by K. C. Finn
“But I can help Henri,” I protested, “I helped him before, when he was still in Norway!”
“This is going to be very different,” Mum said with a grave, pale face, “If you do it, there won’t be any going back. You can’t un-see the places that your mind might take you to. You won’t ever forget. I know I haven’t.”
She looked older than the last time I had seen her when she waved us off at the station more than a year ago. She was still my prim and proper mother with her careful balance of compassion and caution, but as she looked down at Leighton curled up beside her there was something so exposed in her face. Raw emotion had bubbled up into her eyes, striking every nerve, setting her up like a rubber band stretched to its limit.
“I understand what you’re saying,” I began cautiously, though in truth I really didn’t. How did she know that I couldn’t handle the sight of the war? How did any of them know what I could manage unless they let me try it? “But I can’t turn my back on this now. There are people here depending on me.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Mum didn’t say it in a nasty way; it was more like she just had to get the words out. Leighton uncurled himself from his cat-like position near us, rubbing his eyes.
“Oh no,” he mumbled, “sorry Mum, I just-”
“It’s all right darling,” she soothed, stroking his hair again as he sat up and shuffled closer, “I’ve missed watching you sleep.”
The conversation was over and I hadn’t even reached the part about Dad. Every time I looked at Mum that evening I felt something different, sometimes anger, sometimes fear. Pity, loss, duty, guilt, I could hardly process the gambit of emotions running amok inside my head. I tried my best to push them all away, to just appreciate my mother for the few hours we had before she was due to set off on the midnight train back to London, but I was still riled that she had kept so much from me. She was still keeping things from me and worse she was telling me not to go looking for the answers myself either.
By the time she had gone that night I knew what I wanted to do. It was the ultimate betrayal, I was sure, but it was time to stop letting other people dictate my actions. I was going to do it. I was going to find my father.
My first attempt to find Dad resulted in blackness, but if experience had taught me anything it was that black didn’t ever seem to mean dead. Everything was still; I was in that conundrum where I couldn’t work out if my heart was beating or his, if those were my limbs twitching, my lungs expanding slowly. He might have been asleep. I didn’t dare call out to wake him up, deciding instead that I would just keep coming back until he was awake. The next morning I thought about trying him straight away but my energy felt low. Saving my strength was the best move, especially since I needed to be in Libya after breakfast.
Blod came to sit with me in the little sitting room whilst I made the journey, desperate to ensure that we would not be disturbed. She was visibly uncomfortable with having to watch me travel, but she did her best to sit still and not fidget. It took me longer than usual to calm myself down, every time I closed my eyes all I could think of was how constantly I was disobeying my mother. My own guilt made me angrier than her so-called advice; I wished desperately that I was confident enough to believe that I was doing the right thing by stepping back into the war.
Africa was a beautiful place. I got to Henri at the same time for three days running when he was on patrol, looking out to the empty, sandy horizon. Though I couldn’t feel the heat that rose in waves from the golden desert dunes, I felt the sweat pooling at the back of Henri’s neck, his dusky fatigues sticking to his aching body. Training had been hard on him, but the journey had apparently been even worse.
How are your bruises? I asked when Henri had walked to the farthest part of his patrol route. He had to time his replies for the moments when no-one else was in earshot; turning his face away from the base so no-one saw his lips move.
“I’m learning to load this huge gun,” he murmured, “Every time I load a shell it falls back on me. Damn heavy things, my arm is black.”
Any sign of the Germans?
Henri shook his head. “We’re not looking for Germans. It’s the Italians that are fighting out here, but of course they’re all still the enemy.”
I bit my lip. Is that better or worse than facing the Nazis?
I felt his chest deflate. “I suppose when they’re pointing a tank at you it’s all the same.”
You sound like-
“Bickerstaff, I know,” he intercepted sadly, “Unfortunately the man makes a lot of sense to me now.” Henri gripped his rifle tightly, scanning the bare sands around him once more. “When you hear the gunfire at night, it’s hard not to think about the fact that you’ll be out there in it soon enough.”
Where is Bickerstaff? I pressed, trying to steer away from the growing fear in Henri’s ribcage. Blod wants to know how he’s doing.
“He’s out today with a special group,” Henri said, licking his chapped lips in the unbearable heat, “They’re scouting to find out how close the Iti’s are. I’m supposed to watch for them returning. I’ll have to go back to the other side now.”
I knew that meant he couldn’t talk for a while, but he was so sad, so lonely, that I couldn’t bear to break the link.
I’ll stay and keep you company, I offered. He nodded and set off back towards the other soldiers.
Henri was patrolling a section of wire fence that led down to a pair of huge iron gates where trucks and cars pulled into the base day in, day out. There were other guards who were permanently stationed at the gates, ready to open them at the sign of an allied group, but also sporting rifles to tackle any hint of a threat. The base itself was all done out in stone, like the British Army had overtaken some great Libyan mansion and filled it with their troops. Henri and his brothers in arms blended seamlessly with the sandy stones and dusky ground, their brown uniforms were already caked with squashed fly stains and tiny drops of blood that seeped out of their mosquito bites. I felt the serious set jaw on Henri’s face as he reached the gate and nodded to the other guards, I ached to be able to take that jaw in my hands and kiss out his tension.
