Reparation – A Ghost Story

“I don’t know why we don’t walk back to the post.”

            “Of course, you don’t. Because you wouldn’t have to face the major and tell him that you gobbed it up again.” The tall, skinny soldier tramped through a gathering fog down the gravel roadway that ran by the sea.  He talked over his shoulder to his companion soldier.

            “Byron, wait up,” the companion called. “I can’t keep up.” He tugged at the rifle slung on his shoulder.

            “That’s because you’re too fat, Corporal Tweed. And how’d you get to be a corporal anyway, you’re not near as smart as me, a lowly doughboy, and a damn sight slower.”

            “Doughboy!” Corporal Tweed hollered, tripping along the ragged excuse for a road. “Nobody calls soldiers ‘doughboys’ anymore. That was the first world war. This…” He stopped, leaned over, huffing. “This is the second war that covers the whole, crazy world. Or did you forget?”

            Byron trudged back to where Tweed was bent over, wheezing; “Yes, Tweed. We are in this ‘bloody’ war, as the Brits call it, and us lowly Americans, that the English look down their noses at, are here to save ‘em, here on the sorry backside of Scotland, but it doesn’t mean we can’t make a little profit sellin’ our homemade hooch to the locals.” He strode away a few yards to the edge of the windswept cliff. He stretched out his gangly arms like a plane’s wings and looked down at the cobalt blue ocean bay, pocked with harsh, gray, rock pedestals that punched up from the ocean floor, extending several feet above the crashing waves.

            Tweed slid up beside his fellow liquor runner. “We already sold some of the booze. Let’s just get back.”

            Byron eyed Tweed briefly, then turned to watch the unrelenting waves, rolling and rising, white-foamed and foreboding. “But the world’s countin’ on us, just you and me, to stop a Nazi invasion, all by ourselves.”

            “We left the Jeep with the mounted machine gun and all the ammo back there. Aren’t you worried about that?”

“You see those two terns?” Byron pointed at black and white birds streaking against the foggy sky.”

            “I see ‘em. But what about the Jeep?”

            “And you see the gull trying to dodge ‘em?” He directed Tweed’s gaze downward.

            “Yeah. So?”

            “Well, that’s the Brits and the Nazis fightin’ it out over England right now. Those tall rocks in the water are like the buildings in London. The Nazis thought they had air superiority and could wipe out England with a few bombin’ raids. Well, it didn’t work out like Ol’ Hitler planned. The Brits fought back. See! Those terns are drivin’ the Nazi gull away from their nest. There, he’s gone.”

            “What’s your point?”

            “My point is, while the Brits and the Luftwaffe are fightin’ it out in the skies, very few of the illustrious generals ever thought that the Krauts might try to slip ashore in a backwater region like this corner of hell. Well, they’ve come ashore up and down the Brit’s coastline often enough, just scoutin’, but they’ve done it. So, me and you are here on this Godforsaken patch of Scotland, ‘cause, just maybe, some Nazis might climb up these cliffs and mess with the whole British Isles.”

            “I know, Byron. Major Dimmit is makin’ sure that don’t happen.” Tweed removed his helmet and wiped his brow with his sleeve.

            “And he’s the one that ordered us to take the most worthless Jeep in the post, knowing it’d probably break down. Then he’d have another reason to chew on my ass. Besides, we haven’t sold all our liquor. If I’m gonna serve in this army I’m gonna make it worthwhile.”

            “It broke down on its own. That’s not our fault.” Tweed hefted his belt up around his belly. “So, why didn’t we just stash the booze and walk back?”

            “I told you!” Byron snapped. “We’ve got to find a mechanic to fix the Jeep. Where’s that map?”

            Tweed pulled a crumpled map from his pocket and handed it to Byron. A sharp wind swept up from the bay, pushing fog, deep grey, and billowing. Tweed zipped up his jacket.

