The Evening News

by Arthur Hailey

  The effect was salutary and moving, causing Sloane to wish he had not spoken, hadn’t tried to score a debater’s point against his father. He said, “I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t realize how much I was opening an old wound.”

  As if he had not heard, his father went on, “They were good men. So many good men. So many of my friends.”

  Sloane shook his head. “Let’s leave it. As I said, I’m sorry.”

  “Gramps,” Nicky said. He had been listening intently. “When you were in the war, doing those things, were you frightened very much?”

  “Oh god, Nicky! Frightened? I was terrified. When the flak was exploding all around, throwing out razor-sharp hunks of steel that could cut you into slices … when the German fighters swarmed in, with guns and cannon firing and you always thought they were aiming just at you … when other B-17s went down, sometimes in flames or in tight spirals so you knew the crews could never get out to use their parachutes … all of it at 27,000 feet, in air so cold and thin that if the fear made you sweat it froze, and even with oxygen you could hardly breathe … Well, my heart was in my mouth and sometimes, it seemed, my guts too.”

  Angus paused. There was silence in the breakfast room; somehow this was different from his usual reminiscing. Then he went on, speaking only to Nicky who was following every word, so there seemed a communion between the two, the old man and the boy.

  “I’ll tell you something, Nicky, and it’s something I’ve never told a soul before, not anybody in this world. One time I was so scared, I …” He glanced around as if appealing for understanding. “… I was so scared, I messed my pants.”

  Nicky asked, “What did you do then?”

  Jessica, concerned for Angus, seemed about to interrupt but Crawford gestured her to silence.

  The old man’s voice strengthened. Visibly, a little of his pride returned. “What could I do? I didn’t like it, but I was there, so I got on with what I’d been sent for. I was the group bombardier. When the group commander—he was our pilot—reached the IP and set us on our target course, he told me over the intercom, ‘It’s yours, Angus. Take it.’ Well, I was stretched out over the Norden bombsight and I steadied myself and took my time. For those few minutes, Nicky, the bombardier flew the airplane. I got the target exactly in the cross hairs, then the bombs were away. It was the signal to the group to release theirs too.”

  Angus went on, “So let me tell you, Nicky, there’s nothing wrong with being scared to death. It can happen to the best. What counts is hanging on, somehow staying in control and doing what you know you should.”

  “I hear you, Gramps.” Nicky’s voice was matter-of-fact and Crawford wondered how much he had understood. Probably a good deal. Nicky was smart and sensitive. Crawford also wondered if he himself, in the past, had taken the trouble to understand as much as he should about his own father.

  He glanced at his watch. It was time to leave. Usually he arrived at CBA News at 10:30 A.M.; today though, he would be earlier because he wanted to see the division president about firing Chuck Insen as National Evening News executive producer. The memory of last night’s clash with Insen still rankled, and Sloane was as determined as ever to ensure changes in the news selection process.

  He rose from the breakfast table and, excusing himself, went upstairs to finish dressing.

  Selecting a tie—the same one he would wear on camera that evening—and carefully tying it in a Windsor knot, he thought about his father, envisaging the scenes the old man had described, in the air over Schweinfurt and elsewhere. Angus, at that time, would have been in his early twenties—half Crawford’s age now, just a raw kid who had hardly lived and was terrified he was about to die, most likely horribly. Certainly not even during his time as a journalist in Vietnam had Crawford endured anything comparable.

  Suddenly he had a pang of conscience for what he had failed to understand sooner, in any deep or caring way.

  The trouble was, Crawford thought, he was so caught up professionally in each day’s current, breaking news that he tended to dismiss the news of earlier eras as history and therefore irrelevant to the brimming, bustling here and now. That mind-set was an occupational hazard; he had seen it in others. But the older news was not irrelevant, and never would be, to his father.

  Crawford was well informed. He had read about the raid on Schweinfurt in a book, Black Thursday. The author, Martin Caidin, compared the attack with the “immortal struggles of Gettysburg, St. Mihiel and the Argonne, of Midway and the Bulge and Pork Chop Hill.”

