Richard Powers - Operation Wandering Soul

Chriswick had not asked for this. Teaching had once promised reasonable working hours and a brilliant summer vacation for life. But Chriswick had barely commenced caning his first class for butchering their recitations when the government called him up for the Territorial. And on the very day that he went in to serve notice, school sprung this on him: first shepherd several dozen of London's destitute to imaginary safe havens in green fields far away.

He collected his young and fell in behind the moving masses. The children crocodiled, two by two, as if born to the formation. But despite their exemplary Sunday School marching, his group made no headway through the swells of schoolchild files. Another white armband motioned Chriswick toward a red double-decker at kerbside. He fed the children into the bus, recoiling from the conductor's "You've got their fares, duck?" before placing it as a joke.

In rapid consultation, he and the driver settled on London Bridge Station. The ten-minute ride took three times that. The station was so overrun by evacuees that the bus could get no closer than several blocks away. Chriswick had the presence of mind to leave the children on board and run in himself, to determine the extent of the station's insanity. He milled about in the mob for minutes before locating the makeshift routing table. A foreheadless gentleman skimmed his lists, clicking his dental plate. "That'll be Waterloo for you, sir."

No use even groaning. The whole country had been cut adrift on improvisation. It could have been worse, in any case. Could have been Victoria or ever-weeping Paddington. When he got back to the bus, half the tinned bully beef and potted pears had been downed, and several boys had been sick all over the tartan seats. The furious driver refused to take them any further than back to the school. "Can't be messing about with you all day, guv. I've got a city to save." Good old London Transport; failed to recognize the city even when it heaved all over its upholstery.

Back at Prince Edward's, Chriswick's company rejoined a dozen other rerouted groups trying to get their bearings. To make it difficult for the enemy to hit them from the air, the movements of the evacuation were being kept top secret, even from the organizers. London had become a gargantuan thimblerig, a living shell game. The logistics of shuttling each battalion to its safe destination degenerated into a nightmare Königsberg bridge problem, a problem Chriswick devoutly hoped the RAF would shortly simplify.

The children were growing restive and the morning had not yet reached its worst. No more public transportation seemed forthcoming so there was nothing for it but to walk. A good hike would at least take something out of the more rambunctious ones. Chriswick opted for Union Street and the Cut. But the way was a disaster. Crossing Blackfriars alone required minor divine intervention.

After an hour on foot, many of the children prayed for a direct hit to put them out of their misery. Almost to the station, they ran across Jansen's group. The sports master was turning the whole incident into a paramilitary exercise. He had his band calling out in drill time, "Are we disenchanted? Not our Prince Edward's! Are we dispirited? Never Prince Edward's School!" On the shout of one, the whole file made a right face. On two, the block-long, two-deep ranks dashed across the street. On three, a left turn restored them to columns. The old tune was right: Britons never never never shall be slaves.

Chriswick had been a fool for thinking things would never come to this. The Bank of England, the BBC — they'd run off to the countryside months back. The other week, he'd heard that the National Gallery was scouting about Wales for idle mine shafts in which to stash The Fighting Temeraire. Chriswick's letter box alone should have been sufficient to convince anyone. Wednesday last he'd received a pamphlet with the racy title Masking Your Windows. And here they were, his own form, scrambling to evade the fate that until that morning had seemed confined to fairylands like China and Spain. A quarter of visible England took to the streets and turned evidence that we happy few would never outlive this day, nor come safe home.

At Waterloo, ten thousand children seethed about in the waiting chambers and spilled onto the platforms. Mad shouting, panicked tears, bowel and urinary crises laced the main hall. Children were everywhere, laden with prized possessions. They carried school-stenciled portable potties, engaged in last-ditch knucklebones or marbles, and worked out spot wartime exchange rates between Blue and Green Fairy Books. Chriswick watched as two little girls, no more than six, went about hand-in-hand with chilling composure asking anyone who would listen for help locating the foundlings' group from Samaritan House.

His charges, barely civilised on the best of days, began making elaborate barrow-dances. It seemed best to get them to the trains and let the War Office come try to dislodge them if they were in the wrong place. Ask questions later: the great lesson of historically awakened adulthood needed only this epochal evacuation to at last become self-evident.

The way to the platforms was a study in crowd madness. Another foreheadless fellow with clipboard snagged his group before they could board. "Bit tardy, aren't we? You were supposed to be here hours ago."

"Yes, well, the town's not quite itself today."

"Listen, you. I'm responsible for seeing fifteen thousand children onto thirty trains, each with twenty carriages unloading at over a hundred villages. Don't come snivelling to me."

"Oh, shove off."

"Right. Just so long's we understand one another. You'll be on Platform Twelve, Carriage F." One supposed this exchange would be remembered fondly years from now, a nation pulling together in dark times.

Passing through the throng to change platforms, Chriswick heard an announcement over the Tannoy. All men with strange accents asking for directions were to be beaten senseless. A notice board on Platform Twelve verified that the waiting train was theirs. But neither platform nor notice disclosed anything about destination.

The sight of a virgin car fresh for despoiling should have revived his group's flagging spirit of adventure. But the children suddenly began to cry. It finally dawned on them that the clothes redeemed from the pawnshop, the ruinous knickerbocker glory of the night before, were certain indications of the end.

The train pulled out. In every third garden abutting the line, people were sinking corrugated-steel air raid shelters. Chriswick made a halfhearted effort to patrol the carriage. In front, the girls shouted endless choruses of "Ten Green Bottles" at the top of their working-class lungs. In back, the lads took turns peeing out the windows and squealing, "Watch out! You'll get your willie cut off!" He did not bother reprimanding.

Clearing the city must have lasted several lifetimes for the children, even for those who had never been on a train in their lives. Outside Dartford, an evacuation volunteer finally came through with instructions. "You'll be getting off at Canterbury."

"Good God, man. You're joking."

"That's what it says here."

"Canterbury's another city. And it's halfway to Berlin. They'll all be incinerated before…"

"Hush, sir. Pas devant les enfants"

It was all too ludicrous. Evacuating children to Canterbury was like well, carrying coals to Newcastle. The place would be torched for the cultural value alone. It could only be some embittered, Trinity double first's idea of ironic retribution for his clerk's job at the ARP: send a band from Southwark to the holy martyr's shrine.

The children were spent by the time they reached their destination. But the hard part had not yet begun. Canterbury Station was decked out in banners, but any welcoming committee had long since gone home. Chriswick huddled the little ones outside the station. The afternoon began to turn crisp. A terse billeting officer arrived, with forehead this time, but without chin. "We were told you'd be in at