They drove a little way further and then a twenty-millimeter shell from an enemy 109 shattered the windshield, punched through Briggs’ chest at the level of the sternum and continued through the driver’s seat. Four more shells followed, two piercing the cab and two coming through the canvas canopy. On impact with the truck bed the shells disgorged hot phosphorous into the wood. Fragments pierced the fuel tanks and lit them up. Alistair was out of the cab immediately, the battle instinct delivering him to the roadside ditch. He watched the truck roll slowly off the road and take fire. Briggs made no sound as he burned. The truck went up with an orange roar and clouds of back diesel soot.
Alistair scanned the sky but saw no sign of the fighter. He scrambled from the ditch and went as close as he could, holding his left hand before his face to shield against the heat. The truck’s canvas back was burned away, the metal hoops arching over a bed of embers. He went up to the cab, looked at Briggs, and wished he hadn’t. Up and down the road for thirty yards he searched both ditches, hoping that by luck the painting might have been thrown clear.
The road snaked away in both directions over low hills, its yellow gravel losing its distinctness in the yellow grass of the verges and the yellow stones of the walls. He couldn’t get his pipe lit.
After an hour a local man came by in a donkey cart. They said prayers for Briggs, and Alistair rode back on the tailgate of the cart. At the fort he reported the incident and stayed on his feet as far as the stone staircase, where he sank to his knees before he found the resources to climb up to his room. He only wanted to close his eyes for a few minutes—to collect himself—but the fort’s bells began almost immediately.
The fresh attack came in, the bombers dragging their shadows across the cerulean sea. Alistair took the jar of Tom’s jam from the arrow loop and put it safely on the floor. He sat on his cot and got out the phenacetin. He almost called for Briggs to make coffee.
After the raid, Simonson came up with an aerogramme. He flipped it onto Alistair’s desk, took off his cap and threw that at Alistair.
“Damned if I know why anyone would write to you. I got two letters, by the way, in case you were wondering which of us was the more popular.”
Alistair stretched for the letter. Simonson slouched in Alistair’s chair.
“You know what worries me about the enemy? It’s the violence. It is almost as if he thinks he can solve every problem this way. I sometimes feel we shall have trouble rubbing along.”
“Please don’t joke,” said Alistair. “Briggs was killed this morning.”
Simonson said nothing.
“It was my fault,” said Alistair. “I had him drive me, and we got lit up. I was taking my painting to the church to give it back.”
“No other cargo?”
“None.”
“No other purpose for the journey?”
“I’m afraid not. I falsified the requisition—said we were taking invasion maps to the outer forts.”
Simonson closed his eyes.
“Lost a Bedford, too. Burned. They’ll bring you my report.”
“What about you?” said Simonson. “Are you all right?”
Alistair stood, balancing with an effort. “Briggs had a wife.’
“Children?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s something.”
“I shall have to write to her,” said Alistair.
“Do so, and then move on and don’t brood. You must be kind, of course. Write that he was killed by enemy action during a liaison operation.”
“Yes. But I’m telling you the truth, Douglas. As my senior officer.”
“And what would you have me do? Court-martial you?”
“You’ll probably have to, won’t you? When the lieutenant colonel sees my report, I shouldn’t think you’ll have much leeway.”
Simonson stood and paced. “You are a first-class officer and in any other circumstance you would have been back in London long ago, invalided out. You are exhausted and you showed poor judgment, that’s all.”
“It isn’t as if I’ve stolen a tin of margarine. I’ve killed Briggs.”
“The enemy killed him, and you must live with it as you can. If I were you I might weigh it against all the ones I had saved.”
“Oh, but who keeps count?”
“God almighty keeps count, you fool, and when He loses count He checks with me, as your commanding officer.’
Alistair had been flipping the aerogramme over and over in his good hand, absentmindedly, and now he noticed that it was from Hilda. The ghost of his hand moved by instinct to the flap of the envelope and pushed a thumb under it before it realized—with a feeling of absolute surprise that Alistair shared—that it did not exist. He overbalanced, his left arm having compensated for the movement of the phantom right. He fell sideways onto his cot. The letter fluttered to the floor. While Alistair struggled to a sitting position, Simonson retrieved it. “Here,” he said, “let me.”
“Please don’t,” said Alistair. “I’m not in the mood to read it.”
Simonson ignored him and opened it.
“Do you mind?” said Alistair.
“Don’t be so precious! We could use some diversion, don’t you think?”
Dear Alistair, I am sorry to write to you under difficult circumstances.
Oh, thought Alistair: Mary has been killed. His blood began to stop.
I find it my duty to tell you that Mary has been acting outrageously.
Alistair went light with relief.
“Mary is your girl, yes?”
“I’m not sure.”
“No one is ever sure. And who is this Hilda?”
“Her friend. Here—give that back, won’t you?”