Shell Shocked (9 page)

“You can't do it,” I said.

“I can't do what?”

“You can't make us leave.”

“George, there may not be any choice.”

“Yes there is. Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” Little Bill answered.

“You wouldn't have asked my mother to work as an operative at the plant unless something very important was happening there, right?”

“You can assume that it has a high level of importance.”

“That whole plant is important,” I said. “I know that. I also know that it's one of the biggest potential targets the Nazis would want to destroy.”

“Also correct.”

“Without ammunition the men can't fight. Without ammunition my father can't fight. If having to make my mother move would jeopardize the defence of the factory, then that would put our soldiers at risk … it would put my father at risk.”

“We cannot win the war without the tools to fight,” Little Bill agreed.

“And finally, the fact that you're hesitating to pull my mother away means that something big is about to happen really soon. You know that the plant is at risk … and you don't have time to replace her.”

He didn't answer.

“Right?”

“You are basing these assumptions on an almost complete absence of information.”

“But I'm right … aren't I?”

“I was wrong when I said you were probably the best twelve-year-old operative in the world.”

That could only mean that I was wrong. I felt myself deflate.

“You might be,” he continued, “one of the best operatives around of
any
age.”

I felt a wave of relief wash over me … or should I be relieved? Did that mean the plant was at risk … that my mother was at risk because of that?

“Then I'm right?”

He nodded his head ever so slightly. “May I inquire as to how you came to this conclusion?”

“I know how important the plant is and I figured that you wouldn't have put my mother in there if you didn't really need her, because you really didn't want me or Jack
around any more dangerous things because you wondered if we were shelled.”

He laughed. “Shell
shocked
. But, obviously, not enough to cloud your judgment or your thought processes. My congratulations, sir,” he said, and he offered his hand.

“So that means that we can stay and help?” I asked.

“That decision has yet to be made.”

“But if you pulled my mother out right now it could endanger the defence of the plant, so you can't do that. You have to let her finish her mission.”

“What if that mission places her and you and your brother at increased risk?” Little Bill said.

“You should tell us the risks and let us make the decision. But I'm telling you right now, if it's important, then we have to stay. We
all
have to stay. My mother is going to finish her job and we're going to stay here to help her, and that's all there is to it.”

His dark eyes glared brightly for a second and I felt a wave of anxiety wash over me.

“No disrespect, sir,” I added.

“None taken. And how do you feel that you and your brother could help?”

“I'm not exactly sure, but I think we could do something. Mr. Granger thinks we could be helpful, you know, as two more pairs of eyes on the place.”

“I'm aware of Mr. Granger's position.”

“You are?”

“Yes. He contacted me last week asking that very same thing. Of course I turned him down.”

He stopped talking, but I could tell that he was still thinking. He was mulling over the choices. I had to give him more help in deciding.

“That plant is important,” I said. “For our side to win, for men like my father to fight, they need the weapons and ammunition to do the job. We can't let anybody stop them from doing their jobs. I do need to rest, but not now. After this is over you can move us someplace quiet and I promise I won't ever be curious about anything again.”

Little Bill burst into laughter. “I'm afraid you ceasing to be curious is not a possibility. It is part of who you are.” He paused. “Do you trust me, George?”

“Yeah, of course!”

“Good, because you are going to have to trust that my decision is best. Now go and join your mother and brother. I'll arrange to have you all driven home.”

“But what about the decision?”

“That will require time and consideration. After all, something very important is at stake here … the very lives of the members of your family.”

THERE WAS A KNOCK
on the classroom door and I started slightly. I wasn't asleep, I'd been thinking hard about the math problem on the board. I hadn't slept more than two hours the night before but I wasn't sleepy. Instead my mind seemed incredibly sharp and focused. The only way I could keep the events of last night out of my head—the only way to stop thinking about what my talk with Little Bill might soon lead to—was to follow the lessons as if my life depended on them.

My teacher took a note from the kid at the door, opened it up and glanced down at it.

“George,” she called out. “You are requested at the office … again.”

There were the usual
ooohs
from the other kids. I was surprised too. What could this be about? I hadn't fallen
asleep in class lately, and I'd been on time every day. Both my watch and I had been keeping good time.

“Don't look so worried,” my teacher said, with a smile.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, although that seemed like a pretty stupid thing to say. I put my pencil down and walked out of the class into the empty hallway.

My teacher had it wrong. I was surprised, but I wasn't worried. There was nothing a principal could do to me that would make me worry. Last night I'd had a gun pressed against my head—again—and been thrown to the pavement and practically scared to death. No matter what, I was pretty sure the principal wasn't armed … well, except for the strap. He had his hanging from a nail on the wall where everybody could see it when they were called into his office. Suddenly I did feel a tiny bit worried.

The way things were looking, though, I figured there was probably a fifty-fifty chance that my days at this school were numbered. We'd probably be moved and start at another school, maybe far away. At least then Jack could be his own age again. He'd like that. He wouldn't like leaving Daphne behind, though, and if that had to happen he was going to make my life miserable—and at least a little painful. As far as Jack was concerned this was all my fault, and he had certainly let me know that last night when I'd told him what Little Bill had said to me about shell shock.

I entered the outer office—the secretary was nowhere to be seen. Should I sit down and wait, or knock on the principal's door or—?

“What trouble have you got us in now?”

I turned around. It was Jack.

“I didn't get us in any trouble,” I said. “I must be here because of something
you
did.”

“The only mistake I made was having a little brother who—”

“Gentlemen.”

