by Peter Albano
“Thank you. I’m not politically minded, unless you can do something to stop the insanity in France.” She pushed against his chest and opened a gap.
He sighed and eased his grip slightly. “I know, Mrs. Higgins, the conduct of the generals”—he nodded toward Haig’s group—”has been ah—unimaginative. My attitude is no secret. I’ve been quoted in the papers.”
“Their conduct has been stupid, Mister Prime Minister. Men like my brother-in-law are the true experts.
“I am committed to the prosecution of the war, but I can assure you, Mrs. Higgins, I have plans to control the generals—plans which cannot be discussed here and now, but if you care to visit me in my private conference room. . .” He tightened his grip.
She pushed against his chest and, strangely, felt more amused than angry. “No!” she said into his face, baring her perfect white teeth in a rictus of determination. “Take me back, now, Mister Prime Minister, or I’ll make a scene.” He smiled into her eyes, but his grip was unrelenting. “It’ll cost you votes,” she said loudly in a sarcastic voice. The grip eased and he led her back to Bernice and Lloyd.
“She’s the Hindenburg Line,” Lloyd scoffed and then laughed raucously. Even Bernice giggled. David Lloyd George whiffed and lost himself in the crowd.
“Colonel Higgins,” resounded in a cultured, dulcet voice that sounded as if it belonged on the stage of the Royal Shakespeare Company. “Good to see you again.” Brenda saw a smiling, handsome man approaching, hand extended to her brother-in-law, who grasped it eagerly and smiled for the first time that evening.
Lloyd turned to Brenda. “Brenda Higgins, I would like to present Winston Churchill to you—an old friend, comrade-in-arms, and member of Parliament.” He nodded at Bernice. “You know my wife, Bernice.”
“Good to see you again, Mrs. Higgins.” Forty-two years of age, Winston Churchill appeared much younger. His hair was chestnut, skin clear, his strong features molded to the classic line of his Anglo-Saxon lineage with thick heavy brows almost meeting over a straight nose. But Brenda was most impressed by his voice and the strength evident in the set of his bulldog jaw and penetrating eyes—a look that hinted at a gift of prescience. He reminded her of Teddy Roosevelt, but Churchill was much more handsome. “You are Geoffry’s widow, Mrs. Higgins,” Churchill said, picking his words carefully like a man selecting ripe plums.
Brenda acknowledged the statement with an affirmative nod.
“He was a fine officer.” Churchill raised a snifter of cognac, Lloyd followed suit with his glass, and the women saluted with champagne. Everyone found a chair.
“You’re an American,” Churchill said, sinking back into velvet brocade and fixing Brenda with his amazing eyes.
“Yes, Mister Churchill. I grew up in New York City.”
The MP smiled. “My mother was American, you know, Mrs. Higgins. She was born in Brooklyn.” He turned to Lloyd. “Terrible business on the Somme.”
“It’s got to be stopped, Winston.” Lloyd said to Brenda, “Winston knows—he served on the Western Front with the Second Grenadier Guards and the Sixth Royal Scots Fusiliers.” There was respect in the voice Brenda had not heard for the entire evening. “In fact, we attended Sandhurst together, served together in India in the Thirty-first Punjab Infantry, and in Africa in the Twenty-first Lancers. Daresay, got into a bit of a bind together in Omdurman and Khartoum—right, Winnie?” Their laughter was that of old comrades.
Churchill said to Brenda, “I served on the front after that business in the Dardanelles. The whole nasty lot was my idea.”
Lloyd leaned forward with an intensity that belied the amount of liquor he had consumed. “Not your fault, Winston. It was a good idea. The bloody navy loaded the ships backwards—everyone knows that.”
“Backwards?” Brenda asked.
“Yes,” Lloyd said. “What was needed first on the beaches was put aboard first—in the bottoms of the holds.” He took another drink. “Stupid! Stupid! And the admiralty cut short the bombardment of the Turkish forts just as the bloody Turks were running out of ammunition, were ready to capitulate.”
“I appreciate your defense,” Churchill said. “But it was my idea and regardless of the reason, the failure was mine.”
