She had seen it for nearly five years. Friends, customers, relatives whose sons or husbands were someplace that no one had ever heard of fighting first the Germans, and the Italians, and then the Japanese. Then there would be that awful, hollow feeling when she realized that Mrs. Dunphree’s son Alex wasn’t coming home, or that the Mackenzie twins would not have a father. Or old Mrs. Roget, a short, plump white-haired lady who never traveled farther than the end of Haden Street and had no idea who the Japanese were, found out that William Paul was dead. Mr. Roget had been a brick mason with features as hard as the walls he built. Mrs. Roget, denied the warmth of a sympathetic husband, doted on William Paul, her only child.
William Paul had enlisted with his chums and gone off to camp and from there to North Africa, or at least that was his worried mother’s understanding. Beatrice often saw Mrs. Roget trundling after the postman, hounding him in her inoffensive way for a letter she knew that he surely must have been carrying from her son.
She could not read and brought William Paul’s letters to Beatrice with a smile of expectation, and over tea, Beatrice would read them. They always began, “Dear Mother,” and sometimes the spelling was a bit unusual, but Beatrice had no trouble reading the love in them. They were like two companions, William Paul and Mrs. Roget, holding a hidden conspiracy under the nose of the solemn Mr. Roget.
There was a mix-up one day and the letter that Mrs. Roget held in her hand was from William Paul’s commanding officer. Mrs. Roget handed over the letter with some hesitation because, although she could not read the letter, she could tell that it was not William Paul’s handwriting.
Beatrice took it and as she opened it the dread mounted until she wished that she were not at home when the white-haired lady called. Somewhere in the first sentence were the words “we shall all miss William Paul, very much.” Beatrice tried to keep her hands from trembling as she read the letter, but that single phrase, “we shall all miss William Paul, very much,” hounded her. She read what had happened and how by now Mrs. Roget had received the official notification, but the commanding officer felt it his duty to write. It was obvious that the official notification, had been delayed or overlooked altogether and a letter meant to console William Paul’s mother had done just the opposite.
“We shall all miss William Paul, very much.”
Mrs. Roget looked at Beatrice in disbelief when the entire letter had been read and said: “Does that mean that William Paul won’t be coming home?”
The words were so tragic, so filled with pain, that Beatrice was sure that the old woman’s heart was breaking as she said them.
“Yes,” was all that Beatrice could say. “I’m afraid so.”
Mrs. Roget might have remained seated for another ten minutes, Beatrice wasn’t sure. She folded the letter and handed it to the woman, who slipped it carefully in her coat pocket. There were no tears, only shock as if the whole thing were so monstrous that it could not possibly be true.
Mrs. Roget stood and said: “I had better go home and tell Mr. Roget.”
Beatrice found herself staring out the shop windows at the driving rain. Captain Hardy was someplace, out there, and she would not even receive confirmation should anything happen because they were no more than acquaintances. She wondered of the thousands of women who waited to hear something of their loved ones. She was one of them now, not the kind-hearted lady who would provide comfort, but a woman taunted by the unknown.
Topper came into the shop. “I can’t get a thing. I think they’ve jammed us.” He moved to the window and studied the darkness. “Clearing up some. May be clear by morning.” He noticed Beatrice. “Here, now, Bea. Put that up. Time enough to do that tomorrow. Why, you look all solemn.”
“No,” she said, forcing a smile. “Just thinking, that’s all.”
Topper came over to her. “Bea, it’ll all be fine. Things work out, they do.” He cupped his hand under her chin. “Now, if you trust me, I’ll fix you a spot of tea.”
Beatrice found herself smiling. She found strength in her brother’s optimism and she decided that she could do nothing but wait. She felt fear gnawing at her, and the hollow feeling that comes of being helpless. What would happen, would happen, but she knew also that Topper’s plain, solid reassurance that George Hardy would return was her salvation. “Topper. You’re a Rock of Gibraltar.”
Chapter 25
A half-dozen crumpled sheets of paper lay near Cole’s bunk. The words were there, but they hid behind years of anger, loss, and frustration. The beginning of every letter was trite and awkward, and he had ripped the paper from the tablet in disgust, wadded it up, and threw it on the floor.