Byron studied the map. “How the hell do these people get anywhere? There’s no way to read this thing.” He tossed the paper into the breeze, and Tweed barely caught it before it floated away.

 “Not a town anywhere.” Byron turned slowly in a full circle, trying to peer through the fog, while Tweed struggled to fold the map. To their left, imposing cliffs ran down to the narrow strip of land that the road ran upon. The cliffs, scarred with knobby. black rock outcroppings, tended toward a severe slant, impassable without rope and tackle. On the other side of the twenty-foot wide road was the steep drop-off into the ocean.

Byron straightened his shoulder strap of his Browning Automatic Rifle. “Damn it. Not a town in sight.” He turned toward Tweed.

Tweed looked up and pointed beyond Byron. The fog clouds had rolled briefly away, revealing a town. “What about that one?”

Byron spun around and saw, less than a half mile away, a quaint village, surrounded by a high rock wall, squatting before a deep crevace that ran out from the bay and up into the cliffs. The fog continued to lift above the village.  Beyond the high wall that extended from the cliffs to the sea, ancient houses with thatched roofs dotted the town. A church spire with a cross poked into the sky. The road sloped down to the main gate.

Byron rubbed his eyes. “Well…”

“Come on,” Tweed yelled, trotting past Byron.

“But, but…, that town was not there a second ago…” His voice trailed off. “Maybe I’m dehydrated. That’s what the doctors say. Drink water. Less hooch.” He grabbed his canteen and swallowed a large gulp. He pulled his helmet strap tighter, then raced after the corporal who was already galloping toward the town.

Nearing the village, it seemed to grow broader. By the time they reached level ground before the heavy, wooden gates that stood open, the imposing wall with turrets on each side of it hid the interior from view.

Rather than entering, the soldiers halted, leaned over, and gawked through the gate. They saw men of generally small statures striding and laboring about the town, all of them dressed in garb of the Middle Ages. The men wore knee-length trousers and tall stockings, leather aprons, and flouncy caps. No buttons on their shirts, but strings tied the sides together. Some men toiled at hammering iron cart parts on anvils, others dipped oak strips into vats of water, making barrel staves. One fellow stood at a cart, laden with baskets of fish.

“A fishmonger!” Tweed exclaimed, pointing. “I’m hungry.”

“Of course, you are.” Byron straightened from looking through the gates and saw two burly men approaching from the right, hammers and chisels in their hands. The men stopped and began hammering their chisels at the mortar that fastened the rocks of the wall.  “Where’d they come from?”

Tweed looked at Byron. “Who?”

“Those two men. They weren’t here when we came up.”

“I don’t know. You probably just didn’t notice them.”

When they looked again, a ragged cart with wooden wheels squatted behind the two workers at the wall, and two more men lifted one of the heavy stones from out of the wall and carried the stone to load in the cart.

 “Why’re you taking down the wall?” Tweed blurted.

At first, the four men halted their work and seemed surprised, then gave a “Whattayou know” look, and then returned to their labor.  

One heavy-bearded fellow hunched his shoulders. “Orders from the madam magistrate.” He continued chipping off bits of mortar.

A smaller man pointed at Tweed and Byron. “Look at their breeches! And what manner of hat be that? Likens to a turtle.” He laughed aloud.

Byron and Tweed both raised their hands and touched their helmets.  

“Come on,” Byron said, “Let’s find a mechanic.”

The two strolled through the gate and immediately spied several women in wide skirts and low-cut blouses. The women had their hair tied back under floppy bonnets. Some worked at washing clothes on scrub-boards, others scattered scratch to chickens, and two scrubbed a wooden table outside a tavern. Cats chased a rat, dogs barked, and the town folk carried on like Byron and Tweed weren’t there at all.

The soldiers observed one stout woman wearing a wine-stained skirt. She hefted heavy tin tankards, foam dripping down the sides. She plopped them on a table where two men in heavy, blue, wool breast-coats and sporting skinny swords on their belts sat chortling. Longbows leaned against the table. They looked like Medieval soldiers. One of the men handed the broad-hipped tavern girl a coin. She placed it in her cleavage. When she walked away, the man swatted her hip, but she ignored him. The men sniggered.

