chief was viewed by the vast majority of American people as a more or less honorary title until he was actually involved in the direction of some military action. In having taken the responsibility of giving the green light for the Pyongyang raid, his stocks were now high, and he intended using them as bargaining chips with the Joint Chiefs. In the president’s view, Freeman’s raid had done infinitely more than turn around the position in Korea and raise American morale and status all around the world in perhaps its darkest time since the Cuban crisis.
Freeman, as far as the president was concerned, had overnight established a new battlefield code of conduct, showing what Mayne called “armchair video” commanders that in a rapid and highly fluid, high-tech mobile war, perhaps more than ever a commanding officer needed HUMINT — human intelligence — to get away from HQ and “go on the point.” Precisely
On this October day, however, with southern England flashing by, Robert Brentwood was one commanding officer who wanted to forget the war, and had it not been for Lana’s letters and the tape she had sent to him from the Spence boy, he might have succeeded. He certainly would not have been on the 10:00 a.m. Glasgow to Victoria Station had he not read her letters, beginning with the last one she had posted. Now she had been posted to some “godforsaken rock,” as she called it, the name of the rock carefully erased by the censor. It could have been anywhere, from Gibraltar to the Galapagos.
Robert was struck by the change in her tone. The self-centeredness of the beautiful coed and the bitterness of her failed marriage alike were conspicuous now by their absence. Instead she talked to her older brother about the terrible ordeal of Ray, of the Spence boy and how it had brought her closer to her three brothers. The war, she wrote, had not diminished her own worries, which she’d hoped it would, for despite common wisdom, she’d found that other people’s troubles, worse though they may be, had not helped put her own “into perspective.” That kind of thing, she discovered, was only a “short fix.” Talking of fixes, she asked Robert whether it was true that many of the pilots were being given — the censor had crossed the word out, but she obviously meant amphetamines. “Yes, they are,” would have been his answer.
After a long letter about Ray, her next had been almost exclusively about the Spence boy, not as a lover, Robert could see, though in matters of the heart he regarded himself as woefully deficient. She went on to tell him that if the war had taught her anything, it was that morale was often more potent than penicillin, that with a purpose before you, you could brave all kinds of horrors that normally would prove too much. Which is what had surprised her so much about William Spence’s death. Unlike some of the smart-ass profs who were against the war and were 4-Fs and knew they wouldn’t be called up, the young sailor had recognized that this was a war NATO and the United States had to win, that at the very best, it was good against evil. At the very worst, no matter what the deficiencies of NATO countries, there was a vast difference between a regime that could knock your door down and take you away in the early hours of the morning and a regime that was required to show good cause. Which was why, she told Robert, she had thought that William Spence, filled with old-fashioned love of country, family, would pull through. But then no one, including herself, had seen that “old hag,” pneumonia, creeping up, just sitting there, knitting, patiendy rocking in the savage corner. Waiting.
It had made her even more worried about Ray. Apparently he’d gone into a funk until some admiral from La Jolla had visited him and told him straight that if he was going to go into a damn sulk over it and not see his kids, he might as well make himself useful — OD and clear the bed for somebody who needed it.
Some of the fighter pilots, she said, who were coming in were experiencing what they call “electronics burn” the result of an intense spitting kind of fire that came from all the high-tech, lightweight, but highly inflammable consoles they’d stuffed into the cockpits. Anyway, apparently Ray had had his sixth plastic surgery operation and had seen the kids. Everyone had a good cry, “according to Mom,” and Ray had started to make noises about sea duty, though that would certainly be a long way off if not out of the question. Maybe some form of support ship, a tender, spare parts or something. Mom was all in a flap because she’d just heard that young David was in for some kind of decoration.
Lana didn’t know, though, whether it was such a good idea for Ray to try and get back in the navy. “Knowing Ray,” she’d written, “he’ll probably be worse than—” she couldn’t think of the name “—the man played by James Cagney in ‘Mr. Roberts’—you know, the old grump who kept losing his palm trees.”
“Anyway, Bob,” she ended, “if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last two years, from Hong Kong to this godforsaken rock, it’s that love is all that matters and you should give it wherever you can. Hopefully you’ll get some back before we’re all blown to Kingdom Come.”
Robert Brentwood had read all the letters at Holy Loch and, as per her instructions, had run the tape forward a little so Mr. and Mrs. Spence wouldn’t fret about not hearing anything for the first few minutes. Robert had waited to push the “stop” button, not wanting to intrude in any way on the boy’s private thoughts to his family. But the tape was silent. It had come via fleet mail quickly enough, and Brentwood guessed the security and bomb people had done their job — the package going through X ray, and with it, the dead boy’s last message to his folks.
Under the circumstances, and seeing that he had two weeks to fill, Robert thought that the least he could do was visit the boy’s folks. Before going to Waterloo and catching a train down to Surrey, he had called into Marriage’s bookstore. The same manager in Harris tweed who had taken his order several months before had just finished serving a customer when he looked up and saw Brentwood walking in. The manager beamed. “Welcome back, Captain.”
Suddenly throughout the whole store, from the paperback section atop the old spiral iron staircase down to the hardcovers on the main floor, the staff and customers broke into applause. Brentwood looked around to see who they were all clapping for, and blushed like an afterburner when he realized it was him. It was the convoys — they were starting to get through, the convoys without which the British would die, let alone Europe, and the guardians of the convoys were in good standing with the people of Britain.
The manager, Mr. Harris, was quite definite about refusing payment, handing Brentwood a mint-new copy of
“No, look, I’d like to—” protested Brentwood.
“No, old man. Least we can do.” Everyone from assistants to the unloading clerk had gathered to welcome the American captain.
“Have you time for tea, Captain?” someone asked.
“Why — er — I’ve got to be getting up to Oxshott.”
The manager was so tickled by the occasion, he couldn’t bring himself to correct the American, but he did ring British Rail and ask them what time the next train
While they were having tea and biscuits, someone brought in a dolly with a carton of at least fifty paperbacks for the officers and crew of Brentwood’s ship. The manager saw the captain of the most deadly armed ship in history looking rather nonplussed.
“Not to worry, Captain. We’ll have them sent to your ship. You won’t have to carry them about.” There were a few giggles and polite laughs. “If you’ll just give me an address?”
Robert, as security demanded, gave him the U.S. naval P.O. box in Glasgow. Overcome by the warmth, especially after he’d been told so much about the reserved British manner, Brentwood almost forgot to take
After tea, there was a pub dinner: pickles, Scotch eggs, and several pints of black Guiness, their brown, creamy heads flowing like velvet down the captain’s dry throat. Another pint later, Brentwood asked, “Mr. Harris — can I ask you a straight question?”
“Fire away, old boy.”
“This gal — young lady, young British lady — was rather upset with me at a party. Said I was ‘worse than Bing Crosby.’ You know what she meant?”
“Hmm,” said Harris, who was swirling the final ration of Guiness. “Weren’t singing, were you?”
“No,” answered Robert. “No, I wasn’t.”
“Romancing then, was it?”
“No — well, I mean, she was kind of annoyed that I wouldn’t—”
“Ah—” Harris leaned over to the barman. “Fred — haven’t any of the rough red left, have you?”
