Waves of Glory

by Peter Albano

  “Quite right. Let me know about the lad.” He turned and left.

  Like so many mysterious children’s illnesses, Nathan’s colic came on suddenly with a high fever and vanished just as quickly. By Friday he was enjoying his rousing games in the garden with his brother and the servants. Even Wendell McHugh and the old grounds man, Touhy Brockman, enjoyed playing with the two “nippers.” Brenda was happy; her boys were healthy and she would see Reginald Saturday night.

  Because Reginald had closed his place on Wellington Road and had dismissed all of his servants except a grounds keeper, he was at the wheel of his Stevens-Duryea touring phaeton when he picked Brenda up. “The Ritz,” he said, helping her up onto the running board. “Have you ever been there?”

  “Why yes. With Bernice once. It’s beautiful.”

  “Marvelous cuisine,” he said.

  “Well, let’s shove off, Captain,” she said blithely.

  “Anchor’s aweigh.” He laughed, putting the big machine into gear.

  The dining room was magnificent with fine linens, expensive silverware, and tuxedoed waiters. Brenda noticed that all of the waiters were elderly and the service was somewhat slow. However, the meal was excellent despite a menu bare of exotic seafood dishes and a wine list missing many of the old glamorous wines Brenda had expected to find in all of the better restaurants. The U-boat blockade was beginning to take its toll.

  After a remarkable dessert of orange Cote d’azur, they were both sipping their second Grand Marnier when Reginald said with tight lips and a hard jaw, “I’ve been posted at the admiralty. Planning—dash it all.”

  “Oh, wonderful,” Brenda said, feeling a sudden happiness despite his obvious frustration.

  He snorted and drank. “Perhaps.” He tried to drum the table with the injured fingers of his left hand, gave up in frustration, and pounded his knuckles instead. “Pochhammer has taken command of Lancer at my recommendation. He’s a good man. I saw to his third stripe.”

  “Of course. I remember him. A fine, intelligent gentleman,” she said. “Then you’ll open your place on Wellington Road?”

  “Quite right. It’s only a short drive to Whitehall.”

  “Your duties, Reggie. Can you speak of them?”

  He toyed with his glass. “Hush, hush and all that bit, of course. But I can tell you this, I’m working on a pet project of mine I proposed in ‘fifteen.” He rubbed his head as if in sudden pain and spoke bitterly. “If that ass Watts and his lackeys had listened to me then, Destroyer Squadron Four would still be afloat and those chaps of mine. . .”

  “Please, Reggie.” She reached across the table and took his hand. It was thin, but the grip was strong.

  He smiled into her eyes. “Of course, darling. No shop talk.” He glanced at his watch. “We’d better hurry. Curtain’s going up on your great adventure at the Palace Music Hall.”

  “Right-oh, your nibs,” she said, imitating a cockney.

  He laughed heartily as he came to his feet. “This way, ham shank.”

  “Ham shank?”

  “Why yes, ducks. That’s cockney for Yank.”

  Hand in hand they left the dining room.

  The Palace was located only a short drive from the Ritz at Charing Cross Road and Shaftsbury Avenue. Seating themselves in a private box to the left of the stage with the largest proscenium arch Brenda had ever seen, the young American looked over an enormous rectangular auditorium, jammed with nearly two thousand noisy, boisterous fans. Most of the men were in uniform and liquor was being served and drunk in large quantities.

  The program began with the blare of a brassy band playing a familiar beat to the wild cheers of the crowd. “Ragtime,” Reginald said into Brenda’s ear. “Imported from the States, you know. It’s popular in the music halls.”

  The great curtains parted and the show began. First came the Canadian Maud Allan with her sensual “Dance of Salome.” As the petite woman swayed sinuously across the stage, the crowd cheered itself hoarse. Then Albert Chevalier sang his uproarious street-monger songs, the crowd joining in with “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay” during the refrain of his final number.

  Then in quick succession came Little Tech, a deformed dwarf who played the clown and the buffoon—pathetically to Brenda, uproariously funny to the crowd; Marie Lloyd singing her risqué song “Johnnie Jones” and delighting the crowd with her blue humor that made Brenda blush; George Robey, who mastered the audience with his jokes, pantomime, and feigned tantrums at misplaced laughter; Harry Lauder with his sophisticated humor, sentimental songs, and sketches.

