The Storms of War (26 page)

‘You need money to sign up as a volunteer.’

‘I would find it.’

‘And do they pay drivers?’ broke in Mr Janus. ‘I imagine it’s like nurses and you’re meant to do it for the glory.’

‘I wouldn’t take any money, even if they did,’ Celia said, stoutly.

‘You sound like Jemima, happily giving yourself up to the war machine for no money, when the soldiers all get paid. What is it about you lot – you demand equal pay and rights for women, but when the war comes along, you’ll work on worse terms than some girl from the back streets of the East End.’

‘You’re right, husband,’ said Emmeline. ‘Couldn’t you have found a job that paid?’

‘Anyhow, all this conversation is immaterial.’ Mr Janus stood up and walked towards the little kitchen. ‘You’re too young.’

‘Actually, I’ve an answer to that.’

‘You have?’ Emmeline moved a book from the sofa and started scrubbing at a paint stain with her finger. ‘Will you ask Lord Kitchener for special dispensation?’

‘No. I will take your birth certificate and say I’m you.’

‘You’ll do what? What are you talking about?’

‘I’ll take your birth certificate.’

‘This is ludicrous,’ said Mr Janus, running his hand through his shiny hair. ‘What is more, it’s against the law.’

‘That is true,’ said Emmeline. ‘Mind you, I don’t believe that every soldier I’ve seen setting off to France is actually nineteen. Some of them look about twelve.’

‘Tom is not even nineteen, and he’s been in France for over a year.’

‘That’s different. Look, Celia, your parents would never allow it.’

‘Samuel, wait,’ said Emmeline. ‘I can see a point to it. If Celia says she’s me, then no one will come trying to make me sign up, will they?’ She patted Mr Janus’s hand.

‘This is a ridiculous conversation. Celia cannot sign up until she is twenty-one. And the war will be over by then.’

‘You’re not being fair.’

‘Celia, it is against the law. Your brother is out there. That should be enough.’

‘Yes, Mr Janus,’ she said, her blood boiling. He marched off towards the bedroom. The door slammed behind him.

‘Never mind, Celia,’ said Emmeline. ‘I am sure we could find something for you to do. I hear there are tea stations where people serve those going off to fight. You could help out there.’

‘Do you have your birth certificate here?’

‘Of course! I needed it to get married. I mean … Celia, you can’t have it.’

‘But I want to go to France!’

‘Oh, stop it. Anyway, on to different matters. Before you go, I have something to talk to you about. Mama never discussed this with me, and that was before she was in bed all day.’

‘She only wants to talk about Jane Austen.’
You pierce my soul …

Celia pushed the thought back in her head.
I am not reading to you,
she said.

‘Listen, I saw you in the garden with Tom that night. He had his arms around you. I have been thinking about it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Celia, didn’t you ever talk about this at school? When ladies let men put their arms around them, sometimes they end up with a baby.’

Gwendolyn had read a book of her father’s about babies that she told them about when she came back after the holidays, but it was so muddled that Celia could not understand a thing. She smiled. ‘But of course I can’t have a baby, Emmeline.’

‘You do not need to be married to have a baby. Celia, do you not know a single thing?’

‘I know that! But I can’t have one.’ She blushed. ‘I don’t think.’

‘Well, if you are thinking about going to France, then you should know this. You must not let men put their arms around you, for a start.’

‘But how can that make you have a baby?’

Emmeline looked gravely at her. ‘It can’t. Not if you keep your clothes on. That’s all I am going to say. Just keep wearing your gown and you won’t have a baby.’ With that, she stood up and followed Mr Janus into the bedroom.

Celia nodded. That seemed clear enough, not half as mystifying as Gwendolyn and the rest had whispered it was. And she could hardly imagine herself in a place where she wouldn’t be wearing her gown. She lay back on the sofa and picked up the modern art book. She didn’t have much time left to read about Monet. After all, it would be useful to learn all she could about France before she got there.

Next morning, while Emmeline and Mr Janus were still asleep, she started to sort through their piles of papers. She kept one eye on their bedroom door as she shuffled through the same boxes she had looked at before. She pulled out letters from Mr Janus’s parents, his birth certificate (1896; so he was
younger
than Emmeline!), some letters about money that she tried not to look at, and then their marriage certificate, which she held for a moment, remembering the day. Then she had it. The birth certificate of Emmeline Charity de Witt, 6th February 1895. She stuffed it into her pocket along with the fistful of notes Verena had given her, put on her boots and ran out of the door and down the stairs.

