ITALY - American 5th Army Infantry - Advancing, North of Naples, bound for Gustav Line - "What'n tarnation am I lookin' at this for?" Captain Fred Otto exclaimed. It was somewhat unusual for dead bodies to be brought directly into command tents.
"Cap'n, Sir, found this limey just outside the boundaries of the last skirmish, Sir," the staff sergeant who accompanied the corpse on the stretcher explained.
The man indeed, appeared to be British in derivation, his insignia worn under the reverse of his (non-uniform) shirt collar. So, SIS most likely; escaped POW, possibly.
"What's he doin' in civvies?" Otto asked.
"Dunno, Sir."
"And why'm'I looking at him, and not his own people?"
The staff sergeant nodded to one of the stretcher-bearers who gently peeled back the lapel of the Brit's outer coat - through the front of which he had been shot dead - revealing a bulky package that had taken on more than its share of the man's lifeblood. Even so, the writing on the (originally) brown packing paper was yet boldly legible: Captain Fred Otto, US 5th Army, and then the number of his specific infantry division as additional distinction.
Fred let out with a colorful swear, accepting the damp packet into his hands. He had it open momentarily, all the proof he needed that the gent had been British Intelligence in his two, now also bloodied, hands.
'Otto,' the note enclosed began, 'please accept these, somewhat dubiously knitted by my mother-in-law, formerly known to the public as the Baroness Woodvale, now, I am told, at the local canteen where she has volunteered her time (and sketchy talent for fancy needlecraft) she is more commonly addressed as, 'Edith'. A familiarity with which, I will remark, she has yet to permit me as her son-in-law to employ. Do wear them in the best health. I continue to work on tracking down some of these superior Kentucky cigarettes for you. V for victory, and all that, Stoker'.
Fred withdrew the pair of hand-knitted over-the-calf socks. They, too, were dismayingly bloodied. With one hand he returned the letter and packaging to the staff sergeant with orders to take it, along with the corpse, to the nearest British field office for their review, in case Stoker had hidden any coded messages for his countrymen within; and orders to encourage the Brits (as he knew they would) to closely search the dead messenger, who may well be yet carrying other, less obvious packets of far-greater importance.
With his other hand he strung up each of the socks on the back of a nearby camp chair to dry out.
Fall, nineteen-forty-three on the Italian Front. It would take something far worse than the stain another man's blood to make him turn up his nose at a pair of new, warm socks.
SARK - Of a twilight-to-evening, La Salle's barnyard seemed to call to the unit. Perhaps it was the unspoken fear they each shared that the day might well be coming when they were either incarcerated by their enemy, or forced to hide indoors for fear of imminent discovery. So the open air, the cool air, even, of an October evening coming-on was welcome to the lungs of all.
The path directly up and into the barn, kept free of manure, the earth there grassless and hardened with foot-traffic, tended to be the place they would congregate, some lying on their backs on the ground (some nights on the hay cart pulled out from within for just such a use) to examine the sky and stars, others occupying the flat tops of rolled out casks or barrels as makeshift seats.
Nearly always Robin leaned, never one to sit when he might stand. Tonight, always at least three sets of eyes were attuned to the horizon, each man hoping to sight Allen first.
On such nights the opening order of business usually tended toward lengthy silence. The second, a subdued inventory of what tobacco each member of the unit might currently possess - and in what form.
Ever taking stock of the weather, former sailor Royston, with his preternatural ability called out to the others that the overnight would likely see rain, possibly even a storm or two.
Over by the open barn doors the flier Carter sat, trying to process what his day, his recent escape had wrought. He was in as close a proximity to Oxley as he had ever been for any extended period of time. "Perhaps I should simply let him take a run at me," Carter mused in low tones to the Gypsy boy, whom he had begun to notice was never far from his side.
Djak did not understand the accurate meaning of the idiom. "How so?"
"Well," Carter spoke less guardedly than he would have to someone he felt was his equal, someone he did not presume was a young boy, their conversation in Russian safely untranslatable by the others. "If we fought, say, to the death..."
At this, Djak scoffed, but did not dismiss the notion as a way to settle matters between the two men. "You are hungrier for battle than he is, surely, but he hates you more."
