“How do I go about getting new identity papers?” Mike interrupted. “Mine were destroyed at Dunkirk, and I don’t know what happened to my clothes.”
“The Assistance Board is in charge of those things, I believe,” she said, and the next morning a young woman showed up at his bedside with a notebook and dozens of questions he didn’t know the answer to, from his passport number to his shoe size.
“It’s changed recently,” he said. “Especially the right foot.”
She ignored that. “When was your passport issued?”
“All my papers were arranged for by my editor at my newspaper,” he said, hoping she’d assume things were done differently in the States.
“What is your editor’s name?”
“James Dunworthy. But he’s not there anymore. He’s on assignment in Egypt.”
“And the name of your paper?”
“The Omaha Observer,” he said, thinking, They’ll check and find there’s no such newspaper, no such passport, and I’ll find myself in the Tower of London with all the other enemy agents. But when she came back that afternoon, she had an emergency identity card, ration book, and a press pass.
“You need to fill up this form and send it and a photograph to the U.S. embassy in London to get a new passport,” she said. “I’m afraid it may take several months. The war, you know.”
Bless the war, he thought.
“Until then, here is your temporary passport and visa.” She handed them to him. “I’ve left clothing for you with the matron.”
And bless you.
“Have you given any thought to where you’ll be going after you’re discharged?” she asked.
He hadn’t thought of anything else. He needed to get back to Saltram-on-Sea and the drop, but he had to get there without any of the locals spotting him, especially Daphne. He couldn’t risk her getting more attached to him. She might turn down a date with the man she was supposed to marry, or feel jilted when he left and swear off reporters. Or Americans. Hundreds of English women had married American soldiers. Daphne might well have been one of them. And he’d already done enough damage as it was. He needed to get out of here without doing any more.
He’d have to go to Dover and then take the bus down to Saltram-on-Sea and hope that the driver would be willing to let him out above the beach. And that he could manage the path down to the drop.
“I thought I’d go to Dover,” he told the Assistance Board woman. “I have a reporter friend there I can stay with,” and the next morning she brought him a train ticket to Dover, a chit for lodging, and a five-pound note “to assist you till you get settled. Is there anything else you need?”
“My hospital discharge papers,” he said, and she truly was a miracle worker-the doctor signed them that afternoon. Mike promptly rang for Sister Gabriel and asked for his clothes.
“Not till Matron countersigns your papers,” she said.
“When will that be?” he asked. Today was Wednesday and, as he knew from bitter experience, the bus to Saltram-on-Sea only ran on Tuesdays and Fridays-so he had to get there by Friday.
“I’m not certain. Tomorrow, perhaps. You needn’t act so glad to leave us.”
Sister Carmody was more sympathetic. “I know what it’s like to want to get back into the war and be forced to wait. I put in for duty in a field hospital months ago,” she said, and promised to talk to Matron.
She was as good as her word. She was back in less than an hour with the package of clothes the Assistance Board had left. “You’re being discharged today,” she said. The package contained a brown tweed suit, white shirt, tie, cuff links, socks, underwear, wool overcoat, fedora, and shoes that were unbelievably painful to get onto his bad foot, let alone walk in.
They’ll never let me out of here when they see me trying to hobble in these, Mike thought, and if the hospital hadn’t had a policy of taking departing patients downstairs in a wheelchair and putting them into a taxi, they wouldn’t have. As it was, Sister Carmody handed him a pair of crutches at the last moment. “Doctor’s orders,” she said. “He wants you to keep the weight off your foot as much as possible. And here’s something for the train,” she added, giving him a brown paper parcel. “From all of us. Do write and let us know how you’re doing.”
“I will,” he lied, and told the taxi driver to take him to Victoria Station. On the way there, he opened the package. It was a book of crossword puzzles.
He took the first train to Dover he could get and, as soon as he arrived, found a pawnbroker and hocked the cuff links and overcoat for four pounds. He would have sold the crutches, too, but they had come in handy, getting him a seat in the packed-solid train. Hopefully, they’d also persuade the bus driver to let him out at the beach.
If he could find out where to catch the bus from. Nobody seemed to know, not even the stationmaster. Or the pawnbroker. He tried to think who would. The hotels should. He knew where they were, thanks to that map of Dover he’d memorized all those months ago in Oxford, but they were all too far from the pawnbroker’s to walk to with his bad foot. He hailed a taxi, wrestled his crutches into it, and got into the backseat. “Where to, mate?” the cabbie asked.
“The Imperial Hotel,” Mike said. “No, wait.” The cabbie would know where the bus went from. “I need to catch the bus to Saltram-on-Sea.”
“There’s no bus that goes there. Hasn’t been since June. The coast’s off-limits.”
“Off-limits?”
“Because of the invasion. It’s a restricted area. No civilians allowed, unless you live there or you have a pass.”
Oh, Christ. “I’m a war correspondent,” he said, pulling out his press pass. “How much would you charge to take me to Saltram-on-Sea?”
“Can’t, mate. I haven’t got the petrol coupons to go all that way, and even if I did, that coast road’s full of rocks. I’ve got to make these tires last the war.”
“Then where can I hire a car?”
The cabbie thought a moment and then said, “I know a garage that might have one,” and drove him there.
The garage didn’t have any cars. They suggested “Noonan’s, just up the street.” It was considerably farther than that. By the time Mike reached it, he was really glad he hadn’t sold his crutches.
The garageman wasn’t there. “You’ll find ’im at the pub,” a grease-covered boy of ten told him, but that was easier said than done. The pub was as crammed as the boat coming back from Dunkirk. There was no way to get through the crush on his crutches. Mike left them at the door and hobbled into the mass of workmen, soldiers, and fishermen. They were all arguing about the invasion. “It’ll ’appen this week,” a stout man with a red nose said.
“No, not till they’ve softened up London a bit more,” his friend said. “It won’t be for at least another fortnight.”
The man next to him nodded. “They’ll send in spies first to get the lay of the land.”
Which one of these was the garage owner? “Excuse me,” Mike said. “I’m looking for the man who owns the garage next door. I need to hire a car.”
“A car?” the stout man said. “’Aven’t you ’eard there’s a war on?”
“What do you want to hire a car for?” his friend asked.
“I need to drive down to Saltram-on-Sea.”
“To do what?” he said suspiciously, and his friend asked, narrowing his eyes, “Where are you from?”
Oh, Christ, they thought he was a spy. “The States,” he said.
“A Yank?” the man snorted. “When are you lot going to get in the war?”
And a tiny, timid-looking man in a bowler hat said belligerently, “What the bloody hell are you waiting for?”
“If you could just point out the garage owner-”
“’E’s over there, at the bar,” the stout man said, pointing. “’Arry! This Yank wants to talk to you about hirin’ a car.”