![[Dept. 19 Files 03] The New Blood: 1919](https://fs.dianahicksbooks.com/607796/thumbs/152x264/dept-19-files-03-the-new-blood-1919.jpg)
HAMPSTEAD, LONDON
6 th JANUARY 1919
On the day that the course of his life changed forever, Captain Quincey Harker was sitting in his father’s study thinking about his friends, both living and dead.
After a week’s official rest and relaxation in Rome that had proved to be anything but restful or relaxing, Harker and the four members of his Special Reconnaissance Unit had made their way back to Britain aboard an ocean liner that had been converted into a troopship: her portholes blocked, her towering black and white hull painted grey, 12-pound and 4.7-inch guns bolted to her decks. They had spent Christmas Day somewhere in the southern Atlantic, steaming towards Southampton, and had toasted their fallen comrade, the man who was occupying Harker’s thoughts once again.
Quincey had been taken to London in his father’s Ford, after bidding farewell to his squad mates on the bustling dock, and immediately thrown headlong into a welcome-home dinner for which he had no appetite for whatsoever. He smiled his way through it, acknowledging each new toast with as much gratitude as he could muster, and excused himself as soon as it was appropriate to do so. The following morning he caught a train to Winchester, and knocked on the door of the house where Andrew Thorpe’s parents lived.
Their faces had crumpled with grief at the sight of him, but they had welcomed him in with a frenzy of hugs and tears. He had known them since he was twelve, since the first time he had accompanied his friend home from Eton for the weekend and found a generous warmth of hospitality entirely at odds with the reserved quiet of his parents’ home. The Thorpes’ house was always loud, and warm, and smelt wonderful; Elizabeth Thorpe’s dangerously moreish cakes and biscuits had been what had prompted her son to try out for the Eton football team, for fear of his waistline expanding further, where he and Harker had met for the very first time.
As Elizabeth busied herself in the kitchen, Harker joined Martin Thorpe in the living room. A small Christmas tree stood in one corner, decorated with silver balls and loops of gold tinsel. Two strings of cards hung either side of the fireplace and sprigs of holly lay on the mantelpiece, surrounding a black and white photograph of Lieutenant Andrew Thorpe.
“It’s good to see you, Quincey,” said Martin. “We prayed every day for you to be safe. Especially after…” The words died away and the older man’s eyes filled with tears.
“Thank you, sir,” said Harker, feeling a lump in his throat. “How are you holding up?”
“One has to get on,” said Thorpe. “Liz has been keeping busy, but then she always did, as you know. He’s been gone more than a year already, can you believe that?”
Harker nodded.
“The anniversary was a hard day, no two ways about it,” continued Thorpe. “But at least we have a gravestone to visit. So many families had nothing to bury, but we were able to say goodbye to him. I want to thank you for that, Quincey. For not leaving him behind. It meant the world to his mother and me.”
“He’d have done the same for me,” managed Harker, his heart heavy in his chest.
Martin Thorpe nodded. “He would. He loved you like a brother.”
“The feeling was mutual,” said Harker. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t bring him home to you safely. I’d give anything to change that.”
Thorpe smiled weakly at him. “We know that, Quincey. There wasn’t much left of his letters after the censors had done with them, but he told us how you looked after him and the rest of your men. We know you did everything you could.”
“I tried,” said Harker, feeling tears rise in the corners of his eyes. “My very hardest. I wish it had been enough.”
“Who’s for tea?” asked Liz Thorpe, bustling into the living room and putting a groaning tray of crockery and biscuits on to the low table before the fire. “Quincey, you’ll stay the night, yes? I’ve already made up the
6 th JANUARY 1919
On the day that the course of his life changed forever, Captain Quincey Harker was sitting in his father’s study thinking about his friends, both living and dead.
After a week’s official rest and relaxation in Rome that had proved to be anything but restful or relaxing, Harker and the four members of his Special Reconnaissance Unit had made their way back to Britain aboard an ocean liner that had been converted into a troopship: her portholes blocked, her towering black and white hull painted grey, 12-pound and 4.7-inch guns bolted to her decks. They had spent Christmas Day somewhere in the southern Atlantic, steaming towards Southampton, and had toasted their fallen comrade, the man who was occupying Harker’s thoughts once again.
Quincey had been taken to London in his father’s Ford, after bidding farewell to his squad mates on the bustling dock, and immediately thrown headlong into a welcome-home dinner for which he had no appetite for whatsoever. He smiled his way through it, acknowledging each new toast with as much gratitude as he could muster, and excused himself as soon as it was appropriate to do so. The following morning he caught a train to Winchester, and knocked on the door of the house where Andrew Thorpe’s parents lived.
Their faces had crumpled with grief at the sight of him, but they had welcomed him in with a frenzy of hugs and tears. He had known them since he was twelve, since the first time he had accompanied his friend home from Eton for the weekend and found a generous warmth of hospitality entirely at odds with the reserved quiet of his parents’ home. The Thorpes’ house was always loud, and warm, and smelt wonderful; Elizabeth Thorpe’s dangerously moreish cakes and biscuits had been what had prompted her son to try out for the Eton football team, for fear of his waistline expanding further, where he and Harker had met for the very first time.
As Elizabeth busied herself in the kitchen, Harker joined Martin Thorpe in the living room. A small Christmas tree stood in one corner, decorated with silver balls and loops of gold tinsel. Two strings of cards hung either side of the fireplace and sprigs of holly lay on the mantelpiece, surrounding a black and white photograph of Lieutenant Andrew Thorpe.
“It’s good to see you, Quincey,” said Martin. “We prayed every day for you to be safe. Especially after…” The words died away and the older man’s eyes filled with tears.
“Thank you, sir,” said Harker, feeling a lump in his throat. “How are you holding up?”
“One has to get on,” said Thorpe. “Liz has been keeping busy, but then she always did, as you know. He’s been gone more than a year already, can you believe that?”
Harker nodded.
“The anniversary was a hard day, no two ways about it,” continued Thorpe. “But at least we have a gravestone to visit. So many families had nothing to bury, but we were able to say goodbye to him. I want to thank you for that, Quincey. For not leaving him behind. It meant the world to his mother and me.”
“He’d have done the same for me,” managed Harker, his heart heavy in his chest.
Martin Thorpe nodded. “He would. He loved you like a brother.”
“The feeling was mutual,” said Harker. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t bring him home to you safely. I’d give anything to change that.”
Thorpe smiled weakly at him. “We know that, Quincey. There wasn’t much left of his letters after the censors had done with them, but he told us how you looked after him and the rest of your men. We know you did everything you could.”
“I tried,” said Harker, feeling tears rise in the corners of his eyes. “My very hardest. I wish it had been enough.”
“Who’s for tea?” asked Liz Thorpe, bustling into the living room and putting a groaning tray of crockery and biscuits on to the low table before the fire. “Quincey, you’ll stay the night, yes? I’ve already made up the
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