Drawing Blood (8 page)

Abigail could do one of two things. She could keep the cold distance from him she’d been fighting to maintain. Or she could give in to her girl side and act on that sympathy she felt rising to surface again.

She put a hand on his shoulder. “You did the right thing. You assessed the situation before reacting. That’s what a good leader does.”

He exhaled and looked at her hand. Then he looked back at her.

“Thank you, Abigail. I am sorry if we startled you tonight.”

This was very wrong. She was actually feeling comfortable.

He took her hand off his shoulder but held it, thumb running over the back. “Thank you for helping Friedrich.” Then he was gone. Abigail was left to clean the blood from the floor and table by herself in the dark.

Chapter Fourteen

David

Jesus, it had been a long time since he’d been this blitzed. His head was spinning, every step that kept him from falling a small victory over gravity. He likely stunk too, but all he could smell was the perfume that stuck to him, embedded in his uniform even. Lily, that had been her name. What a lovely English flower.

He stopped to let a car pass with a blowing of the horn, then continued crossing the street. He had no idea where the hell he was, but there had to be a cab for hire somewhere.

Two girls walked past him, giggling as they passed on opposite sides of him. He stopped to watch them walk away, and they looked back to catch him looking. He didn’t care. He gave his best “I swear I’m not drunk” smile and they turned away, laughing loudly.

David continued on his way. Christ, what he wouldn’t give to find a familiar landmark. He’d been in this town for almost three whole years. How could he have gotten so lost?

Lily had been talking while they walked. He’d gotten lost in that upper-crust English accent. She’d been so gorgeous, so confident. The kind of person that looked like she didn’t even use the loo, never mind climb in to bed with the likes of him. But she did.

Music. He heard music. Where the hell …

He burst out laughing, finally realizing where he was. He felt so stupid … there it was. The pub where he’d met Lily. Hopefully some of his comrades were still there …

As he approached the door opened and a handful of uniformed men spilled out on to the sidewalk, voiced loud. They were being kicked out and thought it was hilarious. He recognized the uniforms of Canadians, Americans and Brits. All getting along like they’d grown up down the street from each other.

He made his way towards them, seeing Craig Jasper, Clyde Walton, Lou Reinhold, even that big fucker Duncan Higgins. They all greeted him in the over-the-top drunk and jovial way, shouting “Hey!” in unison.

“You lucky bastard,” Walton drawled, throwing an arm over David’s shoulder. “How was that fresh little Lily?”

“Fragrant, delicate, and fulfilled, now.”

There was boisterous laughter, slaps on the back, then they carried on their revelries en masse up the stone sidewalks. David didn’t know the names of the non-Canadians, but it didn’t matter. They all seemed like good chaps. Even the Americans … and they had more money for alcohol.

“You should have stayed with her. Where the hell are we going to sleep tonight?” Walton said, carrying on a thought from about five minutes before.

“She had a roommate … her sister. She was embarrassed. Asked me to leave.”

“Shit. Bring me next time. I like sisters.”

“This here, boys,” Higgins said loudly pointed backwards to David. “This is the guy that put me on my ass.”

“That fucking skinny thing?” The American had a weird accent, maybe Boston. David couldn’t be sure, he hadn’t heard it very often. “How the hell did he do that?”

“When I’m drunk I’m fearless,” David offered, shrugging.

The guy turned on him so quickly David barely had time to move out of the way. He ducked the punch, and the motion carried the guy off-balance in to the wall. Walton steadied David with a “Whoa there,” before David turned on the guy, driving one fist towards the American. He blocked it easily while throwing another punch which David tried to dodge, but it glanced off his jaw.

People were shouting for it to stop, but there was something to the American’s expression that David understood. He wasn’t seriously trying to take his head off. He wanted a good fight like David wanted a good fuck. Well David had gotten his …

He drove home a good shot the guy’s solar plexus. But he was ready for it, his stomach was tensed and he exhaled at the right moment. A boxer, David realized. He wasn’t brawling with some barroom hero.

He was numb from bravado, beer, and stupidity. The punches he took to the face weren’t registered. The one to his gut took him down to one knee though, and the following sucker punch to the cheekbone rung his bell. David actually saw stars as he fell forward, catching himself with both hands. The voices of his friends came back, and they sounded pissed at the Yank.

