Seacliff

Chapter sixty-eight: A tough call

1940

There was one advantage to making camp on an empty stomach. Aidan had nothing left to regurgitate as he strained to peel off the barbed wire that had wrapped itself around Jemmy's ankle. Sullivan and two French soldiers held Jemmy down, while an English Tommy shone a flashlight on the injured foot. Jemmy languished in agony, the Scotch he'd downed doing little to numb his senses. He wept wildly, his wails muted by the sock that had been stuffed in his mouth.

The small group had just found shelter in an abandoned little church after a treacherous trek through ruins and rubble. So many missiles had missed them... so many bullets and bayonets. Yet a cursed sprig of barbed wire had coiled itself around Jemmy's ankle, digging deep into his flesh as they ran for cover.

"I've got it!" Aidan exclaimed. "I'm almost done, Jem, hang in there."

The wire came off with a sickening squelch. Jemmy's lungs swelled with a scream, followed by a pitiful stream of sobs. His foot twitched in Aidan's firm grasp as the last of the Scotch washed over the wound.

Aidan could see bits of bone through the torn, bloodied flesh, but he kept the grisly details to himself. His rank had put him in charge of yet another ragtag group, and now he knew to pay more mind to unit morale.

His strength depleted, Jemmy passed out in his mates' arms, while Aidan dressed the wound. They lowered him carefully on the ground, shoving a bag under his head.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" the English soldier asked, nodding at the neatly bandaged ankle.

"Mam's a nurse," Aidan answered, "and Dad's a doctor. Runs in the family."

Aidan gently pulled the sock back on over Jemmy's foot, then his boot.

"I'll stay watch," he told his weary mates. "Try and get some sleep. We should start moving again in a few hours."

He repeated the same thing in French and the two soldiers nodded, scouting out a couple of benches to crash on. Sullivan waited until the Englishman had also wandered off.

"Mortimer, a word?"

Sullivan pulled the corporal aside. Aidan didn't lose sight of Jemmy.

"Mortimer, look... I know you and Mac are close..."

Aidan's head whipped round, eyes narrowing.

Sullivan gulped. "I know you're close, but you have to consider what's best for all of us."

"I don't like where you're going with this," Aidan hissed.

"I know, I don't like it, either – "

"Then why are you bringing it up?"

"Because war is not about what you like, or what I like. It's about making the tough calls to save as many lives as possible."

"What you're suggesting is cowardice."

Sullivan sighed, shaking his head. "Face it, Mortimer. France is lost. Belgium is lost. We either all die here, or press on without Mac and hop on the first ship home – "

"No."

"No?"

"I said no, Sullivan. That's an order. If you walk away now, that's tantamount to desertion."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I'm not threatening you, I'm informing you of the facts. Now go get some shuteye. We're leaving in three or four hours."

Aidan went to sit down by Jemmy's head, checking the patient's temperature. It was hard to tell whether he was running a fever or had just heated up because of the strain.

"Is it true?"

Corporal Mortimer glanced up at the young French soldier who had snuck up on him, then at Sullivan sitting on a bench across the church. "Is it true what?"

The young man, barely out of boyhood, fought to suppress his tears. "That his one life is worth more than all of ours?"

"We're not leaving anyone behind," Aidan insisted, stiffening.

"You may not be," the other, slightly older, Frenchman cut in from the shadows, "but we are. I don't care if you're corporal or captain or colonel. We're getting out of here. Whether you're coming or not."

Aidan glared at Sullivan. His knuckles whitened on the hilt of the German knife he still carried. His tension quickly transferred to his companions and for the briefest of seconds, gunpowder lingered in the air. Aidan put his match away before it exploded.

"All right," he said, slackening. "I obviously can't stop you. You do what your conscience tells you to. I'll listen to mine. Good luck."

The trigger-happy tension eased, yet a heavy silence prevailed, like an iron curtain cutting off all communications.

At least it kept Aidan awake. His eyes hurt from the excessive focus into nothingness. The allyship broken, his vulnerability doubled. Tripled, with Jemmy lying unconscious beside him. His already-frayed nerves sizzled under the duress.

"It's not too late to change your mind," Sullivan said as he hoisted up his kit. "Just grab your gear and go. Mac would understand. Bleedin' hell, he'd make you do it."

Aidan clutched his rifle tighter. "I didn't come all the way out here just to leave him behind."

Sullivan grunted,saluted, and turned on his heel.