War and Remembrance

by Herman Wouk

  “I’m fine.”

  Despite a well-tailored dark British suit and pleasant clear English, it was a grand vizier who welcomed Pug in a magnificent sitting room: a commanding nose, wise brilliant brown eyes, thick silvering hair, a lordly bearing, an antique smooth manner. They settled in a cushioned alcove and the minister fell to talking business almost at once, while Pug and Pamela drank highballs. Lend-Lease, he said, had its very bad aspect for Iran. The American wages were causing a wild inflation: prices spiking, shortages mounting, goods vanishing into the warehouses of hoarders. The Russians were making matters worse. They occupied much of the best farming lands, and they were taking the produce. Tehran was not far from food riots. The Shah’s one hope lay in the generosity of the United States.

  “Ah, but the United States is already feeding nearly the whole world,” Pamela remarked. “China, India, Russia. Even poor old England.” The sound of her voice speaking these simple words enthralled Pug. Her presence transformed time; every moment was a celebration, a drunkenness; this was his reaction to seeing her again, perhaps fevered but true.

  “Even poor old England.” The minister nodded. His faint smile, the tilting of his head, conveyed ironic awareness of the dwindling of the British empire. “Yes, the United States is now the hope of mankind. There has never in history been a nation like America. But with your generous nature, Captain Henry, you must learn not to be too trusting. There truly are wolves in the woods.”

  “And bears,” said Pug.

  “Ah, just so.” Ala smiled the formal bright smile of a grand vizier. “Bears.”

  Lord Burne-Wilke arrived, and they went in to dinner. Pug feared that he faced a heavy meal; but the fare was plain, though everything else was grand — the vaulted dining room, the long dark table polished to a mirror shine, the hand-painted china, and what looked like platinum or white-gold plate. They had a clear soup, a chicken dish, and sherbet, and with the help of wine Pug managed to eat.

  Burne-Wilke did most of the talking at first, in an autumnal vein. The conference had started very badly. Nobody was to blame. The world had come to a “discontinuity of history.” Those who knew what should be done lacked the power to do it. Those who had the power lacked the knowledge. Pug discerned in Burne-Wilke’s gloom the spoke that Stalin had put in Churchill’s wheel, to the glee of Ernest King.

  The minister took up the theme and discoursed mellifluously on the ebb and flow of empires; the inevitable process by which conquerors became softened by their conquests, and dependent on their subjects to keep them in luxury, and so sooner or later fell to a new nation of hard rude fighters. The cycle had rolled on from Persepolis to the Tehran Conference. It would never end.

  During all this Pug and Pamela sat silent opposite each other. Each time their eyes met it was a thrill for him. He thought she was tightly controlling her eyes and her face, as he was; and this necessity to mask his feelings only intensified them. He wondered what there could ever be again in life to match what he felt for Pamela Tudsbury. She wore Burne-Wilke’s large diamond on her finger, as she had once worn the smaller diamond of Ted Gallard. She had not married the aviator, and she had not yet married Burne-Wilke, four months after the wrenching farewell in Moscow. Was she still caught as he was? This love kept triumphing over time, over geography, over shattering deaths, over year-long separations. A random meeting on an ocean liner had led step by step to this unlikely meeting in Persia, to these profoundly stirring glances. Now what? Would this be the end?

  Pug scarcely knew Duncan Burne-Wilke, and the excited warmth with which the man began to expatiate on Hinduism astonished him. The air vice marshal grew flushed, his eyes softened and moistened, and he spoke for a long time, while his sherbet melted, about the Bhagavad-Gita. Serving in India, he said, had opened his eyes. India was old and full of wisdom. The Hindu view of the world was a total break from Christian and Western ideas, and wiser. The Bhagavad-Gita offered the only acceptable philosophy he had ever come upon.

  The warrior hero of the Gita, he said, disgusted with the senseless killing of war, wanted to throw down his arms before a great battle. The god Krishna persuaded him that as a warrior his task was to fight, however stupid the cause and however revolting the murders, leaving the sorting out of the whole to Heaven and to destiny. Their long dialogue, said Burne-Wilke, was greater poetry than the Bible; it taught that the material world was not real, that the human mind could not grasp the workings of God, that death and life were twin delusions. A man could only face up to his lot, and act according to his nature and his place in life.