David got back up on his knees, yelling at them to shut up. They all quieted, looking at him in surprise. He spat out some blood, using his tongue to feel around his mouth. All his teeth were intact. That was good. He smiled up at the Yankee.

“Not a fair fight,” he said.

The Yank offered his hand. “You can take a punch, though.”

David took the offered help and got to his feet, still smiling.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you two?” Walton mumbled, almost like he was wondering out loud. 

“Sometimes you just want to punch something,” the Yank said. “The name’s Hopkins, Alfred.”

“David Cleary.”

They shook bloodied hands, then threw an arm around each other to lead the rest of their crew down the street. Behind them, Craig Jasper and the Brits were singing some Vera Lynne song loudly and poorly. David didn’t want to head back to barracks yet. The monotony of England was getting to him. It was one thing to send them overseas, but waiting three years before anything happened was grating on his nerves. He likely wasn’t the only one.

He lived for his nights out. It was the only time anything was … different. Out of the ordinary. The only time he felt like he was taking part in something bigger than himself. When else would he have the chance to stumble shit-faced down a street in London with Brits, guys from British Columbia, Nova Scotia, even an American who could throw a punch like a prize fighter. It was so random. The randomness was what he craved.

“Oh – best behaviour, boys. I think that’s Sergeant Murphy.” Walton’s back straightened and he swallowed.

“It doesn’t matter how hard you try to look sober. He’s going to know you’re shitfaced,” David told him.

Murphy was talking with another man in uniform, a Canadian, but David didn’t know him. Due to the loud singing behind them, both men saw them coming about a half block away. Murphy broke off his conversation with the other officer and approached them. His face was … even more serious than usual.

“Sergeant Murphy!” Craig Jasper greeted him enthusiastically. “I’d like to buy you a drink! What’s your poison?”

Murphy just smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. David felt his feet slowing, the rush of the alcohol and the fight slowly waning. Something was up.

Murphy had his cap in hand, and he was twisting it. David stopped, and the Yank had to as well. “Gentlemen,” Murphy greeted them in his usual, cordial way. “I see we’re having fun.” He looked at David, frowning. “What happened to your face?”

David squeezed the shoulders of his new American friend. “Alfie Hopkins happened to me. Just a little fun, don’t worry, sir.”

“You fellas might want to head back early, get a good rest.”

It was his voice. Murphy knew something was coming, but he wasn’t going to spill. He felt everyone around him tense, backs getting straighter, a few cleared throats. Even the Yanks and Brits could sense it.

“What do you know?” David asked.

Murphy turned his pale blue eyes to him. “Can’t say for sure, Cleary. But you’ll all want to be feeling healthy the next couple of days. Head back now, find somewhere to flop, you might be able to get a decent amount of sleep. Either way, do not stay out late. I mean it, sleep this off. You’ll thank me.”

That done, he put his cap back on, turned and walked back down the street the same way they were going.

“Holy shit,” Walton whispered. “Is this it? Are we finally going in?”

“I don’t know why you’re so eager to get thrown at the Germans. Did you hear about those poor bastards from the First at Dieppe? Nineteen hundred were taken prisoner.” Lou Reinhold could always be counted on to go in to hysterics.

“Shut up Lou,” Higgins snapped. David agreed. Finally they were being taken off the shelf and put to use. Scary or not, they were going to serve their purpose.

“I heard it could be as early as the day after tomorrow,” one of the Brits said.

“No one will know when it happens,” Alfred added. “If anyone has heard anything it was likely … what do you call it? Misinformation?”

“Maybe we should head back to the base,” David said slowly, mulling it all over.

“Easy for you to say,” Higgins laughed. “Not everyone here got lucky tonight. I want to get laid.”

David shook his head. “I want to head back. You’re on your own, Higgins.”

“Well I’d hope so. I’m not going to need your help for this, Cleary.”

They all laughed again, but the ball of … whatever it was in his stomach didn’t let him so much as crack a smile. Maybe it wasn’t fear, not exactly. Just uncertainty. Or maybe the possibility that it was all wrong and the war would end without so much as a single shot being issued from his rifle.

