Winged Escort

by Douglas Reeman

  The building ahead of the bus was large and quite old. Although every window was blacked out, he could sense the elegance of the place, could imagine beautifully dressed visitors arriving at the high, pillared entrance. His heart sank. There would be no carpets or carefree chatter now. Steel pipe-cots, severe nursing sisters from another war, the smells of soap and pusser’s blankets.

  He said vaguely, ‘I wonder where the nearest village is? I could do with a tot right now.’

  A torch bobbed down the steps, probing through the sleet like an eye. ‘This way, if you please.’ It was a man’s voice and somehow familiar. ‘Need any help, sir?’

  Creswell exclaimed, ‘Chief Petty Officer Dundas, isn’t it?’

  The steward replied in his mournful voice, ‘Yessir. Got ’ere this mornin’.’ He gave what might have been a smile. ‘We’re very comfortable.’

  Rowan felt a second man helping him up the steps. ‘Are we?’ He was as stiff as a board. What was Dundas doing here anyway?

  Through two sets of doors and then into an entrance hall which left both of them breathless and half blinded by the glare of light from a glittering chandelier.

  A lady with short gunmetal curls and a beautifully cut tweed costume was standing at the foot of a staircase. She said nothing as Dundas and an elderly manservant took the officers’ caps and greatcoats, but stood with one hand resting on the heavy oak banister rail. Quite motionless, as if she had been there for hours.

  Rowan straightened his tie and wished he had had time to do something about his untidy hair. As he glanced down he saw his newly-sewn rank on his sleeve with something like shock. He had forgotten all about it.

  The lady said, ‘You must be Lieutenant Commander Rowan.’ She moved towards him and held out her hand. ‘I hope the journey was not too tiring.’

  Her hand was small but surprisingly strong. She was more than a head shorter than Rowan, and yet he had the feeling he was looking up to her.

  He said, ‘It was fine. Thank you. All this is a bit of a surprise.’

  She smiled for the first time, it made her look like a young girl.

  ‘We have to cut down in wartime of course.’ She did not release his hand. ‘But we do what we can for some of the wounded officers who need a complete break from routine, and other things.’

  She did not elaborate, but removed her hand and looked at Creswell.

  ‘You look terribly young, Lieutenant. But healthy enough.’

  She smiled again. ‘Your rooms are ready. We are not on the bombers’ route for anywhere important. This corner of Hampshire has been lucky.’

  A door banged nearby, and Rowan got his next surprise as Rear Admiral Chadwick, dressed in a grey fisherman’s jersey and heavy gumboots, stamped into the hallway.

  He saw Rowan and nodded. ‘Got here then. Fine.’

  The lady grimaced. ‘Really, Lionel, must you go around the house like a tramp?’ She saw Rowan’s expression. ‘You know my husband, of course.’

  Chadwick rubbed his hands. ‘I’ve just been in the cellar with Ford. He really is getting senile or something. The place is a bloody shambles.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘But I have discovered some suitable vintage for dinner. ‘You’ll dine with us, won’t you, Rowan?’

  Rowan flushed. ‘Yes, sir. Of course.’ He looked at Creswell. ‘If it’s convenient.’

  Chadwick waited while Dundas pierced and lit a cigar for him.

  ‘Good to get away from ships for a bit. Away from everything. I’ll show you some of the estate tomorrow, if the weather lets up. We’ve a lot of people digging for victory, and my agent has collared twenty Italian P.O.Ws to work on the home farm. Quite useful fellows.’

  A telephone tinkled discreetly in another room, and a very elderly man in a black jacket, whom Rowan guessed was the senile Ford, walked slowly into the entrance hall.

  ‘It is the Admiralty, sir.’

  Chadwick moved his cigar to the opposite side of his mouth.

  ‘Who?’

  Ford’s hooded eyes were partly closed in concentration.

  ‘Admiral Caistor, sir.’

  Chadwick shrugged. ‘Oh, old Tommy, is it. Well, tell him I’m busy and to ring at a more civilised hour.’ He said to Rowan, ‘Go and relax before dinner. If there’s anything you need, tell Dundas. Don’t bother Ford, or you’ll have to wait till Christmas!’

