Waves of Glory

by Peter Albano

  She touched her pouting lips with a single finger. “You’re sure you want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  She turned her face to the diffused light of the heavily draped window. “Major Sean Boswell was my husband. Three weeks ago he was shot down over. . .’

  “Don’t! Don’t,” Randolph cried. “I don’t want to know.”

  She turned back to him. “You owe me nothing.”

  He sat up and swung his legs to the floor. “You mean we paid our debts to each other.”

  “Yes, in a sense.”

  He stared at his bare feet, chewed his lips, and then skinned them back abruptly. “Last night you were making love to him, not me.”

  Her voice caught on the edge of tears. “At first, perhaps.”

  “You danced for him—the way you danced for me.”

  The voice was so low it was barely audible. “Yes. He loved to watch me. But later it was you, Randolph—it was you.”

  He seemed not to hear. “Now you’ll bed every major in the RFC to show Sean how much you love him?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know.”

  He whirled to her, eyes flashing. “He’s a corpse—that’s all he is. Understand? You can’t do anything for him but put a cross over his grave. Don’t prostitute his memory by becoming a whore.”

  “Please, Randolph. . .” She began to cry.

  He ran a hand through the glistening folds of her hair. The words were rough, straight from the mess at Number Five Squadron. “You poor fuckin’ civilians. Some of you bloody well suffer more than we do.”

  “Randolph,” she managed through her sobs. “Will I see you again?”

  “Perhaps.” He came to his feet and began to dress.

  V

  Time moved slowly after Randolph left. However, within a week, Brenda had recovered most of her strength. She was even able to play on the lawn with the boys and take short walks through the gardens she loved. Doctor Mansfield was delighted, boasting about the “advances in medicine and the power of the new ‘miracle drugs.’”

  There were disturbing rumors about Jutland. In fact, the German press trumpeted claims of an overwhelming victory for the high seas fleet. Finally, late in June, a lone communiqué was issued by the admiralty. Listing fourteen ships lost and over six thousand men killed and with only a single reference to “serious German losses,” the report did little to relieve public concerns. Nevertheless, the stories of Jutland were crowded off the pages of The Times, The Illustrated London News, and The Daily Express by reports of a new offensive on the Somme and great British victories. Walter blustered and muttered to himself about the end of the “filthy Boche” while Rebecca fretted and worried. There were rumors of staggering casualties.

  Compounding the gloom gripping the nation was the death of the secretary of state for war, Horatio Herbert Lord Kitchener. A week after Jutland, the hero of Omdurman was aboard cruiser Hampshire en route to Russia on a secret mission when the ship struck a mine off the Orkney Islands and sank, killing Kitchener and all but twelve of her 655-man crew.

  Mail from the front arrived sporadically. Occasionally, hastily scribbled letters were received from both Randolph and Lloyd. However, most of their correspondence was written on field service postcards, saying the sender was well and little more. Brenda wrote long letters to both, usually describing her sons and family. Write! Just write anything, she told herself. She even wrote of the weather, the view from her room, new shows in London, and the first shopping trip to Faversham she had taken since her illness. In the nearby town she and Rebecca carefully selected items to be sent to Lloyd and Randolph: lamb and ham pie, Fortnum’s fruitcake, dates, Gentlemen’s relish, ham paste, Hartley’s jam and marmalade, pickled herring, Lazenby’s sauce, Peek Frean’s biscuits and, sometimes, liquor were crammed into the parcels.

  She wrote her parents, but mail crossed the Atlantic slowly or not at all. Letters were rare, but the correspondence she did receive told her father, mother, brother, and sister were in good health and new contracts for uniforms, powder bags, and tents had brought lucrative profits to the business. Her sister, Betty, had a new beau and her brother, Hugh, had been promoted to captain. There was an excellent chance the army would send him to London as an attaché. “The submarines, the submarines,” Brenda said to herself, shuddering. Hundreds of ships had been sunk and now, perhaps, her brother would be sent into the maelstrom.