Hopkins shook him back to the present. “Cleary. You all right?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Tired.”

“I’ll bet, you tom cat.” Walton lit his cigarette. “Where they keep the women at, Green?”

One of the Brits was deciding where they should go next to meet women. All David could think about was his bunk. How he’d like to put his head down and just pass out for the next ten hours.

“You guys go ahead,” he said. “I’ll head back with Murphy.”

They all called him a pussy and a pansy, but he ignored them. David loped off after Murphy’s silhouette, calling after him. Murphy turned, waiting for David to catch up.

“You done for the night?”

David smiled. “I tend to work fast, sir.”

Murphy smiled back. “You look like shit. Why’d that guy make meatloaf of your face?”

“He wanted a good fight. I doubt I delivered.”

“I can’t remember having that much testosterone.”

“You do,” David assured him. “You’re just not drunk right now, so you’re aware of how stupid people are.”

They walked briskly but silently. The streets were emptying as bars were closing. They passed a group of American paratroopers, loudly making their way to the next pub just as Cleary’s crew had been. Once they were past them David had to ask.

“I know you’re a Sergeant, and that means you’re maybe three percent more likely to know anything … but are we finally being sent in?”

Murphy shrugged. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know anything. All I know is that as of tomorrow all passes are going to be suspended indefinitely. Even that much I’m not supposed to share.”

David sighed. “I’m not in a rush to die, but honestly … sitting around waiting to be of use is just ridiculous. Another month and I might go out of my mind.”

Murphy stopped. David did too, turning to face him. Murphy’s expression gave him pause. “And I’m terrified for the same reason. I hate not knowing what the point is of what we’re doing. But I’m scared.”

David was taken aback. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

“Don’t apologize. Christ, stop calling sir.” Murphy stalked away from him, rubbing the back of his neck. David followed him anyway, a few steps behind. Seeing the Sergeant terrified had him stone-cold sober.

It was June 3rd, 1944.

Chapter Fifteen

Elliot

All this training, and it’s sea sickness that’s going to do me in
, Elliot thought miserably as the boat tilted starboard again and he had to close his eyes against the lurching of his stomach. The troop ship that took them to England had been a piece of cake, not unlike a train really. This little skiff was rudely reminding him he was, as a matter of fact, on water.

There was a cold sweat on his skin, but everyone looked a little damp from the sea spray. He was breathing heavy but he had to or else he was going to throw up. Plus then the other men might think he was scared which, oddly, he wasn’t. He felt a troubling calmness, actually. Three years cleaning latrines and wandering the English countryside playing war games had led up to this. It wasn’t something to fear: it was just the inevitable conclusion of what they’d been meant to do.

But what a way to break your cherry.

The gunfire from the beach was already raining down around them, hitting the water and the sides of the boat with sounds only heard in movies. The destroyers out on deeper water were making a hell of a racket, with explosions sounding behind them and then again on that beige ridge where they blew sand and earth four stories in to the air.

With his eyes closed Elliot could focus on his breathing, but he couldn’t hear his heartbeat. It might have been racing but he wouldn’t know. All the men on the boat were completely silent. There was only the sound of destruction.

He felt the tension increase. When he opened his eyes he could see how close they were to shore. The body language of everyone around him reinforced it. Soon their landing ship would hit the sand, that ramp would drop, and they’d be on foot. The tanks would follow. He tried not to notice the eyes of his men turn to him, gauging his reaction. He tried to show nothing; tried to stay focused on where they were going.

A shot flew by close enough to feel. The man behind his left shoulder screamed and dropped to the wooden deck, hand to his neck. Blood was gushing between his fingers, but he was breathing.

Another man helped him to the back of the ship and he was forgotten immediately. The deck dropped in to water.  The first wave of men disembarked. He was in the second.

Icy water came up to his knees, and still he couldn’t feel bottom. He sank up to his chest, awake instantly, nausea forgotten. His legs pumped furiously, fighting sea water and wet sand to take him to the shore and up the embankment. He was panting by the time he dragged himself free.

