WW III

Lana was nonplussed. “Beth, haven’t you heard a word of what I’ve been—” She paused. “Well, they say I’ll probably be posted to Halifax. They’re so short of nurses that it’ll be sort of learning on the job.”

“Where’s Halifax — that in Canada?”

“Yes, somewhere in Nova—”

Lana and Beth could see some kind of commotion — several patients, including one in a wheelchair, were hurrying toward them to look at the big TV screen in the visitors’ room. News flashes were coming in that the Nationalist Chinese from Taiwan, under U.S. pressure, were backing off from getting too close to Mainland China. There was some generally poor footage of tanks in a rainy field, the scream of an antitank weapon and the tank upside-down for a minute, the reporter’s rapid breathing caught on the sound track as the camera was righted, the reporter explaining that the tank had just been hit by an antitank missile.

“Oooh!” said a petty officer stopping by the door, looking up at the TV. “Really? An antitank missile?” He looked across at Lana and Beth. “Some of these TV guys, I tell ya—” He looked back again at the screen and saw two wide red arrows spreading north and south over a green map of West Germany.

“Where are the French?” the petty officer asked.

“I don’t think,” said Lana, “France is in NATO.”

“They are and they aren’t,” said the petty officer. It was only as the man turned round toward her that Lana noticed he had one arm, the other’s shoulder stump covered by a pajama sleeve rolled and pinned up.

“They’re still in it,” continued the petty officer, “but they wanted their own command structure. Withdrew from the joint command structure in sixty-six. They want the NATO umbrella, so they pay membership, but want to use their forces how they want.” The PO looked at Lana. “Autonomous command,” he said derisively. “You know — like I’m a member of the ball team, but when I don’t want to play, I won’t.”

“So long as they help,” said Lana, “I don’t care how autonomous they are.”

“The French help the French, lady,” said the petty officer. “Always looking for a backdoor deal.”

“Such as?”

“You don’t come into France and we won’t fight you. We’ll keep out of it.”

“Who’s you?”

“Anyone who might muss ‘em up. Remember they wouldn’t let us fly through French airspace to hit Libya? Only Maggie Thatcher stood with us. To hell with ‘em,” said the petty officer, walking on. “Only thing I like about the French is French toast; They’ll sit on their butt till Ivan’s got Germany, then he’ll want Alsace-Lorraine and then he’ll want France, and have forty divisions all down the line. Then the Commie C in C can ride down their Champs Elysees on his white horse.”

“No,” said Lana, “France’ll come in.”

“Well,” said the petty officer, turning back, “I won’t be there.” It was said with relief but also with regret. Beth envied him in a way. He’d lost an arm, but compared to Ray… Lehman had told them that in the end they might have to consider a porous skin mask that would allow him to go out in public, but he would have to take it off now and then, like dentures at night, to help keep the skin clean. Be best to remove it at night, let the skin breathe.

What would they do, wondered Beth, if he wanted to make love? Would he still be able to do it after all this trauma? They often said that after combat, high stress, many men just couldn’t do it anymore. If that happened, Ray would get mad. Then there’d be more stress. Maybe she could just do it for him some way that wouldn’t — and she thought of what he must feel: a young man, captain at thirty-seven, clearly marked for promotion, and then — so suddenly, so terribly fallen from grace.

Thank God the navy would pay the medical bills. Jeannie had said, “If Daddy loved us, he’d let us see him.”

Beth had torn into her. “Don’t be so goddamned selfish, Jeannie! He’s hurt. Very badly. You’ll understand when you get-”

“I know,” Jeannie said, sobbing. “But we miss him, too.”

Beth had folded and taken the children to see him. The nurse informed her that Captain Brentwood did not wish to see anyone yet. Exhausted, Beth looked down at the two children. “If it was one of us all burned up, what do you think Daddy would do?”

“Come see us,” said Johnny.

Alerted by the nurse’s station, Lehman intercepted them in front of the burn unit. “I don’t—” he began.

“They want to see him, Doctor. Once the IVs are taken out, it will be all fine.”

He didn’t know what she was talking about — she was obviously quite beside herself.

“Your father-in-law was in this morning…”

“And?”

“I’m afraid your husband didn’t want to see him either. He wants to make his own recovery, Mrs. Brentwood. In his own good time.”

Beth’s hands clenched as she held Jeannie and John, straining for control.

Dr. Lehman, flashing a smile, had knelt down next to the small boy. “Your Daddy needs a lot of sleep right now. When you’re feeling, how do you say—’yucky,’ well sometimes you just want to go to bed and not see anyone till you’re better. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes,” put in Jeannie. She liked the doctor; he was the kind of father figure she always expected of doctors. “I think the doctor’s right, Mom,” said Jeannie, tugging at her worriedly.

“Yeah, Mom,” chimed in Johnny. “We shouldn’ta come.”

Beth had about-turned, her high heels striking the hard, highly polished floor, echoing the full length of the ward. She spoke only once, at the entrance of the hospital. “Okay, that’s it, you two. We are not going to the hospital again until your daddy asks for us. Understood?”

John nodded. Jeannie became “little miss proper when you’re out.” “Yes, Mother.”

Beth jerked Jeannie’s arm. “I brought you all the way down here because you pleaded, begged me to do it. Then you embarrass me like this.”

“We’re sorry, Mom,” said Jeannie.

Johnny thought about it for a minute. “Mom?”

“Yes?”

“If Daddy dies, do we get all his money?”

* * *

Once again realizing she hadn’t been listening to Lana’s plans for a new, hopefully more useful, life, Beth was forced into noncommittal murmurs, trying to cover her inattention.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Parris Island. South Carolina.

David had heard all about it, laughed about it, and determined it wouldn’t get him down.

As he’d stepped off the bus in the darkness, David could smell the last of the purple oleander blossoms from the trees that had flashed past the Greyhound as it made its way over the long causeway to the island. In the dim glow of the bus’s cabin lights he could see a DI, peaked scout hat, strap at the back, khaki shirt and pants pressed with knife-edge precision, and could hear the sound of insects from the tidal flats — then a voice. Demented.

“Shut your fucking mouths! All your shit off the bus into the barracks. Now!” David got such a fright that, rushing back into the bus to get his kit bag, he stumbled on the bottom step.

“What’s your fucking name?” screamed the DI.

“Me, sir?”

“Yes, you. You’re the only goddamned stumble-ass around here. What’s your fucking name?”

“Brentwood, sir.”

The DI leaned forward. “I can’t hear you.”

“Brentwood, sir.”

“I can’t hear you.”

“Brentwood. Sir.”