by Peter Albano
Murphy dropped to one knee next to the German and opened his kit. Suddenly a corporal pulled a Walther P38 from his waistband and took careful aim. Lloyd shouted “No!” Murphy looked up just as the German fired. The nine-millimeter slug caught him between the eyes, the contents of his skull exploding from the back of his head in a yellow-gray gout. Arms outflung, he was hurled to his back by the killing force. His arms and legs jerked spasmodically in the strange way of the freshly killed. His sightless eyes were wide open.
One of the Germans knocked the pistol from the corporal’s hand and punched him to the ground. Then the Germans seemed to be clawing for the sun, screaming “Kamerad Kamerad!”
Shouts of “No! No!” “Murderers! Kill ‘em!” came from the turret.
A blinding white light passed between Lloyd’s eyes and brain. There was no conscious thought, no reality except Murphy’s body, and he heard nothing. Felt no pain. He swiveled the Besa.
Screaming ‘‘Nein! Nein!” the Germans broke. Through his tears, Lloyd clamped down on the pistol grip and the Besa yammered to life, a bright bar of flickering light springing from its muzzle. The big slugs tore through the running men, breaking their backs, legs, and ripping life from them like a great scythe. They tumbled and rolled, blood and viscera cloying with the dirt.
But the corporal was unhurt, sitting next to Murphy’s body and rubbing his Jaw. He was staring at Lloyd with the wide, unblinking eyes of a madman. Lloyd felt a hand tugging at his trousers. Dempster cried through a broken voice. “Kill ‘em! Kill ‘em all.”
“I’ll give him the ‘Higgins Convention,’“ Lloyd said, bringing the bead to the German. He was blond and appeared younger than his son, Trevor. He stared back at Lloyd with wide blue eyes. The boy spit at him. Lloyd squeezed the trigger and the German was flung back by the steel torrent. Lloyd kept the trigger down, the body actually jerked along the ground on its back by the impact of dozens of slugs. He laughed gleefully as he moved the Besa back and forth, shooting off the top of the German’s head and splattering his brains; broke his ribs and scattered chunks of bones, mangled flesh, slimy lungs, and detritus of entrails and viscera. Finally, the machine gun clicked on an empty chamber. The brigadier pounded the hot breech in frustration. “I’m not finished! Not finished!” he screamed. “His balls! His legs!”
“I saw that, sir,” a strange voice said behind the brigadier.
Startled, Lloyd turned and saw a captain of infantry leading the first squads of his company past the Matilda. The captain stopped. He was young and had the unwrinkled, polished look of a newly arrived replacement. “Respectfully, General, Captain Courtney Hall of the East-Sussex Rifles. I’ve got to report you, sir,” he said. “That was murder.”
Lloyd could not believe the words. And they came from a mere captain. Captain Courtney Hall must be mad. Or was he mad? No. They were all mad. Insanity was an essential ingredient of this business.
Silently, he stared at the battlefield; the shattered, burning tanks, scattered and piled bodies and pieces of bodies. The howitzers and twenty-five-pounders had killed with extraordinary violence. Perhaps fifteen escaping British crewmen had died on the field with the German infantry. In most cases it was impossible to tell them apart. Many bodies had been severed at the chest or waist, trailing viscera yards long, the dark brown effluvium of the newly killed spreading in dark patches on the desert floor. Torsos like dolls ripped by a child lay thirty to forty-feet from the nearest legs and heads. Shattered bones, brains, and mangled flesh lay piled among the bodies. Here and there a wounded man propped himself up on his elbows and howled like an injured animal. Others, unable to move, cried out for their mothers. Above it all, hungry desert birds began to gather and circle on widespread wings.
The brigadier’s eyes stopped on the rigid form of Private Touhy Murphy, lying in a pool of his own gore. His wide eyes were staring directly into the sun. Flies were already beginning to gather for the feast, several crawling across his eyes. Lloyd began to laugh. He laughed so hard tears ran down his cheeks. His side ached but he could not stop. The captain and a knot of his men stared up in alarm. “Murder? Murder?” Lloyd gasped. “What’s that?” Then the terrible pain struck again and a black curtain was dragged across his eyes. His knees were suddenly limp as dead willow and he collapsed into the turret.
