He pulled the belt back over his shoulder and swung hard. She shrieked, but the shriek was muffled by her panties.
He threw the belt across the room and sat down to take her in his arms. She was crying. Her cheeks were wet. But as she settled into his embrace, she took his hand in hers and guided it to her crotch. She was very wet there, too.
TWELVE
One
1942
JACK AND KIMBERLY SAT AT THEIR DINNER TABLE. THE CHILdren had left with Mrs. Gimbel, their governess, and were upstairs finishing their lessons, which would be followed by their baths.
Jack rarely wore black tie to dinner anymore. Kimberly, just the same, made it a habit to dress for dinner, usually in a silk gown. Tonight she wore yellow, a color that did not become her, in Jack’s opinion. She wore it because she believed it suited her new topaz necklace.
“I thought I’d heard everything,” she said quietly, barely able to maintain an air of patience.
“Kimberly, I’m thirty-six years old. I’m subject to the draft! I could wind up as a basic rifleman in an infantry squad.”
Her smile was acid. “You know that won’t happen. Daddy can take care of it. He can keep you out or get you a navy commission. After all, the navy is where gentlemen serve. And he can see to it that you are assigned to Boston or New York or Washington.”
“I’m not looking for a gentleman’s commission. I don’t want to go to war as an infantryman; I won’t kid you about that. But this is something I can do!”
“What you are going to do is leave home,” she said coldly. “Remember something. Remember the afternoon we got the word about Pearl Harbor. Do you remember at all how frightened little John was? He had a most vivid memory of your repeated accounts of the strafings in Belgium, and he wondered how long it would be before that would be happening here. Do you remember how you had to take him to his bedroom and explain to him that Pearl Harbor is thousands of miles away and that the war was not coming anywhere near Boston?”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying your place is at home with your family, giving your children comfort and assurance. Which they need. When that tanker was torpedoed off the coast two weeks ago, our children saw the red glow and in the morning saw the smoke. The war you told John would always be thousands of miles away was right out there! And I don’t have to tell you that our John has a special reason to be afraid. He knows what the Germans do to Jews.”
TWO
JOHN, AGE TEN, HAD DEVELOPED A CHILD’S FASCINATION WITH airplanes, particularly warplanes. Not yet dexterous enough to build models from balsa and paper and dope, he built crude and simple ones from kits of solid wood. He had an aircraft spotters’ handbook with pictures, silhouettes, and specifications of two hundred aircraft from all countries.
John studied the war aircraft avidly. He was proud that he, probably better than any other boy in his class, could distinguish a Henschel from a Heinkel, a Spitfire from a Hurricane.
John was sitting up in bed, studying a magazine with more pictures and diagrams of warplanes. Jack sat down on the foot of his bed.
“How goes it, Cap’n?” he asked, using the nickname he had given his son when he’d discovered the boy’s fascination with airplanes.
“Daddy, will the war last long enough for me to fly? It won’t be over before—”
Jack shook his head. “No, son. It won’t last that long. When it’s over, you’ll still be a little boy. But I tell you what. I’ll see to it that you get flying lessons and learn to fly a peacetime plane.”
John grimaced. “Not the same thing,” he said.
Jack took his son’s hands between his own. “My boy, we can’t arrange wars just to suit you. Anyway, there are plenty of ways to be brave, besides flying in wartime.”
John smiled weakly. “I s’pose.”
“I have to tell you something, John. All your friends’ daddies are going into the services. You know that. I have to do the same. I can’t sit at home and take no part in the war.”
“What are you going to do, Daddy?”
“Well, I’m not going to go out and fight with a rifle against German soldiers. It takes all kinds of activities and all kinds of people to win a war. What it takes, actually, is all kinds of skills. I happen to know how to run a network of radio stations. That’s what I’ve done since before you were born. The War Department thinks I can be very helpful in London. I’ll be working in an office over there, just as I do here. The only difference is, I’ll be in London instead of Boston, and I’ll wear a uniform instead of a blue suit.”
