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The sun is pale in the sky and the chill has not yet left the air when Sadler spots a lone truck approaching the rendezvous point. He scrambles to retrieve Paddy from the courtyard, where the men have designated a crumbling wall for sleeping against while the others keep watch. Paddy and the men have been waiting alone at the ruins for a few hours now, so by the time the truck is spotted, everyone is on edge for news.
Paddy meets Sadler and the others outside to watch the truck weave its way through the hills.
“I can’t make out if it’s Jordan’s team,” Sadler mutters, reaching again for the pair of binoculars at his belt.
“Truck looks different,” Cooper observes, squinting against the morning breeze. “Are you sure?”
“Well, no.”
“Has to be,” Fraser suggests. “Who else?”
A few minutes pass, and Sadler looks again. “It’s Jordan,” he says, with a firmer tone, “but he’s alone. And that isn’t our truck.”
For a moment, Paddy wishes that he were somewhere far, far away from this fucking desert. Then, he steadies himself and reaches for his revolver. “Let’s be careful, lads. Stand by.”
A few of the men scramble to retrieve their weapons as the truck draws closer. It rolls into the camp around 6:15 on the dot. Paddy gestures for Jordan to park some distance away. As the Frenchman brings the vehicle to a full stop and kills the engine, an eerie silence settles over the ruins. There isn’t any noise to be heard from the truck’s cargo bed. No chatter, no laughter, no wailing, no nothing.
Jordan makes no sudden move to exit the vehicle, either. He sits there, long white fingers gripping the steering wheel. His face and his hands are covered with dark soot and what looks like motor oil or blood.
Paddy approaches the driver’s side door. “Lieutenant Jordan.”
Cooper and Seekings slip around the other side to peer into the passenger’s side window. Paddy reaches for the door with one hand and keeps the other on his weapon.
Jordan seems to move at half-speed. His hands drop from the steering wheel as he turns to look at the men who have gathered around the truck. His eyes land on Paddy last.
“Captain.” His voice is faint. “We couldn’t carry out the mission.”
“All right.” Paddy looks the man up and down. There is something very, very wrong here.
“Come out now, Lieutenant. Slowly, then.” Paddy gestures for him to get out of the truck. He isn’t sure what’s happened, and that alone is enough for Paddy to act with caution.
Jordan takes a slow breath. He nods and raises his hands in front of him. He stumbles a little as he steps down from the cab, almost losing his footing.
“Are you injured, Lieutenant?”
Jordan looks down at himself. “I… no. No.”
“What’ll we find in this truck?”
Jordan opens his mouth, closes it. “I don’t know.”
Paddy looks at him carefully. “Not men?”
“Ah, no. Not men.”
“Where are the men, Lieutenant?”
Jordan looks at him blankly. He seems almost uncertain. “Dead, Captain. I think.”
Fraser swears under his breath.
Paddy chews the inside of his cheek. For a moment, he cannot speak. Dead? Fucking all of them? “Search the truck,” Paddy orders, to no one in particular. Cooper is already on alert, weapon raised. A few of the men join him.
As they search the cargo bed, Jordan looks around at the ruins. Paddy watches him closely. The Frenchman is swaying ever so slightly, like a sapling in the wind. Underneath the soot and grime, his face is deathly pale.
Unfortunately, Paddy is just a fraction of a second too late to break Jordan’s fall as he faints, collapsing face-first into the sand. Paddy drops to his haunches next to the Frenchman and rolls him over, feeling for a pulse. His skin is slick with sweat and his poor heart is racing like a rabbit’s.
“Sleep, lad,” Paddy mutters, squeezing Jordan’s narrow shoulder. “It’ll be easier that way.”
Cooper comes up beside them, fingering his weapon. “There’s no one in there, sir,” he reports, his voice low. “Compartment’s got some supplies in it—Nazi stuff. Canned goods, rations, the like.”
“Jesus,” Fraser remarks. “D’you think he means all of them, dead?”
Paddy rubs his temple. Fucking all of them. It still hasn’t sunk in.
Jordan is beginning to stir.
“Easy does it, lad,” Paddy says, tightening his grip on Jordan’s shoulder. “Don’t get up too fast, now.”
But Jordan isn’t interested in getting up at all. “I should be with them,” he whimpers, his face crumpling. “I should be dead.” He turns his dark head into the sand, sobbing quietly.
“Get me water,” Paddy tells the circle of men standing around them. “Go on.”