  With a slight face twitch, Pamela conveyed to Pug that all this meant little to her, that Burne-Wilke was off riding a hobbyhorse.

  “I know the Bhagavad-Gita,” said the minister placidly. “Some of our Persian poets write much in that vein. It is too fatalistic. One cannot control all the consequences of one’s actions, true. But one must still think about them, and make choices. As to the world’s not being real, I always humbly ask, ’Compared to what?’”

  “Compared to God, possibly,” said Duncan Burne-Wilke.

  “Ah, but by definition, He is beyond compare. So that is no answer. But we are caught in a very old revolving door. Tell me, what will come out of the conference to benefit Iran? We are your hosts, after all.”

  “Nothing. Stalin is dominating the proceedings. The President is just drifting with him, I suppose to show his good intentions. Churchill alone, great as he is, can’t pull against two such weights. An ominous state of things, but there you have it.”

  “Perhaps President Roosevelt is cleverer than we know,” said the minister, turning shrewd old brown eyes at Victor Henry.

  Now Pug felt as he had in his Berlin post, just before sending in his report on the combat readiness of Germany. It had been a presumptuous thing to do. It had led to his meeting with Roosevelt. It had probably destroyed his naval career. Yet there sat Pamela opposite him, and that was how he had met her. Perhaps there was something to the Bhagavad-Gita, to the working of destiny, to the need for a man to act according to his nature. He was a plunger at crucial moments. He always had been. He plunged.

  “Wouldn’t it be a good thing to come out of the conference,” he said, “if the United States joined in your treaty with England and Russia? If all three countries agreed to pull out their troops after the war?”

  The minister’s somewhat hooded eyes glinted. “A wonderful thing. But this idea has been rejected at the Moscow meeting of foreign ministers. We were not present, but we know.”

  “Why doesn’t your government ask the President to take it up with Stalin?”

  Glancing at Burne-Wilke, who was regarding Pug quizzically, the minister said, “Let me ask you an indiscreet question. On your tour of the Lend-Lease installations here, were you not a personal emissary of President Roosevelt?”

  “Yes.”

  The minister nodded, contemplating him through eyes lidded almost shut. “Do you actually know your President’s views on this matter of a new treaty?”

  “Yes. The President won’t initiate such a move, because it might look to the Russians like an imperialist intrusion. But he might respond to Iran’s request for reassurance.”

  The minister’s next words came rapid-fire. “But that idea has already been explored. A hint to your legation not long ago met no encouragement. It was not pressed. It is an extremely serious thing to push a powerful nation in such a delicate matter.”

  “No doubt, but the conference will break up in a couple of days. When will such a chance come again for Iran? If the President’s doing everything Stalin’s way, as Lord Burne-Wilke says, then Stalin might be in a mood to oblige him.”

  “Shall we have coffee?” The minister stood, smiling, and led them into a glassed-in veranda facing the garden. Here he left them, and was gone for about a quarter of an hour. They lolled on cushioned divans, and servants brought them coffee, brandy, and confections.

  “Your point is well-taken,” Burne-Wilke
commented to Pug as they settled down. “The conference is such an utterly disorganized muddle that by sheer luck the Iranians might just pull it off. It’s worth a try. There’s no other way the Soviet Union will ever get out of Persia.”

  He talked about the China-Burma-India theatre. It was always feast or famine there, he complained; the forces were either starved, or suddenly glutted with supplies and asked to perform miracles. President Roosevelt was obsessed with keeping China in the war. It was bloody nonsense. Chiang Kai-shek wasn’t fighting the Japanese. Half the Lend-Lease aid was lining his pockets, the other half was going to suppress the Chinese communists. General Stilwell had told Roosevelt the brute facts at Cairo. Yet the President had promised Chiang a campaign to reopen the Burma Road, though the only troops on hand to fight such a campaign were British and Indian, and Churchill opposed the whole idea. Mountbatten had wisely avoided coming to Tehran, unloading the whole wretched Burma tangle on Burne-Wilke. The discussions with the American staff were going round and round in circles. He was heartily sick of it, and looked forward to escaping in a day or two.