Slowly, Carter responded. "True, I think."
"If his wife were here," Djak assured him, believing it, recalling Marion's no-nonsense handling of Robin, "she would settle him."
"You think?" Carter stifled a smirk. He had not yet gotten around to explaining to the boy that Marion and Oxley were not, in point of fact, wed.
The first sounds of a night in the countryside were coming on, like an orchestra tuning up.
"What's that you two are on about?" John required to know.
Carter's eyes flicked over to where Oxley stood. Easy enough to tell a lie. And yet he didn't. Addressing Robin, not John, he said, "I was telling the boy that you can kill me."
Wills and Royston shifted in their posture. Royston's face flush with the hope of excitement, perhaps a round of fisticuffs - of what might come next. Wills' cautious with dread, but prepared to intervene, his mind torn from its present planning and puzzle-solving.
Oxley's eyes narrowed at Carter's speaking directly to him. "And why would I do that?" Robin asked, coolly.
"If what I have done is so unforgivable to you, so unfathomable, so irredeemable, then do away with me." Carter stood, his arms held out in a type of supplication, of invitation. "No one needs to know I was here." He took a hand and threw it out toward the still seated Gypsy boy, who pulled the long fisherman's knife that had once been Dick Giddons' from somewhere on her person, and laid its grip in Carter's waiting, open palm.
Carter's fingers took quick possession of it, and before even John could make a move to prevent him, he thrust it like a lightning bolt (indeed, with the same authority some unknown god might thrust a lightning bolt) into the hard-packed earth at Robin's feet. Very near to Robin's feet.
Without flinching, without letting his gaze even acknowledge the knife produced for the proposed task, Robin jerked his head to indicate the boy Djak. "And what says the boy of this plan?"
Carter turned his head around to see.
Djak looked up at him, then over to Robin.
Carter shrugged. "His culture would tell him that if we fight and you lose, I am become rom baro. Big Man of the clan."
"And do you expect to lose?" John forbiddingly cut in, moving to stand, afraid he might need to alter his original assessment of the RAF pilot as a friendly.
Robin over-spoke him, stepping upon John's unnecessary challenge. "And your culture," he reminded RAF Flight Commander Thomas Carter of his allegiance to His Majesty's forces and their code of conduct, "would tell you that it is a grave crime to attack a superior officer."
Carter knew he had no desire to overthrow Robin, or his authority, only to lance the boil that had been festering between the two of them - one way, or the other. "Very well, I will not fight back. Do what you must. But let there be an end to it here."
At this, Robin cast his head down, hiding his eyes (and therefore his intent) from view.
Wills watched, tense with uncertainty as Robin bent at the waist first, then at the knee, squatting to pry the fisherman's knife out of the earth it gripped. He walked toward Carter and Djak, the knife's point dubiously extended. At the last possible moment, Robin spun the blade about in his hand, like a movie cowboy's six-shooter, offering its handle to the Gypsy boy, who accepted it back without hesitation.
Another step and Robin clasped one of Carter's outstretched hands in his. Robin's look was steady and earnest, but deliberately so, and not without effort. "Mitch," at the name every man present stiffened for a moment, "likes to remind me often that his mother is fond of saying that, 'Holding a resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die'." Robin ticked his head ever-so-slightly to the side. "So let us shake hands."
They did, though perhaps not a terribly hearty handshake, nor held over-long. At its conclusion, Robin took a place seated on the ground next to Carter and Djak, as if trying to show publicly that he was in harmony with them.
He attempted, succinctly, to explain himself, his erratic incendiary behavior over the last several days. "You did not know who Marion was, of course," he told Carter. "Yet, what was done to her...it was not proper treatment of a non-combatant. Nor of any woman." He looked about to the others of the unit, whose faces showed they concurred. "Yet, we do not forget we are at war here, despite the rolling acreage, the green pastureland, the sea all about us, too large to truly conquer. We each of us," his eyes again flicked about among the unit, "have regrets over actions in which we have taken part - in which we have imagined taking part in our minds - since we joined with the service. We acknowledge your imprisonment as a mitigating circumstance, well aware there is never such a thing as a clean escape, and so as the officer in charge here, I will refrain from taking any punitive measures against you."
