by Peter Albano
Randolph took a mouthful of liquor, swirled it around his gums and through his teeth before swallowing it, enjoying the strong burnt taste and relaxing slightly with the impact of the strong liquor. “They’ve lost some men. After all, they’re escorting convoys.”
“They should have been at Bir Fuad Ridge.”
“What about Bir Fuad Ridge?”
Lloyd described the battle, the horror of losing most of his brigade that he was convinced was used as bait. He condemned General Sir Alan Cunningham’s tactics bitterly. He said nothing of the German prisoners he had killed and, the investigation he suspected was under way. “You don’t throw away good men like that,” he added. “An army’s spirit can be broken by those bloody, expensive victories. Pyrrhus learned that lesson over two-thousand-years ago against the Romans. We British haven’t learned it in two world wars.” He drank, puffed on his Lucky Strike, and fell silent. He poured Scotch into his glass for the third time.
“But Cunningham’s been sacked, and the Eighth Army’s on the move.’’
Lloyd’s demeanor brightened. “Right, Randolph, Auchinleck replaced that dolt Cunningham with a good officer, Neil Ritchie. We’ve taken Sidi Rezegh and soon Tobruk will be relieved. The bloody bastards are on the run.” His face clouded again. “But Rommel‘ll be back again. It’s been like a bloody tennis match—back and forth, back and forth.” He moved his head as if he were watching an imaginary game at Wimbledon. Tiring quickly, he sagged back into his chair and gulped half the contents of his glass.
“You need a rest, brother,’’ Randolph said.
“You sound like my wife.”
“You have three broken ribs. You can’t go into action with broken ribs. And most men retire from business at your age, let alone from war.”
“Quite so. But my ribs are almost mended and look.” He waved both arms over his head. “A man with shattered ribs can’t do that”
“You’re aching to go back.”
“Aren’t you?”
“I’m not injured.”
“You report to your squadron tomorrow, don’t you, Randolph?” “Quite right.”
Lloyd went on the attack. “You still have something to settle, brother?”
“Kochling. Yes. He’s a murderer.”
Lloyd sighed. Drew on the Lucky Strike and began his fourth double. “Some people would say the same about me.”
Randolph came erect, eyes wide with shock. “What do you mean?”
Lloyd told him of Private Touhy Murphy’s tragic death and the killing of the prisoners at Bir Fuad Ridge.
“But you were justified, Lloyd,” Randolph protested.
“They surrendered and murdered-your man.” He was interrupted by Dorset who knocked politely and then entered. “An officer to see you, sir,” he said to Lloyd. “Brigadier General Gilbert Fraser, sir.”
“Fraser? Eraser?” Lloyd said to himself meditatively, staring at the smoke hugging the ceiling. He turned to Randolph. “A ‘Pommy’ bastard and equal to my rank. Something’s up. I’ll lay my bit you’ll find out about Bir Fuad, straightaway.” He gestured to Dorset. “Show him in.”
Brigadier Gilbert Fraser entered. In his late fifties, he was a stocky little man with narrow, baleful eyes tilted up at the corners like those of a hawk. Sparse brown hair shot through with gray crowned a high domed forehead and a beaked nose that added to his bird like aspect. The flesh of his face was as pallid as a gravestone. He wore all the accoutrements of the staff officer: meticulously tailored uniform, glistening Sam Browne belt, black leather of his shoes burnished like mirrors, even a polished blackthorn swagger stick with a silver-band was tucked under his arm. Randolph could smell the Kiwi polish even through the tobacco smoke. Both Lloyd and Randolph stared at the newcomer with the suspicion and distrust all front-line soldiers carry for “staff.”
Fraser walked to a point directly in front of Lloyd’s desk and stood rigidly, swagger stick tucked smartly under his right arm. “Brigadier Gilbert Fraser, here,’’ he said in a high, brittle voice. “I’m a member of General Archer’s staff—Intelligence.”
“I know. We met at Whitehall at a briefing in ‘thirty-nine,” Lloyd said. He gestured to Randolph. “My brother, Major Randolph Higgins, commanding officer of Number Fifty-four Squadron.”