I love you, you know.
The thought had escaped before I had a chance to rein it in. Henri caught his breath in his throat; the sombre weight in his chest lifting away like a pressure valve had been removed. He couldn’t reply, certainly not with the two gate guards standing right next to him, but I felt his face relax into a smile. His nerves danced in his arms and shoulder, racing back and forth to his heart as he let out a few breaths. Then, very slowly, he put his hand up to his mouth and kissed his own palm silently.
I knew what it meant.
I was all the more eager to stay until he’d be able to talk again; I’d been waiting about ten minutes for him to shift position when a speck in the dunes caught my eye.
Henri there, I directed, coming over that big hill in the middle. What is it?
He had found the sight a few seconds after me, his eyes focusing hard on the dark dot as it charged toward the base. He spoke to the other guards as they all raised their guns, eyeing the approaching threat. The sight of a uniform the same colour as their own meant nothing, they kept their rifles trained and the gates firmly locked until the blurry brown shape was in better view.
One man was carrying another across his shoulders, trudging through deep sand with staggered strides, his head down as he raced on towards where we were watching. The man being carried was in better view; his sandy uniform was coated in blood. I wanted to be sick, but there was no way I could look away. Pain and nausea ripped through my chest as the men came closer and closer, but I stared on, transfixed by the sight. His face was cut, his trousers ripped, his jacket sliced open right across the chest where a mighty gash oozed with red liquid. I had never known that blood could be so thick.
Once the guards had realised that the soldiers approaching were indeed their allies, the gates flew open and more men were
alerted to rush out and help the injured fellow. They rushed him past where Henri stood watching then they burst out of the gates and raced towards the man who had been carrying him, who collapsed into the sand the moment his charge had been lifted. Henri found him and flipped him onto his back as the fellow heaved. He knelt back, aghast as I too reeled in shock at the sight of him.
“Bickerstaff!”
“Good morning,” he choked, spitting out a mouthful of blood and sand beside him.
The handsome doctor had a huge laceration running down the left side of his face, now caked with bits of sand and dirt that were soaking up the deep red ooze all around the wound. His chest hammered visibly until he had caught his breath, I noticed the fearful tears streaming from his eyes. Eventually he sat up, thumping his torso to cough any sign of weakness from his voice.
“We were set upon,” he breathed, “They killed Carter, took Briggs away. Cooper was the only one I could help.”
Henri clapped him on the shoulder, his head flooded with pride, relief and an overwhelming sense of terror.
“Let’s get your face stitched up.”
He threw an arm around Bickerstaff’s middle and hauled the other man up as fast as he could. I felt the sticky, sickly touch of the doctor’s bleeding face as it grazed Henri’s ear. I didn’t know which one of us felt sicker at the sensation. Either way it was becoming too much, despite my desperation to stay, that old cold shiver in my spine told me it was time to go. In truth a big part of me was glad it had come, though I felt so selfish, just melting away to safety whilst Henri had to go on alone.
***
Blod was hysterical over Bickerstaff’s injury; she kept making me describe it until I felt unbearably queasy again, so much so that I actually hobbled off to the kitchen for fear I’d have to throw up in the sink. These were the things Mum had warned me of, the things that I couldn’t un-see. I was scared, trembling all over, but it wouldn’t stop me going back there at the same time tomorrow, nothing would stop me from letting Henri know I was always there for him. He was growing more fearful every day of what fate had in store for him. But fate had brought us together once, so I was willing to trust it to do the right thing and I needed him to feel that way too.
When my nerves had recovered I spent some time checking on Ieuan, only to find that his tunnel had collapsed yet again and he was in a secret meeting with some angry looking fellows who were trying to decide on a new location to begin another dig. They were interrupted briefly by some vicious looking guards who snooped around their room, perhaps looking for signs of the dig. They built their tunnels under the floorboards of course, and they never used their uniforms whilst they were digging. All the dirt was hidden away on their vests and other underclothes, to the untrained eye they were just bored players that had been removed from the great game in the outside world. To me, through Ieuan’s eyes, they were cunning heroes waiting for their moment to strike.
Happy that I could report Ieuan as safe and well to Blod and Idrys, my thoughts wandered back to the other task at hand. I closed my eyes again, searching desperately for Dad. It had been more than two years since I had seen him, I wished I had taken better notice of how he looked the night I saw him last. He had hair a darker shade of brown than Leighton, cut in an elegant but very old fashioned sort of wave. I remembered his dark moustache shaped like the whiskers on a fox, how his brown eyes used to crinkle when Leigh and I tried to make it stick up the wrong way towards his nose.