“It’s a wench!” Tweed announced to Byron, pointing at the tavern girl.

“A what?”

“A wench. You know, merry old England. All the lords had a wench woman.”

“How would you know that?” Byron rolled his eyes. “Come on. This may be a show town, you know, a circus thing to look like old England. But they have to have running water and a lieu, and someone to repair their trucks to carry all this stuff to the next town.”

Byron and Tweed meandered along the dusty street. They peeked into open doorways and spied children tussling or cavorting with strips of cloth tied to sticks. They passed the church where a kind-faced priest handed loaves of bread to children who scampered away with their prizes. The priest looked at Byron and Tweed, baffled at first, then smiled.

Byron strode faster in his long legs, and Tweed had trouble keeping up. After walking up and down every street and alley, each one filled with horse manure and various piles of rotted vegetables, Byron stopped, his hand held up like checking the wind. 

“What?” Tweed almost stumbled into his companion. “Did you find a mechanic?”

“No. This whole place is a mistake. There’s nothing here that indicates the twentieth century. This town is stuck in the Middle Ages.”

“Kind of like the Amish in America, still doin’ things like they did in the 1800’s.”

Byron rubbed his four o’clock shadow. “Let’s ask some questions?”

“I can answer your questions.” A pleasant, melancholy Scottish brogue chimed behind them.

They turned to see a demure, blond woman in her thirties. The tresses of her hair hung loose about her face tied in plaits with tiny ribbons. She wore finer clothes than any of the other women, a deep blue gown with gold braid on the sleeves. “I can answer your questions.” She said again, smiling a little at the men’s gawping.

Byron cleared his throat. “Yes. I’m Private Byron Watkins, U.S. army. This is Corporal Hiram Tweed.”

“I’m pleased.” She held out her hand, not to shake theirs, but with her wrist turned down.

Tweed immediately stepped forward, lifted her limp hand and kissed it. Byron, a bit awkwardly, followed the corporal’s lead.

“I am Elizabeth McPherson, magistrate. The mayor died long ago, and I have been given his charge. The townspeople thought it best to have me perform his duties, since none can read, save I.”

“All right, your majesty,” Byron offered.

“Oh, I’m not of royal lineage. I simply record and maintain the town’s history. It is a difficult task, but I am capable.”

“Well, I guess my first question is,” Byron began. “What is this place? Is it a circus or carnival? An acting company rehearsing for a play or a movie?”

“No, and, I believe, no to your second question. I’m not sure what a movie is.”

Tweed rubbed his brow. “I’m confused.”

“Of course, you are,” Magistrate McPherson said. “Hand me that whisket.”

“What’s a whisket?” Tweed asked.

She pointed to a small basket filled with pears. Tweed picked it up and handed it to her.

 “Walk apace with me.” Her tone was direct, and the soldiers hastened to keep up with her, the long hem of her gown hanging near the dusty earth. “I conjecture you will desire some ale to slake your thirst and perhaps a slice of brawn.”

“What’s brawn?” Tweed hung on her words.

She took dark bread rolls from the basket and handed one to each soldier. “Permit me show you why you be here.”

Tweed quickly munched on his bread.

They walked out past the end of the town, opposite the front gate. No huts were there, only weed-laden foundations. Wild grasses bent in the stiff breeze all the way to the deep chasm that stretched from the foreboding cliffs out to the wave-tossed sea. Reaching the split’s edge, she stood perilously close, the wind whipping up from the chasm. “There.” She pointed.

Tweed and Byron gazed over the edge, feeling the sharp gusts buffet their faces. Rough-hewn stairs led down to a pier at which were tied ancient fishing crafts.