  “Pug, you don’t look well,” Pamela said quite suddenly, sitting up.

  There was no use denying it. The relief of bourbon, Scotch, and wine, and the pulse of adrenalin from seeing Pamela, were all ebbing away. The room was swimming, and he felt like death. “It comes and goes, Pam. The Persian crud. Maybe I’d better get back to base.”

  The minister just then returned, and he at once ordered the car and driver brought around to the garden door.

  “I’ll walk with you to the car,” Pamela said.

  Wearily, with a gracious intelligent smile, Burne-Wilke rose to shake hands. The minister accompanied them through the ornate foyer.

  “Thanks for dinner,” Pug said.

  “I am pleased you could come,” said Hussein Ala, with a penetrating look into Pug’s face. “Very pleased.”

  In the garden Pamela paused in a darkened space between lanterns, seized Pug’s sweaty hand, and turned him toward her.

  “Better not, Pam,” he muttered, “I’m probably infectious as hell.”

  “Really?” She took his head in her hands and pulled his mouth down on hers. She kissed him three times, light sweet kisses. “There. Now we’ve both got the crud.”

  “Why haven’t you married Burne-Wilke?”

  “I’m going to. You’ve seen my ring. You couldn’t take your eyes off it.”

  “But you’re not married.”

  Her tone turned exasperated. They were both talking breathlessly and low. “Oh, look, when I got to New Delhi, Duncan had this blinding imbecile of an aide who was driving him bonkers. He asked me to step in. I’ve done a fair job. He seems pleased. It would be sort of sticky, Lady Burne-Wilke manning the outer office, but this way it’s okay. We’re together constantly. Everything’s fine. When it seems suitable we’ll get married, but possibly not till we go back to England. There’s no hurry.”

  “He’s a grand fellow,” Pug said.

  “He’s terribly depressed tonight. That brought on the Bhagavad-Gita. He’s a brilliant administrator, a fearless flier, and altogether a lamb. I love him.”

  “You saw Rhoda several times in Washington, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, three or four times.”

  “Was she ever with an Army colonel named Peters? Harrison Peters?”

  “Why, no. Not that I know.” She turned and started to walk.

  “You’re sure?” He put his hand on her arm.

  She shook it off and strolled on, speaking nervously. “Don’t do this. What a pointless question! It’s wretched of you to fish like that.”

  “I’m not fishing. I want to know.”

  “About what?” She halted and turned to him. “Look, didn’t we explore this haunting — thing— of ours to weariness, darling, in Moscow? There’s a bond between you and Rhoda that nothing can break. Nothing. Not since Warren died. I understand. It’s taken me a while, but I’ve got the idea. It’s a terrible mistake to open it all up. Don’t do it.”

  They stood by a large fountain in the middle of the garden. The tall man in the crimson robe was waiting, a dim figure, at the steps to the garden door.

  “Why did you get the minister to ask me to dinner?”

  “You damned well know why. I won’t change till I’m dead. Maybe not then. But I’m not raving with fever, and you are, so go. Get yourself doctored. I’ll look for you tomorrow.”

  “Pamela, I’ve lived four days this year, those four days in Moscow. Now what about this Colonel Peters? You’re not very good at pretending.”

  “But what brings this on? Have you had more poison-pen letters?” He did not answer. She took both his hands, looking him straight in the eyes. “All right, listen. Once at a big dance — I don’t remember what it was — I ran into Rhoda, and a tall gray-haired man in Army uniform was escorting her. Very casual, very correct. All right? She introduced him, and I think the name was Peters. That’s it. That’s all of it. A woman can’t go to a dance without an escort, Pug. You startled me with your abrupt question, or I’d have told you that straight off.”

  He hesitated, and said, “I don’t think that’s all of it.”

  Pamela burst out at him, “Pug Henry, these fleeting encounters of ours are all very romantic, and I freely confess I’m as dotty as you are. I can’t help it. I can’t hide it. I don’t. Duncan knows all about it. Since it’s utterly hopeless, and since we’ve had the best of it, why not just forget it? Call it a chimera feeding on loneliness, separation, and these tantalizing glimpses. Now for God’s sake, go!” Her cold hand touched his cheek. “You’re terribly sick. I’ll look for you tomorrow.”

