by Peter Albano
“What do you mean, love?”
“I mean you’ve applied for a transfer back to the front—haven’t you?” Lloyd’s eyes moved to Reginald and then to Hugh. “Oh, no one had to tell me. It’s written all over you, Lloyd. You turned down a promotion to brigadier general, didn’t you? You turned it down because it would take you back from the lines to safe billets.”
The colonel studied his glass. “A man must do what he believes is right, and it’s not right that those inept château generals should be murdering my chaps.”
“Is it right for a man to make a widow of his wife and leave two children fatherless?”
Lloyd’s face flushed and his lips thinned into a flat slash. “You’d better become accustomed to the idea, Bernice. I’ll be gone in a fortnight.”
“No! No!” She stood, hand covering her mouth, and ran from the room.
Silently, the guests came to their feet and left.
An hour later, Brenda was snuggled against Reginald on a plump sofa in his study. Besides passion, there was warmth and security to be found in his arms. Sipping her Benedictine, her mind was filled with images of Bernice’s anguished face. “He’s going back,” she said. “I can’t understand him.”
Reginald drank and said, “I can.”
Brenda felt a cold shudder of fear. “You can? You want to return, too?”
He flexed the fingers of his impaired hand and stared at the table. “The doctors will decide that, Brenda.”
Her voice was flat and dead. “But you do want to return?”
He pondered his pony for a brief moment. “No one—absolutely no one wants to risk his neck, love. But”—he shrugged—”but, on the other hand, a man can’t let the other chaps down.”
“That’s what fuels it, Reggie—keeps it going,” she said in a hard voice.
“Perhaps, Brenda. You’ve very perceptive and we both saw that in Lloyd.” He toyed with his drink, sloshing the thick liquid back and forth in the tiny glass. There was tension in his voice. “There’s something about your other brother-in-law—Randolph.”
She drained her glass. “What about Randolph?”
“You still see him every day.”
“Yes. Without fail.”
“He loves you, you know.”
Shocked by the statement, she was wordless for a moment. Then she sighed deeply and said, “He’s never expressed it to me, Reggie.”
“He has to me—every time he looks at you.” He recharged her glass.
“Perhaps you’re right, darling, and perhaps you’re misreading him. I just don’t know.” Drinking, she stared at him over her glass and felt a twinge of anger. Could he be jealous? Jealousy, the foulest, basest human emotion? The timbre of her voice hardened. “I love Randolph and he’s important to me. I’ll continue to see him as long as he needs me, so don’t ask me to stop seeing him.”
He looked up, obviously startled by the tone and the words. “Good Lord, I wouldn’t ask that. I know the poor chap needs you—your company, attention, I mean. Remember, I’ve known him longer than you and I love him, too.” He chuckled. “I’m not jealous, Brenda—really.”
Sighing and soothed by his words, she finished her drink and tabled it. Quickly, she circled his neck with her arms. “I love you, Reggie—love you. There’s no one else—could never be.” The kiss was wet and passionate. She pulled him down on the couch. “Let’s marry,” she breathed into his lips.
He pulled back. “When, darling? When?”
“Two weeks. The middle of June. We’ll find a nice chapel—a quiet ceremony.”
“The day after tomorrow I’ve got to make a trip to Scapa Flow for a fortnight or more. I’ve got to see Admiral Beatty about some changes in plans.” He pursed his lips. “End of June, darling.”
“Can’t the war wait?”
He laughed. “After Scapa Flow we’ll make the whole world wait.” He kissed the pulse in her neck and whispered in her ear, “Can you drop me at Victoria Thursday morning—you’re the only family I’ve got.”
“Yes. Yes,” she whispered. “Of course I will.”
“I love the way you say yes.”
Sighing happily, she pulled him down and clamped her mouth over his.
The next day, just before noon, McHugh pulled the Reo town car up to the curbstone in front of the Queen Victoria Hospital. Brenda walked quickly to Randolph’s room but found it empty. “’E’s in the garden, mum,” a young, white-clad orderly volunteered from the door. After thanking the young man, Brenda walked out of the back of the hospital onto the vast grounds of Hyde Park.