The man in front of him took a bullet the second they were on dry land. He dropped to his knees, and Elliot knocked his knee on the unknown soldier’s helmet trying to avoid him as he ran. He kept his head up, looking for their targets. It wasn’t hard to find the pillbox: it was active and accurate. Another man was taken down to his right. Elliot kept going.
One foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other  …

At the sea wall he took cover and waited for the rest of the company to regroup and form a line. He recognized Clyde Walton on his left. Across from him the opposite way he could see Reinhold and Cleary as well. All eyes were back on him, he realized. Where the hell was Lieutenant Davidson?

No time to worry about it. They knew what they had to do.

There was no point in being sneaky. Armageddon was bellowing around them in gunfire and explosions. “With me, we go right,” he said to Walton. He pointed to the others further down. They were still paying attention. “Flank left!” He shouted best he could. His mouth was dry. He could feel electricity humming around him from Clark and the other men on his left. He looked at Walton. “You lead.” Over his left shoulder he told the rest of his little group, “Cover us.”

Which suddenly struck him as funny in a futile and ridiculous way. Those pillboxes had machine guns firing out from behind a solid wall of concrete. They had semi-automatic rifles and uniforms. But it couldn’t hurt.

Walton scrambled up quickly then was off at a fast-paced crouch, angling up the embankment to a dip in the grass. He sprawled out full as the machine gunner saw him. The men behind Elliot fired before the gunner could issue a shot. Elliot stayed on Walton’s heels as the machine gun decided to focus on the covering fire instead of them.

There was just enough room to lay flat on the chance of not being seen. He closed one eye, angling his Lee-Enfield at the pillbox opening. He could see the form of the soldiers inside. To him at that moment, they somewhat did resemble the silhouettes used at target practice.

He fired one shot and saw something fall. The machine gun stopped at that instant. He’d taken out the gunner. No victory; there would be more. But the remaining men on the beach he’d left to cover them took that instant to advance up the bank, finding a rock to take cover alongside as the machine gun stuttered back in to action, pointed Elliot and Walton’s way.

He buried his face in the sandy soil and he heard chunks of dirt being unearthed somewhere behind his toes. Dirt caught in his nose and throat, and that’s when he knew he was breathing through his mouth. He still wasn’t scared. If anything, this felt like scoring the overtime goal.

The men to the right were firing on the pillbox now. Walton and Elliot got to their feet and ran straight up at it. Elliot felt barbed wire pull at him before he actually saw it, but turning slightly sideways got him through it without hold up. He and Walton both hitting the concrete wall left of the machine gun just after it had swung around on them. Elliot grabbed at a grenade while Walton fired blindly in to the opening. He hit the second gunner and the gun fell quiet again, giving time for the others to reach the wall to the opposite side. The last guy got one pant leg tangled in the barbed wire, and started shouting frantically before the machine gun hit him. He slumped where he had stopped.

Elliot had five men with him now, all huddled against the ground, backs to the bunker face. One thing about bunkers: it was hard to shoot around corners. He could hear the German shouting inside. Perhaps they were trying to dismount the machine gun.

He held his grenade at the ready while the man opposite him did the same. In a surreal rock-paper-scissors motion they pulled the pins and tossed their grenades through the opening in perfect unison before hitting the dirt again, heads low. Elliot even remembered to plug his ears.

The percussion of the explosion shook the ground under them, and after a split second flakes of concrete rained down softly. Elliot could hear it hitting his helmet like heavy snow.  He raised his head slowly, peering up under his helmet. He looked back over his shoulder. Smoke was billowing from the pillbox, and he could hear shouting. Someone was hurt inside.

He rolled to his side, taking his rifle in hand again. Throughout the mayhem and artillery he heard a distance voice shouting, “Clear?”

He sprung to his feet, raised the rifle to the opening and fired wildly inside, blind. Then he ducked back to the flat wall, now a bit pock-marked. All the rounds it had taken had loosened the cement, and the explosion had erupted small craters in its facing. It almost felt like raw stone against his back. The air was smoke and gunpowder and sea air and green plant life … and blood.

“Clear!” He shouted back, his voice breaking from the smoke in his throat.  After a breath he heard a loud crash, shouting, and gunfire inside the pillbox. Then it was still. Elliot held his breath, and waited for a voice he recognized. It came quickly.