“It was grand strategy these idiots”—the colonel waved a glass, spilling a few drops—”were incapable of understanding. And they’ll waste tanks, too.”
“They already have,” Churchill said bitterly. He nodded to a group of women seated across the dance floor. “I’d better be leaving. I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting my wife, Clementine.”
He rose, shook hands all around, and left.
“A brilliant mind,” Brenda said.
“Too good for this bunch of stupid sods,” Lloyd growled. “The only capable leader we have and now he’s out of it because of the bloody navy.”
“Maybe he’ll get another chance,” Brenda said.
“Not in this century,” Lloyd answered bitterly.
Brenda felt the large quantity of champagne she had consumed begin to lurch and bubble on the floor of her stomach and the warm atmosphere and hanging clouds of smoke suddenly became unbearable. And there were thoughts of the great men she had met and the fools most of them had been. The thought that her husband and hundreds of thousands of others had been sacrificed by these vainglorious men brought a wrenching anger and despair to add to the upset caused by the liquor. “Let’s leave,” she said huskily.
Lloyd smiled. “Yes. We’ll leave. Maybe none of us belong here.” He came to his feet and Bernice took his arm.
Brenda’s words came from a growing anger and her voice was heard by a wide circle as she addressed her brother-in-law. “If these are England’s leaders, Lloyd, God help us, because we’re due for one disaster after another.”
Lloyd laughed raucously and rocked on his heel. More curious faces turned. “You’re very perceptive, sister-in-law. We need you in politics—the general staff.” There was true admiration in his voice.
Bernice took Lloyd’s arm and led him toward the door. Brenda followed, her mind whirling. They killed Geoffry, wounded Reginald, and they’ve broken Lloyd. What have they done to Randolph? Dear Randolph, don’t let them kill you, too.
She caught her breath and followed Bernice and Lloyd out into the cool evening air.
A week later, Brenda felt better about Reginald’s condition. The operation to stop the internal bleeding had been successful and the commander was recovering. But recuperation was slow and his confinement would be long. Each day she held him, kissed him, or, if he were asleep, sat and looked at his dear, sweet face—so boyish and innocent despite new lines etched there by suffering. She felt joy in knowing he was alive and when awake, he smiled with love in his eyes. When he held her she felt the warmth she had known when they had danced pressed against each other in their last night together at the Savoy. Away from him, she felt that terrible void, the incompleteness all women without men suffer. Did she love him? Or did she just need a man—the same hunger she knew when she first entered womanhood? And what was love? What was this undefinable, elusive stranger everyone sought so frantically and when finally within grasp, slipped through one’s fingers like wisps of London fog?
The daily visits were trying, but she found respite in her garden with her children and in the company of her servants and friends. December was drawing to a close after a dismal Christmas when on an unusually sunny afternoon she joined Bernice and Lloyd in her garden, sipping afternoon tea and watching Rodney and Nathan playing with Bernice and Lloyd’s children, fourteen-year-old Trevor and nine-year-old Bonnie.
Tall and gangling and as yet unable to adapt to his rapid growth, Trevor was a fair duplicate of his father. Already, the straight back and square shoulders gave the youngster a military bearing and his voice had dropped to a brittle baritone reminiscent of his father’s. Although Bonnie was on the tall sid
e like her father, her yellow hair and green eyes and exquisite features spoke of her mother. And she loved to play the mother—as all little girls do—chasing Rodney and cuddling Nathan like a live doll. She was even allowed to feed the baby his sieved vegetables under the watchful eyes of the women. Trevor disdained the childish games, preferring to sit next to his father and listen to the adult conversation.
His father was irritable; his mother elated. Informed that he was temporarily posted to a training command at Chigwell—a small town eleven miles north of London—Lloyd was obviously upset and Brenda suspected he felt his place was with the Coldstreams, who were due to leave the rest camp at Chantilly and return to the front at the end of January. Everyone knew—presumably the Germans, too—that Nivelle was planning a last great spring offensive that would end the war. Was it possible Lloyd could not tolerate the thought of missing this “show”? Even after the bloodbath on the Somme? While Lloyd sulked and drank his Scotch, Bernice sat quietly wrapped in her own veil of euphoria.
