Waging War (42 page)

Archer’s gasping quieted a little. “My
lung’s torn, and the tissue’s trying to close, but there’s still a
bullet in me. I won’t heal until it’s out.

“Then we ‘ave to get it out.”

Oh God. I quickly unsheathed one of my
daggers and wiped it down as much as possible with the edge of my
shirt. The germs didn’t really matter because they couldn’t kill
him, but the tenets of modern hygiene don’t just disappear in the
face of reason. I offered it to Ringo, handle first, but he shook
his head. “Too big.”

Crap. I wasn’t in the habit of carrying
scalpels with me. I patted my pockets as if I was doing a key
check, and realized I had Sanda’s little knife tucked into my back
pocket. I pulled that out and flicked it open for Ringo. He studied
it for a second, then nodded and took it from me.

“Sit in front of ‘im and ‘old ‘im upright.
Keep ‘is eyes on ye so ‘e doesn’t move.”

“When did you learn to do surgery?” I asked
Ringo, when what I really wanted to say was,
why couldn’t Connor
or Mr. Shaw have been here
?

“Saira,” he said to me in a voice that
brooked no argument, “do as I say.”

Rachel moved into the spot I vacated when I
crawled around to the front of Archer. He gave me a sort of weak
half-smile with a raised eyebrow that said
when did he get so
bossy
? as loudly as if Archer had spoken the words. I loved him
for that.

“I think I need to straddle your lap to keep
you upright. Is that okay?” I whispered to him.

“I think pain might just keep me preoccupied
enough to manage it without embarrassing myself.” His pulse was
thready, and I could see it stuttering in his neck. I climbed onto
him and wrapped my legs around either side, then used my arms under
his to help support his body. In any other situation it would have
been a very intimate pose, but all I could concentrate on at the
moment was feeling Archer breathe and not letting him move.

“Right, now, ‘old very still.” Ringo moved
in very close to Archer’s back, and I could feel the heat from the
candle against my arm as I remembered something.

“Wait! Rachel, check Archer’s coat. He
sometimes carries an extra torch on him for me.”

I could feel Archer smile against my neck.
“Anything for you,” he whispered. My heart hammered in my chest. He
sounded weaker and a little delirious. “Quickly,” I breathed.

She rummaged around in his bloody coat then
held up a small Maglite. I grinned and held my hand out for it so I
could twist it on. “Nicked it from my bag, did you?” I asked
Archer.

“Seemed sensible.”

When I handed the Maglite back to Rachel,
she was clearly fascinated by the size and modernity of the torch,
but she held it rock steady as close to Archer’s back as she could
get it without impeding Ringo’s knife hand.

“Right. Archer, I’m goin’ to ‘ave to cut ye
a bit more so I can dig the bullet out. ‘Ang on to yer wife and
don’t move.”

He rested his forehead against mine, and our
gazes locked. The word ‘wife’ had made him smile, but the smile
became grim determination as Ringo opened the hole in Archer’s
back. His breathing faltered and his eyes closed against the
pain.

“Stay with me, Archer. Don’t shut me out,” I
whispered fiercely.

His eyes opened and found mine again, but he
didn’t speak. Ringo was focused on the bullet in Archer’s back, and
Rachel’s whole world was holding the light for him. Archer was
clenching his teeth and trying not to twist away from the pain,
while I used every ounce of muscle control to keep him completely
still.

Something in Ringo’s face shifted. “Ah, got
it.” The sound of something metal pinging against the wood floor
released all the tension in the moment. “I don’t have a needle to
stitch it— but it seems to be closin’ on its own now.” Ringo
sounded exhausted, but I didn’t break my eye contact with Archer to
look at him.

Archer looked as tired as Ringo sounded, but
the pulse in his neck was beating strongly again, and his breathing
had calmed. “You okay?” I asked him in a whisper.

He nodded, finally allowing his eyes to
close. “Thank you.” He took a couple of deep breaths, then sat up
straight without my help and looked at Ringo.

“Thank you, my friend.”

There was a smear of blood on Ringo’s cheek
where he’d wiped his face, and he was trying to clean the blood
smears off his hands with Archer’s ruined shirt. “Ye’re
welcome.”

“Ringo, be careful with the blood,” I said,
concerned that even rubbing his skin could cause an abrasion that
would let the virus in.

I looked behind Archer to where Rachel was
still holding the torch aimed at Archer’s back. She stared at it,
and I imagined that the wound would have closed itself by now. I
climbed off Archer’s lap, though his hand twitched as if to keep me
there, and knelt beside Rachel. She seemed a little dazed when she
looked at me, and I gently took the flashlight from her hand. “Do
you have water?” I asked quietly.

She nodded and brought Ringo a bowl of water
and a cloth. She wet the cloth and handed it to him, and then
returned her gaze to Archer’s back. “He will heal?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“He has already.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

Just then, shouting rose up from the village
square, and I immediately twisted the Maglite off. Rachel doused
the candle and shoved the bowl of water under a table. It took a
moment for our eyes to adjust to the moonlight, and when the voices
came closer, Rachel whispered to us. “Come.”

I kicked the bloody scraps of fabric under
the table, and Ringo helped Archer to his feet. He wasn’t steady,
and the hard breathing came back, but resting in the middle of the
floor wasn’t an option with SS soldiers outside.

Rachel waited for us at a wardrobe in the
back of the barn that I now realized housed the garage in front and
Rachel’s living space in the back. But instead of opening the
wardrobe like a door, she pulled it straight down to reveal a
Murphy bed. As clever as the design was, and as much as Archer
needed to rest, I didn’t think a bed was in any of our futures. But
then she slid the headboard panel open, climbed up on the bed, and
jumped down to the other side of the wall.

