World in Flames

bit bored—” he paused to suck in hard on the pipe “—with all those Flemish girls and couques. Given your record, thought you might be craving a little action again.” The very thought of action produced in David the chilled-bowel feeling he’d experienced before final exams at college, his throat dry, face feeling strangely hot yet cold at the same time, his heart racing, thumping so loudly, he was afraid they might hear it. “Thanks, sir,” he said in a parched voice, “but — all — I don’t think I’m fit enough for your SAS or any other —”

“Quite understandable, old man,” cut in the British captain. “No apologies needed. We’re scouting for new chaps, that’s all. We got rather a bloody nose up in Schleswig-Holstein when the balloon went up.” He flashed another smile. “Just looking around.” Proceeding to draw heavily on the pipe, the Brit winked at him understanding, then glanced at the U.S. Marine major and Army captain at the same time. “Tell you the truth, if I had half the chance, shouldn’t be surprised if I gave the bloody lot up myself. Off to sunnier climes, I should expect. Next to the Pole, Scotland must be the chilliest place on earth.”

The mention of Scotland made David wonder if they weren’t trying to use the fact of his brother operating out of Holy Loch as a possible lure. But he rejected the possibility as soon as he’d thought of it. They probably didn’t even know his brother was there — if he still was. And the last thing the military cared about was trying to reunite family members. In fact, in time of war, it was the last thing they wanted to do. Besides, nothing David could think of could overcome the gut-gnawing fear he seemed incapable of shucking ever since Stadthagen.

The British captain had risen, extending his hand. “Thank you for your time, Lieutenant.”

David shook the Englishman’s hand. The marine major tried to look understanding but came off as grim. The U.S. Army captain meanwhile had opened the door to take Brentwood down to pick up his travel voucher for the trip back to Liege, where he was to await further orders.

* * *

After David saluted and left, the marine major shook his head at his British colleague. “I’m sorry, Captain.”

The Englishman held up the pipe in protest. “Not to worry, Major.”

“I do worry. He’s a marine. Hell — I know it was rough at Pyongyang — and at Stadthagen, too, from all accounts. Damn rough! But it wasn’t a sustained action. Some of my boys on the Polish front—”

“No doubt, Major,” responded the English captain gracefully. “But at Stadthagen the lad was completely on his own, and in that kind of situation, at least in my experience, how long a man’s actually been at the front has little meaning. He was captured by SPETS — saw men all around him being murdered in cold blood before he managed to make his break and was hunted to ground again in raging blizzard. Dogs after him. With all that, he kept his head and blew up an ammo dump. After you’ve been through that lot, Medal of Honor notwithstanding, I should think the nerves are never quite the same. Damned sure mine wouldn’t be.”

The marine major conceded the point, but true or not, his pride in the corps had taken a blow because of Brentwood’s refusal to join the joint SAS team.

“Some chaps do recuperate, of course,” the English captain continued, another match scratching, circling the pipe’s bowl as he blew voluminous curls of grayish-blue smoke into the high, windowless room. “In Malaya I remember—”

“I don’t think so,” cut in the major. “In my experience, Captain, once they go to pieces, they stay in pieces. Best thing we can do is ship him home.”

The Englishman was expansive in his agreement. “By all means, old chap. He’s earned it.”

“He has,” replied the major, his tone not so gruff now, but the Englishman knew the major, a row of ribbons attesting to his own valor under fire, still didn’t approve.

“How about his comrade-in-arms?” asked the Englishman. “Black chappie. Thelman, I think the name was? Another one on Freeman’s recommendation list.”

“Yes,” said the major. “We should try him. They went to Parris Island together.”

“Parris Island,” said the U.S. captain, turning to the marine major. “Well, at least we know Brentwood’s a survivor then.”

“I wonder?”

