“What is it?”
“Doodlebug.”
“Doodlebug?”
“I believe you Yanks call them Buzz Bombs.”
A V-1! A picture of the German weapon flashed into Hal’s memory. He’d seen it in their aircraft recognition class. It was an unmanned flying bomb powered by a ram-jet engine. When the Nazis had found it too costly in aircraft and flying crews to send manned bombers, they had developed the unmanned V-1 flying bomb. They were launched in the direction of London by the hundreds. Each one’s course was preset and controlled by autopilot and a magnetic compass. The time of engine run was controlled by a small propeller on the nose that drove an air-mileage counter. It was supposed to cut the engine over the city, and the bomb would then dive to impact. They were so inaccurate, however, that they were likely to strike anywhere within a fifty-mile radius of their target. Even so, hundreds had fallen on the city since the first one had been launched on June 13. And each one carried a 2000-pound warhead so that when they did hit, they caused great destruction.
But if the engine was running, there was no danger. So, Hal watched the sky in tense fascination as the sound increased until it seemed that the bomb would pass directly overhead. Abruptly the sound stopped!
“Oh God! Quick. This way. Stay behind me.”
Betty yanked him around, and Hal found himself stumbling down unseen stairs. There was a momentary pause at a door, then they were in stygian darkness, and Betty was pressing him to the floor. “Here. Under the table.”
There was no time to protest. The floor heaved, shuddered violently. At the same instant, a heavy ‘whomp’ was followed by a blast of air that shattered windows, tore loose heavy blackout curtains, and swirled dust and debris inside the room.
Hal held his breath, waiting tensely for the crash of walls and timbers that would bury them in a black tomb. Back in California, he had been fifteen years old when a powerful earthquake had hit Fairview and it had terrified him. He had been sure that at any second, the earth was going to open and swallow him. This was worse. This was waiting to be buried in a living hell, then to be burned alive by fire.
He became aware that Betty’s soft hand was on his cheek and that he was holding her fiercely, his body atop hers in a futile gesture of protection, “It’s all right,” she whispered. “It’s over.”
Her soft breath was the breath of life; her lips warm against his cheek. Then his lips were upon hers, and the wonder of her drew the tenseness from his body.
Gradually the moment that had begun as an impulsive joy of life merged into a deeper mood of warm discovery. The pressure of their lips changed from hard dispassion to the softness of lovers. And under the spell of the kiss, long-dead sensations coursed through Hal. It wasn’t love. How could it be? But, as his body responded to the heat of her kiss, he thrilled to his heightened emotions, to his mounting desire.
Then she was leaning over him, her hair tumbling to form a curtain that shut out all reality leaving only the wonder of her kiss. His hands moved to strip away her coat, to bare her soft breasts to his caresses, and her responding shiver increased his desire.
Her lips left his, and he felt a keen disappointment. “Can we get under the bed covers,” she whispered. “I’m freezing.”
It was then he became aware of a cold breeze that swept in through the shattered windows.
He helped her to her feet, acutely conscious of her naked shoulders and breasts as she crossed to a couch that became a bed when she rolled it completely out from a recess in the wall.
Quickly she pulled down the covers and stripped off her dress. He became aware of the flickering glow of firelight reflecting from her body, and he jerked around to look out the small, shattered windows high up in the wall, level with the outside sidewalk. What he saw made him gasp. A short distance away, a towering column of flame and roiling smoke was lifting to the dark sky. He could hear the scream of sirens as fire equipment raced to the scene. “Jesus,” he breathed. “Is that from the V-1?”
“Yes. We get them all the time, the bastards.”
“Maybe we should get out of here.”
“Not necessary. They’ll have it under control in a few minutes.”
He turned to look at her. She was already in bed; the blankets clutched under her chin. “You sure?”
“Yes. They’ve had a lot of experience.” She lifted the blanket in invitation. “Come in. I’m cold.”
The tone was warm, but the words had the blunt invitation of a whore. Hal stood paralyzed, remembering what she was. For a moment, there in the solitude of her kiss, he had been gripped by passion, forgetting all else; for a moment, he had believed in her love; for a moment, he had known the oblivion that soothed men like Fox and O’Reilly and a British flier named Lawrence. Now the feeling was gone.
But maybe the desire was still there. Deep inside. Maybe all it needed was the heat of her passion to bring back the wonder.
He took off his clothes with trembling hands and went to the bed where she waited. He took her in his arms and kissed her, and he felt the smoothness of her body and the caress of her warm hands. But it was useless; the passion refused to come. His lips were brutal, demanding, but his body was cold and dead. An agony of shame made him turn abruptly away.
Tears tasted salty in his mouth, and Betty touched his cheek and said softly over and over, as though talking to a child, “It’s all right. It’s all right.”
When he could speak, he choked out the words, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
She held him, waiting for his shudders to diminish. Then she said gently, “You have nothing to be ashamed of. Lawrence was the same way at times. It’s the war . . .”