VIII
New York City
November 1, 1941
During September and October the papers reported unabated disasters on the Russian front. Despite an early winter, the Wehrmacht seemed unstoppable. Leningrad was encircled, Kiev surrounded, and four Russian armies were trapped. Over a half-million Russian troops surrendered. When Kiev was finally overrun, another 350,000 Russians laid down their arms. The German steamroller did not stop. It plunged on all the way to the Sea of Azov, cutting off the Crimea. Sevastopol was besieged. Other German units stormed toward the capital, crossing the Dnieper River and driving on Moscow.
Six-hundred-sixty-three-thousand more Russian prisoners were taken with all of their equipment. The Moscow-Leningrad rail line was cut and the Germans captured a bridge over the Volga River intact. With German spearheads thirty miles from the city, the Russians began to evacuate Moscow and a state of siege was proclaimed. Hitler chortled in a speech at the Sportspalast, “This opponent is already broken and will never rise again.”
America moved closer to war. Roosevelt ordered American destroyers to escort convoys as far east as Iceland and asked Congress to permit the arming of merchant ships. The American destroyer Greer was attacked by a German submarine off Iceland but managed to avoid the torpedoes. However, destroyer Kearney was not so fortunate. She was hit and eleven men killed. The U.S. Navy was ordered to shoot on sight. Late in October the American merchant ship Lehigh was sunk by a German submarine off the west coast of Africa. Then the nation was horrified when the destroyer Reuben James was torpedoed and sunk off Iceland while escorting a British convoy from Halifax. One hundred fifteen men were lost.
Roosevelt stated bitterly in a national broadcast, “It is the Nazi design to abolish the freedom of the seas and to acquire absolute control and domination of the seas for themselves.” He said in a message to Congress, “Neutrality Act prohibitions have no realism in the light of unscrupulous ambitions of madmen.” Averell Harriman and Lord Beaverbrook met with Soviet delegations in Moscow to determine Russian defense needs.
In the Far East, the Japanese pressed ahead in their war against China. As President Roosevelt had expected, the civilian government of Prince Konoye fell when the prince argued vehemently for the withdrawal of Japanese troops from the mainland. War Minister General Hideki Tojo formed a new government dominated by the army. Now the talks with the U.S. were hopelessly deadlocked and everyone knew it. Immediately there were ominous rumors of a Japanese buildup.
It was early November when Major Randolph Higgins returned to New York. He rang up Brenda immediately upon arriving at Grand Central Station. It was evening when Travels opened the door and Randolph entered the great house. Brenda held him, kissed him, and led him to the sitting room.
Betty, Marsha, and Ellen were spending a week in the Hamptons with old friends. However, Hamilton Babcock was seated in the room in a big easy chair, sipping a highball and smoking an Old Gold. The rancid odor reminded Randolph of Lloyd’s old Egyptian Abdullahs.
Hamilton nodded briefly and muttered a terse, “You’re back. Major?”
“Daresay, you never left, old boy,” Randolph retorted.
“Now, boys, let’s behave,” Brenda chided. She waved Randolph to the sofa but before he could seat himself, Nicole entered.
“Bonsoir, Major Higgins. You look well, monsieur.” The maid curtsied.
Randolph smiled. “You look lovely, Nicole.” He took both of her hands and held them briefly. The maid curtsied again and left.
Randolph seated himself on the lush sofa and Brenda plopped down beside him. She clutched h
is big hand in hers. The Majestic was glowing in all its glory and Randolph could hear a show called “Your Hit Parade” coming through the big speaker. Mercifully, Brenda had the volume turned down.
“Lloyd’s been injured,” she said anxiously. “Bernice wrote me. He’s home.”
“I know,” Randolph said. “Lloyd wrote me. He has three broken ribs.” He snickered. “Said he got drunk and fell out of the tank. Claims he’ll be back with his brigade soon. He’s out of sorts because he’s missing the show at Tobruk.”
“That isn’t what Bernice told me,” Brenda said grimly. “Bernice got it from Whitehall. She has friends there.”
