They should have known reaching the German coast wouldn't be as easy as it sounded. No sooner, it seemed, had they bunked down for the night, when the message was circulated that German U-boats were slipping in and out of radar range. If this was going to work, they were going to have to stay completely out of sight…which meant doubling back.

It still wasn't enough. Before long they were being tailed, and quickly gained upon. Their only chance of continuing the mission would be to attempt a landing on the coast of France. Before the U-boat caught them.

The wind sliced across the deck of the ship, sending shivers through the huddled figures at the railing. It was three in the morning, and a patchy rain had set in. Distant lights only barely marked the coastline. Peter still couldn't tell how they were to make it to land. He soon found out.

Soldiers were being filed into small, quiet-motored boats that had been lowered on one side. In the unsettled conditions, they were quickly soaked to the skin, and a few were even seasick. The only difference between land and water was glittering black and impenetrable black. Then, in an impossibly short amount of time, all hell broke loose.

There was a loud thump from one of the nearby boats, and the distress flare burst into dazzling life, just clearing the side before pitching into the freezing water. It was only visible for a second or two, but that was all it took.

Shouts erupted from the shore, closely followed by the flash and pop of gunfire, almost right in front of them. Caught! Soon shouts of pain and terror from the English soldiers, trapped in the boats, joined the ruckus. Someone close to Peter was hit; warm wetness splashed across his face and uniform. Bullets zipped around his own head. Everything was dissolving into chaos—light stabbing the darkness, splashes, screams, the occasional heavier explosion, the coppery smell of blood.

"Ahhh!"

Pain lanced through his neck and shoulder. It didn't seem to be a hit, but already the rough fabric of his shirt was sticking to the spot. If they didn't reach cover soon, they were all dead men.

As if some unseen force heard Peter, the front of the boat struck rock. The craggy coastline rose before them. Immediately, those who were able scrambled for the many holes and crevasses that could shield them from the onslaught. Only the injured who could make themselves heard were assisted.

"They can't possibly make it all the way down here to search for us," Geoff gasped. He was miraculously unhurt, but he was applying pressure to the leg wound of another.

"Some, secret mission," muttered Peter. "Half the German army's going to know we're here now."

"We're all going to die, aren't we? The army just sent us as a distraction to lure them away from the real attack," one of the other young soldiers rambled hysterically. It was one of Peter's tormentors from the university.

"We'll just have to prove them wrong," Peter retorted. "Tend to wounds as best you can. Then we'll organize watches for the rest of the night, and survey the damage once it's light. Hopefully others have found suitable shelter as well."

Heads nodded, or what he could see of them. A couple of the injured still moaned in pain, but otherwise, all had gone eerily quiet. Shouts and machine guns no longer rang out outside the cave.

I've never felt so alone, thought Peter.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

For those who actually managed to sleep, morning greeted them with cold and stiffness. There were six of them in the cave, counting one who hadn't survived the night. Four of them had minor wounds, but nothing was to be seen of the remaining ten that had been in the tiny boat with them.

"What now?" asked Perkins, the university student who had spoken last night.

"Do you think any of the others made it?" Geoff chimed in. "I mean, there were four boats."

Peter shrugged, then winced. He'd somehow managed to forget about his own injury. "I hope so, though there's no way to tell unless we check it out." He bit his lip as his collar pulled itself away from the wound.

"Are you okay? You didn't mention you were injured last night."

Before he could protest, Geoff had Peter's pack unloaded and his left shoulder out of his shirt sleeve. A fair gash had been torn into the skin, not two inches from his jugular. Part of it was now bleeding again.

"It's nothing…" Peter's mind had already filled with images of bodies strewn around the rocks. But Geoff set him down firmly and began to apply a field dressing.

"This might be bad enough to need stitches—and you were going to keep it a secret?" his best friend grumbled. "We haven't even been out of England an entire—"

"Shh!"

Peter sat absolutely still, holding his arms out to silence the others. Scraping sounds could be heard outside the cave. Footsteps.

"I was sure I saw one of the boats make land here…" a low voice said.

Peter jumped up; he knew the voice of Captain Wyle. It surprised the other men so that they immediately tried to hold him down. The sudden pressure caused him to cry out in pain.

Several hushed voices spoke as they neared the cave opening. Recognizing them all as speaking English, Geoff ventured to meet them.

"We're in here, or at least some of us," he answered in the same quiet tone.