What could he say to her? I’m sorry for all these years? Maybe I’m not coming back? He rolled his eyes at that one; chances were they’d end up shepherding a herd of fat cargo ships to the assembly point and then be assigned to watch for whales.
The letters all started “Dear Rebecca,” but then his mind refused to function and what had followed that was a clumsy string of words. He was saved by a knock.
“Come in,” he said.
Edland opened the door and glanced at the scattered balls of paper.
“Writer’s block?”
Cole slipped his pen in the tablet and pushed it away. “How’d you get in here? I thought we were sealed off.”
“You are,” Edland said, looking over the sparsely decorated room. “But I got in.”
“Yeah, well, we’re a little busy now, what with the invasion coming and everything, so you won’t mind if I don’t invite you in for a cup of tea, will you, Commander?”
Edland shook his head and leaned against the doorjamb, folding his arms across his chest. He had an unconcerned air about him. “I’m here to ask a favor,” he said.
Cole smiled in interest. “A favor. Sir. Now what makes you think that I’m in a position to grant you a favor? Sir.”
“You are. Trust me. And don’t load your sentences with too many sirs. It might lead a person to think that you weren’t sincere.”
The smile disappeared. “What’s the favor, Commander?”
“I want to go out with you.”
“No dice.”
“It’s important.
“I don’t care.”
“It won’t take me any time to get the orders cut.”
“Go ahead,” Cole said. “If this weather eases up we might be gone before the orders get to us. You’ll just be standing on the dock waving bye-bye, sir.”
“Okay,” Edland said, nodding. “I was out of line. Let’s forget the orders and rank and all of that nonsense. The request for a favor still stands and I know it’s a favor.”
“Why?”
“The hydrofoils.”
Cole laughed. “Your Sea Eagles? Again? Look, those things may exist. For all I know, there are thousands of them waiting just off the French coast right now. They’ve got my squadron patrolling about as far south as they can without putting us at the South Pole. Even if you go out with us, and don’t get excited because you aren’t, we’ll be lucky to see a seagull.”
“I’d still like to go.”
“Okay, Commander,” Cole said, standing. “Let me lay this out. My boats are worn out; my crews are worn out so if those super boats really exist, like you say, it’s going to be a short fight. I don’t think you want to be there.”
Edland nodded again, unfolded his arms, took a moment, and finally gave Cole a look that said he hadn’t changed his mind.
“You know this isn’t a romp,” Cole said. “Guys get killed.”
“I know.”
“Yeah,” Cole’s voice hardened. “I guess you do know.”
Edland heard a commotion in the hall and stepped aside as DeLong stuck his head in. “Hey, Skipper?” He realized that Edland was standing in the doorway. “Oh, sorry, Commander.”
“What is it, Randy?” Cole said.
“We got the word, Skipper. Crank ’em up.”
Edland looked at Cole. Cole had ne
ver liked the man. He came from a privileged class and carried himself as if he were better than anyone. But even though Cole didn’t want to admit it, there was enough similarity between the two for him to understand Edland.
“All right, Commander,” he said. “Draw your gear from Randy. It’ll get cold out there.”
“Gear?” DeLong said, surprised.
“Get him squared away, Randy. He’s going with us.”
“Yeah, but, Skipper …”
“Hop to it. We don’t want to be late for the invasion.”
“Thanks, Cole,” Edland said, and followed the confused DeLong.
Cole looked at the blank tablet on the desk and promised himself that whatever he had to say, he’d say it to Rebecca in person.
Gierek stood next to Jagello in the twilight, a steady rain drenching them both.
“Something’s wrong,” he said as the erks moved about the Mosquito. He heard the sound of the other Pathfinders, the short sputter and sharp crack as the exhaust was cleared and then the steady, low rumble of the engines warming up. He could see them aligned on the hardstand; three aircraft, their squat bodies glistening in the rain, water whipping off the wings as the prop wash of the powerful Merlin 25 engines blasted it into fine clouds of mist. The frying pan the erks called it; aircraft dispersal point in official correspondence. “It’s where we warm you blokes up, ain’t it?” an erk had reasoned to him. The English.
