The Gathering Storm by Bodie Thoene, Brock Thoene Page A
Authors: Bodie Thoene, Brock Thoene
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peered over Papa's shoulder and traced the threading highway northwest on the map. "There are so many hotels there. Remember when we stayed at the Victoria? Jessica could rest, Papa. Ghent. A doctor if the baby—"
"They're bombing Ghent. And the Victoria. We'll go around."
"Go where?"
Papa flipped to the index. "Here. Page 50. Only about thirty-five miles beyond Ghent. The village of Passendale. And look, Tyne Cott."
"The military cemetery?"
"The Wehrmacht won't be interested in bombing people who are already dead."
It made sense. What sort of military target would a vast field of dead men make? I asked Jessica, "What do you think?"
Jessica nodded and stroked the unborn child. "He's kicking. He wants out, Lora. I think I'll need a place to rest soon. Someplace out of the crowd."
Papa refolded the map and passed the red book to me. "It's settled, then. Tyne Cott cemetery. I know the caretaker. A veteran of the Great War. He'll shelter us."
I agreed, never imagining that my father's decision to take us to Tyne Cott, and his friend, Judah Blood, would place us directly in the paths of two armies.
PART FOUR
A time to plant, And a time to pluck up that which is planted.
ECCLESIASTES 3:2B
The once bright poppies were withering.
Warm January days and early February rains, so pleasant across Belgium and northern France that winter of 1940, had encouraged a profusion of wild blooms. A continuous drought since March caused that time of exuberant growth to be no more than a two-month-old memory. The grassy fields around Passendale and Ypres yellowed with unseasonable heat. The poppies' drooping heads were bowed with thirst. The once vibrant banks of color had faded to mere streaks, like threadbare, blood-stained carpet.
Judah Blood straightened up and stretched his aching back and reflected on the weather. There were fewer weeds to pluck this year from around the headstones of Tyne Cott cemetery and none of the stone monuments were in danger of being engulfed in vines. Just the opposite was true: at this rate the entire hillside, where close to twelve thousand Allied soldiers had slept since the Great War, would be nothing but dust before midsummer.
The sun beating down on the tin roof of the shed Judah called his shop was not unbearable, but it was still too hot for this early in the year. Hooking both thumbs under the painted facemask, he pried it away from his cheekbones for an instant to let air flow beneath.
He took a sip of lukewarm water from a flask and studied the workbench. Beneath Judah's skilled fingers, the figure of
Saint George and the Dragon he was fashioning in leaded glass was taking shape nicely. It was destined for a memorial chapel in Brussels before the chapel's dedication in July.
The rumble of trucks passing on the highway distracted him from his work yet again. It was another British convoy heading east; young men heading into yet another war. For eight months, since the Nazis invaded Poland last September, an uneasy quiet had persisted along the western front. When Allies and Nazis glared at each other across fortified positions, but no new hostilities erupted, some had taken to calling this "The Phony War."
But now those eager, fearless young British men passing in lorries on the roads were prepared to plunge into battle. Would English dead from new battlefields be brought here to lie beside their fathers and uncles, or would new hillsides be sown with bodies awaiting the blossoming of Resurrection morn?
Judah returned to his work, pondering its ultimate fate. If the Germans captured Brussels, they would have little interest in a depiction of an English saint honoring English heroes. What would happen to it then?
The saint's hands, gripping the shaft of the spear about to be plunged into the dragon's heart, were particularly tricky to render believably Judah closed his eyes and concentrated. Almost against his will, he recalled a bayonet charge from more than twenty years
"They're bombing Ghent. And the Victoria. We'll go around."
"Go where?"
Papa flipped to the index. "Here. Page 50. Only about thirty-five miles beyond Ghent. The village of Passendale. And look, Tyne Cott."
"The military cemetery?"
"The Wehrmacht won't be interested in bombing people who are already dead."
It made sense. What sort of military target would a vast field of dead men make? I asked Jessica, "What do you think?"
Jessica nodded and stroked the unborn child. "He's kicking. He wants out, Lora. I think I'll need a place to rest soon. Someplace out of the crowd."
Papa refolded the map and passed the red book to me. "It's settled, then. Tyne Cott cemetery. I know the caretaker. A veteran of the Great War. He'll shelter us."
I agreed, never imagining that my father's decision to take us to Tyne Cott, and his friend, Judah Blood, would place us directly in the paths of two armies.
PART FOUR
A time to plant, And a time to pluck up that which is planted.
ECCLESIASTES 3:2B
The once bright poppies were withering.
Warm January days and early February rains, so pleasant across Belgium and northern France that winter of 1940, had encouraged a profusion of wild blooms. A continuous drought since March caused that time of exuberant growth to be no more than a two-month-old memory. The grassy fields around Passendale and Ypres yellowed with unseasonable heat. The poppies' drooping heads were bowed with thirst. The once vibrant banks of color had faded to mere streaks, like threadbare, blood-stained carpet.
Judah Blood straightened up and stretched his aching back and reflected on the weather. There were fewer weeds to pluck this year from around the headstones of Tyne Cott cemetery and none of the stone monuments were in danger of being engulfed in vines. Just the opposite was true: at this rate the entire hillside, where close to twelve thousand Allied soldiers had slept since the Great War, would be nothing but dust before midsummer.
The sun beating down on the tin roof of the shed Judah called his shop was not unbearable, but it was still too hot for this early in the year. Hooking both thumbs under the painted facemask, he pried it away from his cheekbones for an instant to let air flow beneath.
He took a sip of lukewarm water from a flask and studied the workbench. Beneath Judah's skilled fingers, the figure of
Saint George and the Dragon he was fashioning in leaded glass was taking shape nicely. It was destined for a memorial chapel in Brussels before the chapel's dedication in July.
The rumble of trucks passing on the highway distracted him from his work yet again. It was another British convoy heading east; young men heading into yet another war. For eight months, since the Nazis invaded Poland last September, an uneasy quiet had persisted along the western front. When Allies and Nazis glared at each other across fortified positions, but no new hostilities erupted, some had taken to calling this "The Phony War."
But now those eager, fearless young British men passing in lorries on the roads were prepared to plunge into battle. Would English dead from new battlefields be brought here to lie beside their fathers and uncles, or would new hillsides be sown with bodies awaiting the blossoming of Resurrection morn?
Judah returned to his work, pondering its ultimate fate. If the Germans captured Brussels, they would have little interest in a depiction of an English saint honoring English heroes. What would happen to it then?
The saint's hands, gripping the shaft of the spear about to be plunged into the dragon's heart, were particularly tricky to render believably Judah closed his eyes and concentrated. Almost against his will, he recalled a bayonet charge from more than twenty years
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