At the Water's Edge by Sara Gruen Page B

apparently that was a code name for the Aultbea Naval Base.
    I was so desperate to get off the ship that I staggered on deck while the wounded were still being unloaded. Ellis followed me, but at the sight of the burned men, turned and went back below.
    Some of the men no longer looked human—scorched and misshapen, their flesh melted like candle wax. Their agonized moans were terrible to hear, but even more horrifying were the silent ones.
    One looked me in the eyes as he was carried past, his head bobbing slightly in time with the steps of the men bearing the stretcher. His face and neck were blackened, his mouth open and lipless, exposing crowded teeth that made me think of a parrot fish. I hated myself immediately for the comparison. His eyes were hazel, and his arms ended in white bandages just below the elbows. His peeling scalp was a mottled combination of purple and black, his ears so charred I knew there was no hope of saving them.
    He held my gaze until I turned in shame, leaning my forehead against the salty white paint of the exterior wall. I pressed my eyes shut. If I’d had the strength to go back down to the cabin I would have, but I didn’t. Instead, I kept my eyes closed and held my hands over my ears. Although I managed to block out most sounds, I could do nothing about the vibration of footsteps on the deck. I was excruciatingly aware of each ruined life being carried past. God only knew how these men’s lives would be changed, if they even survived. I tried not to think of their mothers, wives, and sweethearts.
    When we were finally allowed to disembark, I stumbled down the gangplank and onto the dock. My knees gave out, and if Hank hadn’t been there to catch me, I’d have gone off the edge. Everything in my vision was jerking back and forth. I couldn’t even tell which way was up.
    â€œJesus Christ, Maddie,” he said. “You almost fell in the soup. Are you all right?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. My voice was hoarse. “I feel like I’m still on the ship.”
    Ellis took my other elbow, and together they led me off the dock. I stretched out an arm and leaned against a white-painted lamppost. The curb at my feet was also white.
    â€œMaddie? Are you okay?” said Ellis.
    Before I could answer, a man in a wool greatcoat and hat approached us. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with red cheeks, black leather gloves, and an eye patch. His one eye alternated between Ellis and Hank. “Henry Boyd?”
    â€œThat’s me,” said Hank, lighting a cigarette.
    â€œWell, I knew it was one of you,” the man said in a melodious accent, leaving us to interpret the wherefores. “I’ll be driving you, then. Where are your things?”
    â€œStill on board. The porters are back there somewhere,” said Hank, waving vaguely toward the ship.
    The man laughed. “I’m your driver, not your lackey.”
    Hank raised his eyebrows in surprise, but the man put his hands in his pockets, spun on his heels, and began to whistle. His earlobe and part of the cartilage was missing on the same side as the eye patch. A thick scar ran up his neck and disappeared beneath his ginger hair.
    Ellis whispered, “I think you’re supposed to tip him.”
    â€œFreddie said it was all taken care of,” Hank said.
    â€œApparently it’s not,” Ellis murmured.
    â€œWell, somebody do
something
!” I cried.
    Hank cleared his throat to get the man’s attention. “I don’t suppose I could make it worth your while…”
    â€œOh, aye,” said the man, in a firm but cheery voice. “I wouldn’t say no to a wee minding.”
    When our trunks and suitcases had finally been identified, collected, and loaded—a feat of engineering that resulted in an ungainly mountain of luggage strapped to the roof and trunk of the car—our driver raised his one visible eyebrow and glanced at Ellis’s