“Daresay, I know,” Randolph agreed. “She has a lot of pull there. In fact, Allanbrooke is her cousin.” ‘“The chief of the Imperial General Staff?” Hamilton offered.
“Quite right.” Randolph turned to Brenda impatiently. “And what did she say?”
Brenda continued, “There was an engagement at some ridge—Fuad, I think.”
“Never heard of it,” Randolph said. “Things have been quiet in North Africa.” Hamilton nodded concurrence.
“I know. There wasn’t anything in the papers. Just a minor thing,” Brenda said. “But the truth of it is Randolph was wounded and his brigade almost wiped out.”
“Lord, another bloody defeat. Rommel will be in Cairo soon.”
“No, Randolph. Bernice said the British won.”
Randolph’s guffaw was devoid of humor. “What’s funny?” Hamilton Babcock asked.
“The bloody arithmetic of war,” Randolph said. “My brother’s wounded, his unit’s all but wiped out, and we have a bloody victory. Next they’ll count Dunkirk as a bloody triumph of arms. It never fails to amaze me.” He turned to Brenda. “I’ll be back in England within a week. See Lloyd then and wring the truth out of him.”
Brenda could not hide her shock. “Within the week?”
Randolph nodded. “I’m not returning by ship. I’m on temporary loan to Ferrying Command. I’m to fly a Hudson across the pond. Only Englishmen can fly the Atlantic, you know. Of course, the route is confidential.”
Hamilton said, “From Newfoundland to Iceland for fuel and then on to England. The ferry route has been reported in the papers for months.” He took a hard pull on his cigarette and expelled the smoke in a triumphant cloud.
“That will be such a long flight, Randolph,” Brenda said.
Randolph ignored Hamilton and spoke to Brenda. “Nonsense, Brenda. The Hudson has good range and is a stout aircraft. Should be a piece of cake.”
Brenda was not convinced. “A stout aircraft, Randolph?”
Randolph laughed. “Built by your Lockheed Aircraft Corporation in Burbank, California. It’s a converted transport they called the Electra. Your Amelia Earhart disappeared in the Pacific flying one.”
“That’s encouraging,” Brenda said.
“I build radios and RDFs for the Hudson,” Hamilton offered. “You’ll be talking through one of my sets.”
“Was Earhart using your equipment?”
“Of course.”
Randolph raised an eyebrow and twined his fingers into a steeple. He looked as if he were in prayer. “Fortunately, I’ll be on radio silence.”
Hamilton Babcock came erect, not quite sure if he had been insulted. Before he could answer, Travers swooped over the trio, handing Brenda a glass of Chateau Lafite-Rothschild and Randolph two ounces of straight Johnnie Walker Black Label. Hamilton accepted a sour mash whiskey and seltzer. He leaned forward and all three glasses touched.
“Cheers,” Randolph said.
“Mud in your eye,” Hamilton said. ‘ “To Lloyd’s recovery, a short war, and a stout Hudson,” Brenda said. “No more Amelia Earharts.” They all drank.
Randolph felt Brenda tighten her grip on his hand. “It’s so good to have you back. I worry so. It seems I’ve spent most of my life worrying about Lloyd and you. If you aren’t fighting Germans, you’re testing airplanes or flying the Atlantic. There must be a safer way to make a living.”
Chuckling, Randolph kissed her cheek. “I haven’t been much fun as a brother-in-law. Have I, Brenda?”
“I wouldn’t trade.” She returned his kiss.
“Perhaps I should leave,” Hamilton said with acid sarcasm.“Three’s a crowd, you know.”
“Nonsense,” Brenda said.
“Suit yourself,” Randolph added coolly.
“You know I’ve known Randolph for a quarter of a century, Hamilton. He’s very special to me,” Brenda said. “But you’re special to me, too. Please stay.”
Placated, the portly businessman grunted and drained his glass. His mottled gray-green eyes remained on the flyer as Travers handed him a fresh drink.
Brenda said to Randolph, “You know Rodney had a meeting with the president.”
