Tides of Valor

by Peter Albano

  “Your son, Nathan, joined the Marine Corps?”

  “Yes. He’s in Camp Pendelton, California, completing his training.”

  “Does he like it?”

  “He doesn’t complain except they cut his hair right down to the scalp.” Randolph grinned and nodded.

  A troubled look clouded her eyes, straightened her lips. She turned her glass, examining it like a collector mulling a purchase. He caught her sudden mood change, remained silent. She finally spoke and took him by surprise, “You love your brother?”

  “Of course. Lloyd and I are very close. You know that.”

  She snickered bitterly, drank. “And my sons would kill each other.”

  “Kill?”

  “Rodney and Nathan.” She told him of the terrible fight.

  He tugged at his ear, sipped his Scotch. “Those things can happen between brothers.”

  “They hate each other.”

  For a long moment he knuckled his forehead and stared down at the plush Oriental rug under his feet. He spoke slowly and deliberately, “Brenda, love and hate are two sides of the same coin.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t think you do. They live in our heart side by side, one always ready to overwhelm the other. Just think, Brenda, husbands and wives have been killing each other as long as there’s been an institution of marriage.”

  “Then you really believe there’s still love between them?”

  “Quite right. As intense as the hatred that shocked you so. And it’ll break through. Mark me. Especially now that they face a common enemy—a common peril.”

  “War is a hell of a way to solve a family problem.”

  “I’m sorry, Brenda, but I know Lloyd and I have never been so close.” He wanted to tell her how he was driven by the prospect of death ending it for one or both, but dared not. He could only say, “They’ll find their love again, Brenda.”

  Sighing, she poured more wine and added to Randolph’s drink. He knew it was time to move on. He hesitated, drummed the table, and spoke reluctantly, “And Regina?”

  She turned her lips under and took a deep drink. “Oh, Randolph. We still haven’t heard a word. No mail seems to be going in or out of Warsaw. There have been terrible rumors—I’m so worried.”

  He slipped an arm around her. “Rumors. That’s all they are. I’ve fought the Hun in two wars and I hate him. But he always observed the Geneva Conventions.” Coop Hansen’s butchered body came back, but he let the lie stand.

  “But the rumors of atrocities?”

  “Just that. Unverified stories. Why Hitler wouldn’t dare. He’d be daft to—ah. . .”

  She finished the sentence. “Kill Jews—exterminate.”

  There was shock in Randolph’s voice. “Good Lord, no, I say! Not even Hitler can ignore world opinion. Why, he’d lose his allies—the lot.”

  She kissed his cheek. “You make sense, Randolph. I do so hope you’re right.”

  “You jolly well know I’m right.” He remembered the horror on the faces of his Polish pilots when they told him of the letters that had been smuggled from their homeland. But not a hint of the misgivings he felt showed on his face.

  Tactfully, he changed the subject. “Your sister Betty has a son?”

  Brenda welcomed the change, brightening. “Anthony Borelli. He’s just been commissioned an ensign. He grew up in Los Angeles, you know. Went to college there. I have never seen much of him.”

  “Dash it all. I could have looked him up.”

  Brenda laughed. “Not really. He’s at Treasure Island in San Francisco awaiting a ship.”

  She finished her wine and reached for the cut-glass decanter. She filled her glass and poured more Scotch into Randolph’s. “I expected you back much sooner, Randolph.”

  Randolph sipped the strong liquor and began to enjoy the spreading warmth. “We had problems.”

  “With that North American fighter?”

  He nodded. “The P-Fifty-one, Mark One. For some reason, the prototype I tested was a little heavy in the controls.”

  “You flew out of Burbank?”

  He shook his head. “Do you know Southern California very well?”

  “I’ve spent vacations there.”

  “I flew mostly out of Clover Field in Santa Monica.”

  “Oh, yes, a small beach town near Los Angeles.”

  He nodded. “Also hopped over to March Field, Mines Field, Edwards.”

  ‘Took the grand tour.”

  He laughed. “Could say so. But we finally found the problem. Now she handles like my old S.E. Five. A real fighter. Your air force will build the Rolls on contract here. Your Packard Corporation is already producing the engine.” He licked his lips. “Love to have a squadron of them.”

