by Peter Albano
The first lieutenant’s voice took on a professional timbre. “We can’t be dry-docked for another four days. There were a lot of ships damaged at Jutland”—he squirmed uncomfortably—”and the dry docks are very busy. The repairs to the quarterdeck are almost completed and we should be able to replace X gun in a few days.” He continued for several minutes, discussing supplies of fuel and ammunition, replacements, visits by staff officers, provisions, new guidance devices for the torpedoes, which at that moment were being installed. Brenda squirmed uneasily while Walter hunched forward, starting his third cognac. Finally, the first lieutenant leaned back, took a drink, pulled on his cigarette, and said, “That’s the lot, Captain, except the new pilot has not reported aboard.”
“Thank you, Number One,” Reginald said.
Quietly, a slight young boy with blond hair and a pimply white complexion entered the room. He wore a white coat similar to Fuller’s and carried a polished brass silent butler. Quickly and self-consciously he emptied the ash receivers and disappeared into the galley.
“Good Lord,” Brenda said. “He’s a child—not more than fourteen.”
Reginald glanced at Pochhammer. “Boy First Class Basil Goodenough, sir. Reported aboard last week.” He turned to Brenda. “He’s fifteen.”
“A fifteen-year-old child,” Brenda said incredulously.
Ian Carpenter came to life. “I went to sea at thirteen, Mrs. Higgins.”
“I can’t believe it. He’s a baby. He’s hardly weaned.”
Reginald sighed. “It’s the way of the Royal Navy, Brenda. Has been since sail. Some of the boys become our most valued officers.” He nodded at Carpenter, who smiled back self-consciously.
“Capital, old boy,” Walter said, feeling his cognac. He waved a glass at Brenda. “You Yanks can still learn from the mother country. Right, lads?” The men stared at their drinks in embarrassment.
Brenda’s voice was icy. “Learn what? To send our children to war?”
Before Walter could answer, Reginald spoke, saving the situation. “What about a short tour and then we’ll leave.”
“Bully idea,” Walter said, eyeing his daughter-in-law with a hard glint in his eyes. Still seething, Brenda nodded her approval and finished the last of her tea.
As he came to his feet, Reginald spoke to his first lieutenant. “I’ll be at Fenwyck, Kent, south of Faversham for, perhaps, two more days. I’ll spend the last two days of my leave at my place in London.”
“I understand, sir. Rest, sir. That flu is nasty business.” Pochhammer turned to Ian Carpenter. “We can hold off the Jerries without the captain. Right, Sub?”
“Right-oh, sir,” the young sublieutenant said, smiling broadly.
Following Reginald and Walter, Brenda negotiated the ladder while Pochhammer and Carpenter kept a polite distance from the base. Reentering the passageway, Reginald indicated a door. “This is my day cabin,” Reginald said.
Brenda entered a large, carpeted stateroom furnished with a wide bunk with a thick mattress, two large leather chairs similar to those in the wardroom, a washbasin, mirror, desk, and a sideboard. A fan whirred overhead and the two scuttles had their deadlights opened.
“It’s much larger than I expected,” Walter said, moving his eyes around the room.
Reginald nodded. “Yes. It’s as large as the wardroom. When these ships were built, the RN still felt one of a captain’s most important functions was to entertain—to play the part of the commanding officer. Day cabins were large for that purpose.”
“Day cabin?” Brenda said. “Then you must have a night cabin.”
“Very astute,” the commander said. “When under way, that’s where I sleep. It’s a small bunk in the chart house—close abaft the wheelhouse. Come along, I’ll show you the wheelhouse.”
He ushered them forward into the front of the superstructure. Painted a flat white, the small room was crammed with equipment. A young seaman was polishing the brass fittings on the numerous scuttles that gave excellent visibility over the bows and to both beams. He came to rigid attention. “Your name, laddie?” Reginald said.
“Able seaman Alistair Johnson, sir,” the sailor said nervously.
“Carry on, Seaman Johnson.” The sailor returned to his polishing. Reginald gestured around the room. “Ship’s wheel, binnacle, engine room telegraph, voice pipes, telephones.”
