GUERNSEY - He was being taken home. Across the waters.
Without opening his eyes, Mitch believed he could feel the military-ness of the boat he had been put on, the uniforms of fellow soldiers sent to guard and protect him, to ferry him back across the Channel to England. This is how it was meant to be. How it should have been all those months ago when they fled France, had the unit's stolen craft not taken on water from the enemy's hulling of it. Had they not had to, of necessity, agree to a stranding on the Channel Islands. Not even a half-way point in getting home. And in the grip, the very belly, of the beast.
He felt happy. Relieved. He sang to himself. Rather, he let snatches of songs swirl and chatter on in his head, like a telephone operator eavesdropping on multiple calls simultaneously.
Deanna Durbin chirped, "I can see the lights of home/Shining brightly oer the foam,/I can see somebody there,/Loving eyes and silver hair,/I can see her kneel in prayer/I long to be/Beneath the lights of home".
Ah, now, that was cheery.
"There'll always be an England,/While there's a country lane,/Wherever there's a cottage small/Beside a field of grain.../And England shall be free/If England means as much to you/As England means to me".
His heart pumped to the pomp of the rallying tune.
And then would come his favorite. The tinny sounds of Noel Coward singing his own-penned lyrics. "London Pride has been handed down to us./London Pride is a flower that's free./London Pride means our own dear town to us,/And our pride it forever will be./Every Blitz your resistance toughening,/From the Ritz to the Anchor and Crown,/Nothing ever could override/The pride of London Town".
He worried for nothing. He thought, distinctly, of nothing. Of no one. In short order he again swooned, succumbing to his injuries, his exhaustion.
The songs would play on for him, time and again. His swollen eyes would not tell him where he was, not permit his vision the necessary acuity to discern his surroundings. He did not know if this went on for days, or only hours.
But he did not worry. Doubtless he was in a lovely English seaside hospital by now, nurses and ward matrons in crisp pinafores, brooking none who opposed their regimented, efficient care of their patients. Of him. At times he wondered if Allen, in his post-crash blindness, were not there, too, in the familiar bed beside him.
But his throat would not speak to ask for Allen, would not work much at all, beyond the occasional gurgle, or strangled version of a cough.
Someone with cool hands, smooth hands, would give him water, or sometimes something thicker and warmer in those moments. They would hum something terribly comforting, the words and even the tune of which he could never quite puzzle out before drifting again, into the fog of his bruised mind.
Mitch woke, coughing.
"What would you have your mother to do, then, Love? Douse the fire she just built with her wet underwrappings? I canna be responsible if your departed father, rest his soul, built us a poky excuse for a chimney that not even a fine new stove pipe can mend. It was one of the few honest moments of work he ever did afford his family, after all."
The woman's voice was loud. Not hushed as he was accustomed to in hospital.
"'Tisn't my fault your Kommandant's haomme has such weakness of the lungs! 'Tis a sign of weak character, you know. I shall bring up some of my full-moon liniment from the cellier if you like. We can wrap his chest in gorse once he's marinated half the hour in the embrocation, see if that won't hearty him up."
"Mere!" a younger woman's voice attempted to gently call the older lady down. "We are meant to see him well, not worry him into Eternity. Then he may work for us. Perhaps he might have some skill at opening poky chimneys."
"Well, he is a right peaky-looking runt just now. My own heart should stop, my sweet Eva, if he were to attempt to so much as climb a ladder. I should have to spell it first to ward off his falling."
Mitch tried his eyelids, flexed them until he felt confident they would fully part. They did.
He was in a small cottage, possibly more a hovel. It was quite smoky, despite being indoors and despite two of its three visible windows being thrown open for ventilation. He could hear the sounds of a child and an older girl out-of-doors. The older woman across the room whom he had heard speak first was barely a swirl in the hazy air.
But nearby his bedside-yes, he did appear to be lying on a bed-was someone else.
She had a gentle face, with eyes that registered not a bit of surprise at seeing his open. Only took on a sort of welcoming quality, as though his lucidly waking was on par with a patiently hoped-for introduction.
Something pulled at his scattered mind. "Do I know you?" he asked her, unable to figure out why he would think so.
She shook her head. "We haven't met," she assured him. "You are here, with us. With my family. We are VolksDeutsch. The Kommandant has tasked you here, first to heal, and then to labor on our small patch as a hired hand." She passed her hand (how familiar it felt!) across his temple. "But do not think of work, now, Cheri. If you must think at all, think only of mending." She leaned in closer, conspiratorially. Her hair smelled of hothouse flowers. "And pay no mind to the madwoman Hilda, known as my mother. She is all buzz, and very little sting. And if your health does not restore ten-fold she will loose her reputation and meager income among the country folk who buy her cures. So you see, she has a vested business interest in your both resting and healing." She smiled.
He smiled. His eyes began to close. He wished to ask her where in France they were, exactly. He wished to ask her name. He wished...he slept.
...TBC...
A/N: In Guernsey French "Guernesiais": haomme = man; cellier (actually, just straight-up French) = cellar; Mere = mother; cheri = beloved, darling (obviously used more lightly here).
In German, VolksDeutsch refers to ethnic Germans, not simply German nationals (as persons of various ethnicities might be).