“That,” Magistrate McPherson announced, “is how we maintain our livelihood. Many years ago, there was a bridge across this gorge. It was the only passage for travelers to reach Dunburrow and beyond. We charged a toll at the gate. We sold them fish for their journey, and they were glad for it. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Byron said, “but why doesn’t England just build a bridge now? And why do you and the people still live like you’re in merry old England?”

“To answer your first question. There be a perfectly fine road and bridge at Badbea that was built perhaps in the time you call the eighteen hundreds. Few travel this way anymore. If they do, it is quite by accident.” She searched the soldier’s faces. “Or on a purpose that we, nor they, know. That is, until later.”

“What’d’ya mean by that?” Byron put his hands on his hips.

“Your next inquiry. We live in what you call merry old England for such a period of time ‘til we be released from our agreement.”

“Agreement?”

“Yes. Let us repair to my home, but I must warn you, your lives may be in peril.”

Unsure of what the woman meant by their lives being in peril, the soldiers trudged after the reserved woman. When they entered the inauspicious dwelling, the two had to duck their heads and remain bent over. Byron said, “I noticed how short everyone is.”

“What is your height, Mr. Watkins?” the magistrate asked.

“I’m six feet, one.”

“My. That is enormous.”

 Both men removed their helmets, then leaned their rifles against the wall. 

The woman directed them to rough wooden chairs beside an even rougher-hewn table. She sat on a chair with a blue velvet seat and back. “We of the town of Stormburrow are not surprised at your presence here. Though we are unaware of why. Others arriving in past times were either running from someone or something, or they were chasing someone. But you two arrived like you were lost. And I must admit I am totally unfamiliar with your attire. I do see you have new-fangled guns. The men from the great war had similar weapons. They needed not to pour in powder to fire them.”

Byron leaned forward, his chin on his fist. “You’re going to have to explain a little more.”

“Very well. Most everyone here has been alive since 1666, some children born, a few died of old age. None have died of any disease.”

“Yeah, go on,” Tweed said, smirking. “This is too good.”

“In the year 1666, the black plague prowled across England. People took to the roads to escape it, but what they did was carry the pestilence with them to the next town and so on. We found out from the men from the great war who came through here last that the disease was spread by fleas on rats. We had not that knowledge in 1666.”

“So, you’re saying this town has been stuck in the seventeenth century all this time?” Byron asked, still unbelieving.

Elizabeth ignored his query. “In that year long ago, we knew the scourge was coming. We barred our gates.”

“That makes sense,” Tweed agreed.

“But you see, through our gates, it was the only passage along the sea to go north. We barred the gates, and, no matter how people pleaded, we would not allow the plague to enter our town. Our archers shot arrows at them from the turrets. Eventually they turned back. We felt safe.”  

“So how does that make this place into a magical land?”

“Oh, we are not magical, we are making reparation for a gift.”

“A gift?” Byron asked.

“Yes, it involves a promise to the patron saint of Scotland – Saint Andrew. One night, one of our maidens threw down a rope ladder to her lover. He climbed the wall to be with her and brought the plague with him. He got the boil on his neck, then his fever sprang up. She tried to hide him, but she too caught the dread disease. Both perished. The whole town knew that most of us would soon die agonizing deaths.”

“So, you’re saying you are all a few hundred years old. Is that the promise?”

“Oh, no. Our good priest gathered the folks, good Christians all, and we offered a promise to St. Andrew that if he would allow our pleadings to live, we would open our gates and save people for as long as the walls stood. It was an unreasonable promise, but, apparently, St. Andrew heard our prayer and besought God on our behalves. No one died. We just did not expect how the reparation for our blessings would be carried out. Stormburrow only appears to the traveler when there is a need.” 

Byron stood. “I think I’m beginning to understand. I’ve pinched myself several times, so I know I’m not dreamin’. This is really happening, like that play.”

“Brigadoon,” Tweed interjected.

“Yeah.”

All were silent.

