Waves of Glory

by Peter Albano

  By the end of the fourth week, Randolph was able to refuse morphia except at night. He could not sleep without it. But his mind was fully alert and he was able to examine himself under the cradle. The scarring was horrifying, long, liverlike tissue, hardened in layers on his flesh like loathsome parasitic creatures that had climbed out of a bog and attached themselves to his body. His gunshot wound was almost completely recovered, but his right leg was seared and appeared withered like the branch of a tree caught by a forest fire. The splints were uncomfortable, but he knew the thick scars would contract his leg permanently without them. He had to walk—must walk—but he was not even capable of standing.

  His mother, Brenda, and Bernice were at the hospital every day. Walter stopped in frequently and smuggled in occasional bottles of Johnnie Walker. One afternoon Brenda and Reginald Hargreaves, who was wearing captain’s stripes, spent nearly an hour with him. Brenda was radiantly beautiful that afternoon, and when Kimberly Piper entered the room, for the first time the nurse’s beauty seemed second-rate and Randolph realized all women suffered when Brenda was nearby. The major sensed there was something between Reginald and Brenda. He felt a terrible loss of something he had never possessed and was depressed for two days.

  Then Lloyd stopped in with Brenda’s brother, Hugh Ashcroft, whom he had not seen since Brenda and Geoffry’s wedding. Lloyd appeared very thin and old. He was also bitter over the army’s refusal to even watch a demonstration of some new infiltration tactics he was advocating and defense in depths that he considered essential. “Bull-headed sods. Bunch of bloody Haigs still fighting the Indian wars,” he had grumbled, standing over the bed. He smiled in his sudden, unexpected manner. “You killed the butcher Bruno Hollweg. You can add the DSO to your Military Cross, and you may be up for the Victoria Cross.”

  “And a court-martial.”

  “Court-martial?”

  “Yes. I killed some Krauts in a most ungentlemanly fashion—had the Geneva Conventions thrown in my teeth by some ‘dugout king’ named Liam Townshend.”

  Lloyd snorted. “Hah! I’ve heard that nonsense, too. Kill them any way you can before they kill our chaps—that’s what I tell my lads.”

  Randolph punched the rim of the cradle. “I beat him, Lloyd. Man to man. It was a personal thing. And they ambushed me.”

  “The bloody swine,” Lloyd growled. “I heard. Hartley Carter wrote Mother.”

  There was a long silence. Randolph decided to turn the conversation away from the painful memories. Self-consciously, he turned to Hugh. “Good to see you, Hugh. It’s been a long time.”

  “Five years,” the American answered. “It was at Brenda and Geoffry’s wedding.”

  “You’re an attaché?”

  “Yes, but Lloyd has been kind enough to find me a billet at Chigwell. I’ve been studying training techniques.” He fingered his chin. “You know, the American army has never employed such large masses of troops as the Western Front requires.”

  “You talk as if you expect to be there.”

  Hugh and Lloyd exchanged a look. Hugh continued. “You know about unrestricted submarine warfare?”

  Randolph shook his head.

  Hugh said, “Germany declared unrestricted submarine warfare two months ago. They’ve sunk hundreds of ships including neutrals.”

  “What month is this?”

  “March. The end of March. Just last week, three American ships were sunk. There have been war parades in Philadelphia and Chicago.”

  Lloyd interrupted. “You’ve heard of the Zimmermann telegram, Randolph?” Randolph shook his head again. “Been round the bend, brother.”

  Lloyd continued. “Zimmermann is Germany’s foreign secretary. Zimmermann sent a telegram to Heinrich von Eckhardt, the German ambassador in Mexico City, instructing the ambassador to assure the Mexicans that in the event of a war between Germany and the United States, Germany would assist Mexico in reconquering lost territory.”

  Hugh broke in. “Only Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona, is all. The proposal was not received with enthusiasm in Washington. Congress is in an evil mood and has severed diplomatic relations with Germany. It looks like the U.S. will be in this soon.”

  “Less than a month,” Lloyd hazarded.

  Randolph said to his brother, “Your training billet—do you like it?”

  Lloyd and Hugh exchanged a knowing look. “I’ve requested transfer back to the Coldstreams. Something’s brewing at Arras.”