Randolph rose. The general nodded stiffly, but did not extend his hand. “I’ve heard of you,” Fraser said matter-of-factly. He gestured to the door to a young captain who had entered so quietly, Randolph had not even noticed him. “Captain Nigel Davenport, my aide,” Fraser said. All spit and polish like the general, the young officer stared at the brothers. He was obviously ill at ease and Randolph knew something distasteful was afoot. Everyone ignored the captain and Randolph sat.
Lloyd did not offer a drink or a chair to Eraser. In fact, he glared up at him with unabashed hostility. Randolph knew his brother hated “staff” almost as much as he hated the Germans. “Bloody dugout queens,” he had called them back in ‘17. He had never changed. If anything, the hatred had intensified.
“My mission is distressing, even more so because of your wounds, Brigadier Higgins,” Fraser said with forced concern.
Lloyd sneered. “Don’t let my wounds upset you, old boy. Front-line troops are often wounded. Daresay, sometimes killed. You should catch the show, sometime. Jolly good fun.”
Randolph sniggered and sipped his drink, never taking his eyes from Fraser.
Fraser glared down at Lloyd, face a map of rage. The gleam in his eyes was that of a hawk about to pounce. “We can dispense with your sarcasm. I’m here to inform you we have eyewitnesses to your execution of five prisoners of war, Brigadier Higgins.”
Lloyd snapped back, “Do you have eyewitnesses to the execution of my brigade? Of my loader Private Touhy Murphy? Is Cunningham on the dock for his stupid tactics?”
“I know nothing of General Cunningham’s tactics and would not pass judgment on them if I did. As for Private Touhy Murphy, I have nothing in my report concerning him.”
“Ask his parents. They got the letter from the Crown.”’
“I regret your losses. But we can’t tolerate the killing of helpless prisoners. We are gentlemen who observe the Geneva Conventions.”
Lloyd hunched forward and stabbed his cigarette at Fraser as he spoke, “Understand this. General, I have always observed the Conventions. But when one of your men is murdered while giving aid to a wounded enemy, it is time to act.”
“Not like a savage. General.”
The blush came through Lloyd’s sun-darkened skin. The deep-set eyes seemed to bulge from the hollows like polished gemstones. He half rose. His voice seemed to rumble up out of his throat, “See here, you uppish gamecock. Mind your tongue or I’ll cut it out and stuff it up your arse.” And then sarcastically, “Just think, you could get the DSO for being wounded in ‘inaction.’ “
Fraser rocked as if he had been hit by a board. “I bloody well won’t take that,” he snarled. “There’ll be a hearing in a fortnight. You’ll receive official notice by courier.” He whirled on his heel and left, Davenport trailing like a trained dog.
“Bloody dugout queens!” Lloyd shouted after them.
A silence so sweet it reminded Randolph of the stillness following a battle filled the room. He rose and refilled his glass. Sinking back into the soft folds of the sofa, he stared at his brother who smoked and drank with fury in his eyes. “You think I botched it,” Lloyd said.
“On the contrary, you were superb, brother.”
“Put the stupid sod in his place?”
“Quite right. Never saw it done so delicately and discreetly.”
Lloyd’s uproarious laughter exhaled a cloud of smoke. And then seriously, “They’ll have me on the dock, Randolph.”
The flyer shook his head. “Can’t afford to lose experienced officers. Especially in desert warfare. They’ll sn
eak some meaningless reprimand into your record to satisfy staff and the Swiss Red Cross and ship you off to Egypt. Mark me.”
Lloyd arched an eyebrow and the harsh lines of concern softened. “You really believe that?”
“Quite so, brother. And don’t forget, Allanbrooke is Bernice’s cousin. They wouldn’t dare tamper with either of us.”
Lloyd sighed and sank back. “Got to get back. The lads need me. Now we’ll have a lot of replacements. . .”
“I know, I know,” Randolph interrupted. “I’ve been trying to keep new chums alive for two wars, too.”