“No. It isn’t that. Not for me.” And suddenly, the words came pouring out like a flood that had too long been contained by a crumbling dam. “It was Susan. Susan McGinnis. We were in college together. We were going to be married. I thought she was so God damned sweet and pure. My virgin bride . . . only I found out different. I couldn’t marry her, not after . . . not after I found out what she’d done. But I figured I might as well get some of it too. What the hell; why wait. She wanted to. She said she’d wanted to all the time. But when I finally tried, I . . .” His voice broke, and he stopped.
Betty waited a second before she asked, “Am I the first . . . since then?”
“Yes. I thought I was over it, but . . .” He got quickly out of bed and began to pull on his clothes.
She got up and picked her coat up from the floor and slipped it on. “Don’t worry about it,” she said gently. “You’ll get over it.”
“I don’t know. For a moment when you first kissed me, I forgot everything . . . then, I don’t know.”
“There? On the floor?”
“Yes.”
“I know. I felt the same way. Then I took off my dress . . .” She paused, remembering. “Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
He was tying his necktie as he said, “It wasn’t your fault. I’ll pay you anyway.”
“Pay me?”
“Well, yes.”
In three quick strides, she crossed to the door and pulled it open. “There’s an Underground entrance in front of the “Green Parrot,” where we had dinner. Good night.”
He wanted to tell her that he didn’t want to leave. He wanted to hold her, to be near her. He didn’t care what she did with other men. Right now, he wanted the warmth of her affection more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.
But she stood rigidly, her chin up, flickering light from the distant flames gleaming from her hair.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He moved to stand behind a straight-backed chair that she had used as a hanger for a jacket as though the chair would shield him from her anger. “I didn’t mean that. I would like to see you again.”
“Y
ou want to see me again? A whore?” The bitterness in her voice struck him like a blow. He did not understand why she was so angry. And he desperately didn’t want her rejection.
“Yes,” he began. The wonder of it was beyond reason. “I don’t care . . .” He stopped. He had placed his hands on the jacket on the chair, and it only now registered that his hands were resting on shoulder pips. It was the jacket of an English officer. He jerked his hands away as though they had touched slime.
“I guess one of your customers forgot his jacket.” He hated the sneer in his voice, but he wanted to hurt her, to show her how much he was hurt.
“Maybe he’ll be back for it.” The edge in her voice matched his own.
Suddenly a shock went through him like an explosion. Oh, God. It wasn’t a man’s jacket at all. The insignia was that of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. It belonged to a WAAF.
“I don’t understand. This is yours?”
“What if it is?”
“You’re a WAAF?”
“Is that so surprising? I’m the right age. I’m healthy. And there is a war on.”
“But how could you . . .” His voice died, and his stomach was suddenly hollow. What if he was wrong?
“How could I be in the service and still be a whore?” She saw his dazed look and almost smiled. “Don’t look so shocked. A girl has to live.”
“I don’t believe it. I never did want to believe it. You can’t be like that?”
With a toss of her head, she said, “What makes you think so? Am I that ugly? You think nobody would pay for my charms.”
He touched the shoulder flash on the jacket. “BBC? British Broadcasting? You’re attached to the BBC?”
“That’s where I was assigned.”
Hal experienced a shame so deep that he had to turn away. “I’ve been making a complete idiot of myself. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why should I? You were enjoying your little vicarious thrill of being with a real Piccadilly commando.”
“It was Corporal Weems. He saw you with Colonel Sutton. He thought . . . Well, I guess we both jumped to conclusions.”
“Let’s just say you weren’t thinking with your brain.”
“That thing about flying a mission. That’s why you were at the base. You were serious.”
“Of course. I was making arrangements with your Colonel Sutton. Or trying to. He wasn’t too keen about the idea.”
“And the major tonight . . . he was from Pinetree.”
“That’s right.”
“That was the ‘deal’ he meant.”
“I’m afraid it wouldn’t have worked out anyway. I was getting the definite impression that he was tying a great many strings to his approval.”
“He did seem a little possessive.”
“He’ll get over it. I can handle him.”
“Oh, God. I really fouled things up. Why did you leave?”
She came up to him and brushed his cheek lightly with her lips. “Because I wanted to.”
Hal wasn’t sure if he should be flattered. Had she left the party with him because she liked him? Or because she saw him as a psychological cripple who desperately needed her brand of therapy? Did it really matter? The result was the same; this girl, with all her beauty, her red hair and pale skin and eyes so blue they were like sunlight, was with him because she wanted to be. And he did not want to lose her.
She picked up her dress and moved toward a door near the bed. “Wait a moment. I’ll walk you to the Underground. You may not find it on your own.”
He took a step toward her. “I . . . I don’t want to go.”
She stopped in the doorway and bit her lip as she stared at him. Then she shook her head. “No. I don’t think that’s a good idea. Not now.”
“Will you see me tomorrow?” There was an urgency in his voice she had to feel.
