Everyone Brave Is Forgiven(100)

He looked from Mary to the Christ child, for whom he had developed a fraternal affection. The painter clearly hadn’t liked the boy—Alistair supposed no artist had ever much cared for the child whose presence was only an excuse to frequent the model. So here was Christ the awkward, Christ the inconvenient, Christ the pint-size chaperone. Sooty, pug-faced Jesus, wanting a feed. Alistair had worked on the painting for days before he noticed that while Mary had been provided with a halo, the child had only the benefit of a pot on a table in the background, its rim catching the incidental light. The table was in such deep shade and the pot so very nearly matched to its background that one would have to be the painter, or the painting’s restorer, to see the trick. Alistair’s heart went out to the boy. Maybe that was the point.

The bombing tailed off and Alistair dragged himself back to watch the enemy bombers departing. He was glad when they got away now. He raised his glasses and watched them fleeing above the waves, the tail-enders yawing desperately and trailing long streaks of soot. Well, it had been a long war, and everyone was trailing smoke. He was surprised at how easy it was to excuse the enemy. They had never promised fraternity, only bombs. What Alistair had done to Tom was worse. Mary must have come to feel the same for her part in it. He supposed it was why she didn’t write.

Now that the raid was over the men mustered in the courtyard. Alistair watched them harvest the seedy grasses that grew in the cracks between the flagstones. They chewed, slow-jawed. Gun drills had been abandoned weeks ago, physical training prohibited. When not specifically told to do something, the men had orders to do nothing.

Alistair watched though the glasses while the local children emerged from the rubble beyond the fort’s walls. They kindled tiny fires with splintered furniture, and roasted snails on sticks. In the alleys, men stood between the poles to drag their traps and carts. Their horses were long gone for stewing. Dogs were extinct. This was the worst thing now: the silence in the aftermath of a raid. There had always been the raucous indignation of dogs, but the island no longer barked.

His head throbbed. He retched, but nothing came up.

Later, Simonson brought Alistair’s ration. There was a two-ounce block of a thing they were calling bread, and a half-tin of paste. He watched with indifference as Simonson put the food down, pushing aside the bottles of thinners to make a place. Simonson sat heavily, threw off his cap and rubbed dust from the inside of his collar.

“Aren’t you going to eat the food?”

“You have it,” said Alistair.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“I’ll have it later, then.”

“Suit yourself. Good view of the raid from up here?”

“It was lovely.”

Alistair took the jar of blackberry jam from its safe place on the floor and placed it back in the arrow loop. Simonson swallowed. Alistair enjoyed the effort it cost his friend to take his eyes off the jar.

“Why won’t you eat that stuff?”

“I prefer strawberry. How did the raid go?’

“We lost two local gunners. Zammit and Sillato. Another breech explosion. Zammit’s children came to the main gate and howled. Two boys and a little girl the wind could lift like thistledown.”

“Those guns aren’t safe to use.”

“But the poor men make such elementary mistakes. Apparently Zammit had the breech half closed and Sillato called it ready to fire.”

“Have trigger guards made and run chains to them from the breech door, on the far side from the hinge. Make them just the right length and the trigger won’t clear until the gun is properly closed up.”

Simonson frowned. “You think?”

“We did it in France when we had to use French gunners.”

Simonson looked over at the picture. “Aren’t you going to fix the frame?”

“I like it with the marks of the fire on it. It carries its own story.”

“Suit yourself. It will end up hanging in Berlin, in any case.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Simonson sighed. “The men never made these mistakes under you.”

“They weren’t so hungry, back then.”

“You flatter me.”

“But it’s true. You’re not absolutely the worst major in the Army.”

Simonson snorted. “Now I know you’re dying.”

Alistair screwed the tops back on the bottles of thinners. It was hard to get the tops on with one hand. Simonson, who could have helped, only looked at him doing it.

“Don’t make me beg. Will you let them take the arm off?”

“Why do you insist?’ ”

“Because I want you evacuated before the enemy parachutes in. You know very well we’ll be killed, and I would feel less awful if you were companionable enough to let me die alone.”

“Self-centered of you.’

“Isn’t it? Still, I would consider it a favor.”

“When we first met, you considered me too common to live.”

“Perhaps I have come to see some low merit in the lower orders.”

“This helpful war. It makes us better people and then it tries to kill us.”

Simonson grinned.

“What?” said Alistair.

“ ‘Well you make it sound just like Harrow.”