The ten-year-old boy closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and flexed his shoulders. “Daddy . . . if some way the Germans managed to get to London, they’d kill you, wouldn’t they? I mean, you first—you before other people. I don’t mean before all other people, but—”
“What do you have in mind, John?”
The boy focused his eyes on Jack’s. “They’d kill you because you’re a Jew,” he said. “And if they ever got to Boston they’d kill me for the same reason. Wouldn’t they?”
Jack tried not to let his son detect the shudder that went through his body. “Okay. That’s why we have to do everything we can to make sure they don’t get to Boston. Right? They’re not going to get to Boston. I promise you. And not to London, either. But let’s think this out. Suppose there was a chance they’d get here. What should I do? Should I stay home? Or should I go and do whatever I can do to fight them? John, even if I had to go into the line with a rifle, isn’t that what I should do?”
John nodded, but he sobbed.
“It’s not going to be that way. I’ll be in an office in London, helping to broadcast information. That’s the best thing I can do to fight them.”
John cried, but he kept nodding.
“So what can you do? You give up your daddy for a little while. That’s what you do to fight the Nazis.”
“Okay.”
Jack put his arms around his son. “We’ve never talked about being Jews. I never thought it made much difference until people started killing us. When I come back, we’ll talk a long while about what it means, what it is. In the meantime, I promise you, John, that the Nazis are not going to kill you or me. Or your sister. Or your mother.”
John frowned. “Why her?” he asked.
“Because she married a Jew and had children by him. In their judgment that makes her the worst of all. But nothing like that is going to happen. Look, Cap’n. If Hitler can’t get his soldiers across the English Channel, he’s sure not going to get them across the Atlantic Ocean. Right?”
John nodded.
“Okay. I’m going to go and do what I have to do. But it won’t be for long, and none of us will be in any danger.”
The boy nodded, but Jack could see that in his heart he remained unsure.
Three
INDUCTED INTO THE UNITED STATES ARMY WITH A COMMISsion as a captain, Jack once more encountered Kimberly’s all-but-tearful scorn.
“Burke is a commander, United States Navy. That’s the equivalent of a lieutenant colonel! And you . . . Do you have to go to boot camp?”
“Kimberly, I am assigned to OWI, the Office of War Information. I will go to an estate on Long Island and take a two-week orientation course. After that, as I understand it, I will fly to London. My assignment there will be confidential, but it will have to do with radio broadcasting.”
“I know what you’re doing, Jack. You’re bored with your business, you’re bored with your home, and you’re bored with your wife. You are escaping!”
He did not answer her. If he had, he would have told her she was not altogether wrong.
Four
THE TRANSATLANTIC FLIGHT WAS ACUTELY UNCOMFORTABLE at first, then frightening toward the end.
Twenty officers, who had never seen each other before and would never see each other again, sat on their duffel bags in the fuselage of a B-24 bomber, bundled in long johns, wool clothes, and heavy overcoats but still feeling co
ld, comforted only by the jocular promise of the bombardier that he would not accidentally open the bomb doors and drop them into the ocean. Warmed a little by gallons of hot coffee and nourished by scores of stale doughnuts, the officers, who had nothing in common and nothing to talk about, tried to sleep.
Jack’s discomfort was compounded by the understanding that he was the lowest-ranking officer aboard.
When the bomber landed at Reykjavik, the officers were welcomed inside a barren terminal building and told to use the toilets. They were given some thick, greasy soup.
Jack was paged by an American sergeant. “Captain Lear! Captain Lear!”
He took a radiotelegram from the messenger. It read:
YOU ARE ASSIGNED COMBINED OPERATION STAFF UNDER MY IMMEDIATE COMMAND STOP REPORT TWO DAYS AFTER ARRIVAL LONDON STOP CONGRATULATIONS YOUR PROMOTION RANK COLONEL UNITED STATES ARMY STOP OBTAIN APPROPRIATE INSIGNIA ETC BEFORE REPORTING STOP
BASIL COMPTON
REAR ADMIRAL
COMBINED OPERATIONS EXECUTIVE
How had that been arranged? Jack wondered. Harrison Wolcott? He would never know.