In the middle of the afternoon, Wendell McHugh, the only cockney butler in the city of London serving the haut monde, approached his mistress. The old Irishman never looked comfortable in his livery and he was perspiring as he spoke. “There’s a brace o’ orf’cers to see missus.” He gestured to the porch where two American officers were descending the stair. One was a captain and the other a lieutenant. The captain was Brenda’s brother, Hugh.
Brenda was out of her chair and in her brother’s arms in seconds. Sobbing, she managed, “I didn’t know! I didn’t know. Why didn’t you write—let me know you were coming?”
She looked up into the smiling face. Now twenty-nine years old, Hugh Ashcroft had matured into a ruggedly handsome soldier. His eyes were bluer, hair darker, shoulders broader, and his waist looked smaller, pulled in severely by his Sam Browne belt. “I did write—I did write, sister,” he said, over and over. “Maybe the U-boats. . .”
She stepped back. “Or my father-in-law. None of my mail has been forwarded.”
Hugh gestured at the young lieutenant standing behind him. “Lieutenant Barry Cooper, my aide.”
Of average height, Cooper had thick black hair that poked out in tufts from under his rakishly angled cap. His youthful grin seemed to veneer the face of a much older man—a reckless man waiting for the chance to burst out. Gray-green and narrow, his eyes had the hawkish tilt and the hungry look of an experienced hunter. He was obviously a man who attracted women with little effort.
Brenda made introductions all around and Hugh explained that he and Barry were officially attachés to the American Embassy. However, their unofficial duty was to observe the Western Front and write detailed reports for the army general staff.
Brenda shuddered. “The Western Front?”
“Of course, sister, that’s our business.”
“Perhaps I can be of some assistance,” Lloyd offered.
“You wouldn’t go into the front lines,” Brenda asked before Hugh could respond to Lloyd.
The officers laughed. Hugh answered, “Of course not, sister. We would be neutrals, probably attached to some divisional staff.”
Lloyd’s eyes sparkled and his grin was friendly. “That’s safe, Brenda. I can assure you.”
Nicole and Wendell McHugh, responding to a wave from Brenda, interrupted, placing tea, coffee, and liquor on the large round table. “’Ere’s your drinks, your lordships,” McHugh said, serving drinks to the men while Nicole poured tea for the women. Hugh and Barry eyed the butler curiously while Brenda and Bernice hid their smiles with their palms.
Brenda questioned her brother about home. Sipping his bourbon, Hugh assured his sister that their father and mother, John and Ellen, were in good health and business was prospering. Their sister, Betty, was engaged to an Italian barber named Alfredo Carpelli and John and Ellen were horrified. Nevertheless, the strong-headed Betty insisted on the match. John had threatened to disown her.
“But if they love each other, what else can matter, Hugh?” Brenda said. “This world needs love more than anything else.”
The captain eyed his sister with narrowed lips as if he were seeing her in a new light. He appeared puzzled but spoke firmly. “Our parents consider him far below our station.”
“Do you?” There was an embarrassed silence, all eyes moving to the American captain.
“Yes. I’ve met him. She can do better.” Tactfully, Hugh changed the subject to more news—grim news. An old friend and business associate of their father’s, Troy Richardson, had drowned on the Lusitania along with over 1,100 other innocent people. He had been making a business trip to England when the ship was sunk by a U-boat. Brenda remembered the handsome, courtly man who had been such a passionate companion when she was a young girl. Now he was just another cadaver, a product of the madness gripping the entire world.
Lloyd interrupted, adroitly moving the conversation further away from the Italian, asking Hugh for an opinion on the newly reelected president, Woodrow Wilson. Hugh thought for a moment and offered diplomatically, “He’s a good man, trying to do his best.”
“But he’s not as neutral now as he was in ‘fourteen,” Lloyd said. He surprised everyone by quoting the American president’s words in a recent speech. “’We are holding off, not because we do not feel concerned, but because when we exert the force of this nation we want to know what we are exerting it for. . .’” Lloyd lighted a Woodbine and offered them around. Brenda was thankful when Hugh and Barry refused.
Hugh said to Lloyd, “You do know the man. I’m sure he’s considering intervention. After all, Lloyd, that’s why I’m here.”