  She drummed the table. “I thought you were going to test fly a fighter out here—ah, that plane built out on Long Island.”

  “The Republic XP-Forty-seven. I’ll fly one out of Mitchell tomorrow. One flight only, and. . .” He glanced around uneasily. “And I’ll be gone the day after tomorrow.”

  She clutched his arm. “No. Not so soon.” There was anguish in her voice.

  He stared at his glass and his voice was heavy, “I’m sorry, Brenda.”

  She placed her drink on the table and put her chin on his shoulder. “Something is always taking you out of my life, dear Randolph.”

  He felt her breast against his arm. He dared not look at her. He spoke to his glass. “It isn’t cricket, is it, Brenda?”

  “I want you to stay tonight.”

  He turned to her, startled. He remembered long ago after he had been badly burned in a crash in no-man’s-land. He had considered his scarred body as hideous as that of a lizard. Brenda had offered herself to him. But it had been done in pity, a woman’s way of convincing him he was still an attractive man. He had turned her down ruthlessly. The scars had faded, but not the memory. From that day on, he had had his regrets, too. He still desired her—always would.

  “There are two other chaps in my delegation , Brenda,” he said, controlling his voice with difficulty. “We have rooms at the Waldorf. I’m their superior officer. It wouldn’t do for me to stay away all night while they observe a ten-o’clock curfew I’ve ordered.”

  She spoke, her lips only inches from his. Her great blue eyes were misty. “Do you remember when I first met you? You asked me to meet you in Trafalgar Square.’’

  His expression was grim. A memory as vivid as yesterday flashing like a cinema in his mind. “On the stairwell. We met on the landing. I—I told you about my digs in Kensington.” He turned away. “It was beastly of me. I was a randy cad trying to take my brother’s wife to bed.”

  Her smile had the dust of years of longing on it. “You almost succeeded, Randolph. You should have been just a little more persistent. Oh, you were a glorious young man.”

  Randolph drained his glass. “I must have been off my wick. My brother Geoffry with only a few months to live and I. . .”

  “Please, Randolph. We can’t condemn ourselves for being human. After all, we never betrayed anyone—ever.” She ran her fingers over the back of his neck. They left tingling trails as if they were charged with electricity. “And after you were burned, I did go to your flat in Kensington and. . .”

  “And you offered me charity.”

  Her eyes flared and she moved away. “It wasn’t charity.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “My expression of my love for you.”

  “You didn’t love me that way—not romantically, not like a lover.”

  “I did then. And you told me you loved me.” The blue of her eyes was heightened by moisture. “You needed me, I know. But there was one thing you overlooked, Randolph.”

  “What was that?”

  “My need for you.”

&nbs
p; He stared and she riveted her eyes to his. Unconsciously, his arm circled her narrow shoulders. She kissed his neck, his cheek, and, finally, his lips. The tip of her tongue circled his lips and darted into his mouth like a wet, hot serpent. It found his, slithering, dueling with a tip of fire. The kiss struck him like a powerful aphrodisiac, fanning a hunger in his guts and causing a burning ache in his loins. Gasping, she broke the kiss. “Please stay with me, Randolph. While this world goes insane, let’s have our one night together. We owe it to ourselves.”

  Gripping both of her shoulders, he leaned back. He saw Elisa Blue and then Brenda’s eyes and the consuming heat eroded his doubts, all conscious thoughts from his mind except Elisa. Then she, too, began to fade. Brenda stood and took his hands. He let her pull him to his feet and lead him to the stairway. Following her, he marveled at the tiny waist, the full hips, and the sinuous walk. She was still like a young girl and he knew she would be in every way. The heat rose and seemed to engulf his being. He had loved her for so long. Had wanted that maddening body next to his. For years he had dreamed of her, fantasized about her in his bunk, on lonely patrols. Had discarded scores of women because none could be Brenda—none came close to Brenda.

  Silently, they began to mount the stairs, yet Elisa Blue would not be banished. The face was brilliant, smile sad, so innocent and filled with love it deserved a halo. The strength of the memory struck with physical force. He stopped in midstride. He slipped his hand from Brenda’s.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked in confusion.