“Clear!”

He circled around the back of the bunker, arriving at the open door. “Take that thing and put it on the west window, fire on the next bunker.” Elliot shouted, and before he could finish they had the Maschinengewehr 34 moved and trained on a bunker further up the embankment. He left them for cover and the four that had followed him this far were behind him again as he waited at the rear of the bunker, waiting for signs of life around the second one.

“Where the hell’s everyone else?” Walton was asking him.

It didn’t matter. The more guns they shut down the better.

Elliot motioned one of the other men forward and let him take lead this time. They snuck the twenty yards to the new bunker, staying low. The bunker itself was a flurry of activity, but no one had seen them yet. They were focused on suppressive fire on the beach below.

All five of them made it to the bunker wall unseen. Elliot nodded for the other two to toss their grenades through the side window, and before long that bunker was silent except for the sounds of someone hurt or dying inside.

No waiting to see. Walton kicked the door in, and Elliot sprayed the inside with gun fire, putting slugs in to anything inside resembling a body.  He took cover outside again and waited, but once the sound of the shells falling stopped it was silent in that concrete box. No one was hurt inside, everyone was long gone.

They took over the machine gun inside that bunker, facing out the side window again just like the first one. Another group was advancing on the next bunker, but the back door was open and Elliot could see Germans running for it further up the bluff. He told Walton to take over the MG 34. He took the other three back out with him, and from then on it was like a shooting gallery. Germans were flooding for higher ground, and they shot them as they were retreating.

The five of them took a moment to pause where they were, looking down on the shoreline, safely behind the bunker. More and more men and equipment were hitting Juno Beach now. It was starting to look crowded. But at least they had tanks to hide behind.

“Holy shit,” the man next to Elliot whispered, and Elliot was shocked that he actually heard it. He turned to his right and realized it was David Cleary. He was glad to see him.

“Holy shit,” he agreed.

A sudden booming made them both duck, and dirt rained down on them from a mortar shell exploding a good 80 yards away. Cleary actually laughed. “Holy shit,” he repeated. “The Shermans are in it now.”

The point they were shelling was large strongpoint bunker, and the guns were still active inside. As they watched the shells fall, more gunfire came down towards their position, hitting the advancing infantry men below them.

“Break’s over,” Elliot muttered, and he motioned Cleary to the east side of the bunker. He went left, talking Walton and another nameless man with him. The other two followed Cleary.

He ducked low to the ground on one knee. He held his 303 at the ready, then took a deep breath and swung around the bunker corner. He scared the shit out of a German who was on the run down, and he caught him with a short burst right in the chest. He could hear Cleary opposite, and saw two more fall on the far side.

The men he’d left in the previous bunker heard their fire, and someone stepped out that doorway and took a couple more down himself. Elliot ducked back in to place, taking a steadying breath. Then he went back out, took one more down before he had to duck back as he drew fire.

“Switch,” he instructed Walton, and they traded positions. Elliot reloaded the 303 as Walton took pot shots at any advancing Germans that were surprised to see them this far up. To his left Cleary was trading places with the man next to him so he could reload, too. The MG 34 in the previous bunker joined in, cutting across the landscape at the rear of the bunker like ammunition exclamation points.

Beyond where Cleary crouched David noticed the back of the strongpoint, and the two Germans exiting to collect a wooden box from behind the bunker.

He didn’t second guess it. He raised his rifle, took aim, exhaled so his lungs were completely empty, and fired one shot. One German fell. He moved to the next and caught the Kraut in the arm as he ducked to avoid it.

Cleary cursed, since he was only about four feet from the sightline. He looked to the strongpoint then back to Elliot. “Holy shit, Sarge. Nice shot.”

Right then the man next to Cleary slumped over, his helmet rolling out in to the open.

“Check him,” Elliot said stupidly, and Cleary was already dragging the man back behind the concrete wall.

“Dead,” Cleary declared. He pulled the man all the way back behind the bunker and leaned him against the wall. His eyes were still open, half his temple gone.

Elliot had to look away, but Cleary took over for the dead man and was plugging away with his Lee-Enfield.

Right
, Elliot thought.
Time to get back to work.