'How odd,' Carter thought, 'to be addressed so formally and be spoken to of military discipline seated beside one another on the ground in an environment more picnic or late-night spooning than military tribunal.'
Even with this formal dismissal of any charges against Carter as a soldier, Robin's serious tone did not lighten. "On a personal note, the harm you wrought is not permanent, and Marion herself has forgiven you. I shall try to do the same, though my blood calls to me otherwise." For a moment he chewed at the inside of his lower lip. "It would not usually be so hard for me."
Carter noticed the fingers of Robin's right hand had begun fidgeting as though itching at the air.
"Only, it stings more and more where Marion is concerned, that of late...Gisbonnhoffer is stealing my life." This last sentence was said quietly, not purposefully so that the others might not hear, only, somewhat confessionally.
Clear-eyed, his eyes with a softer cast for Robin than for the German officer referenced in Oxley's words, Thomas Carter replied, cool and collected, and with complete conviction, the man who had ceased counting his own kills two years prior declared: "Then you must not let him."
The debate raged on.
"What're ye gonna do, then? Kill him?" John demanded, his ire raised at Carter's clearly aggression-minded statement. "Think of the Islanders! The reprisals we've already seen!"
"Yeah," Wills agreed, "but when Carter killed that Jerry he didn't know - even we didn't know - that reprisals (and such severe ones) were to be levied upon the civilian population."
"Come now," Robin spoke. "I cannot believe a soldier killing another soldier in a war is unjustified. Because the Kommandant - the entire Reich - is evil, is morally corrupt, does not make our actions on behalf of Carter - " it was the first time he had freely used the man's name, "nor his own actions on behalf of preserving his life and freedom - immoral. It is war. We cannot be cowed in the face of our enemies. If so, they have beaten us by threats, and we fail in our mission."
"But we don't seek out Jerries to massacre..." Royston reminded, staunchly. "...Even if they are going to marry Lady Marion." He tried to avoid Robin's eye-line at his declaration of this.
"And we don't pick fights without damn fine reasons..." John added.
"And guaranteed victories upon their conclusion," Wills noted, "unless those fights come to us."
Carter had turned to explain to the curious Djak what twist the conversation had taken.
"What says Djak?" Wills asked, keen to understand the girl's bent of mind.
Carter paused and translated, "he says the Jerries like to kill, and that they will find reasons and new ways to do so without regard to what your unit does."
"He may well be right," John gruffly agreed, "but 'tis no small thing to walk about with the potential of twenty-five innocent souls on one's conscience if one but once follows their training and shoots straight."
Robin asked their newest addition to weigh in. "And you, Carter, what say you?"
Carter did not hesitate, and found no reason within himself to need to review or alter his feelings on the matter. "I do not believe that non-combatants truly exist. The very smallest of children, perhaps. For anyone else with the ability to understand the present conflict, the title is a misnomer. Each fights, each opposes, as their allegiances - as their hearts - tell them."
At this bald, rather shocking statement of how he saw the world, all eyes were on him, save Djak's, who did not know the further nature of the discussion. She began to shout when she saw Allen rattling down the dirt track toward the house and barn, the beater of a bike he had 'borrowed' threatening to collapse before his journey's end.
Robin encouraged him to tell all. "Quick as you can, Allen, quick as you can!"
Wills agreed. "Details later, we have been waiting forever for news."
Allen had not yet even dismounted the bike before he began to share. "Mitch is at Treeton. Still there. Marion taken back to Guernsey, along with Vaiser's grown daughter what has showed up, who is to be billeted there." Off the bike, letting it drop to the ground. "Geis had told Marion he would release Mitch for her, unharmed, but...he has left Alderney and pursued Marion back to Guernsey and Barnsdale."
Robin took his hand to the back of his neck, and gave himself a good scratching. "So we are in a definite fix. Can you say where he is at the camp?"
