Read Chapter 14: The Telephone

The villa had lost its roof to a shell that had also taken the staircase and most of the west wall. What remained was a skeleton of blackened brick and a single room on the ground floor that still held a table, a chair, and—impossibly—a field telephone sitting on a crate as if waiting for a call.

Arthur stepped over a fallen beam and into the room. The air tasted of plaster dust and cordite. A British officer lay in the corner, his tunic unbuttoned, a red-stained field dressing wrapped around his chest. He was alive, but only just, his breathing a shallow rattle. Beside him, a young signalman cradled the telephone receiver in both hands like a holy object.

"Line's dead," the signalman said without looking up. His voice cracked. "It's been dead since yesterday."

Arthur crossed the room. The private who had come aboard with Cole's sergeant—Fletcher, that was his name—followed him in, rifle at the ready. The other soldiers Arthur had brought from the beach waited outside, watching the road.

"Try it again," Arthur said.

The signalman shook his head. "There's nobody left to answer. The whole bloody line is—"

"Try."

The boy lifted the receiver, cranked the handle, and held it to his ear. His eyes widened.

"It's ringing." He looked at Arthur with something between terror and hope. "It's actually ringing."

Arthur took the receiver from him. The earpiece crackled with static and distant gunfire, but beneath it, a voice—faint, harried, but unmistakably human.

"HQ. Who is this? Identify yourself."

"Arthur Briggs. Trawler skipper out of Ramsgate. I'm looking for the Dover signalmen. A unit holding the canal line. I need to know—"

"Signalmen? Gone." The voice was young, and it shook. "They were pushed back to the bridge. Clayes Bridge, east of the main road. That's where they sent them. That's where they all went."

"Who's this?" Arthur asked.

"Corporal Bates, Forty-Second Field Regiment. I'm all that's left at—" The voice broke into a sob, then steadied itself. "Listen, the line's about to be cut. We've lost contact with the bridge. The demolition charges are set but nobody knows if the firing party is still alive. If the Germans take that bridge before it goes up, they'll be in our rear before dark."

Arthur gripped the receiver. "Was there a signalman named Briggs with them? George Briggs?"

A pause. The static hissed like the sea.

"I don't know names," the corporal said. "I know they were holding the eastern span. But that was hours ago. I've heard nothing since. If you're going to the bridge, you'd best go now. When the charges go, they'll go for good."

The line died. The corporal was gone.

Arthur lowered the receiver. The signalman stared at him, waiting. Fletcher shifted his weight.

"What's the word, skipper?" Fletcher asked.

Arthur looked out through the shattered wall. Across the flat farmland, smoke rose in a dozen columns, and the crackle of small-arms fire rolled in from the east—closer than it had been ten minutes ago. The bridge was out there, somewhere in that smoke. George was out there. His son had been sent to hold a bridge with demolition charges set, and the line to that bridge was already dead.

"Word is, the bridge is still standing," Arthur said. "And so is my boy, until I know otherwise."

Fletcher nodded. He had the hollow look of a man who had seen too much in too few days, but he didn't argue. "How far?"

"Six miles. Maybe less, with the road cut up as it is."

"We'll never make it on foot before dark," Fletcher said. "Not through that." He jerked his chin toward the smoke.

Arthur's jaw tightened. He turned to the wounded officer in the corner. The man's eyes were open now, watching him with the feverish focus of the dying.

"Are you in command here?" Arthur asked.

The officer licked his lips. "Was. Now it's you, I suppose."

"Is there transport? Anything with wheels?"

The officer laughed, a wet, ugly sound. "There was a despatch rider. Bike's out back. He won't be needing it." He coughed, and blood flecked his lips. "Take it. Go find your son. God knows we've got nothing left to defend but the beach, and even that's a lie."

Arthur crossed to the back of the villa. Propped against a crumbling wall was a Norton motorcycle, dusty but intact. A canvas bag hung from the handlebars. Inside was a map, a compass, and a Webley revolver with a full cylinder.

He checked the map. Clayes Bridge was marked in pencil, circled twice. It spanned a narrow canal that cut across the main withdrawal route. If that bridge fell before the charges went up, the Germans would pour across and trap every man still on the beach.

Fletcher appeared beside him. "That won't carry two."

"I'm not asking you to come."

"The lads on the beach need to know what's happening at that bridge. Someone has to take word back." Fletcher glanced at the villa. "The corporal there's got the radio. He can pass the word. I'll stay with him."

Arthur looked at the Norton, then at the road that led east. The gunfire was getting closer, individual shots now, distinguishable—the crack of rifles, the thump of mortars. Not a battle. A rear-guard action, buying time.

He thought of Cole's oilcloth package, still tucked inside his coat. Thornbury's message, still in its envelope. Two pieces of paper that might matter to the war. And a son who mattered to him.

He stuffed the map and compass into his coat, slung the canvas bag over his shoulder, and swung a leg over the Norton. The fuel tank sloshed—half full, maybe more. Enough for six miles. Just barely.

"Tell Mac," Arthur said, "tell him if I'm not back by dawn, he takes the Perseverance home. He's to deliver the messages to the port commandant—both of them. You hear me?"

Fletcher nodded. "I hear you."

Arthur kicked the starter. The engine coughed, spat, then caught with a roar that echoed off the broken walls. He twisted the throttle, and the Norton lurched forward, bouncing over rubble and out onto the road.

The road was a graveyard of abandoned vehicles—a burned-out truck, a staff car on its side, a bicycle twisted like a pretzel. He wove between them, hugging the east verge, the wind whipping tears from his eyes. The smoke thickened as he rode, blanketing the fields on either side. In the ditches, he saw the shapes of men, some moving, some not. A soldier lunged at him as he passed, shouting something Arthur couldn't hear over the engine, and then fell back into the muck.

He crested a low rise and saw it: a pale ribbon of water stretching north and south, and crossing it, a span of stone and steel that held a cluster of shapes—men, crouched behind a barricade of sandbags and rubble. He could see the Bren gun, the flutter of a signal flag, the dark mound of a body lying across the parapet.

And he could see a figure at the far end of the bridge, crouched over a box, a wire running from it toward the span.

Arthur's heart seized.

The figure straightened, and for a moment—just a moment—the silhouette was unmistakable. The set of the shoulders. The way he stood, feet planted, back to the enemy, hands working with a calm that Arthur had seen a thousand times in the mirror of his own son.

The figure ran toward the bridge, carrying something in his hands. A detonator.

Arthur twisted the throttle. The Norton surged forward, engine screaming. He opened his mouth to shout, but the roar of the engine and the crack of rifle fire swallowed his voice.

The figure reached the near end of the bridge. He knelt. He pressed the plunger.

Arthur watched the world turn white.