  Fortunately, Walter was forced to make frequent trips to the headquarters of Carlisle Mills, Limited. With Geoffry dead and several of his key managers called to the colors, the old man was forced to negotiate the plethora of new contracts. Grumbling and armed with two or three stiff jolts of cognac, the old man would slump in the rear of the Rolls at least twice a week. Brenda would smile as she watched the motor car wind its way out of the long drive and head for London in the morning mists.

  Almost a month after Randolph’s departure, Commander Reginald Hargreaves arrived at Fenwyck. Brenda was in the nursery with the boys and Bridie when the chauffeur-driven staff car charged up the long drive. By the time the car had stopped in front of the house, Brenda was entering the drawing room.

  Ushered into the drawing room by a bubbling Rebecca and a blustering Walter, the young commander seated himself wearily in a large chair facing the sofa where Rebecca and Brenda sat. He was a handsome young man with strong features that appeared chiseled from stone, the bones of his jaw and cheek and forehead massive and well shaped, hair the color of freshly washed wheat. Thick eyebrows that were nearly bushy came within a hair of meeting over a pair of clear blue eyes. An expensive tailored uniform fit loosely, making it obvious the commander had suffered a recent loss of weight. Nevertheless, his shoulders were broad, waist narrow, neck full and corded.

  Endless hours on the bridge of a warship had turned his skin to a burnished ocher, and when he squinted the set of the few tiny lines angling downward from the corners of his eyes gave him the appearance of a much older man. The most impressive thing about the commander was his eyes—sharp and bright as a bared blade, and when he was introduced to Brenda, they caught and fixed the American with such intensity she felt as if she had been struck by a physical force. He had the same look as Randolph and Lloyd—the look of a man who had had outward civilities and the facade of normal behavior slashed away by death and constant danger.

  Walter handed Reginald a whiskey, poured a cognac for himself, but the women refused liquor. Brenda was thankful that neither man smoked. Hargreaves spoke in a deep, resonant voice honed on the forebridge of a destroyer. “Sorry about Geoffry,” he said with genuine feeling. “Heard about Lion. Ugly show. But Geoffry did splendidly.” He held up his drink and he and Walter drank silently.

  “We’re proud of our son,” Walter said, staring at Rebecca. Rebecca turned away.

  Reginald asked about Randolph and Lloyd. Walter spoke of his sons’ accomplishments in glowing terms while the women stared at each other in silence. Reginald interrupted. “The Somme’s been a hard slog,” he said simply. “As bad as Gallipoli. A bloody foulup and I daresay, the worst is yet to come.” Rebecca caught her breath. “Sorry about that,” the commander said, biting his lip. “Been to sea too long, Rebecca.”

  Walter said, “You’ve been in the Med?”

  “Yes. I missed that show at Jutland.” He sipped his whiskey. “You know I command Lancer.”

  “Quite.”

  “We caught one in the straits.”

  “Straits?”

  “The Dardanelles. A Turkish shore battery blew off our aft funnel and put X mount out of action.” There was sudden pain in his voice. “Lost a dozen fine chaps.”

  “Winston Churchill must’ve been off his wick when he dreamed up that show, Reggie. Cost him his post as first lord of the admiralty. The PM made him chancellor of the duchy of Lancaster—whatever that may be. Never hear of him ag
ain, mark me.” Chuckling, Walter scratched a distended vein on his nose. “I thought all our lads had been taken out by January.”

  Reginald squirmed uncomfortably. “Not all, Walter. A few stragglers—ah, it’s all hush-hush.”

  “Sorry, old boy. Didn’t mean to pry.” Walter took a long drink. “Nasty rumors about Jutland,” he said. “We got a bloody nose in that one—according to the papers.” The women looked at each other and shifted uncomfortably.

  Reginald tabled his drink. There was a hint of anger in his voice. “Truth was the first casualty of this war, Walter. The truth of it is the High Seas Fleet is bottled up in Wilhelmshaven and we have the run of the North Sea. The Jerries are finished as a naval power.” He picked up his drink and drained half the glass. “The prisoner shook the cage but he’s still in jail. That’s not hush-hush, Walter.”

  “Then why doesn’t the admiralty say as much, Reggie?”

  “They have. But bad news always sells better than good news.”

  “You’re at Chatham?” Rebecca asked abruptly, turning the conversation away from Jutland.