  My father, Crawford reminded himself, was a part of that long saga. He had never viewed that fact before in quite the same perspective as today.

  He put on the jacket of his suit, inspected himself in the mirror, then, satisfied with his appearance, returned below.

  He said goodbye to Jessica and Nicky, then approached his father and told the old man quietly, “Stand up.”

  Angus seemed puzzled. Crawford repeated himself. “Stand up.”

  Pushing his chair back, Angus slowly rose. Instinctively, as he so often did, he brought his body to the equivalent of military attention.

  Crawford moved close to his father, put his arms around him, held him tight, then kissed him on both cheeks.

  The old man seemed surprised and flustered. “Hey, hey! What’s all this?”

  Looking him directly in the eye, Crawford said, “I love you, you old coot.”

  At the doorway, on the point of leaving, he glanced back. On Angus’s face was a small, seraphic smile. Jessica’s eyes, he saw, were moist. Nicky was beaming.

  The surveillance duo of Carlos and Julio were surprised to see Crawford Sloane leaving his home by car earlier than usual. They reported the fact immediately by code to the leader, Miguel.

  By now, Miguel had left the Hackensack operating center and, accompanied by others in a Nissan passenger van equipped with a cellular phone, was crossing the George Washington Bridge between New Jersey and New York.

  Miguel was unperturbed. He issued, also in code, the order that prearranged plans were now in effect, their time of implementation to be advanced if needed. He reasoned confidently: What they were about to do was the totally unexpected; it would turn logic upside down, then soon after raise the frantic question, Why?

  10

  At about the same time Crawford Sloane left his Larchmont home to drive to CBA News headquarters, Harry Partridge awakened in Canada—in Port Credit, near Toronto. He had slept deeply and spent the first few moments of the new day wondering where he was. It was a frequent experience because he was used to waking in so many different places.

  As his thoughts arranged themselves he took in familiar landmarks of an apartment bedroom and knew that if he sat up in bed—which he didn’t feel like doing yet—he would be able to see, through a window ahead, the broad expanse of Lake Ontario.

  The apartment was one Partridge used as his base, a retreat, and the nomadic nature of his work meant that he got to it for only a few brief periods each year. And even though he stored his few possessions here—some clothes, books, framed photographs, and a handful of mementos from other times and places—the apartment was not registered in his name. As a card alongside a bell push in the lobby six floors below advised, the official tenant was V. Williams (the V for Vivien), who resided here permanently.

  Every month, from wherever in the world Partridge happened to be, he sent Vivien a check sufficient to pay the apartment rent and, in return, she lived here and kept it as his haven. The arrangement, which had other conveniences including casual sex, suited them both.

  Vivien was a nurse who worked in the Queensway Hospital nearby, and he could hear her now, moving around in the kitchen. In all probability she was making tea, which she knew he liked each morning, and would bring it to him soon. Meanwhile he let his thoughts drift back to the events of yesterday and the journey the night before on his delayed flight from Dallas to Toronto’s Pearson International …

  The experience at DFW Airport had
been a professional one which he took in stride. It was Partridge’s job to do what he did, a job for which he was well paid by CBA News. Yet thinking about it last night and again this morning, he was conscious of the tragedy behind the surface of the news. From the latest reports he heard, more than seventy aboard the Muskegon Airlines flight lost their lives, with others critically injured, and all six people died aboard the smaller airplane that had collided with the Airbus in midair. Today, he knew, many grief-stricken families and friends were struggling, amid tears, to cope with their abrupt bereavement.

  The thought reminded him that there were times when he wished he could cry too, could shed tears along with others because of things he had witnessed in his professional life, including perhaps the tragedy of yesterday. But it hadn’t happened—except on one unparalleled occasion which, as it came to mind, he thrust away. What he did remember was the first time he ever wondered about himself and his apparent inability to cry.

