The King's Justice

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “Well, I learned on the job when I started, too,” she said, attempting to sound encouraging. “And there’s no time like the present. This is a Category A bomb—which is why we’re disarming it on site.” Milo’s olive skin took on a greenish cast. “Look,” she said, her voice gentle, “you can go back to the truck if you’d like, Milo. I’ll handle it from here. No judgment.”

  “No, miss—er, Maggie—I need to learn. I’ve always been handy with mechanical things. And I’m supposed to be learning from you.” He tried to smile. “I ’ear you’re good.”

  “Well, the problem with thinking you’re any good is each new bomb you encounter has no idea. We’re all UXBs, really, when you think of it,” she said, to herself as much as to Milo. “Just waiting for the right combination of things to set us off—maybe today, maybe next week, or next year.” She paused. “Are you sure? Last chance.”

  “I’ll have to ’andle one at some point.” He swallowed. “Might as well start now.”

  “All right then. Let’s show this bomb who’s boss, shall we?” Her adrenaline level surged again and her pulse began to race, heart beating a staccato tattoo. “Well, come on, get a little closer.”

  At Maggie’s feet was a hold-all kit, a canvas bag with the tools the defusers had been provided, including a discharger, hammer and chisel, rags and sacking, and a flashlight. She put down the universal key and picked up the discharger. “Just watch my hands.”

  He studied her profile. “You’re the girl in the papers, aren’t you? The one they’re callin’ ‘the Bomb Girl’? ‘A bombshell on a bombshell,’ they say.”

  Maggie did her best not to roll her eyes. The previous month, a photograph of her wearing a striped blouse and khaki trousers, straddling an enormous defused bomb and smoking a cigarette, had appeared in The Daily Enquirer. Her superiors at the 107th had not been pleased—they didn’t think the public was ready to know a woman was working as a bomb defuser. Or wearing trousers. Or straddling things.

  But while the recognition from the photo irked her, being the “Bomb Girl” was better than being known as the woman who took down the Blackout Beast. And the men of the 107th had taken great pride in the picture; numerous clippings plastered the walls of the mess. “I do some of my best work with lipstick on, actually,” she quipped. “What about you? What’s your story?”

  “Don’t you know? I’m a lily-livered conchie,” he said, using the derogatory term for conscientious objectors. “Thought I’d take my chances with the bombs.”

  Maggie was aware well over sixty thousand men had registered as conscientious objectors, claiming exemption from military service. They came from different backgrounds and social classes, but however different they were, they all shared one basic belief: it was wrong—whether for religious, moral, political, or humanitarian reasons—to be conscripted for war and to take up arms and fight. No matter how great the danger facing Britain, no matter how much pressure was put on them to change their minds.

  Before working for the 107th, Maggie had had only a vague awareness of the war’s conscientious objectors. She might have assumed they were Quakers. Or cowards. But after getting to know the COs in her division, Maggie realized they were all different, and their reasons for refusing to fight were complicated.

  The personal costs of registering as a conscientious objector were high: many lost their jobs, some were attacked, abused; others ostracized by their friends and family. She’d learned from talking to them, sometimes down in the dark bomb pit, of the soul-searching that led to their decisions—and the shame and guilt that inevitably followed.

  “What’s your reason for being a CO?” Maggie asked. “ ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ yes?” She knew all too well the cost of taking a human life, as well as what it meant to lose comrades and friends. Still, she’d learned to do what needed to be done and was no stranger to violence. “Except we’re fighting the Devil himself in this war.”

  “Look, if you could guarantee my getting a shot at ’Itler, I’d take it,” Milo countered. “I’d kill the bugger in a second. Sorry about the language, er, Maggie.”

  “Swear all you like down here—I do.”

  “But all those other bastards—Musso’s Dagos, the Krauts, the Japs—they’re just like you and me. Poor men, drafted for rich men’s wars.”

  Maggie pushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes and chose her words carefully. “But what if everyone became a CO? What if no one fought?”

  “Well, with all due respect, miss—if no one fought, then there’d be no war.” He crossed himself.