Once a hunting preserve for Henry VIII and later a fashionable resort for Charles I, the vast sylvan grounds interspersed with lakes and stands of trees reminded the American of New York’s Central Park and the grounds of some of the old antebellum plantations she had seen in the Deep South. The British love of flowers was everywhere; beds of azaleas, roses, and a dozen other varieties showing their early spring colors. And white-clad wounded men were as abundant as the flowers. Some were in wheelchairs, others hobbled about on crutches—many on one leg—and others stood erect and walked unaided. All were tended by nurses, orderlies, or friends and relatives.
Walking down the dozen stairs of the enormous porch that ran the width of the huge building, Brenda began her search. She walked through groups and clusters, searched the faces of passing patients to no avail. About to give up in frustration, she finally found Randolph. Actually, she saw Kimberly Piper’s shock of brown hair with its precariously perched white hat first and then Randolph’s tall, thin figure. With the nurse’s hand on the flyer’s elbow, the couple was walking along the shore of a long, crescent-shaped lake. Brenda wove through the crowd.
Up close the wounded were even more heartbreaking. Most were very young. Some were missing limbs, others hobbled on canes, and still others stared straight ahead with dead eyes as they were wheeled about in chairs. Most wore bandages. Some, blinded, had white gauze wrapped around their sightless eyes. Brenda shuddered when she thought of the terrible wounds that must be concealed under the layers of gauze.
“Randolph! Randolph!” she shouted, overtaking the couple.
“Brenda,” he said, turning with surprising ease and smiling. Although his leg was still heavily bandaged and his neck deeply scarred, Brenda was pleased to see the broad shoulders square and proud again, the smile showing hints of the old confidence.
“Oh, Mrs. Higgins,” Kimberly Piper said, her voice a sheet of ice, eyeing the American from head to toe. “Nice to see you. You don’t miss a day, do you?” she added. She turned to Randolph. “If Mrs. Higgins can look after you, I’ll return to the ward. We have some new patients and I have reports to do on my typing machine.”
“Thank you,” Brenda said coldly. “I’m sure I’m capable of looking after the major.”
“I’m sure you are,” the nurse said, whirling on her heel and disappearing into the crowd.
Brenda took Randolph’s arm and they began to walk along the shores of the lake. He gestured at the water. “The Serpentine. Shelley’s wife drowned herself here.” He chuckled, obviously in high spirits. “We British love our traditions.” He waved to a small rise where a huge statue was visible. “Over there in the center of the park, a twenty-foot statue of Achilles, cast from melted guns captured in some of Wellington’s greatest victories. A tribute to him put there at the expense of the women of Britain.” He laughed uproariously. She looked at him quizzically. “Well, dear Brenda, the statue is a nude—a gigantic nude and, daresay, the assembled ladies were shocked, indeed, at the unveiling.” He laughed again and quickened his pace. She noticed he walked with only a slight limp. Now she could account for his high spirits. His recovery had been almost miraculous.
“You’re doing very well, Randolph,” she said, genuinely impressed.
“Do you think so, Brenda?” he said like
a little boy looking for approval.
“Well, you’ll be riding to the hounds in a fortnight,” she said in her best imitation of an English accent.
He laughed again.
A voice behind them stopped the pair. “Major Higgins!” They turned and faced Doctor Henniker. “Better return to the ward. Time for lunch and I don’t want you to exhaust yourself. You’ve been out here for over an hour.”
“I feel fine, Doctor.” Randolph nodded at Brenda. “My sister-in-law just arrived and I’d like to visit and all that.”
“Therapy after lunch. You know that. Your new schedule.”
Randolph’s face fell and then brightened. “Then can I leave the grounds tomorrow?” He turned to Brenda. “Take me to lunch—at Scott’s.”
Brenda glanced at Henniker and spoke hesitantly. “Why yes, if it’s all right with the doctor.”
Henniker tapped his temple thoughtfully, then said to Brenda, “You can motor him there?”
Brenda glanced at Randolph and the expression on his face reminded her of Rodney’s expression when he begged for another sweetmeat. “Yes. I have an automobile.”