Somewhere over the sea and in gray fog the B-24 went into an abrupt turning and diving maneuver. Three officers simply vomited, either from fear or airsickness or both. They heard machine-gun fire, or thought they did. They felt their aircraft hit, or thought they did. It was all over in thirty seconds. The B-24 leveled and resumed its course. None of the crew elected to explain what had happened.
Five
As JACK LURCHED INTO ANOTHER BLEAK TERMINAL, STIFF from the cold and from hours without moving, Curt Frederick rushed toward him and seized his hand. In almost the same movement with which he took his hand, Curt passed him a pewter flask. It was filled with brandy, and Jack drank.
“Welcome to England! Yes, it’s always this cold and always this wet.”
Jack reached into the pocket of his overcoat and took out the wire he had received in Reykjavik.
“I know,” said Curt. “Congratulations. You couldn’t have hoped for a better assignment.”
“Which will be to do what?”
“I don’t know. They’ll tell you. How tired are you?”
“Tired.”
“Well, we’ve got to make a stop on our way to the hotel where you’ll be living for the time being. See what he says? ‘Obtain appropriate insignia, et cetera.’ I have arranged for you to see a bespoke tailor this morning. You have to see him this morning if your ‘appropriate’ et ceteras are to be ready when you report. This kind of thing counts in London, old boy. I don’t know how you got assigned to Compton, but I can tell you it will be very damned important to make a good first impression.”
“Why the hell Compton?” Jack asked. “And who the hell’s Compton?”
“Professional officer, Royal Navy. Took a piece of shrapnel in the leg in the Mediterranean about six months ago. His job is to try to make British and American operations work together. We don’t have a similar officer yet, but we will shortly, you can be sure. Take Compton very seriously,” Curt advised. “Washington does.”
Six
ADMIRAL COMPTON WAS A DIPLOMAT AS WELL AS A DISTINguished naval officer. He received Jack in his office at the Admiralty.
He was tall and handsome and ineffably aristocratic. That element of his character and presence defined him. Although Jack was wearing a beautifully tailored uniform that displayed the solid silver eagles of a full colonel, his uniform paled in comparison with the elegant blue and gold of a rear admiral in the Royal Navy. As soon as they were seated, Compton opened a silver cigarette box on his desk and offered Jack a smoke.
“You see,” he began, “until now it has been of vital importance to convince the American people that it is essential to their national interest to come to the assistance of the British. Now it becomes vital to convince the British people that the American personnel, who will be descending on this island in their millions, are highly civilized people—not just allies but friends. I want you to take charge of broadcasting to the people of the United Kingdom an honorable sample of what Americans hear on their radios, to let the British hear that we are very similar people with similar values and even, perhaps, a similar sense of humor.”
“Yes, Sir. I believe I understand the assignment. I’ll do the best I can.”
“My subordinates will provide resources: offices and the like. And broadcasting facilities: those of the BBC.”
Seven
JACK HAD SUPPOSED HIS OFFICE AND STAFF WOULD BE SUPplied by OWL. Within a day after his meeting with Compton he learned otherwise and realized that he would need the offices the British had offered and that he would have to recruit his own staff. To the United States Office of War Information, Jack Lear’s department was decidedly a sideshow on which it did not intend to waste its meager resources.
Jack moved into the offices provided for him, in what had been a small and modest hotel on Half Moon Street in Mayfair. His staff consisted of a secretary, a tall, spare woman of fifty or so named Mrs. Eunice Latshaw, who explained to him that he would be expected to pay her wages. He assured her that he would, though he had no idea where the money would come from.