  “Quite so. At the dockyard. We were towed to ‘Gib’ for temporary repairs, but Lancer still needs a lot of work.” He finished his drink. Walter recharged it.

  Brenda spoke up. “’Gib’?”

  “Sorry, American cousin.” Reginald smiled, shifting the midnight blue eyes to Brenda. “Gibraltar.” And then staring over his glass, he said, “You’re from New York?”

  Brenda could not help returning the boyish stare with a smile. “Yes,” she said. “Fifth Avenue. I grew up there. We lived at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Thirty-seventh Street.”

  He nodded knowingly. “A three-story brownstone with a charming medieval flair to it.”

  “Why yes.” Brenda beamed. “I’m surprised you would know the place.”

  “Magnificent edifice,” he said, eyes warm and probing. “I grew up on Long Island, you know.”

  “Yes.” She nodded at Walter and Rebecca. “I know. Your mother and sisters still live there?”

  The commander nodded, never moving his eyes from Brenda’s face. “Actually on Shelter Island. It’s a beautiful little island off the tip of Long Island. We had to use a ferry to reach the mainland. Got my sea legs there.” He chuckled.

  Rebecca entered the conversation. “You’ve been ill?”

  “The flu. Been confined to the naval hospital at Canterbury and a piece of Turkish iron nicked me here.” He patted his thigh gently.

  “We didn’t know,” Rebecca said.

  The commander smiled reassuringly. “A scratch. My ship’s surgeon took care of it in our own sick bay. Daresay, deuce of a bother for a fortnight or so.”

  “Will you be staying?” Rebecca asked. “We have a nice room for you—the same one you used when you were a boy.”

  “You know I bought a place in London on Wellington Road just east of St. John’s Wood. I intended to stay there and look after my ship. And it’s too soon for you—not two months since—ah, since Jutland.”

  “Nonsense,” Rebecca said. “Your company would help us over this difficult time.”

  Walter said, “You must be on leave. And, keep in mind, Chatham is closer to Fenwyck than to your place in London. Stay with us for a few days.” Brenda was surprised by the genuine warmth in the tone.

  Hargreaves fingered the bridge of his nose. “I have a week left. Would be a delight to spend a few days with you—get away from the hustle and bustle of London.” Brenda felt her spirits soar. Someone from home. Someone who knew Manhattan. What a rich find. Reginald said to Walter, “You still have Caldwell?”

  “Right.”

  “I don’t want to impose, but in a day or so I would like to see my ship.”

  “You’re on leave—rest and recuperation. Right?”

  “Quite so. But a captain is never on leave, even when he’s—ah, incapacitated, and I’m feeling quite fit.”

  “Very well. Caldwell is at your disposal. Now join us for dinner. We’ll try to make you forget about your galley.”

  Despite the loss of her husband, despite the aura of death that hung over the entire nation like a sheet of winter ice, Brenda began to feel the stirrings of a long-dormant warmth every time she saw Reginald. She, Rebecca, and Walter competed for the young officer’s attention. The next morning at breakfast, Walter immediately commandeered Hargreaves for the short ride to the North Downs where the skeleton of the Zeppelin had begun to settle in the bog. “Be home by noon,” Walter had promised over the women’s protests.

  However, it was one o’clock before Walter’s big Austin Vitesse phaeton charged up the long drive, leaving a long brown exclamation mark of dust behind it. Immensely proud of the fast 30-horsepower machine, Walter always drove it himself with the top down and at breathtaking speeds that sometimes reached forty miles per hour. The high speeds, dust, and wind discouraged the women. Brenda knew this was deliberate.

  Impatiently, the women waited while Hargreaves freshened up and then after a quick lunch, they led him out onto the lawn where Nicole and Bridie waited with Nathan and Rodney. Walter claimed he had business to complete in his library, but Brenda knew her father-in-law was undoubtedly enjoying his first cognac of the afternoon in the privacy he loved.

  After seating themselves at a large round table sheltered by a colorful umbrella, Dorset served tea in fine white bone china. Rodney scampered across the lawn and hurled himself into his mother’s arms while Nathan, hands held high over his head by the buxom Bridie, made a few hesitant steps.

