Blackout - Connie Willis

Mesmerizing is right, Polly thought, putting on her coat and gathering up her bag and the newspaper-covered hymnal. He made me forget all about practicing my wrapping. She glanced at her watch, hoping the all clear had gone early, but it was half past six. It is the lark, she thought, feeling like Cinderella, and I’ve got to go home and wash out my blouse.

“I do hope you’ll grace us with another performance tomorrow night, Sir Godfrey,” Miss Laburnum was saying.

“Miss Sebastian!” Sir Godfrey extricated himself from his admiring crowd and hurried over to her. “I wished to thank you for knowing your lines-something my leading ladies scarcely ever do. Tell me, have you ever considered a career in the theater?”

“Oh, no, sir. I’m only a shopgirl.”

“Hardly,” he said. “‘Thou art the goddess on whom these airs attend, a paragon, a wonder.’”

“‘No wonder, sir, but certainly a maid,’” she quoted, and he shook his head ruefully.

“A maid, indeed, and were I forty years younger, I would be your leading man,” he said, leaning toward her, “and you would not be safe.”

I don’t doubt that for a moment, she thought. He must have been truly dangerous when he was thirty, and thought suddenly of Colin, saying, “I can shoot for any age you like. I mean, not seventy, but I’m willing to do thirty.”

“Oh, Sir Godfrey,” Miss Laburnum said, coming up. “Next time could you do something from one of Sir James Barrie’s plays?”

“Barrie?” he said in a tone of loathing. “Peter Pan?”

Polly suppressed a smile. She opened the door and started up the steps.

“Viola, wait!” Sir Godfrey called. He caught up to her halfway up the steps. She thought he was going to take her hands again, but he didn’t. He simply looked at her for a long, breath-catching moment.

Thirty, nothing, she thought. He’s dangerous now.

“Sir Godfrey!” Miss Laburnum called from inside the door.

He glanced behind him, and then back at Polly. “‘We are too late met,’” he said. “‘The time is out of joint,’” and went back down the stairs.

Real planes, real bombs. This is no fucking drill. 

Dunkirk-29 May 1940

MIKE STARED DAZEDLY AT THE SCENE BEFORE HIM. THE town of Dunkirk lay burning no more than a mile to the east of them, orange-red flames and clouds of acrid black smoke from the oil tanks billowing out over the docks. There were fires on the docks and on the beaches, and in the water. A cruiser lay off to the right, its stern angled out of the water. A tugboat stood alongside, taking soldiers off. South of it stood a destroyer and beyond it a Channel packet. It was on fire, too.

Flashes of light-from artillery guns?-played along the horizon, and the destroyers’ guns answered with a deafening roar. There was an explosion on shore, and a billowing puff of flame-a gas tank exploding-and the far-off rattle of machine-gun fire. “I can’t believe it!” Jonathan shouted over the din, his voice bubbling over with excitement. “We’re actually here!”

Mike stared at the fire-lit harbor paralyzed, afraid to let go of the railing, afraid to even move. Anything he did-or said-could have a catastrophic effect on events. “This is great!” Jonathan said. “Do you think we’ll get to see any Germans?”

“I hope not,” Mike said, glancing up at the sky and then at the horizon, peering through the drifting smoke, trying to see if dawn was approaching. The harbor at Dunkirk had been an obstacle course of half-submerged wrecks, and they didn’t have a hope of getting through it if they couldn’t see. But they were more likely to be attacked by Stukas in daylight. And, oh, Christ, on the twenty-ninth the weather had cleared, and an offshore breeze had blown the smoke inland, away from the harbor, leaving the boats trying to load the soldiers sitting ducks. There was no breeze yet. But for how long?

“Kansas, don’t just stand there!” the Commander shouted. “You’re supposed to be keeping the Lady Jane from ramming into something!”

Am I? Mike thought. Or are you supposed to hit a trawler or a fishing smack and go down with all hands? It was impossible to know what to do, or what not to do-like walking through a minefield blindfolded, knowing that every step could make the whole thing blow up in your face. Only this was worse, because so could standing still. Was shouting a warning what would alter the course of history, or keeping silent?

“Ship to starboard!” Jonathan shouted from the other side of the bow and the Commander turned the wheel, and they chugged past an oncoming minesweeper and into the harbor.

Mike saw he needn’t have worried about their being able to see. The flames from the burning town lit the entire harbor. It was nearly as bright as day. Which was a good thing, because as they got closer in, there were more and more obstacles. A wooden crate floated by and, beyond it, straight ahead, lay a submerged sailboat, its mast sticking up out of the water.