When she got back, glowing with daring and excitement, Emmeline was at the door in her nightgown. ‘Where have you been?’

‘It’s too late to stop me. I’ve done it. Sorry, Emmy, but I stole your birth certificate and volunteered.’

Emmeline shook her head. ‘Honestly, how could you?’ She bundled Celia inside, shut the door. ‘What will Mama say? She will be heartbroken, you know that!’

‘You started it! You left. Why should I stay if you won’t?’

‘That’s different. Who’s going to look after her now?’

‘Why don’t you? You’re married, you can go back.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! I can’t leave my husband!’

There was a bang from the bedroom. ‘Sorry!’ Emmeline shouted. She lowered her voice. ‘Celia, you’re being so selfish.’

‘It’s not like I’m going to a picnic.’ Celia wanted to raise her voice, furious with Mr Janus.

‘You might as well be. You are the unmarried daughter. Your place is at home.’

‘I bet Jemima wouldn’t say that.’

‘She has no parents and a large inheritance. She hasn’t got an idea about life.’

‘Emmeline, I am sorry, but I’ve volunteered now. I have to go.’

‘What will you tell Mama?’

Celia sat down on the sofa. She hadn’t thought that far. ‘I’ll write to her.’

‘A letter! No! You must go and tell her.’

‘I don’t want to. You didn’t tell her you were leaving!’

‘She’ll die.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

Emmeline shrugged. ‘You have to tell her. Then you’ll see.’ She gathered her shawl around her nightgown, went into the bedroom and slammed the door.

‘I don’t think she’ll mind!’ Celia shouted at the door, as loud as she could. ‘She’ll be pleased!’ She knew it wasn’t true.

‘We should tell Mrs de Witt you are coming,’ said Mr Janus later, and went to find Mr Sparks, who had access to a telephone in one of his political clubs. He could use it when no one was looking, but the club was so busy that he didn’t manage it until late afternoon, and then, he said, it was too late for Celia to get the train, so she would have to leave the next day. She stayed another night, with Emmeline red-eyed and angry and Mr Sparks berating her for being seduced into it all. Only Miss Webb was pleased, patting her hand, saying that she must have looked terribly competent to be given the role of driver, and that she was even a little envious of such an adventure. Celia swelled in her attention and promised to send her long letters – very long ones, she said.

As the train pushed into the countryside outside London, Celia thought of Verena. On the one hand, she pictured her saying
Oh Celia, how brave. Lady Redroad will be very proud.
On the other, she imagined her screaming in horror, shouting, refusing to listen, threatening to keep her inside. She reminded herself that Verena had shot the horses when she thought no one was coming home. She thought of Emmeline saying
She’ll die.
Celia leant her head on the train window. Verena surely didn’t want her to spend her life reading the novels of Jane Austen for hours every day.

When she had arrived at the station, Thompson had collected her and driven her back in the borrowed carriage, not saying much. Celia stared out at the fields, wintertime barren, and imagined Verena’s reaction. Perhaps she would be stoical, pleased, say,
Yes, I see that the faster you all help, the quicker the war will be over.

Two hours later, she found it hard to credit that she could have been so naïve. She had expected to go up to her mother’s room to find her, but as soon as she arrived, Verena was at the door, dressed and ready like in the old days, all kindness, clasping Celia
in a hug, ushering her to the parlour, where tea was laid out, and telling her how Mrs Rolls had been saving up ingredients to make a special ginger cake to celebrate her return. There, she patted her daughter’s hand, told her how much she had missed her. She said that Celia wasn’t to worry, that she knew she would have tried, but Emmeline had always been headstrong, and it was hardly the role of the younger sister to force the older to behave in one way or another. It was Verena’s turn to go to London and try and talk her round. ‘I see it now,’ she said. ‘It is hard for a young girl to be alone here. When I was your age, I was at home doing lessons, but now I see that things have changed. I have asked Lady Redroad, and she tells me there is a dancing class for girls in Winchester. Would you like to go to that?’

Celia sat miserably, picked at her cake, while Verena flurried around her, asking if she wanted more to eat. The room, after some time away, looked even dustier and shabbier. She supposed they should put dust sheets over the furniture. Verena poured more tea. ‘You seem a little
quiet,
dear.’