Henniker beamed at Randolph. “Very well, Major. If you’re a good boy and return by fourteen hundred hours.”
Randolph turned to Brenda in an exuberant mood. “Sound your horn at noon and the walls will come tumbling down.” Everyone laughed.
The next morning, Brenda saw Reginald off at Victoria Station. The huge, dark barnlike structure was a bedlam. A half dozen trains lined up, hissing their steam like old dragons, filling the air with the smell of burning coal and oil. Uniformed men and their women everywhere, wives, mothers, sons, fathers, lovers. Men and women clinging together, the men boarding the trains, the women turning their backs and walking away alone, shoulders shaking, handkerchiefs clutched to their faces. And men were crying too. Young privates, grizzled NCOs. And those returning on leave were dirty, unshaved, and exhausted. Most had rifles slung across their shoulders, puttees and field shoes caked with mud, service caps crumpled and askew, all marked with regimental badges—ravens, horses, stars, lions, triangles, and circles with red numbers—the King’s Own Leicester-shires, the Black Watch, the Humberside Fusiliers, and a dozen others. Mingling, milling, striding in bewildering swirls of Tommy serge and khaki, streaming to the Red Cross canteen for tea and coffee and sweet cakes. Many clutched their women furiously in happiness as they clung to them, and those women losing their men stared at them enviously. It was a terrible, depressing scene and Brenda wished she could turn her eyes away from it. But there was no refuge except in Reginald’s arms.
And she found herself there, holding him close when they reached the door of his carriage in the press of sobbing, laughing, shouting humanity. With his arms around her, she felt a great sense of relief—almost a smug confidence in the knowledge her man was safe; at least temporarily. He spoke softly into her ear. “End of June. You have an appointment, darling.”
“One I’ll never miss.” She was interrupted by the high-pitched shriek of the engine whistle and Reginald broke away and entered the compartment jammed with officers.
“I’ll write you.” The train gave a violent jerk and he staggered. “A fortnight, darling.” The train began to move.
“I love you, Reggie.”
“I love you.”
She stood on the platform and waved, suddenly terribly alone as the train roared and chugged its way out of the station and the carriages clattered past. As the engine puffed and shrieked and the last carriage left the station, she slowly worked her way through the crowd until she reached a newspaper kiosk at the entrance where groups of people were standing and talking in excited voices. She bought a copy of The Times from a stack that was delivered just as she arrived at the kiosk. With the paper under her arm, she walked to the curb, where McHugh waited with a hand on the door of the Reo town car.
“The hospital, Wendell,” she said as he closed the door behind her. As McHugh pulled from the curb, Brenda opened the paper. One glance sufficed to explain the excitement back at the kiosk. The paper was filled with news of devastating Hun air raids on the east coast towns of Shorncliffe and Folkestone. Shocked, Brenda read the horrifying news. Squadrons of new bombers called “Gotha” had killed and injured hundreds of people. Brenda shuddered, then looked up from the paper as McHugh wheeled the big Reo town car to the curb in front of the hospital.
Randolph was waiting on the broad walk in front of the building. He was dressed splendidly in his RFC uniform: brown shirt, black tie, brown tunic, Sam Browne belt, fine gray wool trousers, and brown boots. Even the gold embroidered cloth wings, RFC emblem, and crown on his left breast glistened in the noon sun. In fact, when he stepped into the passengers’ compartment, Brenda could smell Brasso, Kiwi Polish, and Soldier’s Friend. He was very thin, his skin was pasty white, and a brilliant red scar extended up the right side of his neck all the way to his lower jaw like a layer of liver. He was still in high spirits.
“Scott’s,” Brenda said to McHugh, pulling the partition aside as Randolph slammed the door.
“Yes, mum,” the chauffeur answered. “Mayfair.”
“Right,” Randolph said. “Twenty Mount Street.” Brenda closed the partition and sat back. She showed him the paper.
“Bloody butchers,” he growled, scanning the headlines. “Gothas. Deadly machines. I’ve heard of them. A much better weapon than the Zeppelin. Twin-engined, three-man crews, a thousand pounds of bombs.” He pounded his fist into an open palm. “London’s next.”