  “You’re Catholic?”

  “Parish of St. Peter’s Italian Church in Clerkenwell.” Clerkenwell was an area in north-central London, not far from Bloomsbury. It was the city’s Little Italy, a neighborhood of Italian immigrants, their children and grandchildren. “I also didn’t want to risk being sent to fight in Italy. Might have to shoot one of my uncles or cousins.” He offered a nervous smile. “How could I come ’ome and tell me mum I killed Uncle Sal?”

  Maggie wanted to understand. “But what about loyalty to your fellow Britons?”

  “I love Britain, miss—Maggie. I love London. I may not be English, but I’m British.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And don’t get me wrong—I ’ate Mussolini and his Blackshirts with all my ’eart. Strength, national pride, fake Roman history—all lies.”

  “I can only imagine how hard it is to be of Italian or German descent here these days.” Maggie stood up and stretched, cracking her neck and rolling her shoulders. The U.S. papers were thick with stories about their own internment camps. “Or Japanese.”

  Milo also rose. “I’ve always been proud to be Italian, but now…” He sighed. “Well, it’s ’ard to see anything good about it these days. It’s almost an embarrassment, with Italy in the news so much, you know? And then at the cinemas, they have these horrible pictures of Musso, alongside Hitler and Tojo. Nobody wants to be a part of that gang. I certainly don’t. And after those shorts, I feel like everyone sees us differently. Like we’re in cahoots with the enemy or something. Then add being a CO on top…” He shook his head. “Well, I don’t mean to complain.”

  “Well, you have nothing to do with Mussolini or any of them, of course.”

  “Not with Musso, certainly. But we always joke we’re going to see Zio Peppino or Cousin Luigi sooner or later on those films.” He released a bitter laugh.

  Maggie felt for him and decided to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand. She rubbed her hands together to warm them. “All right, back to business—all German UXB fuses are electric. Just think of them as really big batteries. Hand me the crabtree discharger, please. No, not that one—yes, that’s right.” She began to work using the new tool.

  Maggie noticed Milo wipe his sweaty hands on his trousers. “It’s always good to bring a handkerchief when you’re working,” she said, handing him a clean cambric one from her pocket. “We all get a bit slippery-handed sometimes.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And always remember to watch out for booby traps. Some of the later bombs have updated German engineering—if they don’t explode on landing, they’re rigged to blow during the defusing process. Sometimes I try to picture the bloody Kraut scientist who thought up such a thing, then make it my personal mission to outwit him. Oh, it’s a battle just as much as anything going on in the air or sea or land, believe me. We just don’t see our enemies. But they’re there, hoping today’s the day…”

  Maggie unscrewed the gaine. There was a small crack! as the detonator was dismantled. She and Milo both stiffened. Slowly, ever so slowly, she pulled out the fuse. Her mouth was dry and her heart thudded. She felt elation. Victory. She picked up the probe and once again put it back to the side of the bomb to check for ticking.

  “Anything?” Milo asked.

  Maggie shook her head, a wave of triumph rushing through he
r. The bomb was defused. We’ve won! Then, This round, at least.

  She pulled her gloves back on, then gestured to the ladder. “After you, Milo. Well done.” She tried to ignore the sharp pang of disappointment that it was over. Now she had to return to reality. She’d have to remember and think and feel once again, at least until the next one.

  “I—I didn’t do anything.”

  “You watched and learned.” She noticed his legs were wobbly and his hands were trembling. “That’s enough for today. And congratulations! You didn’t wet your pants—which is more than most can say after their first tussle with a live bomb.”

  Milo turned to the wall of the pit and began to dry heave. Maggie looked away until he was finished. “All right?” she asked finally.

  “Right as rain,” he answered with a faint smile. But his hands were still shaking.

  “Look,” Maggie said, “I’ll climb up first and say you’re finishing up.” She put a reassuring hand on his bony shoulder. “You take as much time as you need and then come up with the tools when you’re ready.”

  “I don’t want to make a fuss—”

  “You just went face-to-face with a ticking bomb and lived. You’re allowed to take a few breaths.”

