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+ KVP
.:: Renégat ::.
It was a risk, he knew that, and he knew that well.
Gibson had already realized it when he followed the Englishman's heels, but what harm could it do? Nothing. Taking this chance still meant reducing the risk many times over of dying on the beach, his chances of survival increased—although he risked being recognized as a French deserter and shot, as paradoxical as that might be! But sometimes…
Sometimes you had to do what you had to do, regardless of the consequences; and that was exactly what he had done. Perhaps it helped to have saved the lives of other, real British soldiers, even if it only struck him as a drop in a bucket and not like something that has any significant value and endurance in reality. Or even before a court-martial would, should it come to that. At least it was clear how to deal with deserters. In this regard, all nations appeared to be the same.
The wind kept biting through the strange, damp uniform, under which his skin had long since gone cold, cold like that of the dead, naked soldier he had buried on the beach. But it didn't matter because he had made it. He was in one of the boats that carried soldiers away from the beach and to one of the ships that crossed the canal. In a few hours, he would be safe with the Englishman and the other soldier who had stayed with them since the ship sank at the pier.
Tommy and Alex.
Just because he didn't speak their language didn't mean he was stupid. At least not stupid enough not to listen and not understand what names they called themselves. He had merely given up on introducing himself. It was for the best, after all, just to shut up until he was on English soil—and he was well on his way there. Especially after he had climbed the waiting ship in the crowd of the others. He had been able to hold on; he hadn't crashed, or gotten stuck and... He didn't want to think about that! He drifted for a few steps, blindly following the steps of the others together with Tommy and Alex, until... No!
His heart skipped a proverbial beat.
Under no circumstances would he allow himself to go below deck with the others.
No matter how seductive the scent of hot tea and sweet jam wafted from inside the ship, he would not, could not, allow himself to enter! That would be tantamount to being approached by a gunman at pointblank and that... and besides... The young woman at the hatch were so busy guiding the men with blankets and the prospect of tea and toast into the warmth that it was easier to resist. The moment of shock that he still expected slipped past, and he stayed on deck, in the cold, rough darkness between spray and metal. It was easy to squeeze along the wall, to stay in the shadows that seemed to devour everything out there that wasn't in close proximity to a source of light, including himself.
He found a niche in which to stand and in which he was not exposed to the wind without protection. It wasn't much, but it had to be enough to avoid getting sick during the crossing, he decided; and if he did contract something, then in England he would surely be put in a hospital first and kept in bed. Maybe he would then even be so hoarse that he could not even speak and then... He instinctively held his breath, when a man hurried by, but the sailor didn't even notice him, and if he did, then he probably thought he was just another soldier who had just come on board and not a French deserter.
With a wind-choked sigh, Gibson turned his gaze to where the horizon was only visible at night because of the flames.
Europe was on fire.
France, Belgium, the Netherlands—they had all been overrun by the Germans.
There was no longer a home to return to. It was on fire now, if it had not long since turned to ashes and ruins. Perhaps there was no country left that he could have betrayed, possibly... No home would come to his rescue, no one would come, because everyone who could come was where the land was devoured by torch marches and murderous fires.
He shuddered under the strange uniform and it went through his marrow and bone. He was lost one way or another. France was lost, his mother, his siblings... Only a bold bite on the lip made him hold back his tears because he had joined the army to protect, not only his country, but above all the people he loved and now... today... The red-orange blaze against the night sky under the pitch-black clouds of smoke made only one thing clear: failure.
For the English, however, home had come. They had never really been gone. Their ships were anchored off the coast, just waiting to bring the men home.
And him with them.
Him for whom no one would wait anymore.
Shivering, he wrapped his arms around his upper body, keeping his eyes on the wall of flames, which would probably be the last thing he saw of his beloved home. The last sight, like a beacon of transience into the nowhere of human hatred.
The deck began to shake beneath his feet as the engines started, doors slammed, and voices heightened in volume. Heavy boots clattered on iron planks, and he closed his eyes in surrender for a few seconds. So that was it. That... He opened them again, had finally taken his eyes off the hell on the mainland—and saw the next obstacle inevitably rushing towards the rescue ship; and someone shouted:
"TORPEDO!"