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Sam Ruddle was unmoving on his hospital bed, but his eyelids fluttered as confused images flickered through his mind. He fought to hold on to at least one thought. He was at the bottom of a stinking trench on the Somme, buried alive in a blasted landscape of withered trees, barbed wire, and acres of mud where once there had been poppies. His feet, inside sodden boots, ached with raw discomfort. He was waiting for the order. Fix bayonets. Up the ladder.
Mercifully, the image left him, swept away by the image of another trench. No, not a trench, a bomb shelter. He was underground in the Rose Hill bomb shelter. His feet were dry, the memory of their stinking infection now nothing but a mass of scars and a limp he would carry his whole life. But he was underground with no ladder. No way to go over the top. Pale faces stared at him in the flickering light of the kerosene lantern. Mrs. Shenton knitting ferociously, Mrs. Elliot grasping her daughter’s hand, Mrs. Rollins weeping quietly, and Mrs. Chapman staring at the door. Vera had been gone a long time. The bomb still lurked outside, and he felt that all eyes were on him. He could not resist a sneaking suspicion that Vera was not coming back. She had not found help. She had run away as fast as her long legs in their high-heeled shoes would carry her.
And then came the noise, not from the doorway, but from the back wall of the shelter where the ventilation pipe brought an occasional draft of fresh air. First a rattling on the pipe, and then a voice hollow and echoing.
“Mr. Ruddle. Sam Ruddle, can you hear me?”
Good God, it was the Earl! There was no mistaking the Earl’s elegant drawl. Sam pushed past the women and lifted his face to the exposed end of the pipe.
“We’re here, sir.”
“Good man. Keep calm. I’ve brought the Americans.”
Americans? Why Americans?
And then another voice, full of authority.
“Hi, Mr. Ruddle, this is Captain Harrigan.”