  He strode away, humming to himself, and vanished into the back of the house.

  His wife said quietly, ‘I’ll show you the way.’ She moved to the staircase. ‘He’s like a whirlwind when he comes on leave.’ There was neither warmth nor surprise in her tone. She was merely stating a fact.

  Rowan watched her easy movements up the broad stairs. She was in her thirties at a guess, a good bit younger than Chadwick, and very composed, very sure of herself.

  She said, ‘The medical officer from the artillery camp nearby deals with our visitors.’ She turned on the stairs, holding his gaze with her own. ‘But for changing dressings and so forth, we can manage pretty well on our own.’

  Rowan was confused. ‘It’s very good of you, Mrs Chadwick, to open your house like this.’

  She was studying him impassively. ‘Is it? I hadn’t thought about it. It seemed the thing to do.’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway, I understand that you have nowhere to go at present.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  She reached out and laid one hand on his. ‘Don’t look so hurt. I didn’t mean it to sound like it did. I, that is, we both want you here.’ She tossed her head and started to climb the stairs again. ‘So that’s settled.’

  Later, as Rowan sat in a deep armchair in his specious bedroom, he almost had to pinch himself to reassure his confused mind that he was not still in the rickety bus, or that this was not a dream.

  It was an entirely new existence. Beyond the tastefully decorated room with its adjoining dressing and shower rooms the house was noiseless. The war, the memories of blinding tracer and explosions, or the nerve-stretching hours trying to sleep, expecting a torpedo to turn your ship into an inferno, all had become remote. Like Chadwick’s casual dismissal of the admiral who had telephoned. Old Tommy.

  Like his wife, so distant and aloof, yet so warm, so feminine.

  There was a tap at the door and Creswell peered in at him. He said, ‘Gosh, your quarters are even grander than mine!’ Rowan smiled. ‘Proper thing, too. Rank has its privileges.’ Creswell sat down on the bed and. looked round.

  ‘What do you think of all this?’

  Rowan caught sight of a bottle of whisky and some ice just inside the dressing room. 1943 was almost over, another year of war. But Chadwick could still get real Scotch for his guests.

  He replied, ‘I think, that I could get to enjoy this life.’

  Creswell seemed relieved. ‘In that case.’ He grinned like a conspirator. ‘What about an enormous drink?’

  12

  And Back Again

  DESPITE THE EXCITEMENT of his arrival at Chadwick’s country house, the sheer luxury of his quarters, especially when compared with the vibrating biscuit tin he shared in Growler, Rowan felt that within a few days time was beginning to drag.

  The weather had not let up for a moment, and it was impossible to leave the house without getting drenched. It tried to snow several times, but changed to heavy sleet or rain, and its constant pelting against the windows was depressing.

  Chadwick had gone to London. He had mentioned it breezily to Rowan on the morning after his arrival, and the dinner which had lasted almost until midnight.

  That too had been an enlightening experience after sea duty and flying patrols in all weathers. The glass and the fine china, the courses of the meal, each had somehow surpassed the one before. Rowan had become happily drowsy, listening to Chadwick’s endless reminiscences of naval life before the war, the regattas and parties, the occasional excitement when dealing with riots or civil strife in strange, forgotten places halfway round the world.

  There had been just the
four of them at dinner. Chadwick and his wife. Creswell and Rowan. They had dined well, and Rowan had slept better than he could remember.

  But that was over. Without Chadwick the house seemed larger, emptier. Two days after his departure Creswell had received permission to leave, and albeit unwillingly, had been driven to the station for the London train. He was being met by his father and his new mother. The bloody barmaid, as he called her.

  He had seen little of the other visitors. They consisted of about ten soldiers, as far as he could discover, but they stayed in another wing of the big house, and he was discouraged from visiting them by a fierce-eyed army nursing sister. It seemed as if the soldiers were to be permanent residents for the duration of the war.

  Rowan had met one of them on the only fine morning of his stay. He had been walking down a sheltered stone path, stepping carefully around deep puddles, when he had come face to face with a major of the artillery. He had looked normal enough; with a bushy moustache, and the insignia of the Desert Rats on his uniform, he was like one of the caricatures in the Eighth Army magazine.

