face. “Are you sure?” His voice rose an octave. “Are you sure her name was Abby?”

&nbs
p; Malcolm nodded. “Yes. Why?”

  “No, no!” Will backed away, shaking his head. “That’s not right. I-it can’t be right!”

  “I assure you it is.” Malcolm’s brow crinkled. “I do lie from time to time, but... not about this.”

  “The woman.” Will grabbed his arm. “Tell me about the woman!”

  Malcolm stared at him for several long seconds. He would never forget Eleanor’s words. He could not. They had ripped at his own conscience with burning fingers. He had turned his back on God when his mother had died. But despite her pain, she had somehow held on.

  “Sh-she said, ‘God gives. God takes—"

  “Abby!” Will’s rifle fell from nerveless fingers as he sunk to his knees. Squeezing his eyes shut, he covered his ears as though he could somehow shut out the ugly truth of the words Malcolm had just uttered. “My girl. My beautiful, sweet daughter!”

  “Daughter?” Malcolm stared at him, slack-mouthed.

  Will slammed his fist against the wooden platform. “Why?” He threw his hands backward, craning his neck as he screamed to the skies above. “Why God?”

  Malcolm gawked at the prostrate man, mind spinning. If Abby was Will’s daughter then Eleanor was—

  “My wife.” Will staggered to his feet, clutching at his guts as though he feared they would fall out. “Do you know what happened to Eleanor, to my wife?”

  Malcolm’s forehead puckered as he contemplated the man who tottered toward him. Will had his sympathy but not his trust. Leila’s betrayal had reinforced the importance of prioritizing his own interest. There was nothing to be gained by telling Will that his wife was here in Etaples, at least not now. No one could be trusted in this game of life, at least not fully. If he kept Will ignorant of his wife’s whereabouts perhaps someday the knowledge could be used for his own purposes.

  “I’m sorry Will.” He laid his hand on the grieving man’s shoulder. “I didn’t stay to find out what happened to her.” Stooping, Malcolm picked up the fallen gun.

  “They killed her.” Will took the rifle, clutching it to his heart. “The Germans, th-they killed my little girl.”

  “And now you have a chance to even the score.” Malcolm pointed to the train behind Will’s shoulder. “Let’s go to war, Will. They killed your daughter. Now it’s your turn to kill them.” He turned Will around, gently pushing him toward the metal compartment.

  The train’s piercing cry sounded like the keening wail of a bereaved father. The passersby paid scant attention to Will’s grieving. Malcolm himself had seen returning soldiers give in to trauma at the most unexpected times. An unexpected sound, the memory of a fallen friend—anything was enough to trigger a powerful emotional reaction.

  Malcolm shook his head and turned back to the railing as he hefted his pack onto his shoulders. He would linger here, giving Will time to enter the metal car first. Since he and Will were in the same car, it was likely they were assigned to the same regiment, the Northumberland Fusiliers. But he had no desire to be anywhere near a man who was lost in the darkness of unmitigated grief. His own mind was too busy exploring ways of turning Will’s loss to his benefit.

  He hoped to make a name for himself. Normally, the sons of British gentlemen were offered positions of rank in the military. But the breach between himself and his father precluded any such benefits. He was on his own, which meant that he needed an ally. Will could be that man.

  The fact that he despised Will meant nothing. Like everything else in the word, allies could be bought for the right price. In times like these, knowledge was the currency of power. The knowledge that Eleanor was Will’s wife stacked the cards dramatically in Malcolm’s favor.

  The fool had been willing to do a night’s worth of work just for an eyewitness account of the zeppelin attack on London. What would he be willing to do for bona fide news of his wife’s whereabouts? If Will remained ignorant of the fact that his wife was in this very camp, he could be made to dance to any tune that Malcolm played.

  “Let’s go to war Will.” He tapped out an erratic rhythm on the railing with his fingers. “Many may die but, when this is all over, my life will have just begun.”

  ELEANOR PULLED ON THE vehicle’s handbrake, hesitating before clambering down from the ambulance. Her mind urged her to shrink back from the crowd that surged around the quay but she rebelled, forcing herself to push aside the fear that had plagued her since the assault in the back alley near the canteen.

  “I will never leave you.” She quoted the words, wiping her hands on her new apron. “I will never forsake you.” Taking a deep breath, she ignored the heaviness in her stomach and made her way toward the dock. Despite the horror of that dark night, she saw a reflection of the goodness of God. She was not a believer in random chance. God had guided Malcolm, whether he knew it or not, causing him to come down that alley at that precise moment.

