Brave Hearts

by Carolyn Hart

  Greta Eberhardt knitted as she lay in her bunk. The two younger daughters chattered. The oldest girl lay in her bunk, unmoving, her face turned toward the bulkhead.

  Catharine’s glance moved on to touch Peggy. Catharine had never paid much attention to Spencer’s secretary, but she was really a very pretty girl, with a fresh round face, eager blue eyes, and lovely golden-red hair. But Catharine detected something wrong there, too, some kind of deep unhappiness.

  A man, of course.

  What else but love or the lack of it can cause such sorrow.

  Catharine felt suddenly guilty. She’d been so absorbed in her own loss, in coming to terms with her separation from Jack, that she’d had no time or energy to share with anyone else. It didn’t matter with Spencer. He was deep into a mass of papers that had been sent to prepare him for his mission to Manila. He and Peggy spent most of every day in a far corner of the old saloon, which had been transformed into a combination mess-cum-office and lounge. Spencer smiled absently when they met at meals and inquired if everything was all right, her accommodations satisfactory. He’d laughed once. “Not quite the way we traveled home the last time.” He’d certainly kept Peggy busy, but perhaps that was best. Catharine wished she had something to absorb her thoughts, to pull them away from the never-ending circle of pain and regret.

  Catharine turned a page of the book she held in her lap, but she was watching Peggy. Yes, there was some story there. Otherwise, why was she so stiff and distant when you could tell by looking at her that she was generally happy and friendly? And she was looking decidedly ill. The best thing, of course, would be to get up on deck. Catharine opened her mouth to speak.

  With a hideous clang, the warning klaxon blared and a tinny voice shouted over the PA, “Battle stations! All hands to battle stations!”

  The German woman, her face pale and pinched, looked frantically at Catharine.

  “They must have sighted a submarine,” Catharine said huskily in German. She knew the sudden tightening of her throat revealed her fear, but they were all afraid, she knew that. All of them shared the tight, quivering throb of fear because they were trapped and waiting, once again helpless, passive victims. Neither fear nor hope nor tears would affect the path of torpedoes. Catharine reached down for her life jacket. She looked across the cabin and saw Peggy strapping on her life jacket.

  The ship lurched far to the right. The bunks across from Catharine swung crazily upward. Everyone reached out to grab onto the nearest support.

  A dull crash that sounded like thunder reached down into their below-water cabin, but they all knew it wasn’t thunder. Mrs. Eberhardt cried out and her younger daughter ran to her.

  The ship heeled abruptly in the opposite direction.

  Catharine knew then that a sub had been sighted, and their ship was desperately swerving to avoid being struck by a torpedo. Would the accompanying destroyers sink the sub before it succeeded in its mission? Or would a torpedo strike home and would the strike hit their ship or another? Who would live and who would die?

  Peggy spoke out harshly. “Mrs. Cavanaugh, tell that girl to put on her life jacket. She’s just lying there.”

  Catharine turned. The oldest German girl lay in her bunk, face to the wall. Her mother spoke in rapid German.

  “Doesn’t she understand what’s happening?” Peggy demanded irritably.

  “I imagine she understands,” Catharine said quietly. “I don’t think she cares. Her mother told me she was very much in love.” Catharine took a deep breath. “She saw the Gestapo drag him away.”

  “Oh, God,” Peggy said wearily.

  Clutching the edge of the bunk for support as the ship continued its plunging effort to avoid torpedoes, Catharine worked her way closer to the girl, then spoke softly in German. “Please, Marlene, put on your jacket. Please do it for your mother.”

  Slowly, the girl’s head turned. Catharine knew she’d never seen emptier eyes, but, finally, like an automaton, Marlene pulled herself upright in the bunk and slid unresistingly into the bulky life jacket. Then she rested back against the bulkhead, her eyes staring blankly ahead.

  The steel plates beneath Catharine’s feet suddenly quivered. The women looked at each other with frightened eyes as depth charges exploded far beneath them, and the concussion waves rippled through the great ship.

  Catharine reached out for Marlene’s hand and then for Peggy’s. They clung to each other. The Eberhardts softly cried. No one spoke as the enormous explosions continued. The strained hull of the ship creaked. Catharine tried not to picture the water outside, but in her mind she saw black-nosed torpedoes slicing keel level through the ocean.