Jack sent a wire to his father-in-law, Harrison Wolcott:
FIND I WILL BE BEATING MY HEAD AGAINST WALL HERE FOR WANT OF RESOURCES ASSIGNED STOP MOST URGENT NEED IS FOR FIRST CLASS SCROUNGER KNOWLEDGEABLE ABOUT PROCUREMENT STOP CAN YOU ARRANGE STOP WIRE ME AT DORCHESTER STOP
Wolcott replied the next day:
WAR DEPT HAS ATTACHED SCROUNGER TO YOUR STAFF STOP CAPTAIN DURENBERGER WILL ARRIVE SOONEST STOP GENERAL MARSHALL PERSONALLY ADVISING COLONEL DONOVAN TO EXTEND COOPERATION STOP KEEP ME INFORMED STOP
Eight
JACK GAVE AN ASSIGNMENT TO THE RESOURCEFUL JEANPierre Belleville, who was still in the employ of Lear Broadcasting, and the Frenchman carried out this assignment as effectively as he did any other. At seven the next evening, Jack heard a discreet rap on the door of his suite in the Dorchester. He opened the door, then opened his arms and fervently kissed Cecily Camden.
“What are you doing here?” she asked as he drew her into the room. “And dressed like a soldier! Belleville did say I was to meet with Colonel Lear, but even when he told me that, I wasn’t sure it would be you—couldn’t believe it would be you.”
She kissed him repeatedly. That was one of the things he had remembered about her—her great, generous, wet kisses. She hugged and kissed, and tears ran down her cheeks.
She had changed little. On the starchy diet of wartime Britain, her belly had kept its rotundity, and her breasts were even fuller than they had been before.
“Oh, Jack!” she sobbed. “Oh, Jack!” She had regained something of the London accent she had gradually suppressed while she was in the States. “I’ve missed you!”
“I’ve missed you, Cecily,” he said earnestly. He meant it. He had missed her. He had missed her innocent enthusiasm. “Sit down. Whiskey? I’ll call for our dinner.”
“How are the kids? How’s Missus?”
“Fine. They write to you, don’t they? I mean the kids.”
“Oh, yes. Every three, four months. John was very worried about the Blitz. Afraid I’d be killed. I almost was, one night. You know what happened at the Elephant and Castle station?”
“No, not exactly.”
“We were down in the tubes, sheltering, and the fire was so hot above that they made us come out. They were afraid the heat would suck all the air out of the tunnels and we’d suffocate down there. I was out in the street during a firestorm! Hot coals came down from the sky and burned half my clothes off. A fireman squirted water on me. It was the last really big raid, the last really big one.”
“I’m sorry, Cecily, and I’m glad you made it. What are you doing? Are you working?”
She nodded. “I teach in a school across the river, in Putney. The regular teacher’s flying for the RAF.”
“I want you to come work for me. I’m establishing an operation to broadca
st American entertainment and information to the British people. I need help. I need people who know London well.”
She sighed. “Oh, Jack! I can give notice. What will I be doing for you?”
“Can you drive a car?”
“I have done. My father is a taxi driver, and he taught me to drive. He owns a little old car of his own, but there’s no petrol now, so it’s just sitting in a garage.”
“You know London pretty well, I imagine.”
“Yes.”
“One of the things you may do is drive for me. I expect to be assigned a car.”
Cecily smiled impishly. “We can probably find other things I can do for you.”
After dinner they did.
She remembered how well he had enjoyed having his shaft between her breasts, imprisoned between them by her hands holding them tight, and she did that. He did not come this time. She bent forward and put the tip of her tongue to his glans. He gasped and moaned.
“Ohh . . . So that’s what you like. Well, I can’t get pregnant that way even if I swallow it. Right?”
“Right,” he whispered.
Her kisses had always been wet and enthusiastic, and they were no different now in this new situation. She wet him thoroughly with her saliva, and he slid smoothly in and out of her mouth. She didn’t lick. She just sucked on him as he moved in and out, between her tight lips. When he came, she grunted and sucked harder and swallowed every drop.
THIRTEEN
One
1942
FIVE WEEKS AFTER JACK ARRIVED IN LONDON HIS AMERICAN Information Service began a regular schedule of broadcasts over the facilities of the BBC. Combined Operations continued to supply office space and the services of one secretary, though she was supposed to be moved to the AIS payroll. The staff included the secretary along with Cecily, a second lieutenant, and a tech sergeant. Jack assigned responsibilities and established a small organization that would have run smoothly if only he’d been able to penetrate the labyrinth of army bureaucracy to obtain such basic supplies as another typewriter or even paper.
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