“But there are guns and airplanes to protect London.”
“I know, Brenda. But I heard the Gotha has a ceiling of over twenty thousand feet. If that’s true, the interceptors will have a deuce of a time attacking them.’
Brenda sighed and sagged back, her mind filled with thoughts of her boys. She could only say, “Oh, Lord.”
Randolph took her hand. “Come, sister-in-law. Let’s not let those nasty Jerries ruin this day—my first day of freedom.”
Brenda came erect and she smiled brightly despite an empty, sick feeling deep inside. “Of course, Randolph. This is a special day.”
Randolph continued. “Tomorrow, Mother is taking me to Piccadilly and, perhaps, the day after, I’ll be discharged from the hospital.”
“Oh, wonderful, Randolph.”
Driving east on Oxford Street, they left Hyde Park behind and then turned south on Bond Street. Randolph stared out of his window hungrily, like a young boy on an outing. There were few cars and only occasional small groups of uniformed men were clustered on the walks—especially around the fashionable shops and clubs—but not nearly the numbers to be found in Piccadilly and the Burlington Arcade. He waved at a group of fine buildings. “The Temple,” he announced. He answered the confused look on Brenda’s face. “Since the Middle Ages solicitors and barristers have congregated here.”
“You mean lawyers?”
“Of course.” He waved at a luxurious building. “Lincoln’s Inn and down the street, Gray’s Inn—havens for the purveyors of the law.” He gestured again, “And their homes.”
“Yes. I’ve been here with Bernice. It’s lovely.” Brenda stared up at terraces where huge, elegant houses of brown and gray brick with white trim were built in rows. To Brenda, they seemed to glower down on the outsider like haughty old dowagers.
Staring down Bond Street, Randolph noted, “Not many automobiles.”
“Petrol shortage.”
“The blasted U-boats.”
Brenda nodded. “Yes. I’ve heard there’s only a six-week supply of food in the country and less of petrol.”
“And you Yanks expect to transport your army through that lot.”
Brenda shuddered. “Yes. There’s talk of giant convoys escorted by warships.”
“Long overdue,” he muttered. He changed the subject abruptly, “You’re in love w
ith Reginald?”
“Yes. I told you already,” she said uneasily.
“You’ll marry him?”
“Next month. I want you to come.”
He sighed. “I’ll try.” For a long moment only the chug-chug of the engine and the sounds of tires on flagstone pavement could be heard. “He’ll return to sea?”
Brenda felt an anxious tightening of her stomach. “That’s what he wants. He’s at Scapa Flow now meeting with Admiral Beatty. I took him to Victoria Station this morning.”
“Beatty, that flamboyant ass. What’s Reginald doing up there?”
“It’s all very hush-hush, Randolph. Some secret project Reginald’s working on.”
“And he hopes to get a seagoing command out of it.”
“I think they’re tied together,” she conceded grimly. “But he must get a medical okay.”
They pulled to the curb suddenly and McHugh pulled the glass partition aside. “’Ere we are, mum,” he said out of the side of his mouth.
Randolph opened the door and helped Brenda from the town car.
There were very few uniforms in Scott’s. The opulent decor exuded luxury; red velvet drapes, watered silk wallpaper, gold filigree, plush chairs, fine linen and china, sparkling silver service. Most of the patrons were prosperous-looking middle-aged men who talked in loud voices and smoked expensive cigars. Many were accompanied by young women richly dressed in furs, silks, high heels—painted and perfumed. Their laughter was loud and shrill and could grate on one’s nerves. Brenda saw anger gleam in Randolph’s eyes whenever he glanced at the other patrons.
Brenda soon found that even the fashionable Scott’s was suffering from shortages. In fact, lunch was a plain meal of roast beef, potatoes, and a sparse green salad. Fortunately, Graves was in abundant supply and after a few glasses, Brenda found the plain food much more palatable and Randolph’s happy mood returned. After dessert of petits fours with a dash of anemic vanilla ice cream, Brenda sank back, toying with her drink, rolling her cognac around the bottom of a huge crystal snifter. Gothas were on her mind, but she avoided them. “You want to fly again,” she said.
