didn’t alter some critical event at El Alamein or D-Day or the Battle of the Bulge and change the course of the war. And it was ridiculous to think they hadn’t. The continuum might be able to cancel out one or two changes, but there was no way it could make up for 519 soldiers—no, 520, counting Hardy—being rescued who weren’t supposed to have been.
“I didn’t mean to tire you out,” Hardy said uncertainly. “I only thought you might want cheering up. Can I do anything for you—?”
You’ve already done more than enough, Mike wanted to snap at him, but it wasn’t Hardy’s fault. He’d been trying to do the right thing when he went back to Dunkirk. He’d had no way of knowing what the consequences would be.
“I should let you get some rest,” Hardy said, but that was impossible. Mike had to get out of here. He had to get back to the drop and warn Oxford about what he’d done. If it wasn’t already too late, and that was why the retrieval team wasn’t here—because he’d lost the war and they didn’t exist.
But Hardy had said he’d thought he was dead. Maybe when the retrieval team couldn’t find any trace of him, they’d concluded that, too. Or maybe they were still looking for him in London.
And even if it was too late, he had to try. Which meant getting out of this damned hospital. But how? He couldn’t just sneak out. For one thing, he hadn’t mastered getting down stairs yet, and even if he could, he wouldn’t get two blocks in a bathrobe and slippers. Besides, he didn’t have any papers. Or money. At the very least, he had to have train fare to Dover and bus fare from there to Saltram-on-Sea. And shoes.
And he had to convince the doctors to let him out of here, which meant he had to be walking better than he was now. Mike waited till after Hardy’d gone and the night nurse had made her rounds, then got up and practiced hobbling the length of the ward for the rest of the night, and then showed the doctor his progress.
“Astonishing,” his doctor said, impressed. “You’ve made a much faster recovery than I thought possible. We should be able to operate immediately.”
“Operate?”
“Yes. To repair the tendon damage. We couldn’t till your original wound had healed.”
“No,” Mike said. “No operation. I want to be discharged.”
“I can understand your wanting to get back in the war,” the doctor said, “but you need to understand that without further operations, there’s very little chance you’ll regain the full use of your foot. You’re risking the possibility of being crippled for life.”
And I’m risking a hell of a lot more than that if I stay here, Mike thought, and spent the next several days trying to convince the doctor to discharge him and practically going crazy with waiting. It didn’t help that there were sirens and the ever closer sound of bombs every night, and that Bevins kept sobbing, “It’s the invasion. You must get out immediately.”
I’m trying, Mike thought, stuffing his pillow over his head.
“Hitler’s coming!” Bevins shrieked. “He’ll be here any moment!” and it was hard to see how he wouldn’t. According to the papers, the Luftwaffe was hammering London every night. The Tower of London, Trafalgar Square, Marble Arch Underground station, and Buckingham Palace had all been hit, and thousands of people had already been killed.
“It’s dreadful,” Mrs. Ives said when she brought him the Herald, whose headline read, “Nightly Raids Show No Signs of Letting Up—Londoners’ Resolve Unwavering.” “My neighbor was bombed out last night and—”
“How do I go about getting new identity papers?” Mike interrupted. “Mine were destroyed at Dunkirk, and I don’t know what happened to my clothes.”
“The Assistance Board is in charge of those things, I believe,” she said, and the next morning a young woman showed up at his bedside with a notebook and dozens of questions he didn’t know the answer to, from his passport number to his shoe size.
“It’s changed recently,” he said. “Especially the right foot.”
She ignored that. “When was your passport issued?”
“All my papers were arranged for by my editor at my newspaper,” he said, hoping she’d assume things were done differently in the States.
“What is your editor’s name?”
“James Dunworthy. But he’s not there anymore. He’s on assignment in Egypt.”
“And the name of your paper?”
“The Omaha Observer,” he said, thinking, They’ll check and find there’s no such newspaper, no such passport, and I’ll find