by Peter Albano
Following Lloyd and Bernice, Randolph entered his father’s old study. It was unchanged. Everything was just as Walter had left it on the day he died. A male sanctuary, no expense had been spared to make it one of the most richly furnished rooms in the house. It boasted paneled walls lined with glass-doored bookcases, hardwood floors covered with layered rugs, and rows of sporting prints hanging on the walls or, in the Victorian tradition, resting on the shelves of the bookcases. Dominating the room was a ponderous serpentine writing desk still laden with Walter’s racks of carved pipes, empty tobacco tins, and ash receivers. Close by on a Regency carved walnut sideboard were cut crystal decanters filled with liquors. Despite the lavish furniture, the showpiece of the room was a magnificent eighteenth-century Carlin long-cased clock, veneered with tulipwood and ebony, and box and banded with purple-wood. Clicking softly but regally in a corner, the timepiece showed sidereal time with a green hand and the date could be found in a panel below the center. Even the signs of the zodiac were shown, painted in gold leaf around the dial. Topping the elaborate mechanism like a king’s crown was a spectacular gold gilt group of Apollo driving his chariot.
Moving to the sideboard, Lloyd poured stiff drinks of scotch for Randolph and himself and a glass of Bordeaux for Bernice. He handed the drinks to Randolph and Bernice who seated themselves on a plump sofa facing the desk. Lloyd took the chair behind the desk. He sank back, sighing, and held up his drink. “To us, brother, together again,” he said, staring warmly at Randolph. The trio drank.
Randolph held up his glass. “May we settle the hash of the ‘Frog of the Pontine Marshes’ and ‘the Austrian paperhanger’ soon—chop, chop.”
Lloyd and Bernice chuckled and shouted “Hear! Hear!” at the acrimonious sobriquets assigned to Benito Mussolini and Adolph Hitler by the British press. They all drank.
Bernice turned to Randolph. “I got a letter from Brenda.” She held up two sheets of paper neatly lettered in ink.
Feeling a slight warmth on his cheeks, Randolph sipped his drink. He was sure both Lloyd and Bernice were aware of the strong feelings—the powerful attraction—that existed between Brenda and himself. The years had taught him such things were impossible to hide even when platonic. He managed a casual, “Really. Any news?”
Sipping her wine, Bernice glanced at the letter, telling Randolph of Rodney’s return to New York, of Betty and her daughter, Marsha, who lived with Brenda.
“Betty married that worthless ‘Eytie’ barber—Dominic, ah. . .”
“That’s right—Borelli.”
“By Jove,” Lloyd interrupted. “It amazes me that that lad Rodney was in on the kill of the Bismarck, Stout fellow. Could’ve sat on his backside on the beach instead of risking his neck. Always knew he had backbone. Blast it, wished I’d been here when he stayed the weekend.”
Bernice looked at her husband. “He’s a big, strapping, brilliant fellow, Lloyd. He was a big star in that insane game Americans call football. He told us all about Bismarck—the sinking, the whole lot.”
Randolph nodded agreement. “You’re quite right about American football. It’s played by homicidal maniacs who leave their brains in their lockers. But Rodney was a tough little nipper. Remember the brawls he had with Trevor and Nathan? Sometimes both at the same time. Made a mess of the garden, smashed their toys. Horrified Mother and amused Father.” The brothers drank and chuckled at their memories of long ago.
The pair fell silent as Bernice read on, telling Randolph of their niece Regina and about her entrapment in the Warsaw ghetto with her husband Josef Lipiski and baby Rose.
“Beastly rumors out of Poland.” Randolph drummed his armrest.
“Relocations,” Bernice offered.
“Worse,” Randolph said. “Murder. Mass murder.”
“I can’t believe that. After all, the Germans are human beings.”
“Are they, sister-in-law? My Polish pilots have told me otherwise. Some of them get letters smuggled out through the Balkans and into Turkey. They claim there have been wholesale executions.”
“No!” Bernice cried in disbelief, covering her mouth with her hand.