It was Mr. McGregor, standing at the door to his office. He stood tall, his back perfectly straight, no hint of emotion on his face, although his thick, bushy moustache twitched slightly. Funny, there was something about him that reminded me of Little Bill. Maybe it was his attitude of being in charge.

He motioned for us to enter his office, and we went directly to the two seats in front of his desk. I was about to sit down until Jack reached over and gave me a tap on the arm to remind me not to take a seat until we had been given permission.

Mr. McGregor circled around his desk and took a seat.

“Please be seated.”

We settled into the two chairs.

“You are probably wondering why you were called down here,” he began.

“Yes, sir,” Jack said.

“Well, so am I,” Mr. McGregor said.

“What?” I said, without thinking. “I mean, what,
sir
?”

“And most likely I won't be told,” he continued, which only added to my confusion.

“Would you like me to leave?” he asked.

“No, I think you should remain,” came a voice from behind us.

My head spun around. It was Bill! I jumped to my feet. It was as if he'd materialized out of thin air, like a rabbit pulled from a hat, but there was no hat. He was sitting in a chair, right behind the door, partially blocked from view by a coat rack.

Bill strolled over and slapped both of us on the back. “You should always look around a room when you enter. Haven't I taught you two boys anything?” He perched himself on the edge of the principal's desk.

“Are you sure I should stay?” Mr. McGregor asked.

“I imagine it would be hard to explain the two boys being in your office if you were seen elsewhere. How long will it be before your secretary returns?”

“She'll be gone for at least forty minutes.”

“Excellent.

“As you boys must now realize, Mr. McGregor is one of our operatives.

“Did either of you suspect?” he asked us.

“No, sir.”

“No way,” Jack said.

“Mr. McGregor has served our government in two wars and in the peace between them,” Bill said.

“It was my duty,” he said. “And now I serve here as a principal.”

“And as our operative,” Bill added.

“So you knew all about us, right?” Jack asked.

“Everything I needed to know to help keep you safe.”

“Safe from what?” I questioned.

“From whatever might evolve,” Bill said. “We hoped that your cover would provide a level of safety, but, as always, we like to have a backup. That would be Mr. McGregor.”

“I've had at least one eye on you two boys the whole time you've been here,” he said. “If intervention had been necessary, then …” He undid the top button of his suit jacket and pulled it open to reveal a pistol in a holster tucked away where it wouldn't be seen.

“Mr. McGregor is one of the best shots I've ever met.”

“You are too generous.”

They continued to talk, and I tried to figure out if it was good or bad that this was happening in front of Mr. McGregor. Did that mean that it didn't matter, because we were leaving the school, leaving town? Or was he involved because he had to know more since we were staying?

“Now, back to the purpose of our meeting,” Bill said.

“So, do we go or stay?” Jack asked abruptly.

“You're going to stay,” Bill said.

Jack's face beamed. I felt relieved, but also concerned.

“For now,” Bill added.

Jack's smile quickly faded.

“And will everything stay the same?” I asked.

Jack gave me a confused look.

“I mean, will we stay on the sidelines, or are we going to be doing something more than just going to school?” I asked.

A small smile came to Bill's face. “Little Bill told me what you said last night, about how important the work we do is. And, well, we need both of you again.” He turned to Jack. “Are you in?”

“Of course I'm in!”

“So, what are we going to be doing?” I asked.

“Tomorrow, Mr. McGregor will be announcing a writing contest,” Bill said. “Students will have five days to explain, in writing, why they think they would be a good newspaper reporter. Do you still think you'd like to be a reporter?” Bill asked me.

“Sure, yeah, of course.”

“Excellent, because you are going to
win
the contest.”

“I always knew the boy had talent!” Mr. McGregor laughed.

“And as your prize for winning the contest, you will become a regular contributor to the plant newsletter,
The Commando
. You'll be writing a weekly column called ‘A Kid's Eye View.' As a reporter, you will be authorized to be on the grounds of the plant … and can wander almost anywhere you want.”

I understood. “But I don't know if I can write a column every week.”

“Every second week or so will be fine. We will also be able to use your column to pass messages to our operatives within the plant.”

“You mean using a secret code, like ‘Ireland'?” Ireland was a code in which the first letters of all the words in a sentence were put together to form the real message.

“I'm afraid that might be too easily interpreted by anyone looking for a coded message. Instead, we'll ask you to insert certain key words or phrases into your report,” Bill said. “That way, we won't have to risk any more direct contact with our operatives in the plant, like the meeting that allowed you to break your mother's cover.”

“You said ‘operatives,' plural,” I began, “so there must be more than just my mother.”

“There are many.”

“And you must suspect that there are bad guys working there as well,” I added.

“We have our suspicions, but insufficient proof to aim a finger at anybody in particular. Now, it is important that all communications between you two and Camp X go through Mr. McGregor.”

“May I suggest,” Mr. McGregor said, “that if there is a need for the boys to pass on information they simply do something that will result in a visit to the office?”

“You mean … do something bad? On
purpose
?” Jack asked.

“Exactly, although I wouldn't recommend doing anything
too
wrong,” Mr. McGregor said. He gestured to the strap hanging on the wall. “If you did something that would normally result in a student receiving the strap, then I would have to give you the strap to keep your cover intact.”

“You're kidding, right?”

Mr. McGregor shook his head. “Can't have you being involved in fisticuffs and not receiving a good strapping. Now that wouldn't seem fair or reasonable, would it?”

I felt my palms getting sweaty as I eyed the thick leather strap hanging there.