“No!” Brenda cried, feeling panic rise. “That can’t be true. He’s tried to mediate—has talked to the Germans and the Allies. He has even proposed a number of points to be observed by all belligerents, who are to stop fighting with no victors and no losers. There are thirteen or fourteen of these points—and they’re reasonable. It’s been reported in The Times—all the major papers.”
Lloyd exhaled a huge cloud of smoke. “Never work,” he said. “Too much pride—too much hate and there are still some Englishmen who haven’t been killed yet.” He took another puff. “Nivelle may take care of that minor item with his grand new offensive.”
Hugh and Barry exchanged a quizzical look. Barry said, “We’ve heard of rumors of the offensive, too.”
Lloyd laughed bitterly. “Who hasn’t? Nivelle has publicly stated he is going to crush Boches like a mallet cracking walnuts. Next, he’ll send a telegram to the kaiser.”
Barry Cooper tossed off his whiskey and an alert McHugh recharged the lieutenant’s glass with a smiling, “Your drink, guv’nor.”
Cooper spoke thoughtfully to Lloyd. “There’s one thing that would end American neutrality, Colonel.”
“The U-boats,” Lloyd answered promptly.
Both American officers nodded agreement. “Yes,” Barry Cooper said with unusual confidence for one so young and in the company of superior officers. “I’m convinced unrestricted submarine warfare would pull America in. Wilson is pledged to defend the freedom of the seas.”
Brenda felt her heart sink. “But the U-boats are restricted—respect neutral shipping,” she pleaded.
“The Hun respects nothing,” Lloyd growled. He emptied his glass and McHugh swooped over it with a full decanter. “I’ll lay my bit on unrestricted warfare within two months.” There was a solemn silence.
Hugh broke the silence. “Your brother, Captain Randolph Higgins, he’s made quite a name for himself, Colonel.”
Lloyd straightened, and there was pride in his voice. “Squadron commander—twenty-nine kills. He’s third behind Albert Ball and Billy Bishop.”
“Love to meet him,” Hugh said.
“Little chance, brother. He refuses his leaves,” Brenda said. Hugh turned to his sister in surprise. Brenda answered his unspoken question. “He ha
s some kind of vendetta going with a German squadron commander. . .”
Lloyd said to Hugh, “The butcher Bruno Hollweg. He took over Boelcke’s Jagdstaffel Two.”
“A personal duel?” Barry Cooper said. “Like something out of the Middle Ages.”
Lloyd nodded agreement. “Randolph’s that way. But it’s a big sky. Chances are they’ll never meet.”
Brenda felt a sudden chill prickle her neck and run to her fingertips. “Oh, I hope you’re right, Lloyd. Hollweg’s Germany’s greatest flyer. He’s killed so many. Over fifty, they say.” She swallowed some hot tea, which suddenly felt very warm and comforting. It was time to change the subject. She looked at her brother. “Hugh, can you and Barry stay with me? I have seventeen rooms and we’re only using eight of them.” Brenda saw Nicole stiffen and throw a familiar sidelong glance at Barry Cooper. The lieutenant glanced back and the French girl fumbled a teacup as if it were charged with electricity.
Hugh looked inquisitively at Barry, who smiled his acquiescence. “We’d be delighted, sister,” Hugh said. Brenda smiled. Barry smiled. And Nicole licked her lips.
A week later, on the fourth day of 1917, Brenda was filled with joy when Reginald was discharged from the hospital. His strength had returned with amazing speed, but he was badly scarred over his entire torso and the upper thigh of his right leg. His left arm was weak and he carried it at a slightly bent angle with the thumb and first two fingers turned in clawlike. He assured everyone exercises would restore the arm and hand and he would be ready for sea shortly.
However, his psyche was injured, too. Brenda noticed a subtle attitude change. Although he still eyed the American with love and desire, there was a reluctance—almost a barrier that caused a stiffening, a withdrawal when Brenda took his hand, kissed him, or offered any other form of close contact. In fact, after a prolonged kiss at the end of her last visit to the hospital, Brenda was convinced she had seen fear glimmering in the distant, midnight blue eyes. The American was disturbed and depressed as McHugh drove her home.