  “I’m ready to go up now.”

  “All right.” She took the whistle hanging around her neck and gave it a good long blow. The piercing sound indicated the bomb was now inert and all were safe.

  She gave him a slap on the shoulder. “Off you go, then!” She felt good knowing that by emerging first, he’d have the full effect of the company’s and assorted civilians’ applause—he certainly deserved it.

  Above, they realized where they were—a cold, frozen back garden of a flat somewhere in Lambeth, dusted with snow. A large sign proclaimed in black and red lettering: DANGER UXB: Unexploded Bombs and Ammunition. Another announced Touch at Your Peril—Don’t Collect Dangerous Trophies—These Objects Were Meant to Kill.

  The dark windows of the modest brick row house the garden belonged to had been crossed with tape. A nearby willow tree spread its bare branches against the pewter sky, barrage balloons floating by like surreal silver fish. Poor old London, Maggie thought, watching as a group of boys found pieces of shrapnel to throw at one another with grim relish.

  As Milo and Maggie brushed dirt from their clothes, there was a smattering of applause from the assembled members of the 107th—the driver, the digging crew, the disposal unit team. A young housewife wrapped in a pilling wool coat, a Union Jack scarf covering her hair rolls, cried, “Our hero!” Maggie saw Milo’s face flush when he realized she was referring to him. There were also a few police officers in uniform and civilian onlookers—the young boys with caps who looked on with rapt attention, giggling teenage girls, a few wizened old men with pipes and walking sticks.

  A woman in a blue wool turban called out, “God bless and keep you!” over what could only be the low hum of distant airplane engines. Maggie looked up—the noise was coming from the west, growing louder, and Maggie searched the sky. Theirs? Ours? Messerschmitts? Spitfires? The difference could be life or death.

  When the planes finally emerged from the scudding clouds, Maggie could see they were a trio of German Messerschmitts. They dove low over the city, close enough that those on the ground could see the black iron crosses emblazoned on the wings. She heard the antiaircraft artillery shooting.

  As the crowd watched openmouthed, the aircraft came in low and fast, roaring like wild beasts, sweeping over the rooftops of London, before flying north with their deadly loads.

  “Probably off to Cardiff,” the woman in the turban said. “I read in the papers they’ve been going after the factories there now.” While London wasn’t a regular target anymore, the bombings continued, with the Germans targeting industrial cities with large factories: Birmingham, Liverpool, Southampton, Sheffield, and Manchester.

  The three Messerschmitts disappeared into the heavens, leaving trails of exhaust against the sky, and Maggie found she could breathe again. The driver for the 107th, a fireplug of a man with enormous forearms, handed her a cigarette.

  “Thanks, Pete,” she said with a weak smile. She allowed him to light it for her, then drew on it, causing the tip to glow orange. Pete was another conscientious objector; he called himself a “Methodist pacifist.”

  “Well done, Maggie.”

  “This one”—Maggie jerked a thumb at Milo, who looked equally pained and pleased—“deserves all the credit. He was cool as a cucumber sandwich for the vicar down there.”

  Pete took Milo’s measure. “Well done, lad.”

  Milo blushed. “What, er, ’appens now? To the ’Ermann?”

  “Well, these fine gentlemen”—Maggie took a long drag as she indicated the men in khaki, now circling the hole—“are the disposal team. They’ll take the bomb to Hackney Marshes, for its ‘ultimate demise,’ as they say. But our part of the job is done. And we deserve to have a bit of fun!” She exhaled, a string of smoke rings floating from her mouth.

  Milo looked as queasy as he had with the bomb, and he kicked at the frozen earth with the toe of his boot. “I don’t know…”

  “Nonsense!” Maggie exclaimed. “We’ll clean up and have a cuppa back at the mess—and then I’m taking you out to celebrate. You conquered your first UXB! The least I can do is take you out.”

  “I feel a bit like I might explode myself,” he admitted as they walked with Pete toward the van.

  Maggie grinned. “And that, my friend, is why we deserve a drink.”

