Shell Shocked (2 page)

“You'll be keeping an eye on us anyway, won't you?” I asked Bill.

He smiled slightly but didn't answer—which, of course, was an answer.

“Camp X isn't far away,” I said.

“We're right there if you ever need us,” Bill said.

“Do you think that … that … you'll ever need
us
again?” I asked.

His smile broadened. “There's no way of telling whether you might be called upon again to—”

“Yes, there is,” my mother said. “Boys, your career as spies is over.” She turned directly to Bill. “Right?”

He bowed slightly from the waist. “As you wish, madam.”

“We came here for a fresh start—we don't want to have to move again,” my mother said.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Bill said. “There are a few things I need to tell all of you about your fresh start. Perhaps you three should sit down.”

I felt a little chill go up my spine. Being asked to sit down was never a good thing.

“
GEORGE
.”

I started out of my thoughts—or rather lack of thoughts—and looked up at my teacher. “Yes, ma'am?”

“You need to go down to the office to see Mr. McGregor.”

There was a chorus of
ooohs
from the other kids at the mention of the principal.

“Did he say why?” I asked.

She scowled. “Go,” she said, and pointed to the door.

Slowly I got up. Every eye was on me. This couldn't be good. But then again, how bad could it be? I couldn't think of anything I'd done that might possibly have landed me in trouble … except for maybe falling asleep at my desk a couple of times … that had to be it.

Then I remembered that I'd been late this morning. It wasn't really my fault. My watch had stopped. It was an
old watch that had belonged to my grandfather, and my father had once mentioned to me that he'd worn it when he was a kid. I'd found it in the bottom of one of the boxes when we were moving this time. Jack gave me a hard time about using it. He said, “If you can't depend on a watch all the time, you can't depend on it any of the time.” I just liked wearing it. It was a little piece of my father when he was so far away.

The hall was empty and I could hear my footsteps echo in the silence. I started to get anxious inside and then stopped myself. I'd faced men with guns. I'd stared straight into the face of Nazi agents threatening to kill me. What was the worst this man could do? Yell at me? Well … he did have a strap, and I'd heard that he wasn't afraid to use it. And he did always seem to be out in the schoolyard at recess watching people … in fact, a couple of times I'd thought he was watching
me
. I started to feel anxious again.

I stopped in front of the office and took a couple of deep breaths. I wanted to be calm, look calm, act calm, like I'd done nothing wrong. I opened the door … and saw Jack sitting there.

“Jack, what did you do?”

“I guess I could ask you the same thing.” He looked over at the secretary. “Any idea?”

She barely looked up from her typewriter, shook her head slightly and kept typing, hardly missing a keystroke.

At that same instant the door to the principal's office opened and Mr. McGregor appeared. He was older—sort of a grandfather age—and he had grey hair and matching bushy moustache and eyebrows. He stood straight, like a soldier, and he was large, well built through the shoulders. In his time he would have been a pretty formidable man. I guessed he still was. He smiled—that was good—and motioned us to come in.

“Please, sit,” he said, gesturing to two chairs.

We sat down, and he circled around and took a seat behind his desk. He picked up a file folder from the papers scattered there and began to read while we sat waiting—
anxiously
waiting. Finally he looked up from the file.

“I always make it a point to sit down with each new student,” he said.

“That must keep you pretty busy,” Jack said.

“Yes, John, the student population here has certainly been growing lately.”

I almost reacted to Jack being called John, but I didn't. Part of our “fresh start” involved disguising who we really were. We had to somehow not be traceable if somebody—especially Nazi agents—came looking for us. “Jack” was kind of a less formal version of the name “John,” and John was my brother's real name, according to his birth certificate and all the school records. We thought
going by “John” would be one really easy way to hide a bit. But my brother wasn't happy about going along with the game.

“Actually, most of the time I get called Jack,” he said.

“And what does your teacher call you?” Mr. McGregor asked.

“She calls me John, but my friends call me Jack.”

“Well, since I'm your principal and not a friend, I think I will call you John. And I strongly suggest that you have everybody call you by your given name. You are not a child any more.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And how are you finding your schoolwork?” he asked.

“I'm doing okay.”

“Excellent, because we wouldn't want to have to hold you back another year.”

That was another part of the story. “John” was one year older than Jack and a grade behind, because he'd been ill and missed so much school that he'd failed the year. Jack didn't mind pretending to be older, but he wasn't thrilled about having to seem dumber.

“And how is your health these days?” Mr. McGregor asked.

“I'm fine. It's like I was never sick at all.”

“No after-effects of the pneumonia? No lung or breathing problems?”

“None.” Jack took a deep breath to prove the point.

“Good.” Now he turned to me. “And George.”

Thank goodness I got to keep my name. I think it was because nobody was convinced I could remember a new one without slipping up.

“I've been told that you are doing well—”

“Thanks. I'm trying!”

“—with the exception of taking an occasional nap during class time,” he said, continuing his thought.

I didn't know what to say.

“It's hard being in a new school,” Jack said, jumping to my defence. “Also, we share a room, and I think I snore and keep him awake.”

Jack did snore, but that wasn't what was keeping me awake. I somehow couldn't seem to get to sleep very easily. And when I did, I couldn't stay asleep. Sometimes it was because my head was filled with thoughts—about things that had happened to us, things that
could
have happened, how close we'd come to dying, not once or twice but so many times.

“He hasn't fallen asleep too often, has he?” Jack asked.

“It says here,” Mr. McGregor said, tapping the file, “that it's happened at least four times.”

“I'll try to make sure it doesn't happen again,” I offered.

