“Major Allenton did not think it necessary.” Can’t see a woman ever being in a position to fire a pistol had been his words, and so Eve was left behind while her classmates tramped off to the targets with borrowed Webleys. Only three classmates now—the slender English boy had been deemed unfit, and left weeping and swearing. Go join the Tommies if you want to fight Germans, Eve thought, not without sympathy.
“I think you should learn to fire a pistol, Miss Gardiner.”
“Isn’t that g-going against the major’s orders?” Cameron and Allenton didn’t like each other; Eve had seen that on the first day.
Cameron merely said, “Come with me.”
He didn’t take Eve to the range, but to a deserted stretch of beach, far down from the bustle of the docks. He set off toward the water, shoulder-slinging a knapsack that clinked with every step, and Eve followed, her boots sinking into the sand and the wind tugging at her neatly rolled hair. The morning was hot, and Eve wished she could take off her jacket, but this tramping off alone to an isolated beach with a man who most certainly wasn’t her uncle was already improper enough. Miss Gregson and the rest of the file girls would all think me no better than I should be. Then Eve pushed that thought aside and stripped down to her shirtwaist, reasoning that she wouldn’t get far as a spy if she thought too much about propriety.
The captain found a driftwood log, unpacked a series of empty bottles from his clinking knapsack, and lined them up on the log. “This will do. Step ten paces back.”
“Shouldn’t I be able to shoot from farther than that?” Eve objected, dropping her jacket on a patch of sea grass.
“If you’re taking aim at a man, odds are it’s up close.” Captain Cameron paced off the distance, then took his pistol from its holster. “This is a Luger nine-millimeter P08—”
Eve wrinkled her nose. “A German p-pistol?”
“Don’t sneer, Miss Gardiner, it’s far more accurate and reliable than our English ones. Our lads get the Webley Mk IV; that’s what your classmates are training with, and they might as well not bother because you need weeks to get good with a Webley, the way they jump on firing. With a Luger, you’ll be hitting your targets with just a few hours of practice.”
Briskly, Captain Cameron broke the pistol apart, named the parts, and had Eve assemble and reassemble it until she lost her clumsiness. When she caught the trick of it and saw her hands moving with deft speed, she thrilled with the same liquid excitement she’d been feeling ever since she arrived, whenever she managed to decipher a map or decrypt a message. More, she thought. Give me more.
Cameron had her load and unload, and Eve could tell he was waiting to see if she’d beg to shoot and not just fiddle with the pistol’s parts. He wants to see if I have patience. She pushed a wind-whipped lock of hair back behind one ear and took the instruction mutely. I can wait all day, Captain.
“There.” At last, he pointed at the first of the bottles lined up on the driftwood log. “You have seven shots. Sight down the barrel, so. It doesn’t kick like a Webley, but there’s still recoil.” He tapped a finger to her shoulder, her chin, her knuckles, correcting her stance. No attempts to make this intimate—Eve remembered the French boys in Nancy whenever she appeared on a duck hunt. Let me show you how to aim that! And then they’d start wrapping their arms around her.
The captain nodded, stepping back. The stiff salt breeze tugged at his short hair and ruffled the slate blue of the Channel water behind him. “Fire.”
She emptied out her seven shots, the reports reverberating around the empty beach, and didn’t hit a single bottle. Disappointment stabbed, but she knew better than to show it. She just reloaded.
“Why do you want this, Miss Gardiner?” the captain asked, and nodded for her to fire again.
“I want to do my part.” She didn’t stutter at all. “Is that so strange? Last summer when the war began, every young man in England was burning to join the fight, make something of himself. Did anyone ask them why?” She lifted the Luger, squeezing off another seven shots carefully spaced. Clipped one of the bottles this time, sending a chip of glass flying, but didn’t shatter it. Another stab of disappointment.