Randolph nodded. “I saw the lad in California. He was stationed in a BOQ in a place called Terminal Island—it’s an island in Los Angeles Harbor. He couldn’t say much about his conversation with President Roosevelt because it was off the record. But the president was anxious to find out about Bismarck and the engagement.’’
Brenda nodded. “Yes. That’s what he told me in his letters. He’s very thrilled. He’s a full lieutenant—promoted by his commander-in-chief personally.” Her voice was filled with pride.
Randolph raised his glass. “To the little nipper. None of us could ever imagine this when we were changing his diapers and feeding him strained vegetables.”
They touched glasses and drank. Travers refilled all around.
“He’s on his way to Pearl Harbor,” Brenda said.
“I know. I saw him off just the day before I left. He was finally berthed aboard an army transport in Long Beach Harbor. Should be in Hawaii in a week or so.”
Brenda drank and placed her glass on the low oak table fronting the sofa. “Did you meet Kay Stockard? Rodney was very fond of her. For a while, I thought they would marry. She’s a fine, talented girl.”
Randolph took a deep drink and squirmed uncomfortably. “He saw her.”
“And that’s all?”
Randolph stared at his glass. “I really don’t know. Rodney said very little and gentlemen don’t ask other gentlemen about those things.”
Hamilton Babcock jumped in. “You mean women would?” He sneered over his glass.
Randolph regarded him with glacial coldness. “If the answer to that is yes, then you would.”
Hamilton grunted as if struck, eyes bulging, face flushed like a man suffering from apoplexy. “See here. . .” he sputtered.
“Please, you two,” Brenda pleaded.
Hamilton rose. “Got to leave.”
“You don’t, really,” Brenda said.
Hamilton emptied his glass and tabled it. “Got to meet two of my engineers. Electronics problems.” He whirled on his heel and left without a word to Randolph.
“Sorry and all that, Brenda,” Randolph said. “I fouled things up for you.”
Brenda sighed. “Hamilton was thoughtless.” She sipped her wine. “He’s really a fine person, Randolph.”
“But jealous.”
Brenda smiled. “I’m afraid so.”
“Do you love him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will you marry him?”
“No.”
“Will you ever marry?”
Brenda’s smile revealed her perfect white teeth like polished ivory. “You’re a fine one to be asking that.”
“Touché!” Randolph said.
Travers refilled the glasses and Brenda dismissed him. Before the butler left, he placed a silver tray with the liquor on the oak table in front of the pair.
After the butler closed the door, Brenda moved closer and Randolph could feel her hip against his. The old yearning began to build.
&
nbsp; “Have you found anyone, Randolph?”
“You mean love?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Oh!” she said with surprise, arching an eyebrow. “Do you mean you’re not sure of knowing what love is or you don’t care to marry?”
“Perhaps both. But I know a young girl. She’s—ah, very unusual. Elisa Blue. I told you I was shot down. Well, a German fighter dumped me into her garden. She took me in—made me happy for a few moments.”
Brenda smiled knowingly. “Happy? I understand.”
“No, Brenda. You don’t understand. It’s not what you think. She’s different. She doesn’t belong in that world—that world of killing, of slaughter.” He stared into her eyes and his eyes were cold. “England is not what you remember, Brenda. Will never be the same again.”
“You want to marry her?”
Randolph shook his head and his face hardened. “I learned long ago, when there’s a war, there is no future, Brenda. I couldn’t do that to any woman.”
Brenda sighed. There seemed to be relief in the sound as if she had been freed of a great worry. Her words contradicted her attitude. “There’s only one happiness in life, to love and be loved.”
“That’s a quote.”
“George Sand, Randolph. She knew what she was talking about.” She drank, held her glass up, and studied the rich liquid. “Take what’s offered, Randolph, and make no demands on the future.”
“Who are you quoting now?”
“Brenda Hargreaves.”
“My favorite poet,” he said, grinning broadly. He touched her glass with his and they both drank.
She stared at him over the rim of her glass. “War or not, you need a wife, dear brother-in-law.”
“And you a husband, dear sister-in-law.”
“Touché, yourself, fighter pilot,” she chided. They both laughed.