  As to her fear of crowds, well, it wouldn’t go away on its own. She would conquer it, beginning by making her way through a throng of strangers. Each step seemed the proverbial journey of a thousand miles but still she persevered, pausing only when she reached the edge of the iron tracks. She had a few minutes before the ambulance train was scheduled to arrive and her gaze drifted to the last stragglers who were boarding the train that would carry them to the very gates of hell.

  Is Will among them? It was a futile hope, one that had already been stretched thin, but she refused to give up. He was alive... somewhere. If not here then at the Front. He was fighting. Fighting for his wife. Fighting for the child that he did not know was dead.

  Eleanor shifted as the memory of her child unleashed a fresh wave of sorrow. As she turned, she caught sight of a familiar face. High, narrow cheekbones bordered by the shadow of a scruffy beard and topped by slicked-back hair rose above the thin frame of a man in uniform.

  Malcolm. The sight of the man rekindled dark memories, but she shoved them aside as a desperate spark of hope ignited in her mind. Malcolm was going to the Front where he would rejoin other companies of British and Allied soldiers. There was the possibility, no matter how slim, that he would meet or hear word about Will.

  “Hey!” She shoved her way forward, desperate now to catch his attention before he stepped inside the armored train. “Hey!” She waved wildly as she pushed her way forward. “Malcolm!”

  At the sound of his name, shrill and loud on her lips, he turned around.

  MALCOLM FROZE MID-STRIDE as a woman rushed toward him, stopping on the other side of the balcony. She stood below him, one diamond among a thousand ordinary rocks, gazing up at him with an expression that he couldn’t quite read.

  “Eleanor?” The sight of her was so unexpected that, for a moment, he remained motionless, jaw slack. Then he remembered her husband.

  Malcolm glanced over his shoulder, hoping Will had already entered the car. The boarding platform was empty. The train shrieked out its final warning whistle and he knew he had only a minute left at most.

  “Malcolm, I know this is strange but please listen.” Eleanor swallowed. “M-my husband. His name is Will. Will Thompson.” The words tumbled out of her mouth. “If you should happen to meet him, please—” She faltered. “Please tell him I love him. Tell him I’m here at Etaples and I’m waitin’ for him. I-I’m waitin’ for him to come back to me.”

  For a moment he just stared at her, eyes wide. Then the flames of jealousy, as unexpected and violent as a wildfire, blazed within him. Why should a poor, uneducated buffoon like Will have such a treasure, while he had been saddled with a faithless Delilah who played games with his heart?

  “He’s dead.” The words were out of his mouth before he could think.

  “What?” Eleanor’s trembling hand flew to her chest. “What did you say?”

  Malcolm felt his breath come in short bursts. An image of Leila in the arms of a soldier floated through his mind. It’s not fair. Would Eleanor have done that? No! She waited faithfully for her husband, a man who didn’t deserve to lick her boots.


  “Will Thompson.” Pain from his clenched teeth radiated along his jaw. “A tall man with brown hair? From London’s East End?”

  She nodded, a dazed look in her eyes.

  “Yeah, I met him once at the canteen.”

  That much was true.

  Eleanor’s face twisted into the picture of agony as twin streams of tears slid down her pale cheeks. Her pain gave Malcolm pause. What am I doing?

  He hesitated, torn between an irrational jealousy provoked by his own misfortune and his unwillingness to increase her pain. But in that moment, Eleanor’s face disappeared, and Leila’s arose in its place. She too had cried.

  The injustice of it all made him want to scream. He had given up his home and luxury for a woman who betrayed him. He had suffered as no man deserved to suffer, while Will enjoyed life with a woman he obviously didn’t deserve. He could not stand by without poisoning the current of pure love that flowed between Will and Eleanor. No one deserved to have that kind of a marriage. No one.

  “I’m sorry Eleanor, but your husband is dead.” The words were a feral growl. A part of him wished they were true.

  Eleanor’s eyes slammed shut. Malcolm leaned over the banister reached out as though to touch her cheek but pulled back. He wasn’t worthy to be in her presence.

  His mind scrambled to justify his cruelty. She was a woman. An impressive one but a woman none the less. Deception lay at the core of all her sex. Leila had proved that when, after only a few weeks, she had ripped his heart into bloody pieces and expected him to carry on as though nothing had happened. Ridiculous.

  Eleanor’s eyes flew open. “H-how? What happened to him?”

  “The day after I met Will he was deployed to Flanders where he was hit by, uh, by shrapnel from an exploding tank.” He forked his hand through his hair. Lying came easily to him but this time he struggled.

  Malcolm shuddered as an image of Eleanor screaming beside her daughter’s battered body flooded his memory. I should tell her the truth. But it was too late. If she knew that he had lied to her about her husband’s death in a fit of jealousy, she would despise him. And he wouldn’t blame her.