The Gathering Storm (20 page)

His words were so frank, yet so matter-of fact that I did not blush or feel that he was looking at me like a man looks at a woman. I might have been a poppy plunked into an empty artillery shell to brighten a windowless room.

"Both Jessica and I resemble her. I'm glad." I stood and touched the dead man's cigarette case with my index finger. "I hope you find the woman who gave this to him. I mean, I hope she's gone on without him and found a new love. A new life."

"Yes."

"Anyway, thank you. I don't think Jessica or the baby would have made it without you."

"No." His statement was blunt—a reaffirmation of fact, not boasting.

"Then I thank you again for both their lives. I hope all goes well for you."

I took my leave, pleased to see that the girls had scampered down to visit Jessica and the baby. When I hurried downstairs, she was sitting up nursing Shalom as the trio of girls watched her in wonder. Faded poppies and drooping lupines still made a magnificent bouquet in a tin bucket.

161

_m

en Jessica's baby boy was only days old a grim-faced British officer entered the foyer of Tyne Cott's chapel at the head of a muddy file of soldiers. The man looked weary to the point of exhaustion. Despite the deeply etched lines of pain on his face, in my judgment there was no mistaking his air of authority.

"Colonel Gilmore," he said, introducing himself. His eyes swept past Judah and the others to survey the chapel. "And this is now my headquarters. Who's in charge here?"

Judah Blood stepped forward. "I am. I'm caretaker of Tyne Cott."
He saluted the British officer.

Colonel Gilmore's right arm was bound in a bloody sling. He
acknowledged Judah with a nod. "As of this moment the entire facil
ity is under my command. All civilians"—Gilmore's gaze seemed to rest particularly on me—"all civilians are to be evacuated immediately. The entire cemetery."

"Colonel," Judah returned, "these"—with one hand he pointed out the doorway to the huddled throngs camped among the headstones—"these have already been bombed out of homes and vil
lages. They have come here seeking a place of refuge. Where do you
suggest they go?" Though the implacable mask of Judah's enameled forehead registered no tension, I heard it in his voice.

Gilmore stepped closer to Judah and lowered his voice. I still overheard him as he tersely replied: "This is no refuge, man! This is front line country, or will be soon. Reports say German Army Group B is no more than a day away. Not only are the lines collapsing westward, but there is a thrust aimed directly at this spot."

Judah nodded his understanding. "The River Lys runs here from

~ 163 ~

Armentieres to Ghent. The line of hills on our side of the river valley guards all the approaches from the east. Cassel is key to the south. Ypres in the center, and then Passendale and Tyne Cott."

Gilmore's eyes widened at Judah's succinct analysis.

"I was here in the last war," Judah explained simply. "We rebuilt this chapel like a fortress."

"Just so," Gilmore agreed. "This spot is the highest ground in the vicinity. Nothing has changed from twenty years ago. This is still the hinge of the entire line. We must, and we will hold here, and the civilians will have to leave."

"And go where?" Judah said softly.

Gilmore rubbed the stubble on his cheeks. "Where we're all going, I suppose. To the sea."

"And France? Are there any roads still open?" Judah queried.

Gilmore shook his head. "The Wehrmacht are about to reach the sea at Abbeville, splitting the Allied forces. If we can hold here, perhaps we can mount a counterattack; us from the north and the French from the south." He spoke with an air of resignation; as one committed to an action he already knows will be futile.

"When?" I blurted. "We have wounded here and mothers with infants."

Gilmore's expression softened. "Soon," he said. Abruptly the tenderness vanished as quickly as it had arrived, and the tensile steel of military necessity returned. "Mister Blood—"

"Captain," I interjected, surprising myself at my forwardness.

"Very well," Gilmore said, "Captain. Do you have maps of this place?"

"I've kept military charts from the last war," Judah explained.

"I understand the German pillboxes are still serviceable?"

"The four at the corners of the grounds," Judah agreed. "They serve as potting sheds and storage rooms for the cemetery, but the concrete walls are still stout and the gunports easily cleared."

"And here?" Gilmore inquired.

My eyes wandered over the chapel, especially the beautiful windows.
Here? Surely not! This place of reflection and sorrow and the hope of meeting vanished loved ones again?

~
164 ~

"There are a handful of us, besides Winston Churchill, who saw this day would come. We have kept the chapel unoccupied. As you see. Cleared for action." Judah turned to the girls and instructed them gently, "Go to my cottage. Fetch your father, if you can find him."

"Stout walls," the colonel echoed Judah's words. "Open field of fire on three sides. I'm sorry, Captain, but your days as caretaker are at an end."

At another nod from the colonel his aide directed a squad of British infantrymen, who jumped into action. The young girls were herded toward the door, but I refused to leave just yet.

Piling benches beneath the windows the soldiers formed makeshift firing steps....then broke out the lower courses of glass with their rifle butts. I stared at the devastation until it reached the depiction of the crucified Lord in the eastern vault. Only when Christ's wounded feet vanished into shards of shattered crystal, and bent and twisted lead, did I stifle a sob and retreat with the rest.

The flare of a night bombardment lit the southeastern rim of the world like the view of a distant thunderstorm. That the explosions posed no immediate threat to the refugees camped at Tyne Cott was apparent. But, come morning, the German army rolling this direction would be as unstoppable as the tornados of the Texas plains.

Cookfires had been extinguished at dusk, to provide no targets for German gunners. The darkened expanse of the cemetery below my perch near the cross offered little clue that a couple thousand people slept...or at least rested there. Their bellies full of rice and beans, and their fears temporarily assuaged, most of the camp was quiet.