  They huddled together, silent and frightened, but beyond the moment, beyond the fear and the strain, Catharine felt Jack’s presence almost as if he stood beside her with his lively, dark face and sardonic courage.

  Her lips curved in a soft smile.

  Whatever happened, she had loved a man.

  “Goddammit, Jack, I’m sorry, but New York says no.”

  “Screw New York.”

  “Look, man, take it easy. It doesn’t do any good to get mad.” Sam looked exasperated. “Why the hell should they send you to Manila? They’ve got a man in Manila.”

  “Who?”

  “Freddy Phillips.”

  “Phillips couldn’t cover a fire if it burned his ass.” Jack leaned forward, spread his big hands across the top of Sam’s desk. “I’ve got to get to Manila.”

  Sam lit a cigarette, blew a thin curl of smoke, and looked at Jack speculatively. “Why?”

  “There’s a story out there. I want to go after it.”

  For the first time, Sam was interested. “What kind of story? What are you on to, Jack?”

  “No deal. It’s my story. Top secret, but I’m on to something big.”

  Sam sucked the hot smoke deep into his lungs and coughed a little. “I’ve got to give New York more than that.”

  “Tell them they’ll be damn sorry if they don’t send me.”

  Sam shrugged. “I’ll lay it on, but don’t hold your breath.” He reached for the phone, placed the call, and, in a moment, looked up at Jack. “It will take a couple of hours to get through. I’ll let you know.”

  Jack nodded. He moved restlessly back to his desk, but in a few minutes picked up his cap, jammed it on his head, and hurried downstairs and out into the September night.

  The cab dropped him at the Savoy. Once inside, he stopped for a moment at the top of the stairs leading down into the River Room. The soft, easy notes of Carroll Gibbons’s piano flowed over him, the melancholy strains of “I’ll Be Seeing You.” He joined a raucous group of correspondents, ate dinner, and drank three scotches. He kept looking at the pillar next to the table and its silvery, shiny covering. He could see Catharine’s face, her fine, distinct bones, deep-set eyes, and sleek midnight-black hair.

  When he got back to the office, he walked to his desk and found the note tucked in the carriage of the typewriter:

  “New York says no, sorry.”

  Jack took the note and scrawled a reply, “That’s okay. It’s been good to know you. I’ll write from Manila. Jack.”

  The train clacked through the star-spangled night. Catharine was glad they didn’t have a compartment. She didn’t want to share such a small space with Spencer. They had berths, she and Peggy two lowers and Spencer an upper. Catharine raised herself up on her elbow and peered out the window. The train would be coming into Chicago soon. She knew she wouldn’t be able to see much, but Chicago was Jack’s home and he’d promised to bring her there someday.

  The train began to slow. She strained to see through the darkness, but it was an anonymous landscape, nothing more than rows of dimly seen dark houses. She would write Jack and tell him she’d been in Chicago, if only fleetingly, and that she’d thought of him. Oh, God, yes, had she thought of him.

  She thought of him during the long days as the train rumbled across America. She thought of him during the hour
s they waited on sidings as troop and equipment trains took the right-of-way. She thought of him every day and every night and accepted the truth with a dull, never-ending pain—every mile on the train carried her farther and farther away from Jack.

  The thought remained with her on the gray, chilly day that the U.S.S. President Harrison moved slowly out from San Francisco Bay. She stood at the railing until the last glimpse of the orange-red Golden Gate Bridge was lost to view. She was going farther and farther away from Jack.

  Jack picked up his duffel bag. Huge patches of sweat marked the sides and back of his crumpled khaki shirt. The line of moving men stopped again. Jack dumped the duffel bag to the ground and pulled a battered pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He waited patiently in the broiling sunlight until, finally, it was his turn to step into the ramshackle tin office. A harried sergeant snapped, “Where are you bound?”

  Jack pulled out his correspondent’s papers. “INS to Singapore.”

  “Singapore, Singapore,” the sergeant muttered. Then he yelled across the room, “Hey, Frankie, has that Lancaster left yet?”

