fast when he wanted to.
“Lieutenant Boyle, I must ask for your assistance. It seems we are a bit short of Home Guard chaps for the exercise tomorrow. We need a few more fellows to fire off some blank rounds at the Norwegians and play the Huns. You’ve been volunteered!” I looked over at Harding, still sitting at the head table just outside the crush of men around Daphne, and he raised his glass with a smile. Thanks a lot.
“I guess so, Major. What do I do?”
“Be at the main entrance at 0600 hours, and you’ll be driven to the exercise area. The baron is going as well, and Mr. Birkeland has offered to lend a hand. They both think it will be great fun!”
Kaz would.
“And wear something more suitable for the field. It’s bound to be muddy out there.”
He was off, leaving me wondering why all armies seemed to start things before the sun came up, and wishing I had something besides my one dress uniform with me. I walked down the hall and up the stairs to my room, each step increasing the pounding in my skull. Too many damn toasts.
Minutes after I made it to my room there was a knock on the door. An enlisted man stood outside, a pile of clothes and boots weighing him down.
“Mr. Birkeland’s compliments, sir. He thought you might prefer to wear these tomorrow.” He handed me a brown wool British battle jacket, trousers, and boots. “Let me know if the size isn’t right,” he said as he went down the hall to knock on the door to Kaz’s room. The duds were fine, which was more than I could say for my head.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The bell on the alarm clock sounded like a three-alarmer and my mouth tasted like ashes. I swore I’d punch whoever offered me a glass of wine today right in the mouth. I stripped and knelt in the tub, sticking my head under the faucet and turning on the cold water. The shock drove my headache into submission, if only for a minute, but it was worth it. I dressed in the scratchy wool uniform and clomped downstairs in the heavy boots, ready to play soldier. The uniform stunk of mothballs, and I hoped the open air would clear the smell, which I always associated with my Aunt Bess and the hand-me-down clothes she saved for me, peppered with mothballs for five years in a chest in the attic. I always wished my cousin Owen was a lot less than five years older than me.
Outside, a British army truck was idling, the open bed crammed with eager volunteers, all in the same wool outfit, no rank or unit markings.
“Hurry, Billy!” hollered Kaz, obviously worried I’d miss the fun. Birkeland, beside him, offered me a hand and pulled me up like a fish in a net.
“Come, lad, it’s not every day you get to play at making war!” He laughed and clapped me on the back, a hit hard enough to send me tumbling if there had been room to fall. The truck was jammed with other volunteers from among the government workers at Beardsley Hall and whomever else Cosgrove had talked into this charade.
About a mile down the road, the truck turned left off the road and onto a rutted farm lane, bouncing along as the driver gunned it to keep from getting stuck in the mud. He pulled off the path and stopped. We jumped down from the truck and landed with a squish on the boggy ground. Delightful. Although it was summer, the dampness crept up into my bones and chilled me from the ground up. I was happy to see a table with big urns of tea, which wasn’t too bad with a lot of sugar. We were handed British helmets, which looked like old-fashioned flat helmets from the First World War, and stood in line for our rifles. Kaz was almost jumping up and down with excitement, fixing his helmet at just the right jaunty angle.
A stern British army noncom checked each Enfield rifle before handing it to us, working the bolt and leaving it open, making sure it was unloaded. When we all had rifles he motioned us to gather around him. He picked up a clip of bullets, all blanks, and held it up in one hand, the other grasping a rifle with the bolt open. He spoke loudly, as if there were an exclamation point after every word and we were twenty yards away.
“Now lissen ’ere, sirs. This is the Lee-Enfield Number Four rifle, the finest bolt-action rifle ever there was. In the ’ands of a good marksman it is accurate up to sixteen hundred yards, which don’t mean a thing today, as you gentlemen will be shooting blanks at them Norwegian boys. You will each receive three clips of ten blank rounds each.”
