Simonson held his aching head while bombs blew it apart.
“Interesting,” said Hamilton, replacing the handset of the field telephone. “There’s a second casualty from that hit on Nine Gun. He—”
“All right,” said Simonson, “you’ve made your point.”
The war would grind them down until all that remained was this bitter and sullen fury pounding in the center of his skull. The war would find the true hearts of them all as it found his own heart now: incensed, incandescent, unconsoled.
The raid died away, the guns fell silent. In the hiatus before the all-clear there was the stuttering sound of the damaged tail-enders fleeing.
“I hope you also see it from my point of view,” said Simonson. “For someone he cares about, a man must do what he can.”
“Regardless of the social order?”
“Regardless of the evacuation order.”
“I see. So, you cut a few corners for Heath. I won’t say it’s unnatural, only unbecoming. Of an officer, you understand.”
“I admit nothing,” said Simonson.
“Then we must do it by the book. One of you pulled strings, and if it wasn’t you then logically it must have been him. So I will wire the C/O at Gibraltar, and have him put that to Heath. And as you say, if Heath has an ounce of sense he will deny any knowledge and you’ll both be off the hook. I expect that’s what he’ll say, don’t you?”
Simonson turned his cap over and over.
Hamilton said, “It’s just that you would need to be certain—wouldn’t you?—that Heath shared your cynical disposition. Otherwise there’s no guarantee he won’t simply do the honorable thing and own up, and serve out the whole of his twelve-months in the loneliest jail in the Empire. Might not even survive it, in his condition.”
“Please. I do understand.”
“Then I shall give you till dawn to think it over. Let me have your answer then. Dismiss.”
Simonson turned in the doorway. “Sir, why must you do this?”
“I wouldn’t, if we had any bread. All I’ve left to give the men is fairness.”
—
Back in his room Simonson sat on his cot. A damaged moon was easing itself up from the sea, and he wished it wouldn’t. One would be released from all cares, at last, if the moon and sun didn’t always pop up like hospital visitors. He wished the Germans would make an effort and sink them both for good.
The orderly had brought a new stack of paperwork and squared it away on his desk. Alistair had gifted Simonson his jar of blackberry jam, and he laid it on the stack now as a paperweight. He rubbed the fatigue from his eyes and sat to write the next day’s manning order. Number One Gun would have a full crew, Number Two would be half manned, Number Three would be . . . oh, but it hardly mattered. The magazines were empty.
His eyes strayed to the jam, where the moonlight crept through the jar. The deep ruby color connected directly with his hunger. He could hardly force himself to stop looking. Saliva flooded his mouth. He spat, and lit another bitter cigarette.
If Alistair was too stupid to deny everything, then surely that was Alistair’s lookout. After the surprise and humiliation of his interview with Hamilton, Simonson shook. How could Alistair put him in this position? This was the disappointment with grammar school boys: they pounded on the door and then had no idea how to behave once admitted.
He found his eyes on the jar again. However irritating Alistair was, to eat the jam would be a betrayal—he was supposed to keep it, to share it with Alistair at war’s end. But it wouldn’t do any harm to take off the lid, surely, and smell it. It would not reduce by any fraction the quantity of jam that remained. And how many months had it been since he had smelled anything but smoke? Gun smoke, smoke of cigarettes and pipes, smoke from conflagrations terrestrial and naval, smokescreens laid down for cover. He was curious to know if he could still smell anything else. He unscrewed the jar and breathed in. He tried again. Nothing.
The two possibilities arising—that the jam was odorless, or that he had lost the facility for scents less brutal than smoke—seemed equally bleak. He replaced the lid and picked up his pen again, but he was too hungry for paperwork.
Perhaps Alistair would deny all knowledge, and they’d both be in the clear. Simonson considered it with a quick kick of hope, then came up short. Of course Alistair would do nothing of the sort.
He eyed the jam again. If he had lost his sense of smell, what else had he lost? It was known that battle stress numbed the senses one by one. What he feared most was that his will was gone. It was said that the self surrendered by small degrees before it finally collapsed. Panic tightened in his chest. What if he could not taste?