“We’ll have to go back the way we came,” Ernest said. Cess nodded and reached for the map. Ernest put in the clutch and tried to shift it into reverse. It ground and then jammed.
A movement from in front of the car made him glance up. An American MP was walking toward them.
Jesus. He was bound to ask them where they were going. Ernest jiggled the gear stick, trying to work it back into gear, but it wouldn’t budge. “Cess,” Ernest said, glancing quickly in the mirror. Hopefully the colonel had fallen asleep again. No, he was awake and watching interestedly.
“Cess, roll up your window before the colonel catches a chill,” Ernest said. “Cess!”
“Hmm?” Cess said from behind the map.
The MP was nearly even with the car. Ernest yanked on the gear stick, trying to force it into gear, any gear. “Roll up the goddamned window. Cess!”
“What?” Cess said, and finally looked up, but too late. The MP was even with the window. Cess shot Ernest a look of panic. “There’s a soldier—”
“I see him,” Ernest said grimly and gave the gear stick one last desperate yank. It slid into reverse, and he let out the clutch. And killed the motor.
The MP leaned in. “You can’t get through this way, sir. The road ahead’s full of troops and equipment. You’ll have to go back the way you came.”
The MP leaned in. “You can’t get through this way, sir. The road ahead’s full of troops and equipment. You’ll have to go back the way you came.”
“Right,” Ernest said, restarting the car. “Sorry.”
“Where were you trying to go, sir?”
Don’t say Portsmouth, Ernest ordered Cess silently. Or Dover. “Bunbury,” Cess said.
“We’ll be out of your way in a moment, Officer,” Ernest said, and put the car in gear. He laid his arm on the back of the seat and looked back to see a half-track pull up behind them.
“Bunbury, sir?” the MP repeated. “Do you mean Banbury?”
Which was close to Bletchley Park. Ernest leaned across Cess. “We’re blocked in, I’m afraid. Can you ask the vehicle behind us to move?”
The MP nodded, but the half-track’s driver had already taken matters into his own hands and pulled up beside them on the driver’s side, with inches to spare.
Good, Ernest thought, and started to back. In time to see a Jeep driven by a Wren pull up behind the two of them.
“Bunbury’s near Bracknell,” Cess was saying to the MP, who’d leaned in the window again. “West of Upper Tensing.”
“Upper Tensing? Is that near P—”
“It’s near Lower Tensing,” Cess said desperately.
Disaster was seconds away. Ernest had to somehow get the MP away from the car and out of earshot so he could explain their mission. He snatched up their papers and opened his car door, but there were only inches between it and the half-track, and while he was in the process of squeezing out and making it to the other side, the MP would say something fatal, and he wouldn’t be there to stop it.
The MP was already saying it. “Never heard of any of them. Are they on the road to Por—”
“We’re looking for Captain Atherton,” Ernest cut in, leaning across Cess. “Can you tell us where to find him?” and Cess shot him a look of relief he hoped the MP
didn’t see.
He didn’t. He’d pushed back his helmet and was scratching his head. “Captain Atherton?”
“Yes, we were told he was up ahead. Go tell him—”
“What’s the holdup?” the Wren who’d been driving the jeep demanded, walking up to the MP. “Why are we stopped?”
“You can’t get through this way,” the MP said to her, and Ernest grabbed the opportunity to squeeze out the door—snatching up their papers as he went—and dart around to the passenger side of the car, where the MP was explaining to the Wren that the Jeep would have to turn around. “This whole division’s being moved to their transit camp,” he was saying. “There’s no way you can get through.”
The Wren looked annoyed. “But I must get through to Por—”
“I need to speak to Captain Atherton immediately,” Ernest barked. “Take me to a field telephone. Now, soldier.”
“Yes, sir,” the MP said.
“Wait!” the Wren said. “What about—”
“And move that Jeep, Lieutenant!” Ernest ordered her.
“This way, sir,” the MP said, and led Ernest past the lorry. “I’ll take you to Captain Atherton right away, sir.”
If only that were true, Ernest thought, following him. It was unbelievably tempting to make the MP get on the field telephone and try to locate Atherton, but he didn’t dare, not in the middle of hundreds of soldiers, any of whom might blurt out “Portsmouth” at any second. Finding Denys wouldn’t mean a thing if von Sprecht told Hitler troops were massing in southwestern England. He had to get them out of here. Fast.
So, as soon as they were out of earshot—Cess still hadn’t rolled the damned window up—Ernest stepped ahead of the MP and said in a low voice, “We’re on special assignment from British Intelligence. It’s imperative that we reach Portsmouth by fourteen hundred hours.” He pulled the papers out of his pocket and flashed them at him so