“Is this where you keep your watch?” Brenda asked.
“No, Brenda.” Reginald stabbed a finger overhead. “Directly above is the forebridge. It’s completely exposed with unlimited visibility. OOD watches are always stood there and that is where the captain belongs when under way.” He glanced at her skirts with understanding. “I would show you, but the ladders are vertical and even more difficult than the ones you’ve already climbed.”
Walter gripped one of the huge spokes on the wooden wheel and turned to Reginald. Brenda could smell the liquor on his breath. “The wireless must give you a big advantage.”
Reginald shrugged. “You know Jerry can receive it as well as our lads. And he has direction finders—can locate a ship by listening to her transmissions. We must be very careful, and, it’s no secret, when we do use wireless, we encipher the signals.”
“But ciphers can be broken,” Brenda noted.
“Quite so. So we do most of our signaling with pendants, lights, and semaphore.” He scratched the early afternoon stubble on his chin. “And wireless isn’t dependable. The tubes and wires are delicate and even the concussion from our own guns can put our set out of commission.” He turned to Brenda. “Would you like to see our WT—wireless transmitter?”
“Thank you, Reginald. But I am tiring and. . .”
“Return already?” Walter said, piqued.
“I’m tired!”
“Of course, of course,” Walter grumbled, not trying to hide his resentment.
Silently, Reginald led his guests back to the accommodation ladder.
The next two days were happy ones for Brenda. With Walter called to the office, the women had Reginald all to themselves and like metal drawn to a magnet, the young officer managed to work his way to Brenda’s side. In fact, the last day of his stay, they spent the entire afternoon together either walking in the garden or sitting under the umbrella, watching the boys, laughing, and talking. By three in the afternoon, the boys were napping and Rebecca, Bridie, and Nicole vanished discreetly into the house.
They talked of New York incessantly. Brenda was astonished to learn Reginald had patronized her favorite restaurants: Sherry’s, Delmonico’s, the dining rooms in the Waldorf-Astoria and the St. Regis and Stanford White’s magnificent French Garden. Reginald had ridden in Central Park, enjoyed the menagerie, paddled a Venetian gondola on the lake, attended mass at St. Patrick’s and, at sixteen, had bought his mother earrings at Tiffany’s. He knew of the robber barons—Whitney, Rockefeller, Gould, Ryan, Belmont, and Morgan—and the palaces they built. He had met the Vanderbilts, the Guggenheims, the Alexanders, and many more of Brenda’s neighbors. He had been charmed by the magnificent old homes surrounding Washington Square and awed by Caruso at the Metropolitan.
“Just think, Brenda,” he said, fixing her with his eyes as blue as the sea. “We could have been in the same place at the same time.”
“Passed in the street.”
“Right. Tragic we didn’t meet, Brenda.”
She chuckled, trying to break the mood. “How long will you be in Chatham?” she asked. “Or is that a secret?” she added hastily.
He laughed. “That’s no secret,” he said. “It’ll take three or four months to put the old girl right.” He talked to the lawn. “I would like to see you again.”
She sighed. “I’m in mourning. It’s not proper. . .”
“I know. I know. But war isn’t proper either. There’s nothing proper about shells, torpedoes—”
She sat silent for a moment, mind spinning with thoughts of her dead husband. She had never truly loved Geoffry, but he had worshiped her, respected her, and she owed his memory respect in turn. Perhaps, now that he was dead, she was beginning to fall in love with his memory. Strange and grossly unfair to Geoffry, but the feelings were there; especially at night when she lay in her bed on the verge of sleep. “Please, Reginald,” was all she could manage.
“I’m sorry, Brenda. I didn’t mean to offend. I feel like a boorish cad.”
“Not really, Reginald. I would like to see you, too. It’s fun to talk with you.”
“Will you mourn for a year?”
“I’m not sure.”
“War compresses everything. Particularly life expectancies,” he said bitterly.
“Live a lifetime in a few months? Is that it, Reggie?”