She smiled. “We’ll see.”
She disappeared into the room and closed the door. A crack of light appears under the door. It was enough, along with the faint glow of the distant fire, for Hal to get a look at the room. Like many wartime flats, it had been part of a former home or a large apartment. Probably servant’s quarters, since it had its own bathroom and was in the basement of the building. It still retained evidence of elegance. The ceiling was high, and there was a four-foot wainscot that looked like carved oak. In the wall opposite the bed was a small fireplace, beautifully faced in travertine marble. Its dead ashes of coke gave the room the faint odor of sulfur that seemed to be ubiquitous with English houses. Almost every foot of the walls was covered by framed paintings, mostly pastel still-lifes of flowers with a few oil landscapes and seascapes. All were now hanging askew, and several had been wrenched from the wall by the force of the V-1 blast. Hal began picking up the fallen pictures and rehanging them and straightening the others.
He was glad for the activity. Without it, he knew that he would be standing uncertainly in the middle of the room, trying to convince himself that he should walk away. It would be the smart thing to do. There was no point in pursuing this relationship. The best thing for both would be for him to leave right now.
The decision was taken out of his hands when the light under the bathroom door went out, and the door opened. “Ready,” she said.
She was buttoning her coat over the same dress she had been wearing, but she had changed her shoes for a pair with low heels. The difference they caused in her height made her look smaller, vulnerable. She opened the door and held it while he went out. She pulled the door shut, and the blackness closed in. She put her hand in his. “Stay close to the wall,” she cautioned. “It’s quite a drop on the other side.”
It was so dark that Hal had to feel his way along the wall as they made their way up the stairs while he clung to Betty’s hand. He had the impression that the stairs had been part of a larger house. Except that the section that should have been on their right was now nothing but a deep pool of darkness. How the devil had they managed to race down the narrow stairs before the V-1 struck without killing themselves? Lady Luck had been looking after him. He hoped she would stick around.
They emerged on the sidewalk at the front of the building and began moving in the general direction of the fire’s glow that was visible above the buildings. Betty had not withdrawn her hand from his, and it seemed very important to Hal that they continue to hold hands as though letting go now would sever a precarious umbilical. Why should he feel so good when he had been such a failure in bed? Of course, he had only been a failure when he thought that she was a commando, a whore. Now it was different. Now she was a person he could see again and again.
“What is it you do for the BBC?” he asked.
“I think you Yanks call it ‘investigative reporting.’ We call it Special Features.”
“You’re a writer?”
“That’s part of it. I also do my own reporting.” She glanced up at him with a lopsided smile. “You’ve heard of me, of course.”
“Uh, well . . . we don’t listen much to the BBC.”
“So much for fame.”
“Whose idea was it for you to go on a mission?”
“Mine, actually. It would be a continuation of my report on the RAF.”
“You’ve flown with the RAF?”
“Oh, yes. Twice. Once to Hamburg and once on D-day.”
Hal couldn’t believe that anyone would deliberately put themselves in that kind of jeopardy simply for a story. He knew, as every Yank knew, that a few American reporters like Ernie Pyle accompanied ground troops on some of their operations. He didn’t know of any who had flown with bomber crews. They preferred the odds of survival to be a little better.
“I’ve never heard of a reporter flying with the 8th Air Force,” he said. “Too dangerous.”
“I have. In 1943. Seven w
ar correspondents were allowed to fly a mission. There was Walter Cronkite of U.P. and Gladwin Hill of A.P. I don’t remember the others. Except Robert Post of the New York Times. He . . . ah . . . never came back. But you see, it has been done.”
“Well, good luck.”
She smiled. “I think they’re starting to weaken.”
“Tell the Generals you’ll mention their names. That should do it.”
She laughed; the sound soft in the night. “A good point. Everybody wants to be immortalized.”
Impulsively, certain that she would refuse, Hal asked, “The next time I’m in London, may I call you.”
She made a small shrug. “If you’d like.”
She took a mechanical pencil and a small notebook from her purse and scribbled her address and phone number. She tore the page from the notebook and handed it to him, saying, “The phone doesn’t always work. But the post is fairly reliable.”
Hal folded the paper and carefully placed it in his jacket pocket. “Thanks.”
“I might not be here. I’m away a lot.”
Was it a prepared excuse so she could avoid seeing him? Not likely. If she didn’t want to see him again, she wouldn’t have given him her address. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t such a jerk after all.
As they resumed walking along the dark street, Hal noticed an increasing amount of glass littering the sidewalk, and jagged shards clung precariously to sagging window frames and damaged storefronts. In some places, the window frames had been wrenched from their casements and now hung out over the sidewalk, so they were increasingly forced to detour into the deserted street. In the silence, Hal thought he could hear shouting voices.
“All this from one buzz bomb?”
“Oh, yes. The concussion smashes things about, you know.”
“It couldn’t have landed far from here.”
Rush to Glory Page 18