  Nuzzling his mother’s neck, Rodney asked his usual impossible question. “Mummy, where is Daddy?”

  Brenda bit her lip before answering. “Gone away,” she said.

  The boy’s unusual intelligence showed through or he had been eavesdropping on adult conversations. “Gone away to the war? Forever and ever?”

  Reginald placed a hand on the boy’s mop of chestnut hair. “I’m Reginald Hargreaves. You can call me Reggie. Your daddy wa—is a sailor. I’m a sailor, too. Sailors take long trips, sometimes. Very long trips.”

  Wide-eyed, the little boy looked up. “On the ocean, Mister Reggie?”

  “Yes. On the ocean.”

  “I saw the ocean once.” He held up a single finger. “Is it fun?”

  “Yes. Great fun. Like a carousel.”

  The boy looked at his mother in confusion. “Like a big horsey ride,” Brenda explained.

  “I want my daddy.” He began to cry.

  Brenda held him tight and stroked his head. She kissed his cheek, his forehead, his mouth. “I know, darling. I miss him, too.”

  Rebecca spoke suddenly. “Rodney, Grandmummy bought you a new teddy bear.”

  The boy whirled, great blue-green eyes wide with new interest. “All my own.”

  “Yes, darling. In my sewing room.”

  In a flash, the boy was out of Brenda’s arms and scampering across the lawn. “Wait for me,” Rebecca laughed as she followed him. “Be right back,” she called over her shoulder.

  Brenda extended her arms and Bridie handed Nathan to his mother. Holding the baby, Brenda felt a new emotion. She had been happy not to nurse Nathan and Rodney, feeling the weight of milk might destroy the beauty of her perfect breasts. Now she felt cheated. Her body had given life to the boys and her milk—not the milk of a stranger—should have sustained them. She knew she had given away something beyond price. She reflected on a hard reality that had plagued her since Jutland. Men were destroyers, killers who spent enough of their manhood to impregnate their women. Then, while they butchered each other, women produced life; sustained life for the next war. “No! Never,” she cried to herself.

  “Never,” Reginald repeated in surprise.

  Brenda clamped her teeth together, breathed rapidly, and spoke from deep in her throat. “Never will my boys go to war. Neve
r!”

  Reginald finished his tea. Nicole, leaning so close a breast brushed the commander’s back, refilled his cup from a silver service. Reginald stared at his cup and spoke thoughtfully. “That’s what this bloody lot’s about—this will be the last one.” He tapped the table with a single finger. “I’ve had to write a score of letters to next of kin trying to explain why and all that.”

  “You’re trying to say Geoffry did not die in vain? That this war will end all wars?”

  “Quite right. Quite right,” he said, nodding at his cup.

  “Geoffry died for his boys?”

  “Yes. All the world’s little boys.”

  “French boys, Russian boys, Chinese boys, Japanese boys, German boys. . .”

  “Yes, Brenda. This will be a different world after this one. A safe world. You’ll see.”

  A tugging at her blouse turned her head away from the commander. Nathan was pulling and sucking at the material of her blouse. “He’s hungry, Bridie,” she said, turning to the wet nurse.

  “Sure and it’s time, mum,” Bridie said in her thick Irish burr, taking the baby.

  Brenda felt a stab of resentment as the big young woman held the infant close to her breast. “How is he taking to his weaning?” Brenda asked.

  “Very well, mum. An’ he’d better. The little tyke’s got six teeth—sharp as claymores.” She rubbed a breast. “Kinda hard on poor Bridie.”

  Brenda and Reginald laughed as Bridie carried the baby toward the house.

  “Got to go to Chatham tomorrow,” Reginald said suddenly.

  “Can’t stay away from your ship?”

  “A most demanding mistress.” They exchanged a smile. “Would you like to come?”

  Brenda regarded him with surprise. She was in mourning and would be for months. It would be improper regardless of how innocent the invitation might be. He was very attractive and she was lonely but, nevertheless, a day spent alone with an eligible bachelor less than two months after her husband’s death was out of the question. He seemed to read her mind. “We’ll take Walter and Rebecca. I know Walter would love to see my old girl.” His smile was filled with understanding.