Celia knew she had to speak. ‘Mama,’ she said. ‘When I was in London, I did something.’

Verena looked at her blankly. ‘Did you disagree with Emmeline, dear? No matter. I shouldn’t have told you to speak to her. I will go up.’

‘No, no. Actually, Emmeline is married.’ Her mother looked at her incredulously. ‘Already married,’ lied Celia, to cover her feelings of betrayal for celebrating the wedding.

Verena shrugged. ‘I’ll see a certificate first, I think.’

‘But, Mother, it’s not that. I did something. I …’ She could not say it. A tear rolled down her cheek and she cursed herself for her weakness. She was just going to have to say it. ‘Mama, I signed up for the war. I am going to drive ambulances in France.’

Verena blinked, then blinked again. ‘That’s not true.’

‘It is, Mama. I am due at training in Aldershot next week.’

Verena shook her head.

‘I’m sorry, Mama.’ All the arguments she had stacked up in her mind crumbled. ‘I just felt … I wanted to help.’

Verena shook her head again. ‘I believe none of this. I didn’t hear. I won’t believe it.’

‘It’s true.’

Verena stood up and walked towards her. Celia sat straight, tried not to flinch. Verena was her mother, after all. What was she going to do? Celia smiled at her, trying to seem welcoming. And then Verena was too close, hadn’t slowed, came towards her with her hand outstretched. Celia twisted her body away and Verena landed on the sofa, face down.

Celia sat there and looked at her mother trying to bring her knees under her, ungainly, her hair escaping its labyrinthine style. It was as if the moment wasn’t real; it was something in a play. In a play, how you might laugh. Now, it was dreadful, a judgement.

Verena lifted her head. Her hair dropped around her face. ‘I am not listening. I won’t hear it. Otherwise you would all have left me, and that would be too harsh. To have brought you all up and then for you all to go …’ She looked up at Celia. ‘That would be too much for any mother to bear.’

‘I’m sorry, Mama.’

The door opened and Jennie arrived. Verena rushed from the room.

‘Welcome home, miss,’ said Jennie, raising an eyebrow.

‘I won’t be staying long.’

At that moment, afraid of her mother, resentful of the others, who had gone, Celia thought only of leaving. But Jennie persuaded her to stay. ‘She was so looking forward to you coming home,’ she said, fiddling with her apron, worn and greying now. ‘Let me see if I can speak to her.’

Celia waited, sleeping in her room, eating with Jennie, wandering around the house. She could feel Stoneythorpe pulling her back in.

‘I don’t think she’s coming out,’ said Jennie, after two days. ‘She says she won’t change her mind.’

Celia spent that night in bed, listening out. She waited to hear Verena walking past, bumping against the walls. She heard nothing. The house was silent. Next day, she knocked on her
mother’s door. There was no answer. She even thought of sitting outside Verena’s room reading the next section of
Persuasion,
in case that might tempt her out. She looked into the mirror and shouted at herself: ‘This way, Emmeline!’ and ‘Emmeline Witt, do this!’

‘Turn left, Emmeline!’ She tried, but still it did not feel right. Each time she shouted it, she looked for Emmeline behind her.

The night before she was due in Aldershot, Jennie helped her pack. There wasn’t much to put in – they were to take only one small case of personal things, for they would be wearing their uniform most of the time. She got up early in the morning for the train, and tried her mother’s door again.

‘Goodbye, Mama,’ she said through the wood. ‘I’ll be back soon. I promise.’ She thought she heard a flutter of movement and pressed her ear closer to the door, but there was nothing.

She said goodbye to Jennie and Mrs Rolls, saw the disappointment in their eyes.

‘You watch out over there, miss,’ said Thompson, dropping her off for the train back to London.

‘I’ll write to you,’ she said.

‘That would be nice.’ He carried her bag to the platform. On the train, installed in her carriage, she stared out of the window, hoping to see her mother arrive with Jennie to wave her off. As they steamed out of the station, she craned back, but there was no one there.

Pozières, France, Spring 1916

There wasn’t much you could do about the rats, horrible things as big as cats. He wouldn’t admit it to the men, but he had become rather fond of a little one who scuttled around his bed at night. Sometimes, in the morning, he woke up and saw its nose twitching, right next to his head. He was even more embarrassed to admit it, but it reminded him a little of Celia when she had been young, standing eagerly by his bed. ‘Michael! Come out and
play
!’