  There were many more, the best in music hall, ending with the famous Vesta Tilley dressed in her immaculate Edwardian man’s suit, imitating a man to perfection with her walk, voice, mannerisms, gestures, and singing her songs to rapturous cheers and often to the accompaniment of the audience. The effect was continuous noise from the stage, orchestra pit, and auditorium.

  Finally the curtain rang down and the enormous crowd—a mob to Brenda—stood as one and cheered until all of the performers trooped back on stage to bow to the audience, to the orchestra, and to each other. Brenda felt Reginald’s hand on hers. “Time to leave, my dear, or we’ll get caught in the crowd.” Brenda grasped his hand as she rose.

  “A nightcap?” he asked, leading her to the door. “There’s a delightful lounge nearby at the Ritz.”

  Brenda looked at his tired, thin face and the new lines racked there by pain. The control had eroded three nights ago in the entry of her home and her desire was stronger than ever. She could not understand her feelings but could not deny them. “Your place, Reggie,” she said, locking his eyes with hers.

  He swallowed hard and his lips twisted into a line Brenda had never seen before. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Reginald’s house was typically Victorian: a large, dark three-story with crowded downstairs kitchen, workrooms, and servants’ quarters; billiards room, study, and drawing room on the second floor; bedrooms, bath, study, and a combination smoking and gun room on the third floor. Without a staff, the house was deserted and most of the furniture was covered. Reginald ushered Brenda into his study, a large room lined with bookcases and comfortably furnished with two luxurious sofas, a huge walnut desk, and several chairs. All were uncovered and Reginald obviously favored this room. The American sighed and sank into the red velvet of one of the sofas. She realized she was very tired.

  “Benedictine?” he asked, moving to a sideboard. She nodded. In a moment he sank down beside her and handed her the liqueur.

  She touched his pony with hers. “To your new posting.”

  His smile was noncommittal. “Right-oh. May the Admiralty listen to Commander Reginald Hargreaves’s limitless wisdom,” he joked, touching her glass.

  They sipped the sweet, fiery liquid and tabled their drinks. Then she found her way into his arms as if they had been made to embrace her. She felt her passion flow as his open mouth covered hers and she felt herself pushed back onto the cushions of the sofa. He was above her and it was right. His hands moved over her body and his weight pushed her deep into the sofa. The heat was back and she sighed and whispered his name into his ear, into his kisses. She felt him pull her dress up and her knees began to part.

  Suddenly he stopped, sat up, and pounded his temple with a clenched fist. “What’s wrong, Reggie? What is it?” She came erect.

  He stared at his glass. “There are some things about me—some terrible things you don’t know.”

  The American was stunned. “Terrible? Are you married?”

  He laughed. “No, it’s not that.”

  “Then what?”

  He refilled his glass and spat out the words as if he had bitten rotten fruit. “My wounds.”

  Brenda stared at the anguished face silently, her mind filled with thoughts of the horrifying wounds she had heard about. Was it
his manhood? But it could not be that. She had felt his arousal pressed against her in the entry of her own home. Perhaps he was sterile. Shrapnel could do that easily enough. She could not bring herself to ask the question. He answered it for her.

  He stared at the table with a grim look setting the muscles of his jaw in tight bunches. “When I was hit, I was standing on the bridge.” He drank and seemed to be talking to the Persian rug under his feet. “Two shells hit us almost simultaneously. Shrapnel—a blizzard of shrapnel tore through the windscreen, ripped me open from neck to here.” He struck his thigh. “Went right past me, caught my poor pilot full in the face and neck. Killed my lookout, wounded my signalmen. Left me ripped and bleeding. I didn’t know how bad it was; anyway, Lancer was in mortal danger. I had to refuse attention.” He lifted his wide, moist eyes to her. “We had so many wounded—injured far more seriously than I. But I lost blood. Finally passed out. The ship’s surgeon and Pochhammer saved my life. The surgeon had to sew me up to stop the bleeding and then at Canterbury they had to rip it all out—infections and some internal injuries and all that.” He emptied the glass but did not refill it. “Then they sewed me up again.”

  “I know, Reggie. I know about the wounds.”

  “But you don’t know about the scars,” he said thickly. “I’m a hideous crazy quilt of rough welts and crevices like the Western Front had been fought and charted on my body.”