  Rowan had made some remark to open a conversation, but the major had stood back and shouted violently, ‘Don’t you talk to me about those bloody Egyptians!’ Then he had marched away, his heels clicking as if on parade.

  Rowan had learned from Mrs Chadwick it was all the major ever said.

  Perhaps he was another victim of ‘combat fatigue’, as the experts labelled it. Or trying to work his ticket, Rowan thought.

  He had also asked Mrs Chadwick about her husband’s hurried departure for London. Being left to his own devices, feeling entirely cut off from the war and the only life he understood. Rowan imagined that some new campaign was being planned, a more important carrier force already assembling to await Chadwick’s leadership.

  She had been in one of her glasshouses, examining some little pots, which to Rowan could have been almost anything.

  ‘Something important, I expect. He’s never here for long.’ She had looked at him with her calm, level eyes. ‘You miss your friend, I imagine. You must be bored to death.’

  Rowan had replied, ‘Frank Creswell is probably hating every minute of his leave.’ He had hesitated, yet had been unable to prevent himself from blurting out his anxiety. ‘But he’ll be returning to the ship when his leave is finished. I’m not at all sure what I’m doing.’

  ‘So that’s it.’ She had taken off her gardening gloves and brushed a drop of rain from her sleeve as it had found its way through a cracked pane of glass. ‘I knew it was something. I thought it might be a girl somewhere.’

  She had said it with such abruptness that Rowan had been caught off balance.

  When she had spoken again she had been as before. ‘I expect you’ll have to see somebody. My husband will put in a word. He seems to like you.’

  ‘Does that surprise you, Mrs Chadwick?’

  She had given a small smile. ‘A little.’ A quick glance at her watch. ‘Must be off. I’ve got to speak to the Red Cross in an hour.’

  It was always like that. Only Rowan seemed to be a permanent resident in that part of the house.

  The army doctor came regularly and examined his injured leg. The wounds had healed very well, although the scars were livid, tender to the touch.

  The doctor had remarked on his last visit, ‘Nothing more we can do, old son. Up to you now. Walk about a bit.’ He had chuckled unfeelingly. ‘It’s only four miles to the village. Do you good.’

  If only the rain would stop. Rowan found himself fretting and becoming more tense with each passing day. After a full week, Bill telephoned from London, his voice carefully non-committal as he asked, ‘Everything going all right, Tim?’

  ‘I’m waiting to get out of the place.’ He lowered his voice, even though he knew poor old Ford was the only other soul in the main building.

  Bill sounded worried. ‘I think they’ve got a bloody cheek! I’d have spoken to Rear Admiral Chadwick if I’d known, Tim, and damn the consequences.’

  Bill’s anger cheered him up a bit. ‘You saw him, did you?’

  ‘Sure thing. I was with my little Czech. Took her out on the town, no expense spared. I saw our illustrious admiral dining with his wife. A real smasher she is, too.’ He must have sensed something. ‘You still there?’

  ‘Yes.’ He recalled the edge in Mrs Chadwick’s voice. I thought it might be a girl somewhere. She must have known or guessed about her husband. Maybe it had been going on for months. Years.

  He said, ‘I expect I’ll hear from their lordships soon. If not, I’ll damn well go and gatecrash the Admiralty myself!’

  ‘Don’t forget the phone number. I’ve another ten days of leave due. Try and get to London, Tim. We’ll take good care of you!’

  We. The word hurt in some stupid way.

  ‘I’ll remember, Bill. Take care.’ The line died.

  A door opened and Mrs Chadwick came in shaking her raincoat and kicking off a pair of rubber boots.

  ‘Really, this weather is impossible!’ She saw him holding a message pad. ‘A call for me?’

  ‘For me. I hope it was all right to use your telephone.’

  She shook back her curls. ‘You are a funny one sometimes. All right to use the telephone. I think you must be a Victorian at heart!’

  Her smile, the impatient shake of the short gunmetal curls, made her suddenly vulnerable. Rowan tried not to think about Chadwick in the restaurant.

  ‘I suppose I am. Sorry.’

  She brushed past him. ‘And don’t keep apologising. I’ve just heard all about you.’ She reached for the bell push. ‘From an old school friend who has a nice job in Whitehall. Or rather in Bath until the war’s over.’

