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Nobody made a place for them at the two long tables set together in the middle of the room. The McClane Corps had spread itself over all the chairs and benches, in obstinate possession. They passed out through the open French windows on to the balcony. It looked south over the railway towards the country where they thought the fighting must be.
She lowered her man gently back on to the stretcher. The Flamand, thinking that she had given it up and that he was now abandoned to the Germans, groaned. "It's all right," she said. "He's coming." She saw McClane holding John by the arm, and in her pain there was a sharper pang. She had the illusion of his being dragged back unwillingly. McClane smiled as he came to her.
And there's McClane swearing he'll get us out of Belgium. But he won't!" She didn't care. She had got used to it as she had got used to the messroom and its furnishings, the basket chairs and backless benches, the two long tables covered with white marbled American leather, the photographs of the King and Queen of the Belgians above the chimney piece.
He scowled at her as she came. "What do you think you're doing!" he said. "I went to that house to see if the man was dead." "You'd no business to. I told you he was dead." "I wanted to make sure." That evening she had just gone to her room when somebody knocked at her door. McClane stood outside, straddling, his way when he had got something important on hand.
If they thought he was going to take it lying down "McClane can keep me out of my messroom, but he can't keep me out of my job. There's room in 'the line of fire' for both of us." "How are you going to get into it?" said Sutton. "Same way as McClane. If he can go to Head Quarters, so can I." "I wouldn't," Sutton said. "It might give a bad impression. Our turn'll come before long."
Her hunger left her suddenly. She stared with disgust at the remains of the tea the McClane Corps had eaten. Sutton went on. "He hasn't been sleeping properly. I've made him go to bed." "If you can keep him in bed for the duration of the war " "Are you talking about John?" "We are." "I don't know what you're driving at; but I suppose he was sick on that beastly battlefield.
She was so drowsy that at first she didn't hear McClane speaking, she hadn't seen him come to the step of the car. McClane's voice sounded soft and unnatural and a little mysterious. "I'm afraid something's happened." "Who to?" "We-ell " The muffled drawl irritated her. Why couldn't he speak out? "Is John hurt?" "I'm afraid so." "Is he killed?" "Well I don't know that he can live.
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