“Well?” Jagello said, straightening his parachute harness. It would be a long flight with no room to adjust the straps in the plane.
“Something’s wrong,” Gierek repeated, walking around the aircraft. He checked the undercarriage, the engine nacelles, elevator trim tabs, aileron tabs, and flaps. He looked for leaks or signs of structural damage, or any hint that the aircraft might betray him far from home. He watched as the erks topped off the tanks with petrol, not just full, but full to the lip of the fuel filler spout. He was careful about his aircraft and for that reason he had come back each time, but as he inspected the craft he kept looking over his shoulder as if a ghost followed him, whispering: “All is not right.”
Then it struck him.
“Where’s the dog?” he said to Jagello. For the first time since Gierek had known Jagello, the other man was surprised. Jagello looked at the landing gear.
“I don’t know,” he said in a puzzled tone. Gierek watched as Jagello approached an erk. A gust of wind blew a heavy rain down the collar of Gierek’s flying togs and he pulled it close to his neck, wondering if he was shivering from the cold or the sudden, desperate feeling that the filthy dog that had always been their good-luck charm was gone.
Jagello came back with a troubled look on his face and Gierek felt his stomach fall; Jagello was troubled by nothing.
“They don’t know,” he said, wincing as the rain increased. He tossed the sky a reproachful glance. “No one’s seen the Black Prince.” Gierek read the concern in his face; whether it was concern for the dog or for them, he couldn’t tell. “We’d better get aboard,” the bomb-aimer/navigator said. “It’s almost time.”
Gierek nodded, unlatched the crew access panel in the nose, pulled himself up, eased around the radar display and viewfinder that protruded into the cockpit, and settled in his seat. He pulled the checklist out of the narrow pocket near his left foot when Jagello climbed into his seat.
Gierek heard the access panel door slam and the sound of two raps. It was the erk’s final signal; the doors closed and locked—ready for engines and warm-up. Gierek looked out the rain-scarred window as the erks worked the priming pumps for the engines, hoping for some sign of the dog.
He saw an erk give him the signal to switch on ignition, left engine first since they’d started the right engine the last time out. Gierek pressed the START button and the BOOSTER COIL button simultaneously. There was a slight sputter, the prop rotated a quarter turn, another, louder sputter, and suddenly the engine turned over with a healthy blast of blue smoke. Gierek glanced at the generator lamp as the engine eased up to 2,000 rpm. The warning light, signaling that the engine was creating enough rpms for the generator, went out. They went through the same sequence for the other engine.
Jagello, until now busy with his radar and navigation charts, pulled out the checklist for takeoff.
“Trim,” he said. “Elevator.”
Making the adjustment Gierek replied: “Flaps, twenty-five percent.”
“Rudder?”
“Ten degrees right.”
“Aileron?”
“Neutral.”
“Propeller?”
“Speed controls fully forward.”
“Fuel?”
“Levels. Check. Cocks to outer tanks.”
“Superchargers?”
“Moderate.”
Jagello slipped the checklist in its pocket as he asked the last question: “Radiator flaps?”
“Open.”
“So now we invade France,” Jagello said calmly.
“Yes,” Gierek said as he awaited further instructions from the tower. He looked across the rain-soaked tarmac again. “Where is that dog?”
Edland was glad that DeLong had scrounged up a peacoat for him; it was cold and windy, and as the 155 boat pulled into the harbor channel leading the other five boats in Squadron 142(2), he realized that it would get much worse. He was used to cold; most people thought that the Gobi Desert was like the Sahara—mountainous dunes, unrelenting sun, scorching sand. In some areas the Gobi was something like its cousin. In some areas the Gobi was as barren as the sea. But it was a frigid place in winter, with snowbound mountains that were virtually impassible unless you knew them—and the only people who truly knew them were the Mongols.
Cole turned to him as they shared the bridge. “I hope you know what you’re doing. What the hell am I thinking? I hope I know what I’m doing.”