Black again, but this time the body I was in was moving. I had no way to tell if this was my father, but I hadn’t been wrong about my targets in a long time. I waited excitedly, focusing on every feeling this man was having. His arms were stretched out in front of him, moving with strain against something ahead in the pitch darkness. He was on his knees; they dug into hard, stony ground, aching like he’d knelt on pins and needles for hours. His toes were numb inside heavy boots, his head bowed down towards the ground beneath him.
He blinked something out of his eye, a vague shadow telling me he was wiping his face. So his eyes were open, but wherever he was there wasn’t a flicker of light to be found. I heard scraping sounds where his hands were, sounds that I had learned to recognise lately. His chest was starting to ache from his task, but he made no other noise at all. There was just him, his silent breaths and the scraping. He was alone. And he was digging.
***
No matter how I tried the timing I could only find Dad asleep or in the tunnel. I was beginning to wonder idly if he was sleeping in the tunnel itself, but the thought of all those other passages that had collapsed for Ieuan told me that he probably wasn’t. I was just unlucky with my visits. It was possible that Dad was in a POW camp too, but if that were true then I didn’t understand why Mum would want to keep it such a big secret, or why Dad had left us so long before the war actually broke out. There was something more to it than what I knew so far, I supposed I’d just have to keep trying.
Bickerstaff’s face was slowly healing with each day that I saw him, but it looked as though the blade that had cut into his cheek was going to leave a permanent scar on his pale skin. He and Henri carried on their duties as normal despite the shockwave running through the base about the attack, until one day I found Henri patrolling in a particularly nervy mood. He had his rifle on his back and he was rubbing his palms down the sides of his trousers over and over again, the skin of his hands turning raw. A bad sign, a very bad sign indeed.
Tell me what’s the matter, I demanded.
“I love you too,” Henri blurted a sharp whisper, “I’ve been meaning to say it. I was waiting for a nice time, but I have to say it now or I’ll burst.” His spine prickled with electricity.
For God’s sake Henri, what’s going on?
“They’re sending us out there, to that same place where Carter got killed the other day.” I froze, waiting desperately for an explanation. “About a dozen of us, we’re going to ambush them at night.”
Do the others have to go too? Bickerstaff and Cooper? I thought of the sheer horror of the injured men, those who had just managed to escape, having to go straight back to the scene where their ally had lost his life.
“Cooper’s dead,” Henri said softly, “His injuries got infected, they were too… Bickerstaff tried to help him, he really tried.” He attempted to clear his throat, but I could feel how difficult it was, the invisible blockage of grief and fear had made it impossible to swallow. “But yes, Bickerstaff has to come with us. He’s our medic, he has no choice.”
An ambush, I mused, Do you think I can help?
“I don’t think you should,” Henri began, but then the tremble in his heart grew larger, “but I need you there, Kit. I-”
His voice cracked and heat rose in his already sweating face. He kept his back to the base, looking out through the fence at the seemingly harmless sands. I wondered how many vicious killers were hiding just over those distant dunes.
I’ll be there, I promised, I’ll help you no matter what. You know that. I couldn’t stand the feel of his terrified body any longer, the way even his strong legs were quaking in his hardy boots. I can feel your emotions, Henri, I confessed.
His eyes widened. “Can you always do that?” he breathed.
Yes.
“Then you know, without me saying it,” he whispered, “You know how bad this is going to be.”
I’ll help you to get away if you need to, I swore, I’ll help you to hide, to survive this.
Henri sucked up his strength and forced himself to stop shaking, trying to be stronger than he seemed. His heart betrayed him though as it went on pounding away at his ribs. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets to remove the temptation to rub his palms. I wanted to hold him, to pull him in and never let go, but despite our mental closeness I was just too far away. All I had were the words I could whisper in his mind.
I love you so much.
“I love you too.”
The ambush was scheduled for two in the morning.
I was there early, watching Henri get kitted out with guns, grenades and all sorts of nasty looking things that I didn’t want to investigate. I could tell by his occasional smiles that he knew I was with him, though I didn’t speak very often. He and Bickerstaff were the last ones left in the barracks as they prepared themselves for the operation. I caught a few glimpses of the doctor with his pink scar; his face was grave and hollow. He looked like he hadn’t been eating or sleeping at all.
“Just get out if things turn sour,” Bickerstaff said in a low murmur, “Don’t worry about helping anyone else. Run like hell, due south brings you back here after about an hour.”
“I wouldn’t leave any man behind,” Henri protested, “You didn’t last time.”
“And a fat lot of good it did,” Bickerstaff spat, “Cooper would have been better dying where he fell. At least the Iti’s would have made it quick.”
I felt my stomach give a lurch. His wicked temper was a hundred times worse in the face of war.
“It’s not about cowardice, Henri,” the doctor added, strapping a case full of bullets into place, “It’s about what’s practical. If you stop to help someone else, then two men die instead of one. You can’t win a war like that.”