Finally, Magistrate McPherson continued. “Through the years, our people aged slowly. If anyone died it was usually from an accident or old age. Some tried to leave and immediately turned into dust only a rod beyond the walls. It was most unpleasant to watch. However, during this long spell, people came to us for help.”

“For help?” Byron was visibly sweating. “You mean if we try to leave here, we’ll turn to dust?”

“No, not you,” Elizabeth said, “just those of us from this village. We are the ones making reparation.”

            “So, who’d you help?” Byron asked.

“In the past,” Elizabeth said, “we’ve helped lovers chased by angry parents. We saved the lovers and got them cross the bridge that only appears when people need to escape. We helped a highwayman who had stolen from rich barons. He stole back what they had taken from him and only to feed his family and others. We stopped a horde bent on spreading havoc on a town further north. They could not get by our walls, nor could they traverse the high cliffs. They gave up and turned back.”

“Why were the doughboys here?”

“Your question is well-deserved. They arrived to help us fight off the force of evil.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” Byron bumped his head on the ceiling. “What do you mean evil force?”

“Sit down, please, Private Watkins,” Elizabeth said. “You can imagine that when a place is locked in time and doing great good in the world, that evil will try to stop it. Yet, we have prevailed. Once, a brave knight helped us fight a loathsome creature who battered at the gate for hours. Only by his cunning were we and he able to kill the hideous beast.”

The soldiers looked warily at each other

 “I’m thinking we should leave, Byron. That’s what I’m thinking.”

“I’m agree with you.” Byron reached for his BAR.

“Oh, you must not leave!” The magistrate stood, her voice commanding. “You have to stay until the need passes.”

“Well, just watch us go.” Byron headed to the door.

“You will get no further than the gate. Your will is no longer your own. You are here for a purpose.”

“Who’s going to stop us? Archers?” Tweed took his turn at sounding put out.

“No. The gate will hold fast. No matter what you do.”

Byron and Tweed stopped in their tracks. They turned slowly toward the sweet beauty who by her expression held them there more than any gate could.

“So, why’re those men taking the wall down?” Tweed asked.

“We have decided that we have saved enough people,” Elizabeth answered. “We want to complete our lives and move on to heaven. If the walls are down, there is no need for us anymore.”

At that moment, a crack like thunder sounded throughout the village, followed by the rumble of falling rocks. Byron, Tweed and Elizabeth hurried into the street. They beheld a large portion of wall had tumbled, rocks strewn in piles, dust rising. A large gap opened where once there had been high wall. The gate remained closed.

“There,” Elizabeth whispered. “Perhaps my people can soon find rest. We no longer have to defend or save. We can pass into that grey land, then, to heaven.”

Byron and Tweed stood open-mouthed.

Tears began to pour from Elizabeth’s eyes. “Most people do not wish to die. They fear it. But for me and my people, we have yearned for it for so long…”

Tweed put his arm around her shoulder and hugged her. She turned her face into his chest. Byron reached out his hand and patted her back. Suddenly, the entire town had gathered around the little group – men, women with their children, the workers, the barkeeps, the priest.

The Medieval soldiers lifted their swords in the air. “Hurrah!”

Then, everyone was cheering.

The priest raised his hand for calm. “Let us pray.”

The people knelt. “Dear God,” he pled. “Please let our efforts to destroy the wall bring a blessing to us all and that we may be with you in your glory.”

“Amen,” all the people said.

In the ensuing quiet, Tweed said, “But what if the next thing you face is not about saving some lover, but a real foe? Like the beast you spoke of?”

“Then we shall die having fulfilled our promise.” Elizabeth wiped her tears.  

Night was descending, and the fog grew thicker. A gale wind rose, blasting harsh and cold.

“We’re not going to make it back to the Jeep before dark, Tweed,” Byron said. “We’ll sleep here tonight. Stash the booze like you said and walk back. I’ve never been in a Medieval village. I’ll have something to tell my kids.”