“I say, brother,” Lloyd interrupted. “I have no love for the Jerries, but the Afrika Korps has always observed the Geneva Conventions—treated our chaps humanely when they’ve captured them—fed them, tended their wounds.”
Randolph said to his brother, “Hitler’s virulently anti-Semitic and Rommel is cut from a different cloth. Rommel’s an aristocrat, Hitler’s a common guttersnipe—capable of anything, and you know it.”
Bernice shuddered. “I hope you’re wrong, Randolph.”
The flyer eyed his sister-in-law over his glass. “1 hope I am, too.’’ He emptied his glass with a quick toss of his head. Stepping to the sideboard, he recharged his glass and did the same for his brother’s. Returning to his seat, he discreetly changed the subject, asking about Lloyd and Bernice’s children, Trevor and Bonnie.
“Trevor’s stationed at Portsmouth. He thinks he’ll pull destroyer duty. He’s gotten himself involved with a Wren,” Bernice said.
“Serious?” Randolph glanced at Lloyd.
Lloyd shrugged and turned his palms up. “I’ve never seen her.” He turned to his wife. “You’ve met her, love.”
Bernice nodded. “Several times. She’s sweet and seems to love Trevor.”
“Bonnie?” Randolph asked. “Still a nurse at Chatham and still going with that useless Blake Boggs?”
“You’re too harsh on the lad,” Bernice said, smiling at Randolph’s obvious over protectiveness of his beloved niece. “And, yes, she’s still at the naval hospital at Chatham.”
“She can do better than Boggs,” Randolph said. “Much better.”
There was a low cough. Dorset was standing at the door. “Sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Higgins. But Andre has a minor crisis in the kitchen. May I impose on you.”
“Of course,” Bernice said, smiling. Turning to Randolph, she said, “He’s making a special dish in honor of your return and I promised to confer with him.”
Randolph laughed. “A major campaign?”
“Right.” She placed her glass on the sideboard and left.
The brothers refilled their glasses and sagged back in silence. They were alone, finding an intimacy that only brothers can know—a commonality of mood and thought reserved for men of the same womb who had been close for a lifetime and loved and respected each other very deeply.
Thoughtfully, Lloyd lit a cigarette. Randolph remembered the rancid odor of the Goldflakes and Abdullahs his brother used to smoke and was thankful to notice the green Lucky Strike label on the package. Lloyd exhaled a huge cloud of blue smoke and toyed with his drink.
Randolph broke the silence, “It’s been a tough go in Africa, Lloyd?”
“Dash it all, we bloody well put the wind up them and botched it,” the brigadier fumed bitterly. He took a long drink and stared at his brother over his glass. “Do you know that Graziani had a quarter-million troops in Libya and Egypt?” Randolph raised an eyebrow. “And O’Connor boffed his arse with thirty thousand. That was the entire Western Desert Force—the whole lot.’’ He refilled his glass and poured another for Randolph. He slammed his fist into an open palm. “We had them, brother. Captured a hundred eighty thousand of them. They were finished. All of North Africa was ours for the taking and then Wavell gutted our army and sent our best lads to bloody disaster in Greece and Crete.” He pulled on the cigarette like a thirsty man gulping water.
“It was the War Cabinet—Anthony Eden, Alan Brooke. . .”
Lloyd waved a hand in irritation. “No, Randolph. Wavell made the decision. He was the commander-in-chief, Middle East. CT Connor and I fought him, but he was CIC. He must have been daft.” He gulped half of his drink in two swallows. “Then Rommel came in with his corps—the Fifth Light and the Fifteenth Panzer, both equipped with the
Panzer Three tank. The Panzer Three is faster than our Matildas, outguns them with its fifty-millimeter gun against the Matilda’s two-pounder. And they’re bloody tough. At Halfaya Pass I personally hit one with three two-pounders before it blew up.” He pulled on the Lucky Strike hungrily, spoke through the exhaling smoke, “And their eighty-eights!” He slapped his forehead hopelessly, stubbed out his cigarette, and lighted another.
“I know about them, Lloyd. I’ve come under fire from them over the continent. It’s a vicious ack-ack gun.”
