The Magicians of Night - By Barbara Hambly Page 0,16
of Belgium, the shelling of the Dunkirk beaches, Luftwaffe strafing on the Channel, his commander’s driving on the way up to London...”
“Watch it, Sergeant!”
“...only to be killed in quest of beer by a careless driver during the blackout in the streets of London. You remember that case of Chateau Lafitte you found in Madrid?”
“Ah,” Hillyard said reminiscently as he reached into the stygian pit of a darkened doorway for a handle—even on the step here, Tom could now hear the hushed murmur of voices and smell the inevitable warm fustiness of beer and bodies within. “A very good year.” More than the wine, Tom remembered the bombing raid that had been going on when they’d found it... remembered his commander casually pouring out glassfuls for them both in the ruins of the old cellar, listening to the explosions getting nearer and nearer and remarking, That one’s two, three streets away yet... plenty of time... hmm, sounds like they’re dropping mines... “I remember old Palou insisting on unloading the wine from his cart during that big raid. ‘They are only Germans, but this... this is money...’ ”
“Funny what you get used to. I met Californios when I was working the Long Beach docks who wouldn’t get up from the suppertable for an earthquake but who swore they’d never go east of the Rockies for fear of tornadoes—tornadoes, for Chrissake!”
In the broad slit of yellow light as Hillyard opened the pub door, Tom saw his commander blench. “Er—have you seen many tornadoes?”
And Tom, who’d grown up with them, only laughed.
He took a seat at a table in a corner, under a moldering trophy head some aristocrat had shot in Kenya and an enameled tin ad for Green King Ale. The pub was very quiet, the scattering of workingmen and housewives there speaking softly, if at all, over their pints of ale and bitters, listening to the chatter of the radio announcer’s voice.
“...general withdrawal of all remaining forces to Dunkirk. On the Channel, the destroyer Wakeful was torpedoed and sunk, only a few survivors escaping to be picked up by the motor drifter Nautilus and the danlayer Comfort, themselves heavily loaded... the Queen of the Channel, with 920 men aboard, bombed and sunk, her crew and passengers picked up by the store-ship Dorrian Rose... Harvester, Esk, Malcom... the minesweeper Brighton Belle sunk in the Channel, her troops rescued by the Medway Queen... destroyers heavily engaged with shore batteries...”
They’ll never make it, Tom thought, leaning back against the dark wainscot walls and letting his eyes slip closed. Hillyard had gone to get them drinks—the soft murmur of voices washed over him, men’s and women’s both. It was a neighborhood pub, a family pub... It was good beyond anything to be among normal people, decent people, not in the terror and sweat and dirt of battle, the horrible inferno of waiting under shellfire, maybe to have your life saved and maybe not...
The rocking of the old Codrington that had taken him off the beach returned to him, seemingly woven into his bones. Like the rhythmic jostle of the freight cars he’d ridden, he thought, that came back to a man even when he was lying on a stable bed again. The memory of the smell of tornado weather, the dense, waiting stillness, the livid color of the sky, waiting and watching for spouts.
Funny, he hadn’t thought about that since he was fourteen, the summer the ranch had finally gone bust and the bank foreclosed on them, sold their hard-held herd and plowed the whole concern under for a wheat farm. That was the first time he’d ridden the rails, down to Oklahoma, looking for work in the oil fields.
His head jerked; he realized he’d been slipping over into sleep. He saw Hillyard still by the bar, bending forward to catch the radio announcer’s voice. He tried to remember the last time he’d been this warm, this comfortable—tried to remember the last time he hadn’t been expecting to get blown away by the Germans in the next ten seconds...
His eyes slid closed again. The smells of tobacco and beer wreathed his thoughts, the gentle patter of voices like falling rain. “...expecting an announcement by the King of Belgium... Abukir destroyed... Shikari and Scimitar at Dover... special trains to take the men to rest camps...”
“...must use his influence, now more than ever,” a woman’s soft voice murmured at the next table. He’d noticed the two women there when he’d sat down, one delicate little white-haired finch of