Across a War-Tossed Sea by L.M. Elliott

wager!” Mrs. Ratcliff teased.
    â€œLet’s go, Chuck.” Bobby yanked on his sleeve.
    But Charles was rooted, dazed with the scent of Patsy’s perfume, the caress of her soft auburn hair against his cheek. He was smiling like an idiot, struck down by a sudden, overwhelming crush.
    â€œChuck?”
    â€œEh? Oh. Sorry.” He turned with Bobby and jogged toward the locker room.
    â€œDid you get a hit in the head I don’t know about, Chuck?” Bobby joked.
    Sort of, thought Charles.
    It was the best day of his life. The only thing that would top it, Charles thought, was if Hitler dropped dead.
    The next week, it was Wesley’s chance at glory.
    Charles sat midway back in the auditorium and watched his little brother squirm on stage in front of a hundred people. No cheerleaders for this contest, just silent pressure. Lord, thought Charles, this kind of contest didn’t seem remotely fun. He promised himself that he’d be sure to praise Wesley for doing it—he didn’t think he’d have the guts for it himself.
    Sitting next to Charles was Patsy. Since the game, he’d been rather awkward around her. She was going steady with another bloke. One off fighting the war, no less, he reprimanded himself for his crush. Only a rascal would try to snake a girl from a guy off fighting the Jerries. Besides, he had a snowball’s chance in hell with the likes of such a beautiful girl. But he still stole a quick glance her way. That only made Charles more unhappy—she was such a dish!
    Patsy was smiling encouragement at Wesley. She’d tied his necktie tight and neat for him before the spelling bee, and Charles could tell Wesley was about to suffocate in it. He listened as his brother’s competitors successfully made it through their first round words: “cataclysm,” “finicky,” “necessary,” “lectern,” “hippopotamus,” “bazaar.” The words were much harder than Wesley’s school spelling bee list had been. Charles noticed Wesley scratch his last remaining swatch of poison ivy. Steady, lad. He tried to throw his thoughts up to the stage.
    â€œWesley Bishop,” the moderator called.
    Wesley stood.
    Charles held up his fist in a gladiator-style salute so his little brother could see him. A small smile crossed Wesley’s face. “Come on, Wes,” Charles muttered, “for England, to show up Ron.”
    â€œNeighbor,” said the moderator.
    Charles exhaled in relief. Piece of cake!
    Without hesitation, Wesley rattled off, “N-e-i-g-h-b-o-u-r.”
    The auditorium crowd gasped.
    The three judges conferred, with one lady gesturing toward Wesley and making the kind of sweet face mothers did to coax babies to eat some Pablum. But a bespectacled man shook his head vehemently, forcing the man next to him to agree.
    â€œNo, I’m sorry,” the moderator said finally. “That is incorrect.”
    Wesley was excused from the stage.
    Americans didn’t put a u following the o in their spelling of “armor,” “honor,” “rumor,” or…“neighbor.”
    Ron smirked.
    â€œGod’s teeth,” muttered Charles.
    24 October 1943
    Dearest Mummy,
    Do not tell Daddy but I botched the spelling bee. On the simplest thing
—
an American spelling versus our proper British one. I think it humiliated Charles. Now we are coming to another event where I may embarrass him. He and Bobby are hosting a Halloween haunted house. Everyone will come because they are such football heroes now. Plus Yanks do seem to love scaring themselves silly with witches and goblins. I think it is because they have not experienced a REAL fright, not like we Brits have. Last time I went to a haunted house, it reminded me of an Anderson shelter, it was so dark and damp. I vomited on a plate of caramel apples! This year the Ratcliffs want to camp out at a nearby Civil War battlefield, to tell