* * *

Peter Zeldman, the Roosevelt’s executive officer, was enjoying his leave down in Surrey with the Spences following the wedding, knowing nothing of Robert and Rosemary’s near brush with what MI6 were convinced had been SPETS “sleepers.” Neither did Rosemary’s parents, Richard and Anne Spence, until a registered letter arrived one morning for Richard Spence marked “Personal and Confidential.” It was Robert’s letter of warning about the “charmers” and about a “package” Robert would be sending Richard via Rose when she returned to Surrey.

Till this letter from Robert, the previous postcards of wild, heather-covered Highlands — in reality, rather forlorn and snow-covered at this time of year — had borne no hint to Richard Spence of the danger his daughter and new son-in-law had been in during the final days of their aborted honeymoon. Up to now, the cards, full of a carefree optimism, had been gratefully received by Anne and Richard Spence, whose loss of their son on convoy escort duty still cast a pall over the house. Young William’s death was something they knew they had to accept but which they also realized they would never become reconciled to in a world where so often the good seemed defeated by the bad.

Georgina Spence, Rosemary’s younger and vivacious sister, was down from the London School of Economics and Political Science for Christmas, but careful not to let Peter Zeldman think for a moment her visit had anything to do with his presence in the house. It was this haughty indifference to him that attracted Zeldman to her. He was sure that behind the sophisticated leftist chitchat and learned allusions, there was a woman waiting to be let out. And he was sure that she couldn’t be so naive as not to think how downright sexual she appeared in front of men. The fact that she disdained makeup as a “bourgeois affectation,” as he’d overheard her telling her mother, only highlighted her natural beauty, the kind of woman, Zeldman believed, who would look as good first thing in the morning as she had the night before.

After six tension-filled months without a woman, the mere sight of her was a feast — and every time he saw her move, he was tantalized by wondering whether or not she wore a bra. Still, he refused to play a game. There was “no time for dancing,” as his Uncle Saul would say. “You want — you ask — you get or you don’t get. That’s all.” Some enjoyed the chase. He enjoyed the sex — all the maneuvering he wanted to do was in bed. He decided he’d give her the weekend to show some interest in him, or rather admit her interest in him, or he was off up to London to take in a few shows and wait for his orders there. Brentwood had told him what a sharp mind Rosemary’s sister had. That was nice, but he didn’t care. He wanted her body. He’d had enough of her mind. Students at LSE, she’d announced, were going to prepare a “pretty deadly broadside” in a petition to the government on the wartime limits on individual freedom. He said nothing. He’d seen good men the so that she could sign petitions, and the only broadside he had in mind was a chance to get her in bed and “fire all tubes.” What bugged him was she knew they were mutually attracted — sexually anyhow. He’d admitted it every time their eyes had met. She couldn’t — or wouldn’t.

“Close the curtains, will you?” he heard Richard Spence asking her in the living room. “Been a bit overcast tonight, I’m afraid.” Spence was referring to the fact that Russian rocket attacks launched from the Baltic usually came over on stormy, cloudy nights when the fighters scrambling from East Anglia had more difficulty seeing them. The problem was that in bad cloud conditions, if the IDD, or identification friend or foe, signals sometimes got jammed, pilots had to go to infrared for air-to-air missile launch, which had caused a number of them to shoot down missiles sent up by their own AA batteries. On occasion, in the split-second world of the dogfight, they’d even shot down friendly fighters in the darkness whose exhaust they’d mistaken for that of an enemy rocket.

Zeldman heard Georgina drawing the drapes shut, and saw her mother, the heavy lines in Mrs. Spence’s face belying the determined charm with which she had tried to hide the pain of her son’s death.

“We’ll be late, dear,” she called out to Richard, who still hadn’t solved the Telegraph’s crossword. Mrs. Spence smiled at Zeldman. “Sure you don’t want to come, Commander? Being a submariner, you might have some very practical suggestions about recycling. I imagine you—”

“Leave him alone, Mother,” said Richard, folding the paper and at last making a move to haul himself out of the lounge chair. “I’m sure Commander Zeldman has far better things to do than turn his energies to the Oxshott