“And won’t we have a story!” Tweed exclaimed, pulling his belt up around his belly.

Byron took Tweed aside and whispered, “If what she’s been telling us has even a particle of truth, then we need to be on watch. Without their wall, whatever might come, they won’t be able to hold it back.”

Tweed nodded.

“Your rifle loaded?”

Tweed patted his gun, his hand trembling. “Yes. What could be worse than a beast?”

“I don’t know. I sure wish we had that the Jeep and its machine gun.”

Darkness pitched its tent quickly over the town. The crowd broke up and went to their homes. Candles glowed in the uneven glass panes of the homes. Byron and Tweed, too nervous to sleep, patrolled the streets. Light spilled from the open door of the church. Inside, many townspeople knelt. Candles glowed throughout.

“You know,” Tweed remarked in a quiet voice. “I think they know this is it.”

Byron tightened the bandolier belt that held his extra BAR magazines. “I wish this gun could hold more than twenty rounds at a time.”

“Hey, my rifle just shoots one shot at a time.”

At that moment, nearing the break in the wall, Byron and Tweed saw what was unquestionably headlights rolling toward them on the road. They heard a heavy vehicle’s tires crunching the shale gravel. They both stepped to the side of the gate, out of sight of the vehicle’s lights.

“Who is it?” Tweed asked into the pitch-black night.

“It might be soldiers from camp looking for us.”

The vehicle stopped just outside the closed gate, and its horn started blasting. Standing behind a portion of the wall that still stood, Tweed peeked out. Enough glow from the headlights bounced off the door to provide ample illumination.

Over the blaring horn, Tweed exclaimed, “It’s our Jeep.” He scrambled over the fallen pile of rocks and jumped into the driver’s seat. The horn stopped. He pulled the key from his pocket and stuck it in the ignition. The engine choked awake and purred.

“Well, I’ll be.” Byron stood beside the newly functioning Jeep. “Open the gate!”

By now, the towns folks had crowded into the street. Several burly men lifted a heavy bar from across the door and tugged the heavy gate open. Tweed drove the Jeep inside. He turned the Jeep in the wide street and laughed at the expressions on the people’s faces, torches and candles in their hands.

“Scoot over, Tweed,” Byron demanded. “Let’s get back to base. Enough with this malarkey.”

“We won’t tell ‘em. They’ll say we’ve been drinkin’ and throw us in the brig.”

“No. You must not leave.” Elizabeth stood beside Byron, the quarter moon and the torch glare shedding a pleasant light across her visage. She seemed almost to be fading to opaque right before his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Magistrate,” Byron said. “We weren’t cut out to battle no beasts or whatever might show up.”

“There never was any beast. I only said that hoping it would encourage you to stay.”

“Oh, well, I’m sure that any old knight or pack of wolves that show up at your gate, your archers can handle ‘em.”

“No, they cannot. Now that the wall is down. We all may die tonight, and it may be a tortuous, agonizing death. We need your help. England and Scotland are depending on you.”

“England?” Tweed gunned the engine. “Sorry, lady.” He released the brake. The Jeep peeled rubber and sped out the open gate, and the engine immediately died.  Tweed tried several times to restart it, but it only sputtered. He took his foot off the break, and the Jeep rolled backwards down the slight incline into town. The engine immediately started up on its own. The headlights turned off.

Byron and Tweed leapt from their seats and stood staring at the vehicle, the moonlight glinting off the machine gun barrel. Tweed held his chest, his heart pounding. “It’s haunted.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth proclaimed. “Everything in the town, including you, is discomfited until you do whatever needs be done.”

The crowd murmured agreement. Byron removed his helmet and scratched his scalp. “Very well. We’ll stay long enough to fight off any old knight that comes along.”

 Then, drifting on the breeze, they heard voices in the distance, not speaking English.

“They’re speakin’ German, whoever is out there” Byron announced.  “Quick, everyone, douse your lights. Go to your homes, bar your doors.”