“I’ll go,” Sadler mutters, taking off toward his vehicle.
When Sadler returns with a canteen, Paddy places it on the ground. He doesn’t try to lift Jordan or roll him over or shush his crying. He gestures to the others to give him some space.
Jordan exhausts himself quickly. He lies there, breathing shallowly, dark streaks trailing down his face. When he finally begins to prop himself up onto his elbows, Paddy helps him sit against the wheel of his truck. He presses the canteen into Jordan’s hand, which shakes as he raises it to his lips.
“Easy, then,” Paddy repeats, watching as Jordan tries a few short sips.
Jordan takes a long, shuddering breath. Paddy looks into his face, trying to meet his gaze. Jordan opens his mouth, although whatever he has to say seems stuck in his throat. “It was Brückner,” he says, finally, exhaling the words. “At the checkpoint, Brückner left the truck and alerted the guards. They took everyone out. Shot Essner first.”
Paddy nods but says nothing. Jordan continues, haltingly, “Halévy set the fuses off. The explosion caught most of the unit and most of the guards. I… I think they must be dead. None of them got up. I waited as long as I could.”
“I’m sure you did,” Paddy agrees, his voice low.
“Everyone was distracted with the explosion, so I was able to take this vehicle.” Jordan wipes at his face, but it only smears dirt and sand across his cheeks. “I’m sorry, Captain.”
“Sorry?” Paddy echoes.
“I didn’t see it. Brückner. I just didn’t see it.”
Paddy nods. Again, he says nothing. What is there to say? He will not rub salt into these raw wounds. Not now. He feels for the man, he does. Jordan clearly loved his men, and they loved him in return. Paddy doesn’t know Jordan very well, but he knows him well enough to know that this pain is going to live inside his gut like a parasite.
After some minutes, Paddy and Fraser help Jordan to his feet, and both link arms with the Frenchman to keep him upright. They lead him to the interior courtyard, where there is good shelter from the wind. Fraser presses a ration pack into his hands, but Jordan shakes his head.
“Drink, then,” Paddy commands him, pushing the canteen toward his lips.
Jordan takes another sip, but he refuses Paddy’s help to lay bedding on the ground. “I’m fine,” he rasps. “Leave me be.”
“Lie down, Lieutenant,” Paddy orders him. “Rest.”
Jordan ignores him. “Do you have a cigarette? I think I lost mine.”
Paddy prefers his pipe, but he does keep a few cigarettes in case of emergencies. He pulls one out of his tin and holds it out. Jordan takes it from him, with some effort to keep his hand steady.
Paddy notices that, even as he offers the Frenchman his light, Jordan avoids his gaze.
Paddy turns to Fraser. “Bill. Give me a minute, please.”
Fraser touches Jordan on the arm as he leaves. “I’m sorry, Augustin.”
Jordan acknowledges him with a small nod.
As if compelled to move, he begins to pace across the floor, hardly remembering to smoke his cigarette. Paddy watches him—back and forth, back and forth—his eyes scanning the ground as if there’s something there that can change fate. He mumbles something to himself—Paddy can’t make it out—and then, “was I stupid to trust them?”
Jordan glances in Paddy’s direction. Paddy shakes his head no.
Jordan makes a noise of disgust but says nothing. He wanders from one wall to another until Paddy finally gets sick of watching him float around like a ghost. Paddy steps in front of his path and places a hand firmly against the center of Jordan’s chest. Jordan flinches back as if burned.
“If you’re blaming yourself, don’t. This isn’t your fault.”
Jordan stares at him. The Frenchman’s eyes are bright, almost fevered. “I appreciate your concern, Captain Mayne, but I don’t need you to stand watch over me.”
Paddy is taken aback at first, but Jordan has a fair point. It isn’t like Paddy to play mother to his men. The truth, Paddy thinks, is that he is overly fond of Augustin Jordan. And fondness leads to undue concern.
Paddy thinks it might be best to beat it down now, as quickly as he can. It will be safer for them both that way.
Still—a parting gift. He withdraws the tin of cigarettes from his pocket. “Here. You need these more than I do.”
Jordan drops his chin to his chest. He doesn’t take the cigarettes, so Paddy places them gently in his breast pocket.
With a final command to rest, Paddy leaves the Frenchman standing alone among the ruins. And it takes most, if not all of his self-restraint to keep from looking back. Paddy reminds himself that nothing good can come of loving a man during wartime. They’re all just ghosts in the desert—already dead.