“Go left!” Mike shouted, waving his arm wildly to the left.

“Left?” the Commander bellowed. “You’re on board ship, Kansas. It’s port!”

“All right! Port! Now!”

The Commander turned the wheel just in time, missing the mast by inches, and Mike saw that by doing so, he’d set the Lady Jane on a collision course with a half-submerged ferry. “Right!” Mike shouted. “I mean, starboard. Starboard!”

They didn’t even have inches this time. They slid by with micrometers to spare. And were they supposed to have done that, or to have scraped a hole in the side? There was no possible way to tell, and no time to think about it. Ahead, under the water, was a huge paddle wheel, and past it, on the left, a partly sunk rowboat, its prow pointed at the Lady Jane like a battering ram. “Hard to starboard!” Jonathan shouted before Mike could, and they slid past.

There were more and more things in the scummy water: oars, oil drums, petrol cans. An Army jacket floated past and a piece of charred planking and a life jacket. “Are there any life jackets-life belts-on board?” he called to the Commander.

“Life belts? I thought you said you could swim, Kansas.”

“I can,” he said angrily, “but Jonathan can’t, and if the Lady Jane hits something-”

“That’s why I’ve got you navigating,” the Commander said. “Now get to it. That’s an order.”

Mike ignored him. He grabbed the boat hook to snag the life jacket with and darted back to the railing, but they were already past it. He leaned over the side, hoping it wasn’t the only one, but he couldn’t see another. He saw a pair of trousers, its legs knotted to form a makeshift life-jacket, and a sock and a tangle of rope. And a body, its arms out at full-length like a crucifix. “Look there!” Jonathan shouted from the other side of the bow. “Is that a body?”

Mike was about to say “yes” when he saw that what he’d thought was a corpse was only a military overcoat, the empty sleeves and tails of the belt drifting out at the sides. It had been abandoned by some officer as he swam out to one of the ships. Along with the rest of his clothes and probably his shoes, though those wouldn’t float.

No, he was wrong. There was an Army boot and a ladder and, amazingly, a rifle. They were nearly to the mouth of the harbor. The Commander maneuvered past a drifting dinghy and a sail that had filled up with air, like a balloon, as the sailboat sank under it.

No, it wasn’t a boat. It was the canvas cover of a truck that had been driven off the pier. Which meant they were getting into shallow water, where hopefully they could see the sunken wrecks before they ran into them.

“What do you think, Kansas?” the Commander said, surveying the harbor. “What’s our best bet?”

Turning around and heading home, Mike thought. The inner harbor had been an obstacle course of half-sunk boats and equipment the Army had pushed in the water to keep them from falling into enemy hands. Even if they got in, they’d never be able to get back out-the opening to it was so narrow a rowboat could block it. And if they tried the beaches, the Lady Jane was likely to be swamped by the thousands of soldiers who’d gathered there, waiting for rescue. Or to get stuck in the shallow water and have to sit there waiting for the next high tide.

“What did you say, Kansas?” the Commander asked, cupping his hand behind his ear. “Which way do we head?”

There was a loud horn blast and a launch appeared out of the smoke, plowing straight toward them. A young man in a naval uniform was standing in the bow. “Ahoy!” he shouted, hands cupped around his mouth. “Are you empty or loaded?”

“Empty!” Mike shouted back.

“Head that way!” he ordered, lowering one hand to point off to the east. “They’re loading troops off the mole.”

Oh, Christ, the eastern mole. That was one of the harbor’s most dangerous spots. It had been attacked repeatedly, and any number of ships had sunk trying to load troops off the narrow breakwater.

“What did he say?” the Commander called to Mike.

“He said go that way!” Jonathan cut in, pointing. The Commander nodded, snapped a salute, and headed the direction Jonathan was pointing. The motorboat came around and roared past them, leading the way.

The breakwater stretched out beyond the inner harbor. Well, at least we won’t go aground, Mike thought, but as they came closer, he saw that the mole had been bombed. Chunks of cement were missing from the breakwater, and doors and planking had been laid across the gaps. The naval officer pointed at the mole and, as soon as the Commander began to turn the Lady Jane toward it, waved and roared off.

The Commander began maneuvering in toward the breakwater, steering cautiously around a half-sunk tugboat and two jagged spars. The water was full of oil drums, oars, and still-burning planks. One had a name painted on it, Rosabelle-the name of a boat that had tried coming in here to take on soldiers, no doubt, and been blown to bits. “Find a spot to tie her up,” the Commander ordered Mike, and he began looking for an open berth, but the whole length of the mole was blocked by dumped Army equipment and shattered boats. The rear end of a staff car driven off the side stuck up in the air.