He showed us how to load the clip and work the safety. Then he handed each of us the ammunition. “Now remember, sirs, even though it’ll be only blanks out there, don’t shoot ’em off straight at anyone’s face. You can still get burned or worse if you’re too close. Any questions? Sirs?”
There weren’t, and we found the Home Guard troops and followed them into position. A slight rise in the heath led to trenches dug in the wet soil, with tree trunks laid in front of them. Two old retired Matilda tanks sat just out in front, unoccupied and surrounded by sandbags. The commandos were going to blow them up to make a good show before they assaulted our position. In front of us were gently rolling fields of tall grass and beyond that another small rise with a clump of trees. I guessed the Norwegians must be grouped behind there since there were no troops in sight. There were umpires on both sides of the field who would determine when one side or the other could advance or retreat. Since we were playing the bad guys, I guessed they were just window dressing.
Off to the side by the road were benches and chairs for the king and his officers. I could see Harding and Cosgrove standing behind the king. Harding was scanning the fields with his binoculars. Suddenly a referee’s loud voice from behind shouted, “Helmets on! The exercise has begun.”
We strapped on our helmets and I thought how crazy it was that I was all dressed up as a British soldier, playing a German, firing blanks at Norwegians. We knelt to take up positions with our rifles resting on the logs and pointing toward the woods. The damp ooze soaked through my trousers and I shivered, the warmth of the sweet tea just a memory now. I glanced over at Harding and saw him scan the field again. He passed over us and trained his binoculars on one of the small rises of land-a hillock, I guess it would be called-in front of us. What was he looking at?
Then I saw it. The grass was moving. Here and there I could make out a few crawling shapes, camouflaged with grasses. They must have sneaked forward behind the hillocks and were now crawling out in the relative open, very slowly. Everyone’s eyes were trained on the woods, where we expected the opposing force to come from. I tapped Kaz on the shoulder.
“Is that something moving over there?” I pointed. Birkeland, on my left, leaned forward to see for himself. Kaz squinted through his thick glasses.
“Yes! They’re here, in front of us!” he yelled as loud as he could and then fired his rifle. It almost knocked him over but he held on, worked the bolt, and tightened his grip for the next shot. He hung on to that one, and kept the rifle at his shoulder as he worked the bolt. All up and down our line the Home Guard began shooting and the noise quickly became deafening. Kaz was grinning up at me and Birkeland was enjoying himself too, playing soldier out here in the fields. It was kinda fun, I thought, in spite of myself. I smiled at Kaz and gave him a thumbs-up, as conversation was impossible with the high-powered crack of rifle fire snapping at our eardrums.
Some of the crawling figures stood up to throw smoke grenades. I could see the rest of the Norwegian force coming out of the woods at a trot, hoping to link up with the commandos who were now returning our fire. The umpires were holding them back-a bit of unexpected victory for us. But through the smoke I could see several of the forward commandos rush up to the Matilda tanks, and then scurry back, diving and rolling to cover. Seconds later, twin explosions wracked the air as smoke and flames blossomed from the tanks. That did it. The umpires signaled all the commandos forward, and gave us the signal to move out or surrender. Kaz was loading his last clip, and I had to tell him it was time to sound retreat. I tapped him on the shoulder and cupped my hand around my mouth to yell as the firing from the commandos drew closer and louder.
“Time to go, Kaz-”
Something exploded in my face and cut me off, sound and shock stunning me. I dropped to the ground, put my hands to my face, and felt blood dripping between my fingers. I was still breathing, but the thought kept going through my mind that I had been shot. Not possible, I told myself. They’re using blanks, aren’t they? My face stung like a hundred bee stings. Birkeland and Kaz bent over me as the commandos swarmed over our position, jumping up on the log and vaulting over us, chasing the rest of the retreating Jerries like avenging angels. One of them stood on the log and let loose a burst from his Sten submachine gun, hot shell casings cascading over us. One landed on