  “Due to lift off in ten minutes.”

  Jack’s casual demeanor fell away: “Hey, that’s for me. Hurry, man, I’ve got to make that plane.”

  The sergeant nodded irritably and finished scanning Jack’s papers. He picked up an official stamp, slapped it twice on a mimeographed sheet, which he handed to Jack along with his papers. He jerked his head to the left. “Out that door. First plane in line.”

  Jack hefted the duffel bag and pushed through the door. He began to run, his eyes squinting against the merciless Egyptian sun. There it was. The propellers were beginning to spin, but the aft door was still open. He put on a burst of speed. A sergeant began to pull away the steps.

  “Hold up!” Jack yelled, waving his travel pass.

  The sergeant nodded and waved him aboard.

  Jack hurried up the steps and over the coaming.

  Straining to see in the dim interior, he stepped over bags and boxes to take an empty bucket seat near the wing. The hatch slammed shut, and the Lancaster began to taxi up the runway.

  A slouched figure in the next seat turned. “Who’re you with?”

  “INS.”

  “UP. Tom Carson.”

  “Jack Maguire.”

  They shook hands, then settled back forcibly as the plane accelerated and lifted off the field with a rough, jerking roar, turning slowly to the East.

  Next stop: Singapore.

  One city closer to Manila.

  A military band waited on pier 7. As the U.S.S. President Harrison pulled slowly into its moorings, the band began to play “The Stars and Stripes Forever.”

  Catharine and Spencer stood on the promenade deck with the captain, who pointed down at the band. “That’s in your honor.”

  The familiar, stirring march affected Catharine oddly. She had seen the American flag fly in many foreign capitals, but today the band looked small as it stood stiffly below on the sun-drenched pier. The march sounded peculiarly American and out of place on the steamy tropical air. The heavy, moist heat carried a fishy seaweed odor mingled with that of rotting garbage, tropical flowers, and sewage. Catharine looked beyond the seafront at the glittering white of Manila’s new buildings, the soft gold and tans of the older Spanish section, and far away at the purple-black peaks of mountains.

  Spencer tugged at her elbow. “They’re ready for us to debark, Catharine.”

  Catharine moved forward with Spencer to the gangplank. Spencer smiled and looked pleasant and approachable, an incoming diplomat with far-reaching powers who was aware of his importance but didn’t wish to emphasize it. The manner and attitude were impeccable, but Catharine knew he was exulting in this stately arrival and display of rank.

  As she started down the gangplank, Catharine saw the party of four waiting on the pier—two men in tropical whites and two women in light, summery dresses, picture hats, and white gloves. Each woman held a white-gloved hand to her hat, steadying it against the hot wind.

  “It’s the high commissioner himself,” Spencer said in a low, delighted voice.

  They reached the bottom of the gangplank, and introductions were made.

  The high commissioner’s wife, Mrs. Sayre, beamed at Catharine. “My dear, we’re so delighted you’ve come. We’re quite a small circle since the military wives went home last spring. You’ll be a very welcome addition, and we’ll hope to show you the Manila we love.” Then she gestured to the woman beside her. “And I’m happy to introduce you to Amea Willoughby.”

  Catharine smiled and held out her hand. She knew the name, of course. Amea’s husband, Woodbury Willoughby, was the finance officer. His cooperation would be absolutely essential if Spencer were to succeed in his assignment. Would Willoughby resent Spencer’s being sent in as a special envoy with extraordinary powers? Amea’s warm, welcoming smile held no reserve. As Catharine well knew, wives often reflected their husbands’ feelings as accurately as barometers. Catharine glanced at Willoughby pumping Spencer’s hand, beaming with pleasure, and saying, “I am very relieved you’ve been sent to us. That shows State means business and understands our problems. You’ll be able to cut through some of the obstruction at the central bank and . . .”

  Catharine felt a wash of happiness for Spencer. Everything was going to turn out beautifully for him. Then, quick on the heels of that relief, came the quicksilver thought: When this assignment was over, somehow, someway she would find Jack.

  A tiny, pale green lizard darted across the ceiling. Amea looked up at it and smiled. “They bring good luck, Catharine.”