  Ford came through the door. ‘Yes, ma’am?’ He looked as if he had been dozing.

  She studied Rowan thoughtfully. ‘You’re getting another medal. I think we should have a drink to celebrate.’ She did not wait for a reply. ‘Bring a tray, Ford. We’ll decide what we’ll have later.’ She waited for the door to shut. ‘Poor dear. If I asked for anything definite he would get it wrong. This way we do at least get a choice.’

  Rowan stood by a window watching the rain teeming across the bare trees. The crazy major was marching purposefully along a path, his stick tucked under one arm, his cap and shoulders black with rain. Don’t you talk to me about those bloody Egyptians. Poor, unhinged bastard. What had done it to him, he wondered?

  And his own parents were dead, and Bill’s girl, his little Czech, had lost her husband. And Chadwick was in London having a ball with his mistress, or whatever she was. He dug his hands into his pockets, hating the war. What it was doing. No wonder the news of another medal had left him completely untouched.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ She was beside him.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He smiled at her awkwardly. ‘There I go again.’

  She said quietly, ‘I heard what you did. I knew you were different. I had no idea just what you had endured. No wonder you’re bored half to death. I’ll telephone somebody tomorrow. Have you moved to an hotel, somewhere where there’s a bit of life left.’ She looked at him gravely. ‘It might help.’

  Ford came in with a tray. Gin, whisky, water, ice, but only one glass.

  Rowan replied, ‘No. I’d like to stay here until I get my orders, if it’s still all right.’

  She poured a large measure of whisky. ‘We’ll share the glass.’ She watched him. ‘Yes, it will be fine.’

  Somewhere a clock chimed. She became brisk again. ‘I must go to the W.V.S. in the village this afternoon. Got to keep things moving.’ She turned towards him, her eyes bright. ‘I don’t suppose you’d care to come, would you? Lot of ladies knitting balaclava helmets and seaboot stockings, that sort of thing.’ She added quickly, ‘Do sailors ever wear those ghastly creations?’

  Rowan watched her. The last question was merely to cover something else. For once, she was unsure. Nervous.

  ‘All the time, Mrs Chadwick.’ He grinned. ‘I�
�d love to come. Really.’

  She bobbed her head and looked at herself in the mirror. ‘Good. It’s not often they see a real hero. No saying what it might do to some of them!’

  Rowan said, ‘I’ll fetch my greatcoat.’

  ‘Ten minutes then.’ Before the door closed she added, ‘Please call me Honor, if you feel like it.’

  Rowan walked to the stairs. He would have to watch out or he would be making a fool of himself.

  The nightmare grew and expanded with the wildness of a forest fire. It was just one great revolving pattern of flames, with inhuman sounds and shrieks coming at Rowan from every angle. A giant mirror dominated the fantasy, and in it he watched the stark silhouette of another aircraft, gaining ground, overhauling. The flames continued to gyrate around the mirror, and when he tried to use his limbs nothing happened. He looked down at his legs and saw that the left one was hanging like a piece of bloody sacking. He could do nothing but watch the other plane, the sudden ripple of stabbing fires along its wing. He felt the searing crash of metal into his body. Heard himself screaming and pleading as the blaze engulfed him.

  There was another voice now. He sat up violently in pitch darkness, fighting the sheets, his pyjamas wringing wet, his mind cringing from the nightmare.

  Then he realised the bedroom door was partly open, and he could see a pale figure against a small glow from further down the passage.

  ‘Are you all right?’ She entered the room, and he saw her etched against the dark wall and curtained windows. ‘I – I’m sorry, but you were calling out.’

  He nodded, trying to steady his breathing, to control the frantic heartbeat.

  ‘Bit of a bad dream.’ He ran one hand over his face. ‘God, I didn’t mean to wake the whole house.’

  She sat down on the bed, her eyes like shadows on her face.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep. I was getting a glass of water. Anyway, the whole house is just about empty.’ She reached out and touched his shoulder. ‘Lie back now. Try and relax. I’ll go and let you sleep. You should be better now.’

  He looked up at her. ‘Don’t go. Not yet. It was good of you to bother.’