“She wins,” Ringo said under his breath. I
smiled because I knew he was talking about his collection of hidden
room designs. I went next, and Ringo supported Archer as he climbed
onto the bed, and came through to the other side. Rachel had Ringo
grab a rope at the end of the bed and toss it to her. Then, when he
had climbed through, too, they hauled the bed back into its upright
position, and Rachel cut the rope so no one would find it if they
pulled down the bed. Then she carefully slid the headboard closed,
and the space went completely dark.

This cupboard behind the bed was only about
three feet deep, and it was the length of the wall in the bedroom.
Whoever had built the false wall had left enough space for two
people to lie down, or four people to sit with our backs to the
outer wall. I helped Archer to the ground and then sat next to him
so he could use my lap as a pillow. He laid on his uninjured
shoulder and faced away from me, and my hand trailed through his
hair, absently stroking it off his face. Ringo sat on the other
side of me, and Rachel crouched down next to him with her ear to
the false wall.

I clutched Ringo’s hand. “Thank you.”

He didn’t say anything for a long moment,
just held my hand lightly. Then he squeezed it and let go. “Were ye
still in the church when the shootin’ started?”

My voice caught in my throat. “Yes,” I
whispered.

“It’s where they took Marianne and Marcel,
yeah?”

“They were alive when we left. Bas had
them.” Guilt punched me in the gut.

“It’s where Archer got shot?”

I nodded and then realized he couldn’t see
me in the pitch black. “Yes.” I had to swallow hard to keep the
tears down where they stayed invisible.

“Just like ‘is vision?”

“Mostly. Except for Marianne and Marcel. And
Tom.”

“
Tom
was there?” Ringo said in
surprise.

“Yeah.” I didn’t elaborate. I couldn’t. We
had come here to find him and take him home, but when the shooting
started, I’d left him without a backward glance.

Ringo was silent for a long moment, and when
he spoke again, the bitterness surprised me. “They might ‘ave been
alright if I ‘adn’t gone for them.”

Rachel’s whisper surprised me. “No, they
took everyone from the farms. They would have found your friends
with or without you.” I could feel her tense suddenly. “Sssshhh!
They’re in the garage,” she whispered.

Rachel, Ringo, and I went utterly still as
if our lives depended on our silence. Archer’s breathing had gone
quiet, and I knew he was out to give his body a chance to repair
itself. My hand rested lightly on his hair, and one small part of
me felt peace that he was here, safe, on my lap.

Something crashed to the floor in the main
room of the barn, then shuffling and footsteps in the bedroom.
Another crash, this time closer, and then the Murphy bed was
opened.

Not even my heart beat as a tiny seam of
light shone through the false wall. One of the soldiers told the
others it was all clear in the room, and then he pushed the bed
back into place.

My heart gave a giant thump and then settled
back into an elevated and amplified rhythm I was sure could be
heard in the main room.

There was more yelling in German as soldiers
herded people into the room and told them to lie down on the floor.
No one was talking back anymore, and the silence from the Frenchmen
was more frightening than the anger and yelling had been in the
village square.

After about ten more minutes of shuffling
and orders to lie still, the main room was silent.

I thought the SS soldiers had made the
French lie down so they could get out without reprisals. I thought
the soldiers had gone, and I began to relax.

Until the shooting started.

Whatever breath had been in my body got
tangled up in the horror of what was happening on the other side of
the wall. My heart slammed in my chest, knocking the air out of it,
and every scream of every person in the barn felt like a gut
punch.

Ringo grabbed my hand and gripped it, hard,
and I could hear Rachel sobbing silently into his shoulder. When
the sobs began to wrack her, he let go of me and wrapped both arms
around her to try to quiet her. Archer didn’t move from my lap, and
my fingers wove through his hair in a pattern I could repeat
without thinking – so I could stop thinking. Anything to stop
thinking.

I began a mental chant of every medicinal
plant I knew, with all their properties and purposes. And then
moved on to medicinal recipes for burns and cuts, vomiting, and
fever. Since I was there anyway, I started making up my own recipes
for lotions and creams, lip balm and shampoo, and even something I
thought would work pretty well on a rash.

The whole time I wove my fingers through
Archer’s hair in the same pattern every time.

Eventually, the shooting stopped. And then
Rachel’s silent sobs turned into the barest gasp and sniffle. And
then the footsteps faded away, and finally the noise of jeeps began
to disappear. And all that was left was the sound of four hearts
still beating, and four people still breathing.

I carefully pulled the Maglite out of my
pocket and covered the business end with the palm of my hand before
I clicked it on. The dull orange of the light shining into my skin
was even too bright, and I winced away from the tiny sliver of
light. Rachel covered her face with her hands, but Ringo looked
right at me with dull and empty eyes.

“Yer not goin’ out there,” he whispered.

I shook my head. “No. None of us are.”

“What if—” he began.

“No. The only thing we can do is get out
alive. If we do that, we can tell the story. If we die, the truth
dies with us.”

Ringo looked at Rachel, then at Archer. “Do
ye need somethin’ to draw with?”

I pulled the bit of chalk rock I’d saved
from the church out of my pocket and reached up above my head to
the wall behind me. I closed my eyes and began to draw from
memory.

“Move in close,” I whispered. I clutched
Archer with my free hand, and Ringo snaked one arm behind my back.
He put the other one around Rachel and brought her to his
chest.

The humming began with the second spiral,
and my mind began to drift to places of safety. I thought of
Archer’s secret lair at St. Bridgid’s, and his hideaway behind the
library at Bletchley Park. I thought of my room at Elian Manor, and
of the Edwards’ cottage kitchen where they used to live. But
ultimately, the choice was all about finishing this so we could go
home, and I chose the one place in London I hoped we would find
safe haven no matter what.

And then we Clocked out of France.

Tom – Oradour-sur-Glane – June 10, 1944