Captain Wyle appeared, followed by what seemed to be a fair group of men, though Peter couldn't see them all. Some were injured, most were still able to fight if needed.

"Six in all. One died during the night. But the rest of us are still fit, for the most part. Pevensie here's been a little reluctant towards treatment."

Wyle studied Peter, who was still halfway out of his shirt, bandage exposed. Peter returned his gaze with steady determination born of his years as High King. This was no time to be sitting idly and nursing wounds. Either they were going to try to escape, or continue the mission.

"I think the boy's had all the treatment he needs," the Captain decided with a smile. "Your boat must have been the furthest west. We still have about 30 fit men. There's an emergency rendezvous point just 20 miles from here, along the coast, if my memory serves me right. First we need to assist the injured that need evacuating, and then the rest can split up into groups of ten to continue east. This is as real as it's ever going to get. We'll have to leave the dead. Let's get our bearings and move out."

Only 30 fit men…half of us dead, injured, or missing… Peter's mind was numb. He'd faced losses in Narnia, but it still left him in shock to have known so many, and then have them gone. His other former tormentor was among them. Suddenly the whole idea of war became more personal than he ever could have imagined. He could very possibly die all alone.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The outpost was even more depressing, if that was possible. It embodied only the barest sense of organization, and general heightened tension. A well-disguised field hospital teemed with activity as soldiers were brought in, helped out to emergency transports run by sympathetic locals, and—Peter swallowed hard—occasionally carried out and around between the hospital and communications.

He knew he didn't want to look, and yet couldn't seem to resist glancing through the narrow space when they passed. Shockingly close were rows of the dead waiting to be buried, some grotesquely disfigured.

"There's a mess tent on the far side of the hospital; get a hot meal and rest your feet while I brief the commanders," Captain Wyle said grimly. "Get those who need it to a doctor."

A fair number of soldiers were taking their lunch, some still sporting bandages or other signs of injury. The overall tone of the place was somber.

"What's happened?" Geoff ventured to ask one man as they sat down.

"Jerry ship snuck up on some nearby outposts. Hit them pretty hard. We haven't even started receiving survivors from one or two yet. I only made it because I was on a supply run." The soldier stared at his tin plate. "I was heading for Quarry Post, the one that was hit the hardest. Most of the commanders are dead."

Peter's heart leapt into his throat. "Quarry Post? How often did you run supplies? Do you know a sergeant by the name of Pevensie?"

"Only by reputation. Ran a tight post," replied the soldier. "But like I said, I didn't make it there because of the attack. I just know that it was devastating."

"Where are you going?" Geoff asked through a mouthful of food. Peter didn't answer. He didn't know where he was going, or what he thought, or how the heck he'd gotten there. It didn't matter. All that stuck in his mind was that his dad's last known location was a compound that by now was probably demolished.

Making his way through the latest evacuees, including his own comrades, Peter found himself abruptly at the edge of the makeshift graveyard. He promptly turned around. It was too easy to picture his dad as one of the mangled, empty-eyed corpses.

Overhead, a strange whine grew above the general noises of the outpost. Peter looked up.

"Planes!" someone nearby shouted. Everywhere soldiers began to run for cover. Right on cue, Luftwaffe planes appeared over the trees, machine guns spitting.

The result was absolute pandemonium. Some soldiers made a run for the transportation that could return them to England, others for the nearby town in hopes of sanctuary. As Peter himself started running, his comrades came bolting out of the mess tent.

"What's going on? Are we under attack?" yelled Geoff. Time seemed to slow down for Peter. Geoff was running toward him, just as a planes rose above the nearby trees. Peter could only watch as first dirt, then blood, sprayed around his best friend. Then the momentum of the body knocked him to the ground, shielded from the onslaught of the passing plane.

He couldn't remain in the open like this, not after seeing the frozen shock on Geoff's face. The town was only a few hundred feet away now. Untangling himself from the corpses around him, Peter sprinted for his life.

A new whistle joined the din, until it burst into an explosion of dirt and rubble just ahead of him. Bombs! So they were attacking the town, too. Even so, there was greater protection among the buildings than in the field…hopefully. Explosives continued to rain down from the sky. Debris pelted Peter's clothes and skin, some pieces large enough to actually hurt. He dove between two shops as a last-ditch effort. This time he wasn't so lucky.

Some type of heavy artillery hit one of the shops he was using for cover. Before he could react, brick and mortar showered his head and back. Everything went black.