The lice were something else altogether. One morning, Michael woke up and felt something itching on his back. Within two days they were all over his skin and under his clothes, and even when he shook them out, they were still there, because they had swarmed their way into the seams and stayed there, running up and down, making him itch. He tried to rise above it, embarrassed, for he knew that lice thrived on lack of cleanliness. The men scratched, but he would not. After one particularly bad night, he told Wheeler, ‘I can’t bear it any longer. Please, don’t tell anyone.’

Wheeler looked at him. They were lit by just the single candle. It threw shadows on the wall, over their faces. ‘Take off your shirt,’ he said.

‘What?’

So far they had done little more than kissing, as they had by the fire step on Christmas night. Even though they spent nearly every moment together, touching each other was almost impossible. If ever they were even close to holding hands, Bilks seemed to appear, start talking about duties. It was unbearable. At night, Michael threw himself into bed on his stomach, let Wheeler run
through his mind hotly, rubbing against the sheet, ashamed of himself, unable to stop.

Four times Wheeler had been sent out on sentry duty; twice Michael had crept out to speak to him. There, looking out on no-man’s-land, they had held hands, kissed again, but Michael had not stayed long. At Christmas, Bilks and the men would not have noticed his absence; by February, everyone was watching each other. So Michael crept back after fifteen minutes or so, his body flaming, hardly caring to duck when the guns fired, for he could live for ever, surely.

There were so few opportunities, the tiniest touch was enough. Michael did everything to try to increase them: offered to take over Bilks’s role of distributing the rations, passed around the grog, joined the building parties just to stand next to Wheeler and give him pieces of wood. Their fingers met, and sometimes – exquisitely – parts of their hands. They brushed past each other and Michael felt the thin material of Wheeler’s shirt. He thought of people in love. They got married and then they could spend every minute touching each other. He and Wheeler could not really be in love. What they had was something entirely different. He could not imagine being able to touch Wheeler whenever he liked,
all the time.

‘Go on,’ Wheeler repeated. ‘Take off your shirt.’ It was just the two of them awake in the dugout. Bilks and half of the men were on a clearing party; the others were fast asleep. Michael could hear them snoring, especially Cook, always the loudest. Mills and Brown, who normally shared the dugout, had been sent off to do some work in another trench. For one night Michael was alone – and he was alone with Wheeler.

Blushing and fumbling, his hands failing, Michael undid his shirt and pulled it off his shoulders. Wheeler touched his back. ‘Look at this,’ he said. ‘It’s red raw where you’ve been scratching. You should have said.’

‘The stuff doesn’t seem to work,’ said Michael. He had covered himself with Harrison’s Pomade, but it was as if the blighters actually
liked
it; they’d got worse since he’d used it.

Wheeler ran a finger down his back. ‘This must hurt?’

Michael stuttered. ‘Yes. No.’

‘Poor you. Well, I will see them off. Give me your shirt.’ Michael felt even more miserably embarrassed passing it over. He hadn’t had a chance to wash recently. But Wheeler didn’t seem to care. He turned the shirt inside out and held it up. Then he took Michael’s candle. ‘This is how to catch them. They lay their eggs here, and that’s why the Harrison’s is no good.’ Michael watched as he held the candle close to the shirt. ‘Can you hear the crackling? That’s them all right. Eggs bursting.’

Michael stared, mesmerised by Wheeler’s hands. Wheeler turned the shirt around and did both sides, the back, then the arms. He curved the candle around the collar, dwelled on the cross of seam under the arms. Then he put down the candle, shook out the shirt. ‘There!’ he said. ‘Should be good to wear now. For a while at least. You have to keep doing this.’

‘Oh.’ How fine his hands were, tanned brown, the nails short, the fingers moving fast.

‘They’re not just in your shirt, though, are they?’ His eyes glittered. ‘Take off your trousers.’

Michael hesitated, then bent and took them off, standing there in just his underwear as Wheeler, his face intent, took the trousers and drew them over the tip of the candle. His fingers on the material, touching where Michael’s leg had been. The heat spread through his body.

