whiskey, eh?”
And something strange happened: the brown eyes looked right at him, first time in two solid days, and it looked as if he had something to say. Something real. Something not from a book. Jamie hesitated, then dislodged the strap, fearing if anything came out it would only come out Milton.
“Solitude sometimes is best society,” the captain whispered apologetically.
He felt a little jump —that was direct to him. Even if it came from the book, it was like real conversation, and he understood it. Maybe the man had been trying to communicate in Milton words all along. His own wits blasted out, the wits of Milton blasted in.
“It’s all right, mate. Sometimes . . . we can’t talk about things.” He couldn’t imagine losing his whole squad. Couldn’t imagine finding them blown to bloody ribbons. He’d go loony as the captain.
Brown eyes still with him, the captain whispered, “The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.”
“That it can.” He patted Milton’s arm.
The doctor drew near with a water-soaked rag and needle and thread. He laid these on the captain’s stomach, and knelt, with clear distaste, in the dirt. He removed the dirty bandages. He wiped the wound with the cleanest parts of the old dressing, tossed it aside, took the water-soaked rag and dabbed very gently at the gash. Even gentle movements released fresh blood. Jamie’s stomach roiled, and he wondered how the doctor would stitch up that dark mishmash. The doctor gestured to the captain’s rucksack, and Jamie retrieved another bandage roll.
Jamie thought he’d start right in with the needle and thread, butinstead, Jamie watched as he used his fingertips to apply delicate pressure on the skull near the wound, and then fan out incrementally all around the captain’s head; as he did so, he gazed off, and let his careful fingers do the seeing. He frowned, and didn’t say what the frown meant. Was the captain’s skull fractured? Like an egg, broken in place? The doctor finished the probing, wiped fresh blood, and reached for the needle and thread.
“Brace yourself, Cap’n.”
“Trial will come unsought,” the captain said, and took the strap between his teeth.
“That it will.” Boy, they were on a roll.
The doctor went to work.
Jamie very nearly did not come back.
He’d seen it all quite clearly. He’d just take off, track down his squad, and they’d make for Dunkirk together. He saw the reunion in his head. I was hoping we were shut of you! Look what Hitler threw back, lads! He’d tell his tale, they’d tell theirs, and they’d be on their way.
But could he tell them he’d left a wounded man?
It made cold sense to leave the wounded. Jamie could fight, Milton could not, and by the look of things, England would need every man she could get once they rallied from this first blood.
He didn’t know why he came back. Only, he couldn’t imagine what an enemy would do with a babbling man like this, a man just now starting to communicate, a man stuck inside a rotten, battered cage. Jamie was just now starting to crack the Milton code.
What in me is dark, illumine: Why did I survive, and not my men?
What is low, raise and support: Someone out there . . . help.
He sat beside the captain, his back to the doctor’s work, and waited.
WHAT MURRAY LIKED best about the movie Beau Geste was the way the sand blew over the dune in the opening scene, revealing the film’s title. Thrilled him every time. Now that’s art, he’d say to whoever sat next to him at the Palladium.
When Murray first saw Maggie Bright at her berth on the Thames dock, it was as if sand blew over the dune.
Good to see you, Mags, he called out in his heart.
Little Miss Chatty Clare was all fluttery and proud and saying something, but Murray set down his bags on the dock and went to work ’cause oh, she hollered to be drawn.
He pulled out a pad of sketch paper from the side pocket of his
And something strange happened: the brown eyes looked right at him, first time in two solid days, and it looked as if he had something to say. Something real. Something not from a book. Jamie hesitated, then dislodged the strap, fearing if anything came out it would only come out Milton.
“Solitude sometimes is best society,” the captain whispered apologetically.
He felt a little jump —that was direct to him. Even if it came from the book, it was like real conversation, and he understood it. Maybe the man had been trying to communicate in Milton words all along. His own wits blasted out, the wits of Milton blasted in.
“It’s all right, mate. Sometimes . . . we can’t talk about things.” He couldn’t imagine losing his whole squad. Couldn’t imagine finding them blown to bloody ribbons. He’d go loony as the captain.
Brown eyes still with him, the captain whispered, “The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.”
“That it can.” He patted Milton’s arm.
The doctor drew near with a water-soaked rag and needle and thread. He laid these on the captain’s stomach, and knelt, with clear distaste, in the dirt. He removed the dirty bandages. He wiped the wound with the cleanest parts of the old dressing, tossed it aside, took the water-soaked rag and dabbed very gently at the gash. Even gentle movements released fresh blood. Jamie’s stomach roiled, and he wondered how the doctor would stitch up that dark mishmash. The doctor gestured to the captain’s rucksack, and Jamie retrieved another bandage roll.
Jamie thought he’d start right in with the needle and thread, butinstead, Jamie watched as he used his fingertips to apply delicate pressure on the skull near the wound, and then fan out incrementally all around the captain’s head; as he did so, he gazed off, and let his careful fingers do the seeing. He frowned, and didn’t say what the frown meant. Was the captain’s skull fractured? Like an egg, broken in place? The doctor finished the probing, wiped fresh blood, and reached for the needle and thread.
“Brace yourself, Cap’n.”
“Trial will come unsought,” the captain said, and took the strap between his teeth.
“That it will.” Boy, they were on a roll.
The doctor went to work.
Jamie very nearly did not come back.
He’d seen it all quite clearly. He’d just take off, track down his squad, and they’d make for Dunkirk together. He saw the reunion in his head. I was hoping we were shut of you! Look what Hitler threw back, lads! He’d tell his tale, they’d tell theirs, and they’d be on their way.
But could he tell them he’d left a wounded man?
It made cold sense to leave the wounded. Jamie could fight, Milton could not, and by the look of things, England would need every man she could get once they rallied from this first blood.
He didn’t know why he came back. Only, he couldn’t imagine what an enemy would do with a babbling man like this, a man just now starting to communicate, a man stuck inside a rotten, battered cage. Jamie was just now starting to crack the Milton code.
What in me is dark, illumine: Why did I survive, and not my men?
What is low, raise and support: Someone out there . . . help.
He sat beside the captain, his back to the doctor’s work, and waited.
WHAT MURRAY LIKED best about the movie Beau Geste was the way the sand blew over the dune in the opening scene, revealing the film’s title. Thrilled him every time. Now that’s art, he’d say to whoever sat next to him at the Palladium.
When Murray first saw Maggie Bright at her berth on the Thames dock, it was as if sand blew over the dune.
Good to see you, Mags, he called out in his heart.
Little Miss Chatty Clare was all fluttery and proud and saying something, but Murray set down his bags on the dock and went to work ’cause oh, she hollered to be drawn.
He pulled out a pad of sketch paper from the side pocket of his
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