  “Don’t rightly know.” He sighed. “But I do know this isn’t right. It has always been wrong for us and still is.”

  She took his hand again and moved very close. He could smell her perfume and the blue eyes engulfed him like the sea and the lips like rose petals were very close and parted. Her intuition and incisive intelligence startled him again as it had for all the years he had known her. “It’s the girl, Elisa Blue, isn’t it?”

  He looked away. “Yes. She follows me.”’

  “She’s here?”

  “Yes. Everywhere. I’m sorry.”

  She was so close, the hard nipples of her breasts pressed against his chest. “It would be a betrayal?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then you must love her. Follow your conscience, dear Randolph.”

  Randolph stared into the blue depths. He felt lost. A rudderless plane in a strong wind. The will was slipping and he cursed his weakness. She took both of his hands. For a long time he remained motionless. Finally, he said, “Brenda. My conscience tells me to have another drink.”

  He took her hand and they walked back into the sitting room.

  IX

  Fenwyck

  November, 1941

  When Randolph leapt from the cab carrying his single canvas duffel bag, Lloyd met him at Fenwyck’s great doors. He embraced him with one arm. The other was strapped to his side, which was heavily taped. “Million-dollar wound,” Lloyd quipped, quoting a phrase popularized in the trenches during the Great War.

  Lloyd’s appearance was shocking. He looked even more desert worn than before. The arid wind and fierce desert sun seemed to have burned off the last of his flesh, leaving only desiccated skin stretched over his bones. The skin of his face had been darkened as if stained by walnut. It was scored and riven with new lines of pain and worry. The entire visage was that of complete exhaustion. It was emphasized by the bloodshot eyes sunken deep into dark eye sockets like craggy hollows, underscored with bruised purple smudges. Randolph had heard that the dehydration of the desert could preserve corpses like tanned leather. With a start, he realized his brother’s appearance reminded him of Egyptian mummies he had seen as a boy at the London Museum. But the toughness was still there like finely tempered steel—a resiliency that could give but never break.

  Close behind was Bernice. She held Randolph close and kissed him. “My brother-in-law. My beautiful brother-in-law. You’re back safe.”

  Randolph chuckled into her ear. “Why quite so, Bernice. It was only a short hop over the pond.”

  “Uncle! Uncle Randolph!” came from the huge entry hall. In a moment, Trevor and Bonnie surrounded him. Bonnie in his arms kissing him, Trevor pounding his back with unabashed joy.

  Randolph had forgotten how beautiful Bonnie was. Her features were as delicate as fine porcelain, white skin glowing with good health. She had all of Bernice’s beauty when she had been a young girl courted by Lloyd, but exuded boundless energy Bernice had never known. Her black hair shimmered and reflected the sun like newly mined coal, hazel eyes kindled by excitement. She was with her uncle. She worshipped him. It was obvious.

  Trevor had put on weight. As tall as his father, he appeared beefy in comparison His thick reddish brown hair was brushed back from a wide, unlined forehead. His features were well formed and proud. He was every inch the navy officer from his black leather shoes to the double-breasted reefer with its stand-and-fall collar, two rows of eight gilt-metal buttons. The two gold lace rings and narrow half stripe of lieutenant commander decorated his cuffs and shoulder straps. He was over thirty-years-old and an experienced naval officer, yet, to Randolph, he still had an air of boyish vulnerability about him.

  “You’ve done well, nephew,” Randolph said, shaking Trevor’s hand vigorously while Bonnie and Bernice fought to hold his other hand. “Did you get your destroyer?”

  “Yes, Uncle. Finally off the beach. Got the Terrier. She lost her bow to a mine off Norway, but Swan Hunter has completed repairs. She’s berthed at Portsmouth and ready for sea.”

  Randolph glanced at the stripes. “You’ve added a half stripe.”

  “Quite right. Uncle. I’m her new number one (executive officer). I’m due aboard by seventeen hundred hours.”

  Randolph slapped Trevor on the back. “Bully for you, nephew.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Dorset met him with his usual grave demeanor. But, as usual, the moisture in his eyes gave him away. “Welcome home, sir,” the old man said.