Lloyd narrowed his lids. “Well, let me tell you this, brother, it’s the best antitank gun in the world. I’ve seen it open our Matildas like tins of bully beef at a mile. It fires a twenty-pound shell at three thousand feet per second with unbelievable accuracy and fifteen to twenty rounds a minute.’’ He tossed off the remainder of his drink and refilled his glass. He continued, voice heavy with bitterness, “In just one month, Rommel swept away everything we had accomplished in our entire campaign, drove us all the way back into Egypt. Captured General O’Connor and most of his staff. The only thing that stopped him was the lack of supplies.” He tapped the desk with his knuckles. “I got back to Egypt with four tanks and mine was damaged.”
Randolph rotated his glass slowly, watching the amber liquid swirl gently to the lip of the glass. He spoke thoughtfully, clipping each word as if his lips were scissors, “You insist on leading your brigade.”
“Quite right. I’m in the lead tank with my command pennant flapping from the WT antenna.”
“For the whole world to see?”
“Quite.”
“You’ve turned down major-general. You could have your own division, Lloyd.”
The brigadier smiled wryly. “And command from the rear from a safe dugout. Is that what you mean?” He shook his head. “If I’m to send men to their deaths, the least I can do is lead them there.” He tapped ashes from the end of his cigarette and stared hard at his brother. “Randolph, you bloody well don’t have room to get on my wick. Don’t you think I know you begged and bullied your way into your command. You could be a colonel with a safe billet at Group.” He chuckled. “You must be the oldest fighter pilot in the history of aviation, yet, you fly at the head of your squadron. Well, I’ll bloody well lead my lads, too.”
Randolph laughed with his brother. They were too much alike. Neither could mislead the other and Lloyd had him backed into a corner. He escaped to a new topic. “Rommel’s got a nest of Aussies to contend with at Tobruk.”
Lloyd nodded. “Tough buggers. The Ninth Aussie Division and other Dominion troops. Over thirty thousand. Trapped.”
“That many?”
“Afraid so.”
“Any chance to relieve them?”
Lloyd shrugged his shoulders. “We need a lot of reinforcements. Armor with bigger guns straightaway. That’s why Auk sent me.”
“‘Auk’—you mean John Auchinleck the new CIC?”
Lloyd nodded. “Quite. Wavell got the boot all the way to India, you know.”
“Auk’s a good man?’
“Quite so. We want the new American M-Three tank—the Yanks call it the General Grant. It has a seventy-five-millimeter gun, good armor, and can do twenty-six miles an hour.”
“Can you get them?”
Lloyd drank deeply, pulled on his cigarette, and exhaled slowly. “We signed contracts for them in 1940, but I haven’t the foggiest. That’s really why I’m here.” He gestured at the door. “You know I don’t tell the Missus everything. I have appointments with Viscount Alan Brooke, Anthony Eden, and in a week the PM.”
“Churchill. Good! He’ll listen. He gave me my squadron.”
Lloyd tapped the desk restively. “It’s not Winnie, it’s his advisers—the War Cabinet. They’re bloody stupid. If they want to win this bloody bash, they’ve got to stop the endless twaddle and give us the men and equipment.”
“What about our new Crusaders and Valentines?”
Lloyd shook his head hopelessly. “Still too slow, too light, and armed with two-pounders. We need the Grant and I hear the Yanks have a superb new tank in their M-4 Sherman.” He tapped the desk and licked his lips. “Love to get my hands on a brigade—just a brigade.” He sighed. “I’d settle Rommel’s hash—send him to bed with the bedouins.”
“What about the Arab? Whose side is he on?”
“His own.”
“I don’t understand.”
Cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, Lloyd refilled both glasses and sank back in the chair. He took another deep drink before answering, words flowing swiftly but slightly slurred. “You’ve got to understand this, brother, the Arab has absolutely no honor, no integrity. He’s the most corrupt human being on earth. It’s a point of honor to lie and cheat—do anything to best someone—anyone. They bully the weak and run like jackals from the strong. The only thing that they honor is baksheesh—bribery. For two bob an Arab’11 sell you his soul and then double deal with your enemy. They steal from us—from our dead and Axis dead. I shot two of them stripping the rotting corpse of a Tommy at Sidi Suleiman.” He smiled like a man recalling the delights of a love affair. “I put half a belt of three-oh-three ball into them. One of the most satisfying experiences of my life.” He eyed his brother. “Enough of the Western Desert and those creatures, how goes it with you, brother?”