  With new clarity in his head, Randolph remembered something he had heard in December. “I thought Nivelle was going to end this whole bloody lot.”

  Lloyd laughed and Hugh smiled. Lloyd suddenly became grim. “That buffoon will kill another million Frenchmen and a fair lot of our lads.”

  “I heard about different tactics—his ‘method.’ He did well at Verdun?”

  “Did well? Do you know what this so-called method of his is all about?” Randolph shook his head and looked at his brother expectantly. “Well, I assure you the Heinies know. Twice, with small forces on small fronts he made limited attacks using no more than nine divisions. The attacks were successful only because the Frogs had superior artillery on those narrow fronts and their rolling barrages worked. Now he’s convinced the politicians, including Lloyd George, he can make it work on a grand scale—seize the gun line with a renewed spirit of élan.”

  “Two to three thousand yards behind the German lines,” Randolph said.

  “Quite right, brother. And to make things worse, the Krauts have pulled back into their Hindenburg line.”

  “I heard of it. Saw aerial photographs of some of the blockhouses.”

  “Tough fortifications on the reverse slopes where they belong. They’ve pulled their whole army out of the Somme salient and retreated some places twenty miles. The Western Front has never seen fortifications like these. Nivelle is exactly what they want. His method can’t work against superior artillery and the Germans have it. He was lucky at Verdun. Another bloody massacre.”

  “Why do the politicians keep picking these incompetents?” Hugh asked.

  The Englishmen exchanged a glance and Lloyd answered. “Nivelle is half English, has a nice smile, and he’s Protestant.”

  Hugh blurted in astonishment, “Protestant! What in the world can religion have to do with picking your commander-in-chief?”

  Both Englishmen snorted humorlessly. Lloyd said to the American, “Everything. Republican politicians don’t trust Catholics—won’t allow a Catholic general to take command, and they have some officers who aren’t as incompetent as Nivelle—Fayolle, de Castelnau, and d’Esperey are all Catholics and the Republicans have turned thumbs down on the lot.”

  “My God,” Hugh breathed. “Sounds like the Middle Ages.”

  “You don’t know the French mind,” Randolph said. “Most of them are still back in the nineteenth century wallowing in Napoleon’s glory.” He moved his eyes to Lloyd. “You don’t want to miss the show, brother?”

  “I want to be with my lads. You can understand that, Randolph. Haig is jealous and has plans to upstage Nivelle at Arras—that’s the latrine rumor.” Lloyd shuffled his feet restlessly and spoke to the floor. “I say, brother, when you see Bernice I would appreciate discretion on your part. She doesn’t know about my request for a change in posting.”

  Randolph smiled knowingly. “Of course, Lloyd. I’m always the model of discretion, you know that.” And then his demeanor changed and he cried out angrily, punching the cradle, “Dash it all, I’m chained to this bloody bed.”

  “It’s time, gentlemen,” Nurse Piper said from the door.

  There was a shaking of hands and promises to return, and the officers left.

  A few days later Brenda visited the hospital and for the first time she was able to spend some time with Randolph alone. He had been moved to a private room. It was tiny but had two large windows
where burn patients could take the sun. Although scarring was visible on his neck and she knew that most of the rest of his body was badly marked, he was vastly improved and in high spirits. “Brenda,” he announced proudly, “I can walk.” He gestured at a pair of crutches leaning against the wall. “My splints are off and I went to the bathroom all by myself just like a big boy.”

  She leaned over him and kissed him on the forehead. She felt his hand on her arm and he pulled her closer. Gently, she pulled away. “What’s wrong, Brenda? Afraid I’ll ravish you here and now?”

  The American laughed. “I can see you’re feeling much better, Randolph.”

  “You’re serious about Reginald?” he said suddenly with new seriousness.

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll marry him?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “We haven’t set a date. But it will be after June.” Feeling uncomfortable, she changed the subject, telling him of her new place in Belgravia, her new servants, her cockney butler McHugh. She glowed when she described Nathan and Rodney’s latest antics.

  “And Nicole?” he asked shyly. “How is she?”