  She kissed his cheek, his neck. “Is that it? Is that what has been holding you back from me?”

  “Yes.” He grasped her hand. “I want you, Brenda, more than anything I have ever wanted in my life. I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you and you know it.” He turned away. “But the thought—the vision of seeing you turn away from me in revulsion—in disgust. . .”

  She silenced him with her lips. He kissed her back and held her very close. She began to unbutton his tunic. He pulled away. “Please,” she pleaded. She felt him sag and tremble like a disciplined child. She helped him pull the jacket from his shoulders and arms and then dropped it on a chair.

  “All right,” he said, standing. In a moment his chest was bare. In the dim light the scars were jagged and rough red welts, most in horizontal lines that showed the path of the shrapnel as it had ripped through him. The stitching was still visible. But there were other lines, too, running haphazardly as if Jack the Ripper had made one of his insane attacks. He moved closer to the light and it was clear the impact of red-hot jagged metal and the closing and reopening of the wounds had caused thick scars to form in red ridges and purple hollows, rough like twisted cords, and in some places, still showing small scabs.

  She stood. Ran her hands over the muscles of his neck, shoulders, arms, and then she caressed his chest. “You are one of the most attractive men I have ever met, Reggie.”

  “You feel sorry for me.”

  “No!” she retorted sharply. “No.” She kissed his neck, his shoulder, then his chest, and the wounds. She felt strangely aroused by the scars and she suddenly had the notion the touch of her lips could heal—not only heal his body, but also wash his mind clean of the pain. If this be love, then so be it, ran through her mind.

  She felt him shaking and his breath was hot and short as passion overwhelmed restraint, his hands suddenly pulling the straps of her dress and teddy down over her shoulders and caressing her swollen breasts, toying with her nipples. Then his mouth clamped over her breast and he tongued the nipple and areola frantically, tingling sensations like electric current racing low and deep, causing her to twist and gasp. Trembling hands fumbled with her dress, pushing it down as she moved her hips from side to side and it slid to the floor. Then in a quick movement, she pulled her teddy loose and let the garment fall to the floor with the forgotten dress. She was nude except for her stockings and shoes. He stepped back, eyeing her from head to toe. “My God. You’re magnificent.”

  “And so are you,” she said, pressing her pointed breasts against his chest and rubbing them against the scars. He led her to the bedroom.

  Dawn’s light softened by heavy curtains brought her to wakefulness. Resting on his outflung arm, her forehead was against his cheek. His breath was slow and heavy as he slept off the fatiguing effects of their frenzied lovemaking. She could feel the stubble of new growth on his cheek and she rubbed against it gently. Tenderly, her hand explored the scars on his chest, grooves and ridges where hair would never grow again. Pressing her body against his, she was filled with an ineffable joy and she wanted to make love to him again.

  She had never known a night like this. Unlike Geoffry, Reginald knew her body and its special needs thoroughly and he ministered to them with skill and loving patience, taking her again and again, but only after he had brought her with caresses and kisses to the verge of crying out “Now! Now!” The first time he lowered himself between her knees and she took him in her hand and guided him, it had been so long for her, the stretching and filling brought her a slight discomfort, but it was immediately washed away by waves of sensations that left her mindless and whimpering and she rode his thrusts like the branch of a tree whipped back and forth by a storm, their suppressions exploding quickly, leaving them both weak.

  The last time had been early in the morning when they were both tired yet still hungry. It had been the best. Slow. Deliberate. And she held him trapped deep within her with her arms and legs for a very long time, bending her knees and meeting his onslaught with her upthrusting hips, gasping into his mouth, which was clamped over hers, dueling his tongue, feeling his heart pound with hers, blending with him as she engulfed him until even their thoughts seemed to merge and they cried together at the last ecstatic second, “I love you. I love you.” And then, even after the shuddering and spasms had ended, she would not release him and they fell into deep sleep still locked together.

  He stirred and yawned. He turned toward her and pushed her onto her back, his hand moving down over her abdomen. “Please, Reggie,” she said, turning. “I’ve got to go home. My brother and Barry are in Chigwell, but I must be there when the children awake. I always have breakfast with them.”

  “All right,” he said, sighing. “But I love you, Brenda.” He kissed her. “And you love me?”