"I cannot, no, but I've got Annie on it." Allen tried to take his first truly deep breath to compensate for his exertion over the last thirty minutes. He wished to goodness someone would think to hand him a dipper of water. His eyes snapped up to Robin's. "Told me today she's ready to come out. 'Family keeping her there's dead, now, she's found out. Had to play her a bit to convince her to stay and help with Mitch."
"Who's this Annie?" Carter asked, wondering whom their contact was at the camp. "Can she be trusted?"
"Anya Grig-somethin', you know - Geis' secretary - got you out, didn't she?"
No one present saw it coming, the fist that barreled into Allen Dale's jaw, followed quickly by a second, only somewhat less fast-flying than the first.
Allen's neck snapped back from the unexpected (seemingly un-warranted) blow. He fell back, and would have smacked the ground had he not flopped into Royston first. Royston held Allen up, but only barely, Allen just on the cusp on consciousness.
Carter surged, but John was ready this time, and had the flier's dominant arm in a hold, preventing further physical violence.
"You ass," Carter shouted, bouncing like a boxer, up and down on the balls of his feet, ready for the round two bell. "You simpleton bastard," he bellowed at Allen, just returning to fully knowing where he was.
Carter lunged against the leverage of John upon his arm, ignoring the pain, but still could not get free to renew his assault on Allen. "He rapes her," Carter had eyes for no one but Allen as he growled to him what Anya's life at Treeton was like. "He humiliates and assaults her daily. And you have 'played her a bit'," he spat it like venom, "so that she might condemn herself further to his ceaseless abuse?"
John, worried Carter might well let him fracture his arm, decided Carter needed some necessary cooling off, and force-marched him away from where they were gathered, but not before Carter shot off some rapid Russian to Djak.
Standing to follow after John and Carter, she paused for a moment where Royston still supported an unsteady Allen, and cast her dark eyes upon him like she was mixing potions for a powerful hex. With a great hocking noise she spat her disgust in his direction, due to her height missing his face, but getting her point across despite the barriers of language.
"I didn't know," Allen, finding his voice protested several times. "I didn't know! She never said. I didn't know," the last calling of it was loud, as though he hoped the wind might carry his ignorance of the matter to where John had taken Carter.
"Go after them," Robin told Royston.
"I've figured it out," Wills offered, deliberately going entirely off-topic, as he and Allen and Robin were all that was left in the barnyard.
"Figured what out?" asked Allen, even this troubling news about Annie and his unwitting actions toward her unable to dim his naturally voracious curiosity.
"Well, we need a way to get messages to Marion, right?"
"Right," Robin agreed.
"So, if my calculations are right, and you might visit Barnsdale to check for certain...and you can see Le Moulin here on Sark from the Barnsdale roof, I believe I can rig a way, with the power of John at the gears, to make it turn in the opposite direction of the prevailing wind. The sails, after all, are long missing, only the narrowest wood of the vanes is left."
"It's the highest point on Sark, yeah?" Allen asked.
"On the Guernsey bailiwick entire, Stephen says," Robin corrected, his face keen with interest.
"And no one is ever truly looking at it, it's so broken down and long-abandoned," Wills continued to lay out his logic. "One might even expect the vanes to turn somewhat every now and then in a wind."
Robin smirked confidently. "But not counter."
"Yes." Wills smiled.
"Bit like turning back time, that," Allen approved, his jaw nearly regaining feeling in it.
Robin clapped Wills on the back. "You must start your work tomorrow. Allen and I will carry a spyglass to the Nightwatch tonight. Now go and help sort out your boy and his friend." He stepped over toward Wills to be closer when he added, "find out what you can from Carter, and the boy Djak about this Anya's situation. But bring your findings straight to me, and tell the other lads not to mention it again. We will sort this. And Mitch. And Marion."
"I never doubted it," Wills agreed, figures and measurements, tools and supplies swirling in his head as he set off into the now-full evening in search of the others.
...TBC...
A/N:I did not make up the quote of Mitch's mother's. I cannot, however, recall where I heard it/wrote it down from (yes, Klaus, I, too, have a Commonplace Book). So just take this note as "not mine, don't recall whose".
Disclaimer: I do not know for certain which direction Le Moulin faces. For the purposes of our story, it faces in the direction of Guernsey and, more importantly, the Barnsdale estate.