“You said it was going to be a milk run,” Edland said. “What’s the problem?”
“Bad luck just seems to follow you, Commander.” He turned his attention to the PT boats forming up behind 155. It was eerie seeing the harbor almost devoid of ships. It was almost as if one minute you couldn’t maneuver for all the ships crowding Portsmouth Harbor, and the next minute they were gone. It was a tangible sign of the invasion, much more so than the hundreds of ships and thousands of men in constant motion that he had grown used to seeing. That had been going on for years. This—this happened in an instant. The harbor was nearly deserted. “Ease up, Randy,” Cole said. “Let them get in column.”
There was a trace of red in the sky behind them, trapped under a thick mountain of gray clouds. The crimson sunlight that did manage to find its way through washed across the bottom of the clouds, leaving a faint streak of color that was beginning to die. It was more than anyone expected as the boats moved into the harbor.
They came out, long craft almost invisible in the gray waters, the thunder of eighteen Packard engines rolling over them.
“What are your orders?” Edland asked.
“Move out to rendezvous with our escort, take position to the southwest, make sure no E-boats get past us. Simple enough.”
“Escort? I thought that you were the escorts?”
“We are, Commander. It’s just that we’re on the small side so we may need some assistance,” Cole said. He peered through binoculars at the boats trailing his. “Okay, Randy. Everyone’s where they ought to be. Let’s get going.”
“Right, Skipper,” DeLong said, moving the throttles up. Each boat in column increased speed correspondingly, six plywood warships, their crews removing canvas covers from machine guns and cannons, the radar reflector sweeping back and forth on top of the mast with its squat rotating power unit beneath it; slender, gray hulls slicing through the green waters that led to the Channel. Determined vessels, their decks cluttered with only those things that were necessary to fight, or to save lives. Their Mk XIII torpedoes were removed; there would not be targets for them. But there might be targets for the six .50
-caliber Browning machine guns, or the two Oerlikon Mk 4 20 millimeter cannons, or the Bofor 40 millimeter cannon, or the M9 37 millimeter rapid-fire cannon on the bow.
As Cole scanned the deck, his eyes falling on his crew and the weapons that bristled from the boat, he wondered if this was the end of his war. And wondered as well, if that were such a bad thing, if the return of normalcy was something to fear. He realized with a start that it was the uncertainty of a life without war that frightened him, and he smiled at the revelation. There was, in a convoluted sense, a certainty in war. Go and do your duty. Follow your orders. The thing that had both repulsed and intrigued him about the military was the finality of structure. He remembered his grandfather, a large balding man with a deep voice and impatient nature. “A place for everything and everything in its place, Jordan,” Grandfather said, his dark brown eyes peering through wire-rim glasses. Perhaps he was what his grandfather was, a rebel, a maverick; but within the logic that he was able to extract from convention.
Cole studied the boats in line behind him, each at a distance of a hundred yards. After 155 came Ewing on the 168 boat, and then Dean and Moose Moontz on the 134 boat, Taylor on the 144 boat, Grant on 140, and finally Scott on Old Reliable—the 122 boat. Its engines were the worst in the squadron and its crew the most disreputable but Scott’s unassuming Virginia manner kept both of them in line.
“I can’t seem to get warm here,” Edland said. The comment might have been meant for Cole, or it might have been simply an observation. Cole felt the need to say something.
“I thought you used to live here. In France I mean.”
“Summer,” Edland said. “A few. Mostly I traveled with my father. In Asia.”
Cole said nothing; he’d done his bit by adding to the conversation. He had a squadron to run.
The speaker on the instrument panel crackled.
“Skipper?” Barney said. “I’ve picked up a target on radar bearing three-four-oh degrees. Range twenty miles. Speed sixteen knots.”
Cole grabbed the microphone and pressed the TALK button. “Okay, Barney. Keep an eye on him. That should be our escort. Switch to contact frequency and let him know who we are. I don’t want anybody getting trigger-happy.” He released the TALK button and held the microphone against his chest to keep spray out of the unit. “Randy, swing to port a bit and keep your eyes open.” He pressed the TALK button again. “Barney? Anything?”
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