In the middle distance a child sniffled and complained about being afraid of the graves. The mother's hushed tones spoke reassurance and calm.

Farther off, a baby cried.

~i6
₅
~

For a moment I wondered if it was my sister and newborn nephew.
Then I dismissed the thought. Jessica and the baby, as well as Gina and the Jewish sisters, were tucked safely beneath the chapel.

There was a continual rustling in the night as if a herd of sheep grazed amid Tyne Cott's memorials. Come morning these human sheep would be looking for a reliable shepherd to give them direction.

Rumors heard over supper placed the Germans everywhere, as if
Tyne Cott were the center of a collapsing steel ring. Colonel Gilmore
told them otherwise. The Wehrmacht was advancing from the south,
southeast, and east, but routes toward the northwest were open.

Northwest was the English Channel. What would happen when this throng reached the sea no one ventured to discuss. Perhaps they refused to think about it. Somewhere they believed they would find a wall of French, British, and Belgian soldiers to tuck themselves behind.

The sea, though no more than thirty miles away, was only a distant consideration.

Low on the western horizon, above the unseen Channel, hovered the bright beacon of Venus. Though the time was nearing midnight, the brightest of planets hung like a lantern pointing toward escape. I wondered if we would need its guidance in the nights ahead.

I scented Papa's bay rum cologne before I saw him. "You performed a wonder here," I said. "They are fed and peaceful, like after a camp meeting on the Brazos."

"For the moment," he agreed. "Tomorrow will be another matter.
Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof
eh?"
³

"I have always thought of you like the Good Shepherd in David's
psalm, Papa." I quoted back at him:
"I will fear no evil: for thou art with me."*

Papa did not comment on this observation. After a long pause
he said, "Did you know? A great many wounded soldiers came in just
at dusk. In the days ahead there won't be stretcher-bearers enough

Matthew 6:34

Psalm 23:4

166

to carry them, I think. Many will have to remain here and make the best of whatever comes."

I felt a lump of ice form in my chest. "You...you aren't coming with us, are you, Papa?"

He sighed heavily. "I'm needed here."

I was resentful and hurt. "But what about us? Jessica and baby Shalom? Gina and the girls? What about our needs, Papa? Who will take care of us?"

"I am counting on you, Loralei. So like your mother. So strong. So capable. You will be the leader now."

"But why, Papa?" I protested still. "There will be wounded soldiers wherever we go. Needy people, anyplace we are. Why must you stay behind here?"

When he spoke again, it was clear Papa had anticipated the question; had marshaled his reasons ahead of time. He delivered his settled opinion in quiet, sensible words, against which there was no
argument. "Because," he said, patting his jacket pockets for his pipe,
then saying, "ah, mustn't light any matches, of course." He stopped to look me right in the eye. "Because," he resumed, "the more desperate the fight becomes between here and safety, the tougher it will be at each bridge, each intersection."

"What are you talking about?"

"Colonel Gilmore discussed it with me. It's my accent, you see. Austrian. Not like you or Jessica...American. Even Texas-American. I will only hold you up; might even endanger you."

I bristled with anger at the very thought of my good, kind, generous father being taken for a Nazi...and a Nazi spy, at that. "Then you must have Colonel Gilmore write you a pass," I demanded.

I heard Papa's gently mocking smile, even if I couldn't see it. "What
would it say? 'Please excuse this German-sounding man? He's really
harmless'? Really, Loralei, now is not the time and this is not the place
to take chances with your sister or the children. No, my place is here. We'll meet up again in England when I can get away, eh?"

My heart was breaking. Bits of my life were being violently torn
from me. There was never time to recover before the next gash

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exposed already gaping wounds—Mama, our home, Varrick...now Papa too? How could I stand it?

"I miss your mother so much." Papa's voice floated wistfully in the dark like a secret whispered on the breeze. "I'm not afraid. I want to be with her, if...if it's time."

"Papa, Papa." I clung to him.

"Shhh, shhh," he said, as if I were five years old again. "Remem
ber your mother's favorite story? The Alamo, she always said, was the highest form of bravery. It's not heroic to fight if you have no choice. But to stay and face the enemy when there is a choice to go or to stay? That is true heroism. Maybe no one will remember this
place or make up songs about it. But you, my Lora-liebling, you will
remember. And someday, to your children you will speak of it."

The morning chores on the day we departed from Tyne Cott cemetery began well before sunup. I did not sleep but busied myself in repacking our few belongings, especially the precious teacups.

Dear Lord,
I thought. /
don't care how few of our belongings make it to England, so long as we're all safe...and these three teacups!

The more I found to do, however inconsequential, the less time I thought about Papa staying behind. If Mama were here, what would she have really said about Papa's choice? She could have swayed his decision, I knew.

But what course would Mama have demanded of herself?

I not only grieved for my mother, but I desperately missed having her around for advice and comfort.

Gently nudging her awake, Papa spent time with Jessica, explaining to her his determination to remain at Tyne Cott and help with the wounded. I overheard part of the discussion. There was no chaplain with these British soldiers. Papa spoke English. English boys, wounded and perhaps dying away from home, would need his solace. It was a duty not to be shirked, as binding as if

~ 168 ~

Papa was a medical doctor. "And I'll have company," he said. "Private Kadle is remaining with me. Says he's ashamed America is not yet in this fight. He wants to represent her until she 'gets her head on straight,' he says. Your mama would approve, eh?"