Randolph glanced at the clock and fidgeted restlessly. A terrible emptiness had been gnawing at his guts from the moment he had arrived in England. Again, Lloyd startled him, “You miss the girl?”
“You mean Elisa Blue?”
“Quite. Do you intend to see her again?”
Randolph nodded and shifted his eyes away from his brother’s face. “Yes. I intend to leave in a few minutes.”
“Don’t remain on my account, brother,” Lloyd said. “Have you rung her up?”
“She doesn’t have a telephone.”
“Then you’ll surprise her?”
Randolph smiled enigmatically. “I don’t believe anything could ever surprise Elisa Blue.” He rose and walked from the room while Lloyd smiled behind him.
She was standing by the door when Randolph turned the Jaguar from the dirt road and parked. She was dressed in a filmy green frock pulled in at her tiny waist by a black patent-leather belt. Her marvelous hair was pulled back and held in place by a yellow silk ribbon. She was smiling, her entire being appearing to light up with some inner illumination as her eyes clung to him. Again, Randolph was struck by the way sunbeams seemed to be attracted to her. They played in her hair, turning it into a glossy cap that changed color from the burnished iridescence of platinum to the rich glow of polished gold. She was stunning. Breathtaking.
He took both of her hands and stared down into her eyes that were as blue as the deepest part of the Atlantic on a summer’s day. “I was expecting you, my major,” she said.
He took her into his arms and she reached up eagerly for his lips, her soft body becoming malleable, shaping itself to his so that he could feel her against him from thighs, to hips, to small hard breasts. Her lips were parted and hungry but the urgent demand of Brenda’s kiss—and for that matter, the other women he had known—was not there. Instead, he found the sweet longing for a beloved realized at last. He kissed her cheeks, her forehead, her temple, her hair. Finally, he whispered, “You knew I was back?”
“Yes” She stepped back but kept his hands captured in hers, eyes searching his face as if they had experienced a starvation of their own.
“How?”
“I knew.” She gestured to the door. “Some peach wine, Major?” He followed her into the cottage.
It was a rioting with color. There were the bluebells, lilacs, daisies, heliotrope, and ferns he remembered. But a new exquisitely delicate bloom stood majestically in a corner. He waved at it as he seated himself on the couch.
“It’s an orchid,” she said. “You brought me a half dozen when you were on your last leave. I wanted my own. They remind me of you.”
He ran a hand over her cheek and through her hair. “But they only grow in the tropics or in hothouses under constant care.”
“I keep it in the shade and move it to my little greenhouse when it’s warm. I’ve been very lucky.” She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bottle and two glasses. Seating herself close to him, she filled the glasses with the deep yellow wine. She touched his glass with hers and caught his eyes. “To peace, when love tunes the shepherd’s reed,” she said. He was sure the verse was part of a couplet but he could not place it. They drank.
“That’s Byron,” he hazarded.
She kissed him and he tasted her laugh as refreshing as raindrops. “Scott,” she said. “And I corrupted the poor fellow.”
“There’s more.”
She averted her eyes. “I can’t remember the rest.’’ Quickly she asked him about his trip. He told her of America, the planes he flew, and the long journey home. He said nothing of Brenda and her family.
“You return to your squadron soon?”
“Tomorrow.”
She bit her lip. “Duty. It’s your white whale. It takes all of you. And you’ll be gone again.”
He sipped his wine and studied the golden liquid and the reflected light from the rounded glass. He spoke thoughtfully, “You’re right, Elisa. A man can travel to the ends of the earth, to every byway, to the end of his days, but nowhere can he lay down his duty, shed his past, and walk away from it. That’s how I am—will always be.”
“I don’t understand—can’t understand. It’s not right, it’s against life. All I know is that I’ve missed you so—so very much, my major.”
“My field is near Detling. It’s actually only minutes away by Spitfire.” He kissed her and she kissed him back fiercely. He spoke into her ear, “I’ll buzz by, if I get a chance. Give you a personal wave from the RAF. Would you like that?”
