Michael Grant - Dead of Night

Then, through the fog a hazy light.

‘Sarge,’ Rio calls. ‘Is that it?’

Cole joins her and follows the direction of her extended arm.

‘Right there,’ Rio says. ‘If the fog lightens a . . . there! That’s a building. It could be a barn, that’s what we’re looking for isn’t it?’

‘Can’t say it looks much like a barn, more likely a roadhouse, but we’re going to pretend it’s what we’re looking for. So, Stick? You and Baker element – that’s you, Pang and Preeling – set up the BAR to provide covering fire, over by that pile of bricks. Charlie element, now is when you come into it: the maneuver element. You’re going to head around to the right and turn toward the OB-jective, covering the side and back. Baker and Charlie, you might want to avoid ending up directly in each other’s line of fire. Folks tend to resent it when they get accidentally shot by their own buddies.’

The two groups scurry away noisily, bunching up like frightened sheep, tripping over every mound and depression, and Cole thinks, God help me if I ever have to lead this bunch of fools and schoolgirls into a fight .

‘What do we do?’ Geer asks.

Rio sees fog swirling around the tall young man’s helmet and indulges a momentary fantasy of a great bird descending out of the fog, lifting him up by his rucksack and carrying him away.

‘Well, Geer,’ Cole says, spitting a piece of tobacco, ‘we’re gonna wait a few minutes until Baker and Charlie elements are in place . . . and then we are gonna stroll on into that roadhouse and buy a beer.’

‘You’re sure it’s a roadhouse?’ Rio asks.

‘You got eyes and you got ears and you got fingers. Any other senses, Richlin?’

Rio swallows hard, suddenly back in high school (it’s only been a few months) hearing the teacher announce a snap quiz. ‘Uh . . . taste? And . . . Um . . .’

‘What’s in the middle of your face, Richlin?’

Rio, thinking she may have a hanging booger, reaches for her nose and says, ‘Oh, right. Smell, Sarge.’

‘Now, aside from mold and sheep droppings and Private Geer here, what do you smell?’

Rio inhales, eyes closed. Then opens her eyes. ‘Your cigar. And meat.’

‘Give the girl a Kewpie doll. Yes, Richlin, roasted mutton, at a guess. If some day, God forbid, you two nitwits end up at the shooting end of this war, remember you can sometimes smell what you can’t see. I have not fought me any Krauts yet, but they say you can smell them by their tobacco. Stronger stuff than ours.’ He stands up. ‘Let’s go.’

Within twenty yards it is clear. It is indeed a roadhouse or, as Rio has heard them called, a ‘pub’. A carved wooden sign hangs from a wrought iron post above the door.

‘The . . .’ Rio starts to read, but if the word is English she certainly has never seen its like before. For one thing, there’s a hat on the ‘w’. ‘G-l-y-n-d-w-r Inn. Established 1402. Wow. That’s old.’

‘As long as they can give us directions,’ Cole says, ‘I don’t care if they’re from the Garden of Eden.’

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