  Chapter Three

  While the defused bomb was loaded onto a truck and carted off to Hackney Marshes for safe detonation, Pete drove Maggie and Milo back to the 107th Company’s headquarters. It was a former boys’ elementary school, a large, decrepit building in Holloway. The entrance was covered with sandbags. Red buckets and coiled fire extinguishers lined the main corridor.

  Maggie washed her muddy face and scrubbed her filthy hands in the sink of what had once been the women faculty’s lavatory, leaving her hair in its tight braids. It was chilly in the old limestone chamber, and after slipping out of her muddy overalls, she pulled a worn black wool cardigan, already patched at the elbows and beginning to fray at the cuffs, over her clothes. The finishing touch was red lipstick named Homefront.

  Sailing on adrenaline, she made her way to the former faculty lounge, which had been turned into the officers’ mess. There were a few battered Naugahyde chairs, white stuffing sprouting through tears and gashes, and a ring-marked coffee table, as well as a bar cart with various brown bottles. A dartboard hung on one wall, while bookshelves and a dented metal desk with the mess telephone lined the other. The closet, adjacent to the lounge, was full of khakis, dress uniforms, belts, and shoes from those who’d lost their lives in the line of duty. The clothes hung, washed and pressed, waiting for the 107th’s next hires.

  The long windows were crisscrossed with tape, and the ubiquitous official photographs of the King and Winston Churchill hung above the fireplace on a pale blue wall. Next to them were years of black-framed class photographs—boys from ages five to twelve, who’d graduated from the school. A Windsor clock ticked on the mantel. Some of those boys—probably all of them—are in the military by now, Maggie thought as she entered. I wonder how many of them are serving.

  I wonder how many of them are alive.

  Inside, Maggie spotted Virgil Pippin, a small, thin man with tufts of white hair around his ears, hemming a pair of trousers. The two smiled and nodded at each other, and then he went back to his work. Who did the trousers belong to? she wondered, and where is he now?

  Maggie went to the bar cart and poured a finger of sour-apple-smelling whiskey into a clean-enough tumbler. She rifled through old newspapers, most proclaiming variations on “Allied Forces Take Back North Africa.” Ignoring them, she picked up a copy of Punch.

 
She took a seat, trying to distract herself with the cartoons; her favorites were the spare line drawings by Fougasse. More men drifted in and out. The atmosphere was quiet but friendly; she’d found there was a certain kinship that came with staring death in the face on a regular basis. As she turned the pages and sipped her drink, she felt warmer and calmer. She reached into her handbag for her cigarette case, plucking one cigarette out and lighting it. She inhaled with satisfaction, then exhaled coolly. Her lipstick left a red stain on the filter.

  Two other bomb defusers entered, freshly showered and shaved: Nelson Chapman and Luciano Fermi. Nelson was a Quaker, a tall, fair, and young man in spite of his weathered skin. Fermi, a Britalian like Milo, was older, shorter, and rounder, with a distinguished salt-and-pepper mustache. Maggie smiled with genuine pleasure. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

  Each nodded in her direction as they poured drinks. Chapman asked, “How did our new man do today?”

  “Milo was excellent,” she replied, tapping her cigarette into a ceramic ashtray with the slogan For your throat’s sake smoke Craven “A.” “First time’s always a challenge.”

  Fermi grinned. “Glad us Britalians are holding our own.” The men brought their drinks and came to sit down.

  “Heard you got a Hermann,” Chapman said to Maggie.

  She nodded. “It went all right, but I’ll be glad when the weather warms up a bit—my hands get so cold. And I don’t trust working with gloves.”

  Fermi grimaced. “It’s been noxious weather, hasn’t it? Can’t figure out if it’s going to snow, or rain, or what.”

  “Cold hands are clumsy hands.” Chapman also sipped his drink. “Basso does a good job, though. I don’t suppose you’ve seen him around?”

  Carmine Basso was another Britalian, Maggie knew. She’d worked with him a few times; he’d been calm and efficient. “No, I haven’t worked with him for at least a week. Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him.”