  “Well, I’d better go, at that. They’ll think you’ve fallen in a fountain.” They walked through the garden. She was clutching his hand like a child.

  “What about Byron?”

  “So far as I know, he’s all right.”

  “Natalie?”

  “No news.”

  The crimson-robed man went up the steps and opened the garden door. Moonlight glinted on the Daimler. They halted at the steps.

  “Don’t marry him,” Pug said.

  Her eyes opened wide, gleaming in the moonlight. “Why, I most certainly will.”

  “Not until I get back to Washington, and find out where Rhoda stands.”

  “You’re delirious. Just go back to her and make her as happy as you can. When this ghastly war ends, maybe we’ll meet again. I’ll try to see you tomorrow before I go.”

  She kissed him on the mouth and strode off into the garden.

  The car roared through the quiet chilly town and out into the desert silvered by the moon. At the gate to the Amirabad base, a soldier on guard came to the window and saluted. “Cap’n Henry?”

  “Yes.”

  “General Connolly lak to see you, suh.” The Virginia accent gave Pug a homesick twinge.

  In the checkered bathrobe, wearing horn-rimmed glasses, Connolly was writing at a desk in his sitting room on the ground floor of the residence, his feet in heavy stockings stretched toward a small oil stove. “Hello, Pug. How are you feeling?”

  “I could use a slug of booze.”

  “Christ, you’re shivering! Sit by this stove. It gets damned cold toward midnight, doesn’t it? Don’t disturb Admiral King, he’s turned in. What was on Hussein Ala’s mind?”

  “A British friend of mine is staying with him. We all dined together.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.” Pug downed the whiskey. “Incidentally, General, what did Hack Peters write you about my wife?”

  Connolly was settling back in his desk chair. He took off his glasses and stared at Pug. “Beg your pardon?”

  “You mentioned last week that Peters wrote you about us.”

  “I said nothing about your wife.”

  “No, but he’s her friend, actually, not mine. They met at church, or something. What did he say? Is she all right? It’s been a long time since I�
��ve heard from her.” The general was flushing, and looking very uncomfortable. “Why, what’s the matter? Is she ill?”

  “Not in the least.” Connolly shook his head and rubbed a hand on his brow. “But this is blasted awkward. Hack Peters is my oldest friend, Pug. We write each other with our hair down. Your wife seems to be some kind of paragon. He’s taken her dancing and whatnot, Hack’s a great dancer, but — oh, hell, why pussyfoot around? Here’s what he wrote about her. I’ll read you every word, though I probably shouldn’t have mentioned the letter.”

  Rummaging in his desk, Connolly pulled out a small dark V-mail sheet, and read from it with a magnifying glass. Pug listened, sitting hunched in his bridge coat by the smelly stove, the whiskey flaming in his stomach and chills racking his frame. It was a sentimental, flowery picture of a perfect woman — beautiful, poised, sweet, clever, modest, rigidly faithful to her husband, unapproachable as a vestal virgin, and yet a marvelous companion at dances, the theatre, and concerts. Peters praised her gallantry about Warren’s death at Midway, the long silences of her submariner son, and the prolonged absence of her husband in Russia. The gist of all this was a moan that, after a long frivolous bachelor existence, he had found the one impossible right woman; and she was totally out of reach. He had to be grateful that she would even let him take her out now and then.

  Connolly tossed down the letter and the magnifying glass. “I call that a superb tribute. I wouldn’t mind a man writing it about my wife, Pug! Your gal must be quite something.”

  “She is. Well, I’m glad he’s giving her some diversion. She’s entitled to it, she’s got a rotten deal. I thought the admiral was expecting me.”

  “No, he seems to be coming down with what you’ve got. The President got taken queer at dinner tonight, too. Had to leave Churchill and Stalin chewing the fat without him. The Secret Service had a poison scare, but I hear he’s sleeping it off all right. Just the crud. Persia’s kind of hard on newcomers.”