The Winds of War

“That’s a married man, Madeline. Mom and Dad would be damned upset at what I saw.”

“Don’t talk to me about upsetting Mom and Dad. I have yet to marry a Jew.”

Those were the last words spoken in the car until it drew up at Washington Place. Madeline opened the door. “I’m sorry, Briny. That was nasty. But didn’t you deserve it, accusing me of God knows what! I have nothing against Natalie. I like her.”

Byron reached across her legs and slammed the door shut. The glare on his white face was frightening. “One minute. You tell Hugh Cleveland — you be sure to tell him, Madeline — that if I ever find out he’s done anything to you, I’ll come after him, and I’ll put him in a hospital.

The girl’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, how dare you? You’re cruel and you have a dirty mind. Do you actually think I’d play around with a married man? Why, Happy Hour was my idea. I was so excited when Mr. Fenton told us about the rating, I’d have kissed anybody who was handy. You’re being horrible, Byron.” She took a handkerchief from her purse and wiped her eyes.

“All right. I didn’t want to make you cry.”

“Don’t you believe me?” Madeline spoke in soft and wistful tones, tearfully smiling. “My God, I thought we knew each other so well. We used to. I admit Hugh would sleep with me if he could. He’ll sleep with anybody, and I find that disgusting. He’s nothing but a whoremaster, and his wife’s the most miserable woman alive. I appreciate your concern for my honor. You’re very old-fashioned and sweet, like Dad. But don’t you worry about Madeline. Forgive me for that mean crack, darling. I’m awfully happy about the baby.” She kissed his cheek. He felt the tears on her skin. She got out of the car, twinkled her fingers at him, and ran into Washington Place.

When Byron got back to the naval base, target planes were coming in high over the harbor, towing long fluttering red sleeves, and on all the ships the gun crews were shouting, and slanting their weapons skyward; but there were no sounds of firing, and the excitement seemed forced and silly. The Devilfish, sitting high and dry on blocks, was deserted except for yard workmen and the watch. Byron took out of his desk drawer a writing pad, and the record of the fado song that he and Natalie had heard together in Lisbon. He put the record on the wardroom phonograph and started to write:

My darling,

The news about the baby just came and—

The hissing of the bad needle gave way to the guitar chords that opened the song. He put his head down on his arms. He wanted to picture his wife and the new baby, a boy who perhaps looked like Victor. But when he closed his eyes, what he saw was his sister’s uncovered thighs and garters.

Byron stopped the record and spent the next hour drawing a sketch of an air compressor. Working from memory, using different colored crayons and inks, he produced a picture accurate and clear enough to be printed in a manual. To this he clipped a letter he typed in the abandoned mildewy-smelling yeoman’s cubicle, formally requesting transfer to Atlantic duty. He added a scrawled pencil note on a chit:

Captain — I deeply appreciate the amnesty and the leave. The only thing I want in the world now is to see my wife and baby, and try to get them out of Europe. I’m sure you will understand.

Next morning Branch Hoban congratulated Byron on his sketch, explained with regret that he couldn’t spare an officer from the watch list, declared his conviction that Natalie and her baby were quite safe in Rome, and said he would forward the request, not recommending approval.

Chapter 51

Rhoda was startled by the bulk of the wax-sealed envelope from the State Department. Inside she found another fat envelope with pale blue Russian printing on the flap. The eleven-page typewritten letter it contained was much struck-over with pen and ink. Clipped to it, on a small sheet headed MEMORANDUM FROM ALISTAIR TUDSBURY, was a red-pencilled note in Pug’s firm slanted hand:

3 Oct.

Moscow (and still can’t believe it!)

Hi -

Don’t get scared — guess I haven’t written a letter this long since you’ve known me — haven’t had many experiences like this.

Kremlin banquet was another incredible business — that’s for next letter, this one has to go off pronto -

Regards from Tudsburys. I’ve used his typewriter and stationery. Letter explains. He’s fatter than ever, daughter’s a wraith -

Love

Pug

Hotel National Moscow

Oct. 2, 1941

Dearest Rhoda —

Three hours from now I’ll be dining in the Kremlin. How about that? It’s God’s truth. And the rest of this trip has been every bit as fantastic.

Now that we’ve got ourselves two grandsons (and how about that, Granny?) I’m beginning to feel I should record some of these things I’m going through, while they’re fresh in my mind. I’m no writer, but just the bare record of the facts should interest those infants one day. So don’t think I’m becoming a garrulous old fud if I start sending you occasional batches of these pages. After you’ve read them, tuck them away for the babies.

I’m somewhat punchy; haven’t had a real night’s sleep since I left London. The trip to Archangel in a British destroyer could have been restful, but for night conferences and GQ alarms all day long. That is a hot run; you’re in Luftwaffe range almost all the way. The convoys on this route take quite a shellacking. Luckily we had fog covering us about half the time.

I’m making all these typing mistakes because Tudsbury’s typewriter is cranky, and there’s nobody in the Soviet Union who can fix a British typewriter — or who wants to, you’re never sure which. I’ve been cadging embassy typewriters for my work, but they’re swamped today getting out the final conference documents. The Tudsburys occupy the best quarters in the National. Naturally! Leave that to Talky. His suite faces out on Red Square, and I can see the Kremlin through a drizzle from where I sit. Lenin stayed in this suite they say; now here I am. It’s all maroon plush and gold chandeliers and alabaster statues, with a Persian rug about an acre big, and this room even has a rosewood grand piano, almost lost in a corner. (The piano’s out of tune.) Me, I’m lodged in a back room on the top floor about five feet by ten with bare yellow plaster walls.

Tudsbury’s here right now, dictating to Pamela his broadcast for tonight. Leave it to Talky to show up where the action is! He got the War Information Office to requisition Pamela for him; his stories and broadcasts are considered ace propaganda, and he pleaded failing eyesight. She’s on extended leave from the RAF and seems miserable about it. Her flier has been a German prisoner for over a year and she hasn’t had word of him in months.

Like all the correspondents here, Tudsbury’s trying to make bricks without straw. He bent my ear for two hours last night about how tough it is. The Russians keep the reporters in Moscow, and every other day or so just call them in and give them some phony handout. Most of them think the war’s going very badly, but they don’t have much to go on besides Moscow rumors and Berlin shortwave broadcasts. It seems the Russians have been more or less admitting all the German claims, but two or three weeks late. The pessimists here — and there are plenty —