Free Shell Shocked by Eric Walters Page B

said again. “I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me, Jack.”
    â€œForgive you?”
    â€œYes. I should have allowed you all, the whole family, to keep a safe distance from further operations. I am truly sorry. Now, if you can excuse me, prior to making my decision I need to think and consult. Could you go and wait in the outer office?”
    We all stood up.
    â€œAll of you except for George.”
    I froze in my tracks. “Me?”
    He nodded his head and pointed. “Yes, you.”

CHAPTER TEN
    EVERYBODY, INCLUDING BILL, shuffled out of the room. My mother gave me a very worried look as she left, and her face was the last thing I saw as Bill slowly closed the door behind them.
    Little Bill pulled a chair over until he was sitting directly across from me, and very close. I drew slightly away, pressing against the back of my chair, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.
    â€œDon’t be nervous, George. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
    I appreciated the words, but if I hadn’t done anything wrong, why was I still here?
    â€œYou’re probably not aware of this, George, but you are, without a doubt, the finest twelve-year-old spy in the entire world.”
    â€œI am?”
    â€œUnquestionably. Not simply because there are not many twelve-year-old spies, but because there are very few people, even trained agents, who have your feel for this business. Some think of it as almost an art.”
    â€œLike painting?”
    â€œWell, there is a very strong creative component. Depending on the kind of work involved, you might think of it as the art of deception, of thinking quickly and critically, or of making up stories and lies, and, in some extremes, as the art of killing.”
    I’d seen people killed. There was no art involved, as far as I could tell.
    â€œHave you ever heard the term ‘shell shock’?” Little Bill asked.
    I shook my head.
    â€œIt was first used in World War I.”
    â€œYou served in that war, right?”
    â€œFirst in the trenches. My infantry career was ended with a poison gas attack. Almost killed me. I was evacuated to London and placed in the hospital. Life and death, really—my lungs were so damaged that they told me there was no way I could fight in the trenches any more.”
    â€œSo the war was over for you.”
    â€œThat’s exactly what the doctor said to me. I told him that since the war wasn’t over, it wasn’t over for me. I informed him that if I couldn’t fight in the trenches thenI would learn how to fight above them. That’s when I became a pilot.”
    â€œThat must have been exciting.”
    â€œIt was. It was remarkably easy to become a pilot in those days since pilots survived only two weeks on average, so they were always looking for new ones … but that’s a story for another time. In that war, one would often soften up a target by throwing hundreds and sometimes thousands of artillery shells at the enemy position.”
    â€œLike the ammunition that they make at the plant?”
    â€œAlmost identical. Sitting in the trenches, you could hear the shells as they came flying through the air. It was a strange sound, almost musical, like a whistle. And in time you got to know when and how close they were going to land. If it was a direct hit you were dead, so there really wasn’t much to worry about. A close hit could spray you with shrapnel, shell fragments. A number of times I was hit by mud—for an instant you’d think it was shrapnel, and then you’d realize it was nothing but a mud bath. Either way, all you could do was sit in the trench and wait and pray that you wouldn’t be hit.”
    â€œThat must have been awful.”
    He nodded. “Beyond belief. As soldiers we were often forced to stay in those trenches for extended periods, living through repeated artillery barrages. It was hard onall, but for some it was too