  Catharine looked at the lizard with some reserve. She had no particular aversion to lizards, but the small creature seemed typical of Manila, moving smoothly across the white walls to the sixth-floor apartment, defying logic to explain how it traveled to that height. But its quick, darting progress reminded her that everywhere the tropical growth was barely held at bay, all the crawling, swarming denizens pushed to take over man’s structures. Catharine shuddered. She felt alien in this overpoweringly lush land.

  “You are finding it very different here, aren’t you?” Amea asked perceptively.

  Catharine looked at her with interest. Amea didn’t say much, but Catharine decided that she saw a very great deal.

  “It’s very beautiful,” Catharine said carefully.

  Amea laughed. “It’s all right. The walls don’t have ears. You’ve been here three weeks. What do you think of Manila?”

  Catharine slowly smiled. “It’s the oddest place I’ve ever been,” she responded, enjoying the frankness and feeling of friendship. She liked Amea, liked being able to say what she thought without fear of being misunderstood. “The air-conditioned stores and the billboards are so American, but underneath it all there’s that languor of the tropics. I’d read about it, but I didn’t understand. The Americans who’re still here live like kings. Even privates have maids. And I have a houseboy, a cook, and two servants for a two-bedroom apartment, and we aren’t spending a particle of what we spent in London.”

  Amea’s face sobered. “Was it very dreadful in London?”

  Catharine thought of the battered gray streets and the smell of old dirt and clay thrown up by the bombs and of Jack. “Not all of it,” she said quietly.

  “I suppose the destruction is awful.”

  Catharine nodded. They talked of landmarks no longer there and of the dreadful night when it looked as though St. Paul’s would go. But Catharine couldn’t help thinking of Jack, of the way he smiled, the way his full mouth could curve up so slowly into a wide and marvelous grin that laughed at the world. She thought of his hands, strong hands with blunt fingers stained by carbon. She thought of his eyes, those piercingly blue eyes that looked at her so directly and honestly. Would she ever see that smile again or feel the touch of his hands or rejoice in the warmth and longing in his eyes?

  She came back to the hot white room, the undistinguished rattan furnitu
re, and the whirr of the overhead fan as Amea made motions to go.

  “It’s been such a pleasant afternoon,” Amea said cheerfully.

  Catharine smiled as she walked to the door with Amea. “I’m so glad you could come to see me.”

  Amea slipped on her gloves. “You know, we’d love to have you join our Red Cross group. We’re rolling bandages now. We have some first-aid classes going, too.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Catharine said pleasantly.

  Amea paused in the doorway. “It does help to keep busy,” she said in her gentle voice. “I know Spencer’s been working day and night, just like Woody. The Red Cross helps fill the days.”

  After she was gone, Catharine wandered slowly to the broad west window. So Amea Willoughby thought Catharine was lonely. Was it that apparent? The wives of the State Department officials were a tight-knit group in Manila. They’d been friendly and welcoming to Catharine. She’d gone to teas and played bridge, but she hadn’t plunged into their day-to-day social life.

  Catharine appreciated Amea’s intent, but Amea was wrong about one thing. Going to the Red Cross meetings wouldn’t fill the void in Catharine’s life. For a moment, Catharine wondered how shocked Amea would be if she knew the real reason for Catharine’s aloofness.

  This was the first time in all the years of her marriage that she hadn’t plunged wholeheartedly into an active social life in the American community wherever they were posted, but this time she couldn’t bring herself to participate. Spencer was so totally absorbed in his work he hadn’t even noticed. Catharine couldn’t bear the light, social afternoon gatherings, the inconsequential chatter. That was why she spent long, dull afternoons in the muggy apartment, sometimes remembering London and sometimes forcing herself to forget. But she would go to the Red Cross meetings. Those bandages might be needed.

  The front door opened. Manuel came in, carrying a basket of groceries, smiling and bobbing and nodding and holding out in one hand a stack of mail.

  Catharine felt an instant of breathless expectation. She’d written Jack and sent him her address. She’d waited ever since hoping to hear from him. She hadn’t been able to resist the deep, visceral need to contact him. She’d made it clear in her letter that she knew she had no claim on his time or thoughts, but she’d always love him.