  Brenda averted her eyes. “Fine. Fine. But she received word her uncle vanished at Verdun.”

  “Vanished?”

  “His whole regiment disappeared during a bombardment last November. Not a trace.”

  There was a rustle behind her and Brenda caught the scent of jasmine and hyacinth. Without a word to Brenda, Kimberly Piper moved to Randolph’s far side and beamed down at him. “Taking your liquids like a good lad,” she said, smiling. “We have the tube, you know.”

  “Quite right—gallons, nurse.” Eyes on the nurse’s face, he gulped down a full glass of water.

  Brenda chuckled inwardly. When a man was injured and helpless, he inevitably reverted back to some of the attitudes of childhood when as a sick child he was ministered to by his mother. Perhaps it was because the wounded were usually tended by women. Flat on his back and dependent on others for his most basic physical needs, he accepted orders and admonishments that he would have rejected as unthinkable if he were well and on his feet. Commands to “eat it all” and to “drink it all” were heard constantly and the vocabulary was that of childhood: “good boy”; “good lad”; “big boy” were heard most often.

  Brenda turned her attention to the nurse. She had not even acknowledged Brenda’s presence and was usually gruff and brief when she did speak. And when the QA looked at Randolph it was with a warm glow that far exceeded professionalism—a look that women reserve for men who attract them. Although she was attractive in her own right, she was unmarried and with most of the eligible men in uniform, probably very lonely. And Brenda had seen hostility glimmer in Kimberly’s eyes whenever she looked her way.

  The nurse raised the blanket and peered under the cradle. “Much better,” she said. She applied some salve and Randolph squirmed uncomfortably. “Soon, we’ll go out in the garden. Would you like that?” The timbre of the voice struck Brenda as odd indeed. Soft and warm like a lover arranging a tryst.

  “It’s a date,” Randolph said. “And then dancing at the Savoy.”

  Kimberly laughed like a schoolgirl. “But none of that new American jazz. It’s too hard on me.”

  “Just waltzes,” Randolph assured her. The nurse made a few notes on a clipboard hanging at the foot of the bed and left. As she walked through the door, she almost bumped into an RFC captain.

  “Leefe! Leefe Hendon,” Randolph cried as the officer walked to his bedside. They grasped hands. “You made captain.”

  “Right, sir, and it’s good to see you,” the captain said with an inflection that Brenda guessed hinted of the western United States or Canada.

  Randolph gestured at Brenda and introduced the Canadian. Brenda looked into a unique face—the visage of a young, innocent boy on a man. His black eyes were nervous, edgy, and disturbing. She guessed he could be a ruthless killer or a violent lover. Randolph confirmed his talents as a killer.

  “I heard you have nineteen kills.”

  “Twenty-two, Major.”

  The two men stared at each other with the same intimate bond she had sensed on Lancer when Reginald introduced her to his officers. Again, she had the feelings of an outsider looking in on a man’s private world she could never know. She felt pangs of anger and frustration and oddly, envy.

  “They ambushed me, Leefe,” Randolph said grimly. “Two of the bloody gentlemen chivalrously tried to murder me after I scragged Hollweg.”

  “I know, sir. I was there.”

  “You were there?”

  Hendon’s smile had the look of a schoolboy confessing a transgression. “McDonald and I were above you—above everyone. Just to be sure Hollweg remembered to be a gentleman.”

  “You chased off the two Albatrosses?”

  Hendon chuckled. “One of the sods became my sixteenth kill. McDonald cashed in the other for his twentieth.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “Why do you think they didn’t jump you when you sideslipped out of that cloud? You were still at least two hundred feet above the ground and you were cold meat. But by then both of the Krauts were on their way to Valhalla.”

  “I was a stupid sod. Stupid,” Randolph spat bitterly.

  “We thought you’d gone west for sure, Major,” Hendon said. There was a silence and then the men spoke of Number Five Squadron, of kills and casualties. Their voices were soft and warm as if they were talking of family. Brenda learned that two flyers named Hollingsworth and Hemmings had been killed and that the Scotsman named Angus McDonald commanded. McDonald had killed twenty-seven Germans. The Jastas were still superior with their new Albatross D.3s, but new Allied fighters were appearing in greater numbers and beginning to turn the tide: the French with their new Spad 7s and 13s; Sopwith with its new triplane and great new F.1 humpback fighter dubbed the Camel; and, of course, the S.E.5a. “With these new fighters, we’ll give the Boche a real go, Major,” the Canadian said.