She reared back. “You’d risk your life to wave at me?”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Not at all, Elisa. Safer than driving my Jag on some of these beastly Kentish roadways.”
“Fenwyck is only an hour from here.”
“Quite right.”
“Will I see you when you’re home on leave?”
“Every time.”
She kissed him again. This time her mouth was open, warm, and wet. “I love you, my major,” she said breathlessly. “Stay with me. We’ll walk in the forest, I’ll pick flowers for you, we’ll soak our feet in the brook, plant, reap what we have sown. We’ll dedicate ourselves to life instead of. . .” She caught herself, stopped in midsentence, her hand to her mouth.
“Instead of death, Elisa?”
“Yes. Instead of death.”
He turned away. “I’m sorry, my darling. You know. . .”
She interrupted him, “I know it’s impossible.” There was utter defeat in her voice. She clutched his arms with hands like claws. “I love you. I can’t bear the thought of losing you.” She stabbed a finger upward. “I told you before, the sky will take you from me. I know it! I know it!” She began to sob bitterly on his shoulder.
He stroked her hair, kissed her forehead, the salty tears streaking her cheeks. “Please don’t, my darling,” he soothed.
The sobs abated and she looked up into his eyes. “I’m your darling?”
“Yes.”
She dabbed at her cheeks with a dainty lace handkerchief. “Do you love me?”
He cupped her face with his big hands and searched her eyes with his. “I don’t know. I’m twice your age, and I have known, ah. . .”
“You’ve known a lot of women.”
“Yes. Many.”
“And loved none?”
He turned to the table and refilled his glass. Drank. “Perhaps one.”
“Where is she?”
“Far from here.” He stared at a fern on the far windowsill.
“Why didn’t you marry her?”
He sipped his wine. “Because it wasn’t right. In fact, it would have been dishonorable.” He expected her to probe further, to ask about lovemaking, bedrooms. Most women would. She took him by surprise.
“Then you’ve known love,” she said with relief in her voice. “They haven’t destroyed you.” Her hands found the back of his head and she stared into his eyes. “If you’ve loved once, you can love again.” She kissed him and pulled him down on the sofa. He ran his hands through her hair, tasting the sweetness of her mouth. Sighing and moaning she pulled him down on her until his body covered hers. “Remember the last time,” she gasped through his kisses. “I had you to myself—all of you. Completely.�
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“How could I forget? It’s haunted me.”
She laughed happily and gently pushed against his chest. Then she rose slowly and the strength and promise of the look in her eyes brought him to his feet like a magnet. She took his hand and led him to the curtained doorway.
When he left, it was dark. As he shifted into second gear, he glanced back and saw her standing in the doorway. A penumbra of light from a lamp behind her filtered through her hair and surrounded her head with a diffused golden glow. It was a terrible, wrenching feeling of parting he had never known before. He could still feel the hot warmth of her flesh, and the perfume of her hair still lingered. Then a thought struck him. It was the poem by Sir Walter Scott she had quoted. The entire couplet came back: “In peace love tunes the shepherd’s reed, but in war, he mounts the warrior’s steed.”
X
December 7, 1941
Lieutenant Rodney Higgins stretched his big bulk uncomfortably in the meager confines of his bunk on the battleship Arizona. In the eerie gloaming between sleep and wakefulness, he squinted through one partially open eye at the brass clock mounted on the bulkhead. It showed 0545 hours. His subconscious told his conscious mind to sleep; he still had two hours before he was due to relieve the quarterdeck watch. However, twisted by the lingering effects of too much alcohol and prodded by troubling thoughts, images flashed from the subconscious to interrupt his craving for more sleep.
It had been a wild party. At the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. His roommate, Lieutenant Donald “Stud Horse” Colburn, had rented a suite after meeting a young secretary named Katherine Newby at the submarine base. She had brought three of her young friends along for the party. Two ensigns from Rodney’s fire-control section, Dick Jordan and Paul Stolz, leapt at the chance to attend. “We can take care of those broads, Mr. Higgins,” Stolz had said. “Just you wait and see. I’ll make a pussycat out of of Stud Horse.”