“Do we. . . do I have any other choice?”
“Give me a few months, Reggie.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Yes.”
“It’s exciting when you say yes.”
Their eyes locked and the stare was hard. “I don’t very often and I don’t know if I can ever say it again.” She looked away.
“You’re the most beautiful, the most exciting woman I have ever met. You would withdraw—live in your own mausoleum to honor your dead husband? Is that what Geoffry would want?” He waved boldly at her body. “Waste all that?”
Brenda flushed, fighting the conflicting emotions charging her body with both anger and desire, revulsion and attraction. She knew the turmoil within was insane, but so was the world. How else could one react? “I cannot seek out—start a serious liaison with a man now, perhaps never.” She fixed him with eyes as cold and blue as frozen lapis. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.” There was bitterness in his voice.
Her voice softened and she placed a hand on his arm. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, Reggie.”
Looking up, he smiled. “Then we can see each other. You said in a month or two.”
“Of course.”
“You can ring me at the ship, you know.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Chatham dockyard and ask for Lancer. We have a telephone on the quarterdeck.”
“I will.”
“We can have lunch. Agreed?”
“Quite so.”
They both laughed.
They were interrupted by Rebecca, shouting and waving an open letter as she ran from the house. “Brenda, Reggie! I have a letter from Randolph. A real letter this time. Not just a field postcard.” Breathlessly, she seated herself opposite Brenda. “And it’s only a week old.” She placed a pair of half-spectacles on the bridge of her nose and began to read, “Dear Mother and Father. I am well.” Rebecca looked up, pointing at the letter. “There are some personal things to me and Walter. I’ll skip ahead.” She refocused her eyes on the single sheet. “As you know, we have been very busy here. I can’t very well tell you the details of my duty, but you know the entire front has been very active and Number Five Squadron has been very busy. I have been flying two and three patrols a day and training new chaps at the same time. The food is good and I am in excellent health. I now have seven victories. We haven’t seen hide or hair of Oswald Boelcke. His Jagdstaffel was last reported over Verdun. Please don’t worry about me. I am flying in the best machine in the RFC and I serve with the finest aviators in the world. Give my love to Brenda and kiss my nephews for me. Love, Randolph.” The old woman removed her spectacles and rubbed her moist eyes, failing in her attempts to choke back the sobs.
Brenda took her hands. “He’s well, Rebecca. He’s well.”
“Yes,” her mother-in-law said. “He was well a week ago. Perhaps by now. . .” She was unable to finish her sentence.
“He’s a fine aviator—a smart and resourceful chap, Rebecca,” Reginald said.
“And he loves to fly, Rebecca,” Brenda added.
“Yes. He loves to fly.” The old woman straggled to her feet. Slowly, she walked back to the house, clutching the letter to her breast.
VI
Armed by two hot coffees each charged with a dram of Scotch by the prescient Sergeant Major York, Major Randolph Higgins walked toward the mess hall in the early morning light. Staring to the east where the sun was breaking free of the horizon in a theatrical display of oranges and reds reflected from the silhouettes of stringy low-hanging clouds, he was gripped with a familiar mystic sense of pre-destiny, a languid melancholy, a sense of unease and disquiet. Adding to the morbidity was the rumble and bark of artillery firing “morning hate” barrages a few miles to the north. For almost four months, the battle had raged along the Somme on an eighteen-mile front and the promised breakthrough had never materialized, three full divisions of cavalry still waiting impatiently in reserve to pour through the opening that had never come. The casualties had been ghastly; over four hundred thousand British and French had fallen and the battle was not yet finished. Even the use of the new armored machine—code-named Tank—had failed to break the stalemate. The battle had proved one thing conclusively: masses of infantry could not overwhelm quick-firing field guns and well-sighted Maxims. And Lloyd was out there somewhere in the mud and slaughter. Feeling a sudden chill, the major jammed his hands down deep in the pockets of his leather flying coat and hunched forward.