The townspeople blew out their candles, thrust the torches in rain barrels, and then hastened to their homes. Only Elizabeth remained. Byron and Tweed both smelled exquisite perfume. They turned and looked at the magistrate who was smiling, her hands outstretched by her sides, palms out.

Byron turned from her. “Quick, Tweed. Show me the map.”

Tweed fumbled in his knapsack and withdrew the map.

“I need a flashlight.”

Suddenly, the sweet woman held up one hand that bore something that shed enough light for them to see. Byron turned the chart this way and that. Then he pointed at one spot. “That road that the magistrate mentioned being built is the only one that runs up this side of Scotland by the sea and there’s one bridge. If that bridge is blown, a Nazi invasion force can land, and the Brits can’t get there to stop ‘em.”

More German words sprinkled on the wind.

“It’s Nazis,” Tweed announced. “here to blow the bridge.”

“If the German army that you call Nazis are at war with Great Britain again, then you are right. They can only reach that bridge passing through this village. The Germans tried it before in the first great war. But a handful of English soldiers stopped them here.”

“So that’s why the World War One soldiers arrived here.”

“But not without loss of life,” the magistrate’s voice was filled with sorrow. “I do not want the people of this town to die agonizing deaths. You must fight for us.”

Byron and Tweed listened to many footsteps crunching on gravel beyond the wall. A sizable number of Nazi soldiers were drawing near.

Byron drew a deep breath. “Corporal Hiram Tweed, you with me?”

“You bet I am.”

“I’ll drive. You man the machine gun.”

Tweed was already climbing into the bed of the Jeep. In a moment, he had the gun ready and locked the bullet belt in place. “Ready.”

Byron turned to Elizabeth. “You best hide, ma’am.”

“I will be all right.”

“We can’t wait. Here they come, Tweed!”

A great clump of dark forms raced toward the open gate, guns glimmering in the moonlight. An officer shouted orders.

Byron started the engine, and turned on the headlights. Tweed let loose a barrage of fire at the first line of Germans. Most fell. Others dived behind the fallen rocks, returning fire. Bullets pinged and clanged off the Jeep body. Bullets whistled by Byron’s ear. He backed the Jeep in a curving fashion. Tweed’s gun blazed.

The enemy began fanning out. More officer’s orders.

“Over there!” the magistrate called. From her hand, the device that had shown lightly on the map blazed like a spotlight on the Nazis clustered behind the rocks at the gap in the wall. Tweed turned the gun and knocked down a half dozen Nazis.

German machine guns barked. The front tires of the Jeep blew, whooshing air. Byron threw the Jeep in reverse again, weaving the vehicle, tire treads flying loose.
            Tweed channeled great volumes of bullets at the gate, pinning the Germans down. Byron smiled. “Good job, Corporal. That’ll make ‘em think twice about invadin’ Scotland.”

“Look out!” Elizabeth’s voice called out in the dark. Her light shone on a lone figure kneeling with a bazooka. Byron and Tweed leapt from the Jeep just before it exploded in a fiery jolt, the whole fire-laden vehicle bouncing into the air, then crashing to earth. 

Byron shouldered his BAR. Tweed, limping, carried his rifle.

“You get hit?” Byron yelled at Tweed.

“Yeah, in the leg.”

In the glow of the burning Jeep, they could see how bad Tweed’s wound was. Blood was spouting.

They stumbled across the road, bullets pelting the earth at their feet.

“This way!” Elizabeth’s voice called.

The two Americans followed her voice to a spot behind a house wall. The Nazis were firing at random, the bullets piercing the walls of the houses and even the church. Elizabeth placed gentle hands on Tweed’s shoulder and made him sit. In a moment, she had secured a cloth tourniquet around his leg.

“Thanks, ma’am.”

A German voice called. “Come out, Swine. If you don’t, we will destroy this village.”