Beyond it was a space of open water that looked like it might be wide enough for the Lady Jane. “There!” Mike shouted, pointing, and the Commander nodded and steered toward it.

“Slow down,” Mike ordered, leaning halfway over the side, looking for underwater obstacles and expecting the Commander to tell him to use the nautical term, whatever the hell it was, but he was apparently as worried about tearing out the Lady Jane’s bottom as Mike. He cut the engine to a quarter of its speed and eased slowly into the dock.

“Look, there’s another body!” Jonathan shouted, and this time it was a body, face-down, drifting lazily in the wash of the Lady Jane, and over by the mole was another one, this one floating upright, its head and shoulders out of the water and its helmet still on.

No, it wasn’t a body. It was a soldier wading out to the boat, and behind him were two more, one holding his rifle above his head. They obviously didn’t intend to wait for the Lady Jane to dock and put out a gangway. There was a splash and then another one, and when Mike looked over at the mole, he saw another soldier had jumped off it with a bedraggled dog. It paddled along beside him. Above them on the mole stood a dozen men, and farther along the breakwater, a dozen more, running this way. “Don’t jump,” Jonathan shouted to them. “We’re coming in to get you,” and the Commander eased the Lady Jane up to the mole.

Jonathan tossed a line to the men. “Tie her up!” the Commander called to them. “Kansas, toss another line to those men in the water.”

Mike fastened a line to the gunwales, threw it down to them, and began hauling them up, hoping by doing so he wasn’t rescuing someone who wasn’t supposed to have been rescued. But he needn’t have worried. Two of the men had climbed up over the side on their own while he was tying the rope, and the one he’d thrown the line to was busily tying it around the dog’s middle to hoist him up. Saving a dog wasn’t likely to alter events, and it couldn’t get aboard by itself. Mike hauled it up and over the side, whereupon it shook itself all over him, everyone in range, and its owner, who’d just climbed on board.

He was apparently an officer because he promptly took over the rope. “Kansas, help Jonathan get the gangway over to that dock,” the Commander ordered, and Mike complied, but the mole was too far above them, and, anyway, the soldiers had already taken matters in their own hands. They’d tied a ladder to the side and were climbing down it into the water and swimming over.

“Rig another line for them,” the Commander ordered Jonathan, and began untying gas cans from the gunwales.

“Here, let me do that,” Mike said, carrying the heavy cans aft. Refilling the Lady Jane’s gas tank was less likely to affect history than hauling up soldiers, some of whom wouldn’t have made it without help.

“Give me your hand!” Jonathan shouted, leaning over the side. He came up with a soldier in full battle equipment, pack and helmet and all. “I thought you were a goner!” Jonathan said, grabbing him by the straps on his pack and heaving him over the side.

“So did I!” the soldier said, dumping his pack on the deck and turning to help Jonathan heave the next soldier, and the next, on board. Mike emptied the gas cans into the tank and then tossed them overboard. They bobbed away among the planks and clothing and bodies. He went back for two more, stepping around the soldiers who littered the deck.

They were continuing to clamber aboard. “It’s about time, guv’nor,” one of them said, flinging his leg over. “Where the bloody hell have you been?” But most of them didn’t say anything. They collapsed on the deck or sat down where they were, looking beaten and bewildered, their slack faces streaked with oil, their eyes bloodshot. None of them moved into the stern or onto the other side, and the deck began to tilt to port under their weight.

“Shift ’em to starboard,” the Commander shouted at Mike, “or they’ll have us over. How many more are there, Jonathan?”

“Only one,” Jonathan said, helping a soldier with a bandaged arm onto the deck. “That’s the lot.”

For the moment, Mike thought, looking up the mole. He could see soldiers converging on the land end of it from all directions. If they got here, they’d swamp the boat, but the Commander was already starting the engine. “Cut the line,” he ordered Jonathan and pulled back on the throttle. The propeller began to turn and then stopped with a jerk.

“Propeller’s fouled,” the Commander shouted. “Probably a rope.”

“What do we need to do?” Jonathan asked.

“One of you’ll have to go down and untangle it.”

And Jonathan can’t swim, Mike thought. He looked desperately at the soldiers slumped on the deck, at the officer who’d taken over the task of hauling the soldiers up, hoping one of them would volunteer, but they weren’t in any condition to do anything, let alone go back in the water.