Further depressing the major were thoughts of the terrible losses suffered by the RFC. The new Albatross D.1 was a powerful, formidable opponent. Equipped with the new scout, which the press rightfully called a “fighter,” the German Air Service had destroyed over four hundred Allied aircraft since the offensive began—the majority British. Rumors had given way to reports that Oswald Boelcke and his Jagdstaffel Two had ceased operations over Verdun and had been loaded on board a train bound for the Somme front. “All the brightly colored aircraft on the cars looked just like a traveling circus,” an intelligence officer had reported, giving birth to the sobriquet “flying circus.” They could appear over the Somme front at any time.
Goaded into an offensive posture by air marshal Hugh “Boom” Trenchard, the English continued penetrating deep behind the German lines with bombers and reconnaissance aircraft, exacerbating their losses. Flying regular patrols and escorting Bleriots, Caudrons, and Voisin bombers, Number Five Squadron had suffered grievously: three killed, two wounded, and one captured since June. Randolph’s stomach grew queasy and his knees weakened when he thought of taking his four new pilots—two had reported only the day before—against the new German scout. As squadron leader Higgins opened the door to the mess hall, he was in a somber mood indeed.
Randolph entered a large canvas and wood frame building with a rear door opening on the back of the farmhouse where the kitchen was located. The room was furnished with two long tables made of boards laid over sawhorses, two stoves, a sideboard stacked with liquor, and four battered easy chairs pushed into the corners. White cloths covered the tables and eleven pilots sat around sipping tea, coffee, and cocoa. Most of them were smoking, the room redolent with the smell of tobacco and liquor. Although two new pilots were in regulation RFC uniforms, the other nine flyers were dressed according to individual taste: artillery and cavalry tunics, combinaisons, naval jackets, leather flying coats. Thrown carelessly on the table was their headgear: forage caps, berets, peaks, and leather helmets. But every pilot wore the gold RFC wings embroidered on his breast. They snapped to attention as their squadron commander entered.
“Be seated, gentlemen,” he said, moving to the side of the tent where a blackboard was located. Sergeant Major York entered, handed Randolph a cup filled with thick black coffee, and left. The major observed a firm rule: No more than two drams of liquor before flying, and his batman made certain the rule was observed. This time, he sipped pure black coffee.
Higgins moved his eyes slowly over the expectant faces. New faces.
New faces replacing new faces. Always so young and growing younger. The reliable, methodical Freddie Southby’s number had come up, uselessly dying when his engine quit on takeoff, his Nieuport crashing into the attic of a farmhouse near Bailleul. And the two new subalterns, Armstrong and Cartwright, who had reported the day before his leave, were both dead, replaced by two newer, younger faces belonging to Flight Lieutenant Jarret Barton and Flight Lieutenant Edward Winter. Both were fresh out of the flying school at Oxford. “How old are you?” Randolph had asked the pair the day before as they stood at rigid attention before his desk.
Barton, a tall, muscular athletic type, had stared back unflinchingly into Randolph’s eyes and said, “Nineteen, sir.”
Winter, also tall but very slender and slightly bent like a young sapling exposed to a stiff breeze, stared above the major with moist eyes, answering in a barely audible whisper, “Eighteen, Major.”
“Good Lord,” Randolph said. “You laddies should be playing cricket and rugby, not war.”
“By your leave, sir. We left Cambridge together, volunteered together, we have a right to serve the Crown together,” Barton said.
Randolph cut him off. “How many hours do you have?”
Barton said, “Forty-four of solo time in trainers, four in Nieuport Seventeens.”
“Forty-two in trainers and six in Nieuport Seventeens,” Winter added.
Randolph sagged in his chair hopelessly. “Then you’ll die together, unless I can perform a miracle.”
Barton continued, almost as a spokesman for the pair. “We knew the risks, sir.”
Higgins slapped his desk. “Rot! You don’t know the risks, old boy. Do you know the average life of the pursuit pilot is three weeks?” The boys stiffened. “You won’t last three hours.”
“But, sir,” Barton said. “We are a product of the system, not the system.”
“Yes. Yes, I know,” Randolph said. “Don’t tell me about the system. Just listen to me.”