Neither man could see from where the voice emanated. Suddenly, one of the houses exploded, bursting into flame. A man, woman and three children fled from the home, bullets whizzing around them. They dived behind a hay cart, flattening themselves to the ground.

“You must do something, Byron.” Elizabeth pleaded. “Or we all may die a tortuous death.”

“I got an idea.” Byron hoisted his BAR and attached the bipod, then lay prone.” I think I know where the officer is. Or at least about where he’s hiding.”

“One minute, soldiers!” the German officer barked. “Give yourself up.”

“I know right where he is.” Byron opened fire and raked across a stretch of fallen rocks. When he finished firing, he heard two bodies fall hard on the ground. Worried German voices called out into the night. “Ruckzag!” they shouted. Soon, hurried pounding of feet dwindled away from the gate and walls.

“They gone?” Tweed asked.

“I think so,” Byron replied.  “I’m pretty sure ‘ruckzag’ means ‘retreat’ in German.”

“Wait a while before you check,” Tweed said.

“I will see.” Elizabeth strode confidently into the road. In a flash, light spilled from her hand, illuminating the whole town and beyond, as bright as any Broadway avenue. Nazi bodies were strewn on the street and rocks. In the distance, a handful of black-clad Germans raced away.

Townspeople inched forth from their abodes. In the spectral light of the burning house and the Jeep, the village folks hurried to aid the wounded and moaning Germans. The two blue-clad swordsmen gathered the German weapons and tossed them into the burning Jeep.

When Byron helped Tweed to his feet, the sun’s first beams glanced over the horizon. 

“Hey,” Tweed said. “I think the bleeding stopped. It doesn’t even hurt.”

Both men checked the leg wound. A small scar marked where the bullet had entered, and another scar where it exited. “Funny,” Tweed said. “the magistrate put some kinda minty salve on it. Healed it right up.”

While the Americans meandered down the central street, they observed the townsfolk administering to the wounded. Elizabeth moved swiftly among the wounded, touching each one. Byron and Tweed came up to her.

She paused her work and smiled at them, an earthen jar in one hand, salve on the fingers of the other.

“So, Magistrate McPherson,” Byron began. “Have we accomplished the purpose?”

“Yes, you have. You are free to go. I am sorry about your Jeep. Is it a long walk back to your base?”

“Not really. We’ll be glad to get back.” Byron could not help himself from smiling. He felt a gentle warmth of accomplishment. “In fact, I’ll be glad to get back, even if old Major Dimmit chews me out.”

“Major Dimmit?”

“Yes, he’s… Never mind. It’s been a great adventure. Thank you, ma’am.”

“Thank you, brave sirs.”

Tweed took her hand and kissed it. Byron followed suit.

With the morning glowing over the ocean and gleaming on the cliffs, the two walked toward the open gate, waving and nodding at the townspeople who were cheering. The swordsmen held their swords aloft and crossed, so that Byron and Tweed could walk under them.

Byron caught a whiff of the elegant perfume they had smelled before and wheeled around at the gate. “Magistrate McPherson!”

She turned from serving the wounded, smiling. 

“Give our regards to Saint Andrew,” Byron called, “when you all get to the Pearly Gates.”

“We will,” she answered.

Once outside the collapsed walls a few yards, Tweed, no longer limping, snapped his fingers. “Oh, I meant to ask her what kind of gadget she had that could shine that much light. They turned and witnessed the village slowly evaporating like a mist. Soon, only wounded or dead German soldiers lay on the ground, the jeep sending furls of black smoke.

Byron and Tweed gaped for a moment, then faced each other.

“No one’s going to believe us,” Tweed said.

“We’re not gonna tell ‘em.”

“What about the German wounded? Should we stand guard on them?”

“Nah, there’ll be a patrol along here soon looking for us. Let them figure out what to do with the Krauts. In fact, here comes a half-track with our guys now.”

The noisy half-track lumbered down the road, a dozen American GI’s in the back.  

“What’re we going to tell the Major?”

“We’ll think of something.”