  Early in his reporting career, Harry Partridge was in Britain when a tragedy occurred in Wales. It was in Aberfan, a mining village where a vast pile of coal waste—slurry—slid down a hillside and engulfed a junior school. A hundred and sixteen children died.

  Partridge was on the scene soon after the disaster, in time to see the dead being pulled out. Each small pathetic body, covered with black, evil-smelling sludge, had to be hosed down before it was carted away for identification.

  Around him, watching the same scene, other reporters, photographers, police, spectators, were weeping, choking on their tears. Partridge had wanted to cry too, but couldn’t. Sickened but dry-eyed, he had done his reporting job and gone away.

  Since then there had been countless other witnessed scenes where there was cause for tears, but he hadn’t cried there either.

  Was there some deficiency, some inner coldness in himself? He asked that question once of a woman psychiatrist friend, after both of them, following an evening of drinking, had been to bed together.

  She told him, “There’s nothing wrong with you, or you wouldn’t care enough to ask the question. What you have is a defense mechanism which depersonalizes what you feel. You’re banking it all, tucking the emotion away inside you somewhere. One day everything will overflow, crack open, and you’ll cry. Oh, how you’ll cry!”

  Well, his knowledgeable bed partner had been right, and there had come a day … But again he didn’t want to think about it, and pushed the image away just as Vivien came into the bedroom, carrying a tray with morning tea.

  She was in her mid-forties, with angular, strong features and straight black hair, now streaked with gray. While neither beautiful nor conventionally pretty, she was warm, easygoing and generous. Vivien had been widowed before Partridge knew her and he gathered the marriage had not been good, though she rarely talked about it. She had one child, a daughter in Vancouver. The daughter occasionally stayed here, though never when Partridge was expected.

  Partridge was fond of Vivien though not in love with her, and had known her long enough to be aware he never would be. He suspected that Vivien was in love with him and would love him more if he encouraged it. But as it was, she accepted the relationship they had.

  While he sipped his tea, Vivien regarded Partridge quizzically, noting that his normally lanky figure was thinner than it should be; also, despite a certain boyishness he still retained, his face showed lines of strain and tiredness. His unruly shock of fair hair, now noticeably grayer, was in need of trimming.

  Aware of her appraisal, Partridge asked, “Well, what’s the verdict?”

  Vivien shook her head in mock despair. “Just look at you! I send you off healthy and fit. Two and a half months later you come back looking tired, pale and underfed.”

  “I know, Viv.” He grimaced. “It’s the life I lead. There’s too much pressure, lousy hours, junk food and booze.” Then, with a smile, “So here I am, a mess as usual. What can you do for me?”

  She said, with a mixture of affection and firmness, “First I’ll give you a good healthful breakfast. You can stay in bed—I’ll bring it to you. For other meals you’ll have nutritious things like fish and fowl, green vegetables, fresh fruit. Right after breakfast I’m going to trim your hair. Later, I’m taking you for a sauna and massage—I’ve already made the appointment.”

  Partridge lay back and threw up his hands. “I love it!’”

  Vivien went on, “Tomorrow, I figured you’ll want to see your old cronies at the CBC—you usually do. But in the evening I have tickets for an all-Mozart concert in Toronto at Roy Thomson Hall. You can let the music wash over you. I know you like that. Apart from all that, you’ll rest or do whatever you wish.” She shrugged. “Maybe in between those other things you’ll feel like making love. You tried last night but were too tired. You fell asleep.”

  For a moment Partridge felt more gratitude for Vivien than he had ever felt before. She was rock-solid, a refuge. Late last night, when his flight finally arrived at Toronto Airport, she had been patiently waiting, then had brought him here.

  He asked, “Don’t you have to work?”

  “I had some vacation due. I’ve arranged to take it, starting today. One of the other nurses will fill in for me.”

  He told her, “Viv, you’re one in a million.”

  When Vivien had gone and he could hear her preparing breakfast, Partridge’s thoughts returned to yesterday.

