Page 115 of Blood Game

“I pray you will have a safe journey. If you would like to confess your sins before leaving...”

Confession. He'd never thought himself as a sinful person, but all men sin, someone once wrote, and when he thought of the past weeks, the bodies in the surf, more bodies—the enemy, in the bunkers, at St. Malo, and a half dozen other places...

He'd never believed in the confessional—confess your sins and God will forgive you. Just say it and all is forgiven?

The last weeks had taught him that it wasn't that simple. There were things that were never forgotten that you carried with you, images like the photographs he took.

“Some other time.”

“I understand. Our doors are always open. But tell me, how will you return to your unit? It is late and the Allied camp is at the other end of the city.”

He'd caught a ride earlier on one of the command vehicles, with the thought of walking back. The past weeks there had been a lot of walking, everywhere in London before that, and frequent hikes in the Highlands.

“I'll be all right, Father.”

“Come,” the priest said, heading for a side door off the nave. It opened onto a small courtyard. In the corner was a bicycle leaning against the wall.

“Take it.”

“I can't do that,” Paul told him.

In a city that had been occupied, then bombed, transportation was highly valued, especially with the lack of motor fuel. In the towns they'd passed through, most people walked, rode bicycles, or rode in horse carts. Trains sat abandoned in rail stations for lack of coal or oil. They had provided as much fuel as they could spare for ambulances for the hospitals.

“Of course you can,” the priest insisted. “God provided it when it was much needed. Now as you see, it sits in the corner. Perhaps you will be able to take more photographs of our city before you lose the light. Yes?”

“Thank you, Father.”

He took several more pictures with the priest's blessing, a place of God in the middle of war, a place of God that survived in spite of war. His mother, deeply devout, would have simply smiled and said, “Of course, dear.”

It was almost dark as he cut across the town square, through the Allied check point, then walked through the camp to the tent for the press corps. He leaned the bicycle against the front of a vehicle.

Dunnett looked up from his typewriter. His glasses were pushed back on his forehead, his thinning hair twisted in that way that meant he'd been hard at it. He tapped in a final sentence, then grabbed the paper from the typewriter and added it to the stack on the table.

“I've got to get this over to dispatch. They have one last pouch going out tonight. Where are my glasses?”

Paul gestured to his own head. Usually they were beneath Dunnett's helmet. He'd already misplaced one pair that had never turned up.

“Right you are. By the way, there's a lad been asking for you. He came in with a group earlier. They're over at the command unit.”

A lad? Nico?

He headed for the command post, a sprawling tent that had been set up for the joint Allied command, and he couldn't help wondering if they'd yet figured out who was supposed to be in charge.

His head came up at the sound of his name, and he grinned. There was no mistaking that lanky frame that looked as if he'd added at least two inches, that shock of dark hair that spilled across his forehead, or those dark eyes that had seen too much. Fourteen going on forty. But the flash of that grin was all boy.

A handshake would probably have been more appropriate, but Paul wrapped his arms around that bony frame, and hugged him like he would any of the mates back home.

“When did you arrive?”

“Just a couple of hours ago,” Nico replied. He brushed back the hair on his forehead. “We've been on the move the last four days, trailing a company of Germans.” His expression tightened.

“We ran into one of your patrols and thought your people should have the information.”

Paul nodded. “When was the last time you had a hot meal.”

A shrug of that thin shoulder. He shook his head. “A week, maybe longer. It's not a good idea to build a fire when you're in enemy territory.”

“Aye, well come along. I'm with the press corps. They eat a bit better than the others.” He glanced past Nico, but no one was with him.