  “Who took command of Jasta Boelcke?”

  “Hauptmann Stephan Kirmaier,” Hendon said.

  “Yes, I’ve heard of him. Hartley Carter mentioned him in one of his letters.” And then with anxiety, he said, “Have you been mixing it with them?”

  “No, Major. Not Richthofen either. Both Jastas are operating to the north of us.”

  The major nodded and Brenda saw his face relax. “You’re on leave?” Randolph asked.

  “Not really, Major. I’m testing the new S.E.5a.”

  A confused look crossed Randolph’s face. “Why you—a front line pilot?”

  “Because it’s nothing but a copy of the S.E.5 you modified.” Both men laughed. “They’ve upped the horsepower to two-twenty-five and added a Lewis gun on a Foster mount.”

  “Kept the Vickers?”

  “Yes, sir. Two guns and every improvement you made. It’s a great machine—an Albatross killer.”

  Randolph nodded his approval and twisted restlessly, his face a mask of frustration. He wanted to return. Brenda was sure of it.

  Hendon’s voice became solemn. “You’re looking well, sir. But I hear you’re out of it.”

  “A few burns—stiff leg and all that rot. Should be fit shortly.”

  “Chop, chop,” the Canadian said, imitating Randolph’s voice. They both laughed raucously.

  Brenda spoke with disbelief. “Randolph, you can’t plan on returning. My God, you can’t even walk. How can you fly?”

  The major came up off his pillow, moist eyes blazing. “I will, by God. I will.” He sank back and an embarrassed silence filled the tiny room.

  Brenda was confused. So many men tried desperately to shirk military service. She had heard of malingering “lead swingers,” C3s, SIWs (self-inflicted wounds), conscientious objectors, château generals, and even “
dugout kings” who Lloyd said were high-ranking officers who never showed their heads aboveground from the moment they entered a position until relieved and it was time to leave. Yet Lloyd, with what appeared to be shell shock, and Reginald and Randolph, with terrible wounds, seemed determined to return to the carnage. It was in their eyes—she had seen it many times, a faraway look that spoke of another land few could ever visit, that was horrible beyond description but irresistible. She had even seen a hint of it in her brother. Why are the men I love so anxious to get themselves killed? she thought in bewilderment.

  Randolph’s voice broke the silence and her thoughts. He asked Brenda calmly, “You didn’t bring Reginald?”

  Brenda welcomed the turn in conversation. “He’s at the admiralty.”

  “He’s in planning—right?”

  “Yes,” she said, looking down on the face that suddenly appeared dear and precious to her. The big, strong, handsome man was so thin and drawn. She had an impulse to take him in her arms and hold him close as she would Rodney or Nathan. Instead, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. She felt his hand on the back of her head. “I’ve got to leave,” she said.

  “Be back tomorrow?”

  “I’ll try. Maybe with Bernice and your mother.”

  “Give my best to Reginald,” he said softly. “He must be very busy.”

  “Yes,” she acknowledged. “He’s very busy.” She brushed her lips gently across his warm forehead, took her leave of Leefe Hendon, and left.

  Operations Room Two was filled with a score of uniforms and the deep sounds of men in earnest conversation. Most of the uniforms were the blue of the Royal Navy. However, seated on the podium with an admiral and two commodores, Reginald recognized Brigadier General Humphrey Covington—a staff officer and old friend who had been promoted from colonel the previous year. The admiral was Sir Alexander Middleton, a planner and liaison officer, who spent as much time with the army’s general staff as he did at the admiralty. Reginald had seen the commodores at the admiralty and had attended meetings with them but was not personally acquainted with either. He knew that Middleton and the two commodores were all veterans of the colonial wars and the war in South Africa. They were Victorian men over sixty years of age and all were proud of service on sailing vessels in their youths. All were too old for sea duty, and Reginald was convinced none of them appreciated the killing power and efficiency of the war machines of the new industrial age.