“I think we'd all appreciate that. I know it's not easy being in a new town, new house, new school, with new
friends. And of course it must be troubling to have your parents divorce like that.”

“Yes, sir.”

That was another part of our cover story. Our parents were divorced. That was to explain why my mother—who had worked at the plant before—was now using a different last name. She was now Betty Brown, her maiden name, not Betty Braun. It was only a few letters different so it was easy enough to remember but different enough to avoid detection if anybody was looking through records.

“I think George's trouble sleeping has more to do with being worried about our father,” Jack said. “He's serving overseas. He's a pilot.”

The final part of our cover: our father was now no longer a soldier serving in Africa; he was a pilot flying out of England.

“You must be very proud of him,” Mr. McGregor said. “War is very hard on marriage. Perhaps after the war … who knows?”

“They're talking about getting back together,” Jack said. “My mother has let me read some of their letters.”

“That's very reassuring.”

Starting soon, we'd be getting fake letters delivered from our fake father in England to support our cover. The real letters to and from our real father would be
sent through Camp X so they couldn't be traced. It was all part of keeping our cover story alive. None of us was happy about this whole divorce thing—especially not our mother. She said there'd never been a divorce in the history of her family and she wasn't happy to be the first, even if it was all a story. She'd had to take off her engagement and wedding rings. They now sat in a little wooden box on her dresser. A couple of times I'd seen her sitting on her bed, looking at them sadly. I hated to see her so sad.

Part of me thought all of this make-believe was just being paranoid. But then, after what we'd been through, I figured maybe it was better not to take any chances. Worrying about something bad happening—the Nazis or the other bad guys coming after me and Jack and our mom—that's what kept me awake at night, haunted me.

“I'll start sleeping on the couch for a while,” Jack offered. “That will help him sleep better so he can stay awake during school.”

“That's a generous offer,” Mr. McGregor said. “Well, boys,” he rose to his feet, “it's been a pleasure to meet you.”

“You too, sir,” Jack said, and we both stood up to shake his hand.

“And remember, I'm here if either of you boys needs to talk. My door is always open.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He ushered us out, and the door closed quickly behind us. We were alone. His secretary was nowhere to be seen.

“So much for his door always being open,” Jack said under his breath. “We'd better get back to class.”

We made our way down the still-empty hall.

“That didn't go so badly,” I said.

“Why didn't you tell me you were still having trouble sleeping?” Jack asked.

“It's not as bad as it was before,” I lied.

“Still, you should have told me.”

“I guess I didn't think you'd care.”

“Of course I care. I'm your brother. Maybe you could use some of Mom's sleeping powder.”

Our mother had trouble falling asleep and sometimes took a sedative to help. She didn't take it very often, but when she did she was basically unconscious for the night. You could practically bang a drum beside her head and she wouldn't wake up.

“I can't do that without her knowing that I'm having trouble sleeping, and that would only worry her,” I said.

“I guess that makes sense. We've worried her enough to last a lifetime. Maybe I
should
sleep on the couch for a while.”

“No,” I said. “Your snoring really isn't that bad.” Another lie. The snoring was bad, but I sort of liked
hearing it. I complained about having to share a bedroom with Jack but I liked him being there. Hearing his snoring meant he was close by. Lately, I didn't like being in the house by myself.

“Well, don't fall asleep in class any more,” Jack said.

“It's not like I'm trying to fall asleep. It's just that—owww!” I exclaimed. Jack had punched me in the shoulder! “Why did you do that?”

“Just wanted to make sure you would stay awake.”

“All right, I'll stay awake!” I protested.

“You'd better. We don't want Mom to get a call from the school about you falling asleep all the time. That'll get her worried for sure.” Jack grabbed me by the arm and spun me around so he was looking straight at me. “You understand?”

Jack was older and bigger and stronger than me, but he didn't scare me the way he used to. I'd faced a lot worse than him and survived.

“Well?” he asked again.

I pushed his arm away. “I understand. You keep your paws to yourself.”

“You think
you
can tell
me
what—?”

“Is there a problem here?”

We turned around. It was one of the teachers.

“No problem at all,” Jack said. He pretended to brush off the front of my shirt with his hands. “My brother had
some crumbs on his shirt left over from lunch. Trying to tidy him up a bit.”

She gave him a look of complete disbelief.

“See you after school, baby brother,” he said.

Jack walked off toward his class and I headed for mine. I knew this wasn't really over, but we were done for now, at least. I also knew he was right—I sure wasn't going to be falling asleep for the rest of the day.

JACK WAS WAITING
for me right outside the gates of the school. As soon as I got there he started walking, and I fell in beside him. We walked along in a crowd of other kids, not really with them, more sort of going along in the same direction. There was lots of laughing and joking and talking. It all seemed a little silly. We didn't talk. We just walked. Finally we turned off toward our house and left the others behind.

In the distance we could see the munitions factory. The main building was three or four storeys tall, but there were dozens and dozens of other buildings, some large and some small, stretched out across the grounds, which went on farther than I could see. All around the factory was a tall, barbed-wire fence, with guard towers and gigantic light standards spaced along it. The main gate was two streets over.

“I hope you didn't fall asleep this afternoon,” Jack said.

“No danger of that. How about you?”

He snorted. “Even if I did they'd probably let me doze. I get the feeling the teacher thinks I'm too dumb to learn anyway.”

“You're not dumb,” I said.

“Must be if I failed a grade.”

“You didn't fail a grade … it's a cover story.”

“You know that, but they don't know it.”

“Anyway, you only failed because you were sick, supposedly … that's why you were held back … that's the story.”