Hugh pulled on his jacket. “I feel quite all right. Simply smashing. Thank you.” He stood, tossed his coat over his shoulder, and headed for the exit.
“Excuse me, sir. I’ll take you to the boat now.”
Hugh sent the orderly a smile. “Right after I retrieve my kit.”
“No kit allowed, sir.” The orderly took Hugh’s arm in his beefy grip. “Right this way.”
He couldn’t let this happen. If captured by the Germans, Hugh would be interned in a posh hotel and probably repatriated to England. But if the soldiers were captured, they’d be imprisoned for the duration of the war. And Britain needed them. Hugh intended to be the last man off the beach—and when he left, he’d carry a knapsack full of recording discs and notes.
The orderly marched Hugh to the base of the mole, where soldiers inched onto the rocky pier beside a large paddle steamer bearing the name ofCrested Eagleon the prow.
The orderly parked Hugh in a gap in the queue and addressed a burly soldier. “Don’t let this man leave. Make sure he gets on the boat. Medical orders.” He gave Hugh a warning look and headed back toward the field dressing station.
“Medical orders?” The soldier wrinkled his dirty nose. “You don’t look wounded. You look like a lazy dodger.”
Grumbles rolled down the line.
Hugh let a mischievous grin rise, and he whipped out his notepad. “What I am is a BBC correspondent using a ruse to get a story—and a correspondent determinednotto board this ship.”
“BBC?” The burly soldier frowned. “Your voice sounds familiar.”
“Hollingsworth?” his buddy said.
“Collingwood!” The burly soldier thrust a thick finger in the air. “Hugh Collingwood.”
“Right you are.” Hugh slipped out of the queue on the far side of the field dressing station. “What is your regiment? What is the first thing you plan to do back in Old Blighty?”
The soldiers’ faces lit up, and stories flew. Hugh transcribed their answers, thanked them, and edged down the queue, asking questions, fielding answers, and increasing his distance from the large gray ship threatening to haul him away.
“Hughie?” A voice rose from farther back in the queue.
Hugh tensed. Only one person in the world used that horrific nickname. Even his parents had been persuaded to abandon it.
With a forced smile, he turned to face his brother. “Captain Cecil Collingwood. Fancy seeing you here.”
Cecil marched toward him, sand pluming behind his boots. He wore battle dress, dirt and smoke smudged his face, and his muscular frame looked thinner than usual. “What on earth are you doing here?”
Hugh gestured with his notepad. “Reporting from the front.”
Cecil glowered down at him, reminding Hugh how illness had stunted his growth, at least by Collingwood standards. “But your health. You’ll have an attack. You shouldn’t be here.”
“I’m fine.” Hugh softened his mouth and his thoughts. “But how are you? How’s your unit? The fighting has been beastly.”
“It has.” Something dark washed through Cecil’s hazel eyes, the same shade as Hugh’s. “We boarded a destroyer this morning, but it was sunk in an air raid. Everyone survived, thank goodness, and now we’re boarding yet another ship.”
Hugh’s pen moved to the pad as if magnetized, but he restrained himself.
“You haven’t answered my question.” Cecil had inheritedMother’s doggedness. “Whatever possessed you to come to a battlefield?”
“To inform the people of England of the brave exploits of your unit and—”
“Stop it.” Cecil’s lip twitched. “This isn’t a game, a lark for bored gentry. This is war.”
“And I’m reporting on it.”
“You’re thirty years old now. Isn’t it time you found a more fitting position? Perhaps take Uncle Elliott’s seat in Parliament.”
“Take it?” Hugh arched an eyebrow. “Only death could pry him from his seat. Even then, even if I convinced his constituency to elect me, I wouldn’t want it. Besides, isn’t it the job of the second son to be irresponsible and a trifle scandalous?”