‘You don’t have to stand,’ Wheeler said, softly. ‘You can sit if you like.’ He was pulling the seam of the trousers through the flame, carefully, back and forth. Michael blushed. He crouched down, feeling the cool of the ground, hoping it might dull the colour in his face. He gazed at Wheeler, desperately wanting to talk to him, to hear his voice. Anything. But he was hopelessly tongue-tied, could think of nothing to say.

‘I think I’ve got rid of all the blighters,’ said Wheeler. He dropped the trousers on top of the shirt. ‘For the moment at least.’ He smiled at Michael through the darkness over the brightness of the flame. ‘I can do the rest if you like.’

Michael nodded, hotly aware of Wheeler’s eyes on him as he took off his underwear. He got his foot caught in one leg, hopped about blushing and hopeless. He handed the garment over to Wheeler, blushing at how grimy it was. Wheeler, appearing not to notice, turned it inside out and drew the seams over the flame. Michael stood there naked, watched him.

‘I reckon they’re done,’ said Wheeler. ‘That’s the lot.’ He gazed at Michael, unblinking. ‘Do you want them back?’

Michael stared at him.

‘Or I suppose I could keep you company?’

Michael nodded, dumbly. Every night he had dreamed of this, imagined it in different ways, thought of Wheeler’s body, trying to decide if it would be muscled or slim, thought of the muscles of his arms. Wheeler took off his shirt, socks, shoes, then his trousers and underwear. He stood there naked.

‘Come here, then,’ he said, putting out his hand. Michael took a step forward, tentative as a baby, feeling the flicker of the flame as he passed it. Wheeler put his arms around him, cool, drew him to his chest.

‘I don’t know,’ Michael began. ‘I don’t …’

Wheeler touched his hair. ‘Don’t worry, sir. Hold tight to me.’ He reached out his hand and snuffed out the candle.

After they had done it once and then – unimaginable – again, they lay side by side on the dark ground, Wheeler’s arm slung over his chest. It was all over, that impossible, marvellous thing that had transformed every inch of his body, left him torn. He wanted to bring his mind forward to preserve each feeling, but surely mind had no place in it, none at all.

‘How did you know?’ he said.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘How did you know about me?’

Wheeler gave a low chuckle. ‘I could see.’

‘I couldn’t tell about you.’

Wheeler patted his thigh. ‘You’ll learn.’

He had other questions too, welling up in his mind, careering
through his head.
Why, can I, when, what.
Dozens of them, all boiling down to one thing:
Can I keep hold of you? I have to.
But he didn’t know where to start, felt lost in the maze, and lay there listening to Wheeler’s breathing change as he fell asleep.

Some time later, he awoke to the sound of shuffling. His eyes focused through the gloom and he saw Wheeler collecting up his clothes. Wheeler looked across at him, smiled briefly. ‘You should dress, sir,’ he said. ‘You might get cold.’

Michael propped himself up on his arm. ‘You’re leaving?’ Wheeler nodded. ‘But when will I see you?’

Wheeler shook his head. ‘Why, all the time.’

But it wasn’t all the time. It was no different from before, except it was worse. There was no way of touching, no way of talking, without someone seeing. Michael blushed every time he went near Wheeler, and even more because he wondered if anyone else might be able to guess. How obvious was he being? he wondered. Could anyone have
seen?
Other times, he was so emboldened by the sight of Wheeler, so excited, that he did not care who guessed. They were together – and he would never meet anyone else like him, ever.

Three days later, Bilks came down the trench. ‘I have an old friend of yours here,’ he said. ‘Says he’s a
good
old friend.’

Michael came out and saw Tom, his face thinner, shadowed.

‘Hello, old man!’ Tom looked delighted. ‘I thought I was coming here. What luck!’ Michael looked up and saw Bilks watching, his expression unreadable.

‘Hello, Tom,’ he said, knowing how wan his expression was, unable to fix it.

‘Tom will be with us while Mills is sent to the Engineers,’ said Bilks. ‘Commander thinks he could learn a lot from shadowing us, learning to be a corporal. What do you think, sir? Shall we ask him to stick close to you?’

‘Of course,’ said Michael, hating Tom’s broad grin, his genuine pleasure at seeing him. ‘That would be very welcome.’