  There had been that congratulatory call—they had paged him for it in the DFW terminal—from Crawford Sloane.

  Crawf had sounded awkward, as he often was when they talked. There were times when Partridge wanted to say, “Look, Crawf, if you think I have any grudge against you—about Jessica or your job or anything, forget it! I haven’t and I never did.” But he knew that kind of remark would strain their relationship even more, and probably Crawf would never believe it anyway.

  In Vietnam, Partridge had known perfectly well that Sloane was taking only short air trips so he could hang around Saigon and get on CBA network news as often as possible. But Partridge hadn’t cared then, and still didn’t. He had his own priorities. One of them could even be called an addiction—the addiction to the sights and sounds of war.

  War … the bloody bedlam of battle … the thunder and flame of big artillery, the whistle scream and awesome crump of falling bombs … the stentorian chatter of machine guns when you didn’t know who was firing at whom or from where … the near-sensuous thrill of being under attack, despite fear that set you trembling … all of it fascinated Partridge, set his adrenaline flowing, his other juices running …

  He discovered the feeling first in ’Nam, his initial war experience. It had been with him ever since. More than once he had told himself, Face it—you love it; then acknowledged, Yes, I do, and a stupid son of a bitch I am.

  Stupid or not, he had never objected to being sent to wars by CBA. Partridge knew that among his colleagues he was referred to as a “bang-bang,” the slightly contemptuous name for a TV correspondent addicted to war—a worse addiction, it was sometimes said, than to heroin or cocaine and with a final ending almost as predictable.

  But they also knew at CBA News headquarters—which was what mattered most—that for that kind of news coverage, Harry Partridge was the best.

  Therefore he had not been overly concerned when Sloane won the National Evening News anchor chair. Like every news correspondent, Partridge had had ideas about getting that top-of-the-pile appointment, but by the time it happened to Sloane, Partridge was enjoying himself so much it didn’t matter.

  Strangely, though, the question of the anchorman’s job had come up recently and unexpectedly. Two weeks ago, during what Chuck Insen warned was “a delicate private conversation,” the executive producer confided to Partridge that there might be major changes soon in the National Evening News. “If that happens,” Insen had asked, “would you be interested in coming in from the cold and anchoring? You do it damn well.”

  Partridge had been so surprised that he hadn’t kn
own how to respond. Then Insen had said, “You don’t have to answer now. I just want you to think about it in case I come back to you later.”

  Subsequently, through his own inside contacts, Partridge had learned of the ongoing power struggle between Chuck Insen and Crawford Sloane. But even if Insen won, which seemed unlikely, Partridge doubted if permanent anchoring was something he would want or could even endure. Especially, he told himself half mockingly, when in so many places of the world there was still the sound of gunfire to be heard and followed.

  Inevitably, when thinking in a personal way about Crawford Sloane, there was always the memory of Jessica, though it was never more than memory because there was nothing between them now, not even occasional communication, and they seldom met socially—perhaps only once or twice a year. Nor had Partridge ever blamed Sloane for his loss of Jessica, having recognized that his own foolish judgment was the cause. When he could have married her, Partridge had decided not to, so Sloane simply stepped in, proving himself the wiser of the two, with a better sense of values at that time …

  Vivien reappeared in the apartment bedroom, bringing breakfast in stages. It was, as she had promised, a healthful meal: freshly squeezed orange juice, thick hot porridge with brown sugar and milk, followed by poached eggs on whole wheat toast, strong black coffee, the beans freshly ground, and finally more toast and Alberta honey.

  The thoughtfulness about the honey especially touched Partridge. It reminded him, as it was intended to, of his native province where he made his start in journalism on local radio. He remembered telling Vivien that he had worked for what was known as a 20/20 radio station; it meant that rock ’n’ roll, the staple programming, was interrupted every twenty minutes by a few shouted news headlines ripped from the AP wire. A young Harry Partridge had done the shouting. He smiled at the recollection; it seemed a long time ago.