  She sighed. “Yes, Reggie. After last night I want to be with you forever. Yes. Yes.”

  “We’ll marry.”

  She bit her lip then kissed his eyes, his nose, his lips. “I don’t know. It hasn’t been a year, darling.”

  He pushed himself up on an elbow. “Appearances?”

  “No, Reggie, you know me better than that. I owe it to Geoffry.”

  He ran a hand over her breast, then downward, dipping it at her small waist and then to a trim hip and buttock. “We can marry in June. It’ll be a year.”

  She nodded. “Yes. Let me think about it—I need time, Reggie.”

  He rolled to his back and cradled his head in his hands, disturbed by a new thought. “No. No. It’s not cricket.”

  “Not cricket? Not fair?”

  “Yes, Brenda. You’re a widow once,” he said grimly. “I could make you a widow twice over.” He turned toward her. “It’s not fair to you.”

  She kissed him. “We’ll both think about it, dear Reginald.”

  He kissed her gently and turned toward the window. “It’s dawn,” he said with a new, hard tone. He sat up and stared at the light, which had become harsh as the sun began to creep up over the horizon. “This is the worst moment for the Dover patrol. They’re at morning action stations. The U-boats and torpedo boats like to attack out of the sun. It’s almost impossible to see torpedo tracks in the glare of the sun off the sea.” He came to his feet and pulled the drapes open a crack. The light slashed in like the blade of a sword. “And on the Western Front the morning hate barrages are starting.” She stood next to him and stared at the light. He continued, “And the dawn patrols are taking off.” He turned to her, eyes gleaming s
trangely. “Randolph is up there somewhere.” He waved to the east. “Up there somewhere on his bloody hunt.”

  She shuddered and reached for her clothes.

  X

  The raucous voices carried through the canvas walls of Number Five Squadron’s mess hall all the way to Major Randolph Higgins’s small office in the farmhouse. Uncomfortable and warm in his flight kit, he sipped his coffee and thumbed through sheaves of reports, listening to the words he knew by heart:

  When you soar into the air on a Nieuport scout,

  And you’re scrapping with a Hun and your gun cuts out,

  Well, you stuff down your nose ‘til your plugs fall out

  ‘Cos you haven’t got a hope in the morning.

  For a batman woke me from my bed;

  I’d had a thick night and a very sore head,

  And I said to myself, to myself I said,

  Oh, we haven’t got a hope in the morning!

  Despite the mournful lyrics, Randolph did not wonder at the boisterousness of the voices of the eleven pilots waiting for him for the morning briefing. Today, they would take to the air in their new fighter, the S.E.5. They were enthused and eager to scrap with the Albatross D.2. And perhaps the celebrants had consumed more liquor than coffee despite standing orders and the early hour.

  Every man had liquor stored in his billet, none more than he. In fact, he had found it necessary to brace up with a few extra nips now and again. And at night, sleep would no longer come without first downing a half dozen toddies. God knows, losses had been heavy and the Albatross D.2 was a devilish fighter that was faster and far more durable than the Nieuport 17. But Number Five Squadron finally had its new equipment, too; the third RFC squadron equipped with the new S.E.5 scout plane. Number 109 Squadron and Number Ninety-seven Squadron had gone into action with the new machine three weeks earlier.

  The pride of the Royal Aircraft Factory, the S.E.5 was a superb fighting machine. Square and squat with very little streamlining, it was strongly built and durable with a single Lewis gun on a Foster mount above its top wing. Small like the Nieuport 17, it weighed seven hundred pounds more, had forty more horsepower, and was the easiest plane Randolph had ever flown and the steadiest gun platform. At two thousand pounds, it was as heavy as the Albatross D.2; however, its wingspan was three feet shorter. With its short span and light wing loading, it was very maneuverable and could turn inside the German fighter. Powered with the new 150-horsepower Hispano-Suiza V-8 engine, it had a top speed of 110 miles an hour and a fraction of the torque of a rotary-powered fighter. Nevertheless, when Randolph first flew the new airplane, he was not satisfied, convinced it was under-powered. He wanted more speed and a ceiling higher than the S.E.5’s seventeen thousand feet—a greater altitude that would take his squadron above the Albatross D.2.’s service ceiling of eighteen thousand feet.