His feelings of resentment towards Tom only grew. Every time he thought he might be able to get closer to Wheeler, Tom popped up, smiling. ‘How are you today?’ he would say. ‘I’ve got something
to show you on the trench.’ He wanted to talk late into the night, ask about Stoneythorpe, chat about the war. Michael just wanted to be alone – to lie on his front and think about Wheeler.

He had not seen Tom since that time outside the brothel. Tom was eager for news. That first night, he settled himself by Michael in the dugout. ‘Tell me everything,’ he said. ‘How are they all?’

‘There’s nothing good,’ said Michael, bluntly. ‘Mama shot the horses and Papa has been taken away for internment.’ The pain stabbed through him, one long sword, then thousands of little pins, jabbing him. He remembered learning at school that Erasmus had had to reform the early churchmen because they debated obsessively questions like how many angels could dance on a pinhead. Now the pins were bursting into him as he forced himself to say, clearly: ‘He went to register and didn’t come back. We never hear from him.’

Tom stared at him, white-faced. ‘But that is terrible! How can it be so? It must be some mistake.’

Michael shook his head.

‘Then what are we out here for if people like him are being imprisoned? I thought that we were here fighting for freedom.’ He kicked the side of the trench, his boot bouncing hollowly off the edge.

‘Thank you.’ Michael smiled politely, trying to cover how surprised he was at Tom’s vehemence. He wanted to say:
It’s my tragedy, not yours! You were just a servant to him!
Instead he nodded, drawing himself up, trying to imitate the unruffled politeness of an officer addressing an inferior. ‘We hope he will be set free soon.’ He turned his head away, for he thought that Tom was weeping.

He tried to adopt the distant smile every time Tom spoke to him.
Do not come too near,
he wanted to say. There was no space around him. Wheeler had taken it all.

Five nights later, Tom had thankfully gone on patrol and left him to lie in the dugout. Wheeler was on sentry duty, painfully impossible to get to, since Tom was a dedicated patroller and had taken Cook with him for training. Instead, Michael got into bed,
keen to devote himself to summoning every moment of their night together. He dwelled on Wheeler’s body, the feel of his thigh, the gentle touch – then the hard touch – of his hands. It split him again, the act of memory, for although on one hand he was revelling in the detail, thrilling in it, on the other, he was accepting that there were some things he had forgotten, that however hard he had tried to paint them in his mind, some were already filtering away.

He was remembering the aftermath of their first session together, Stuart’s sweet breathlessness, when there was a kerfuffle outside. ‘Sir!’ someone was shouting. ‘Sir.’ He buried his head in his pillow. There was a banging at the door of the dugout.

He hauled himself up – dressed, fortunately – and pulled on his boots. When he dragged open the door, Tom was standing there, holding Wheeler by the arm. Bilks and the other men were gathering around.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Michael, dazed by the sight of Wheeler, his face dirtied, his body slumped. He wanted to prise Tom’s hands off him, jealously.

Tom was panting, angry. ‘He was—’ he began.

‘It’s not true!’ shouted Wheeler. ‘He’s lying.’

‘Keep it down,’ snapped Bilks. ‘Some people are trying to sleep. Explain, please, Cotton. Why isn’t Wheeler out on lookout? And where’s Cook?’

‘Cook’s taken Wheeler’s place.’

Bilks raised an eyebrow. ‘Well that was a damn stupid idea.’ Cook had the worst eyesight of any of them.

Tom pushed forward. ‘No choice. I found Wheeler here slumped on the sentry post, sleeping.’

‘It’s not true!’ shouted Wheeler, pulling his arm from Tom’s grasp. ‘He’s lying.’

‘I told you to keep it
down,’
Bilks shouted. ‘Do you want the Krauts to join in?’

‘Sir, he was fast asleep. Not even asleep standing. Sitting.’

‘He’s lying!’

‘Why would he lie, Wheeler?’ Michael knew that Bilks lived in a world of clarity, operated in black and white.

‘He just doesn’t like me, that’s why, sir.’

‘Cook was there,’ said Bilks. ‘I’ll ask him.’

‘Cook can’t see a thing. You said that yourself, Sergeant.’

Bilks threw up his hands. He turned to Michael. ‘You’re very quiet, sir.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Well, what are we going to do with them? He’s right, Cook is no help either way.’ Bilks beckoned to Pie. ‘Could you go and relieve Cook? Send him back here and at least keep us a little safe from the Germans.’ He turned back to Michael. ‘Sir?’ he prompted.