  “Always good to see you, Dorset,” Randolph said. He gripped the old butler’s shoulders briefly.

  Lloyd said, “Let’s have a tot, brother.’’ He gestured. “The library.”

  “Right-oh, brother,” Randolph said. “Stand you a Scotch.” Everyone laughed.

  Stepping into the entry, he shook Chef Andre Demozay’s hand and nodded as Bernice’s personal maid, Emily Burns, curtsied. The woman’s face was as blank as the face of Buddha. Within minutes, the family was seated in the library and Lloyd was pouring drinks from the crystal decanters on the Regency sideboard. He handed Randolph and Trevor Scotch, the women wine, and sank behind the massive serpentine writing desk stiffly and slowly like an old man. He clutched his own double Scotch. Carefully, he freed his bound arm, lit a Lucky Strike, and exhaled a huge cloud of smoke. Randolph sat on the couch flanked by Bonnie and Bernice. Trevor took a large leather chair to one side of the desk.

  “To HMS Terrier and her new number one,” Randolph said, holding his glass high.

  “Hear! Hear!” everyone shouted. They drank.

  Randolph asked Bonnie about Blake Boggs. “He’s in the army, you know. He’s a lieutenant with the Forty-first North Midland .Rifles.”

  “Do they have any equipment?”

  She shook her head. “Lost most of it at Dunkirk. But they’re being reequipped and they are at full strength.”

  “Will you marry him?”

  She blushed. ”I don’t know, Uncle—I really don’t know.”

  Trevor downed his drink and rose. “Got to be leaving, Uncle Randolph,” he said, gesturing at the regal Carlin long-cased clock. “The number one can’t afford to be over leave. Terrible example and all that.”

  Bonnie came to her feet, explaining she had the evening duty at the Chatham Naval Hospital. She kissed Randolph while Trevor pumped his hand. Th
e young people mumbled a few words softly to their parents and took their leave.

  The door had hardly closed when Randolph said, “Dash it all, Boggs isn’t worthy of her.’’ Smiling, Lloyd and Bernice exchanged a glance. “I’ll wager four bob he’ll botch the whole thing the first time the Midlands go into action.”

  “Don’t be too harsh on the lad, Randolph,” Bernice said, standing. “After all, you only met him once.”

  “Once was enough.”

  She spoke to her husband. “I’ve told Crag Watson I’d meet him in the hothouse. He needs help with the orchids.”

  Lloyd said to Randolph, “Watson’s the best grounds man in Kent and you know he’s an absolute magician with orchids. We should win the East Ashford Flower Show this year. We have a Cattleya and a Miltonia in full bloom, by Jove.”

  “I say, you’ve lost me, brother.”

  Bernice interrupted, “You know orchids are tropical. And these species grow only in Central America and Brazil. It’s like a miracle.” She left.

  “War be damned, we’ll always have our flower shows, brother,” Lloyd said, holding his glass high, knuckles like knobby raised roots.

  “You’re bloody well right, brother,” Randolph agreed. “Someday we’ll stick a bouquet of bluebells up Hitler’s arse.” The brothers emptied their glasses and Lloyd refilled them. He sank back and smoked thoughtfully for a moment.

  He asked about Randolph’s trip, the new American fighters, America and American attitudes, and Brenda and her family.

  Randolph talked of Brenda and her family, but did not even hint at the passion of their last few moments together. However, he felt his face warm as he talked with just the thought of her. He noticed Lloyd studying his glass with unnatural intensity as if he had found a chip on the lip and was pondering the jagged edges. Randolph felt that damnable sixth sense that seemed to tune into his thoughts, especially his guilts, like a WT to his brother’s consciousness. Lloyd suspected. No, Lloyd knew. The flyer’s thoughts became confused, words garbled. He took a deep drink.

  Quickly Randolph assembled his thoughts and switched to America’s amazing industrial potential and the strong antiwar sentiment evident in her papers and on the wireless. Lloyd nodded gravely. There was bitterness in his voice, “Lend-Lease, the ‘Arsenal of Democracy,’ the whole lot. But Englishmen must still do their dying for them, Randolph. Just like we did in the first one.”