With the liquor spreading through him like warm fingers, Randolph began to feel a pleasant glow. He spoke slowly, “I have a fine squadron.”
“Bad show yesterday?”
The glow vanished. “Lost two fine lads.”
“To Kochling’s Jagdstaffel. Major Erich Kochling.”
Randolph was stunned. “How did you know?”
“I’ve heard of him for over a year and Bernice found out yesterday when she heard from the Air Ministry after you were shot down. Besides, Kochling flies a garish orange-and-green-striped machine and your bash with him was seen by thousands. Don’t you realize that, brother?”
“Why of course—quite right,” Randolph said, sipping his scotch.
“He’s another Bruno Hollweg, brother. Another personal feud. Right?”
Randolph palmed his forehead as if he were wiping confusion from his mind. “I honestly don’t know, Lloyd. I just know I’ve got to kill him. He butchered my best friend in his parachute.”
“Lord, no.”
There was a long silence in the room, both brothers drinking and avoiding eye contact. Finally, Lloyd spoke, finding a topic they had quibbled over for years, “Serious about any woman, brother?”
“Not that again, brother,” Randolph said with resignation. “Yes, I know some women.”
Lloyd chuckled. “I know that. You’ve known scores. I mean love—marriage. You aren’t getting younger, old boy.”
Randolph pinched the bridge of his nose and stared at his glass, trying to organize his thoughts. Drinking on art empty stomach, the liquor was making itself felt. “You mean a man alone keeps poor company, brother?” he managed.
The brigadier chuckled. “Well put.”
Randolph smiled and then grew serious. He waved. “I don’t know if there’s any love out there. Not now, not in wartime. I meet women, I’m attracted—but love them?” He shook his head, drained his glass, and walked unsteadily to the sideboard while Lloyd eyed him curiously. After renewing his drink, Randolph sank back in his chair and thought for a long moment before he found the right words. “You really want to know how I feel about women—about love?”
“I just asked you, Randolph.”
Randolph sighed and then spoke slowly and deliberately, “Men and women don’t meet, court, and love in wartime, Lloyd. “‘Love, whatever that might be, is a pretty name, brother. That’s all. There is no time. People collide and rebound from each other like billiard balls. The conventions, rituals, the obligations, and, yes, the morals, as you know the
m, are gone—you should know that.” He tilted the glass up and drained it. His brother remained mute. “Don’t you see, brother, men and women do not ‘love’ in wartime, they desire, demand, and take. I may sound cynical and coldly pragmatic, but, remember, there is nothing as pragmatic as a five-hundred-pound bomb. Love has been banished for the duration.”
Lloyd held his cigarette before his eyes and watched the thin ribbon of smoke stream to the ceiling where it flattened into a blue cloud against the paneling. “Pragmatic? Perhaps. But to say you’re cynical, Randolph, would be the understatement of the decade.”
“Sorry, brother.”
“They’re all the same to you?”
“I didn’t say that, Lloyd.”
The brigadier stared at his brother in confusion. “But you just said. . .”
Randolph interrupted with a wave. “In fact, I met someone quite different just yesterday.”
“The girl who cleaned your wound?”
Randolph nodded. “A strange girl—a very strange girl.”
“You’re shedding your cynicism fast, brother,” Lloyd snorted.
Randolph went on as if he had not heard, “She wants me to return—for summer wine.”
“It’s summer.”
“I know. I’m going tomorrow.”
“But there’s no love.”
Randolph laughed softly. “Of course not. There can’t be. Good Lord, man, I just met her yesterday and I was in a daze. She’s probably younger than Bonnie.”
“Then, why see her?”
“Why not?”
There was a presence at the door. It was Dorset. “Dinner is served, gentlemen,” the old man announced.
