Between The Hunters And The Hunted

by Steven Wilson

  “Those poor chaps never had a chance,” Land said, kicking a piece of metal to one side, glancing at the pitiful memorial to the gun’s crew.

  “No,” Hardy said. “They did not. Still, we’ve had our chances and a few more, haven’t we?”

  “It seems so long ago. Does it feel that way to you as well?”

  “Oh yes,” Hardy said thoughtfully. “Centuries ago.” He stopped to watch Norfolk steam toward the North Channel. “When Whittlesey and I were at Dartmouth together, centuries past, we had Amoss as a teacher. One of those brilliant idiots, more brains than anyone has a right to possess, and not a sliver of common sense to go with them. He taught ancient history, Romans, Greeks, that sort of thing. When he became excited, which, thank God, was not often, he had a habit of throwing both arms in the air and hopping up and down. He did so only when he thought it most important that we cadets pay strict attention to what he was saying. One morning, I shall never forget it, his lesson was on the Athenians, on their seamanship, courage, and service. He spoke of the Athenian rams, the finest of their kind. Swift, deadly. Naturally, he became excited and began hopping, arms straight up in the air. Well, the exertion caused his braces to give way and down came his trousers. We cadets remembered that of course. We were young, foolish boys. But we were enchanted by the Athenians and we saw them as mystical souls. When Whittlesey sent his message, I knew exactly what he proposed, and I knew the consequences.”

  Land said nothing as Hardy watched Norfolk disappear into the distance.

  After a moment, Hardy, relieved of the need to talk, said: “Come on, Number One. We shall have plenty to do to get the old girl ready to put to sea.”

  Cole waited patiently for the pilot of the battered Hudson to climb out of the lorry. He must have been sixty, Cole thought, with a flowing white mustache and a round belly.

  Another man waited on the hardstand with Cole, a British naval officer who looked as if he had been through hell. His uniform was wrinkled and he needed a shave, and his eyes were sunken in their sockets. Cole suddenly realized that he probably looked worse.

  “Well, chaps,” the pilot said brightly, “just two this flight. Not to worry, not to worry. Tubby’s old but experienced. We’ll get you there, me and my Sal. She’s old too, but she’s dependable.” He dug into a haversack and pulled out two tins as the ground crew opened the door and attached the steps leading into the aircraft. “Presents. Presents galore. One for you.” He handed a tin to Cole. “And one for you,” he said, giving a tin to the other man.

  Cole looked at his. Sardines.

  “Time to get aboard,” the pilot said. “Tubby’s never late. You chaps follow Tubby. He’s got to fly the plane, you know.”

  The two passengers exchanged glances and followed the pilot into the plane. As the door was closed and locked the Royal Navy officer extended his hand.

  “Harland,” he said.

  “Cole.”

  “Are you stationed with the Home Fleet?”

  “Heavens no,” Harland said. “My chief sent me up to this horrible place. I think it was some sort of object lesson. Some punishment or other.”

  Cole thought of his own assignment to Royal Navy Photographic Operations by his superior. You aren’t navy, he had been told. Not part of the team—someone who didn’t belong.

  “If you don’t mind me saying,” Harland said, fastening his seat belt, “you look a bit used.”

  “Yeah,” Cole said, looking at the tin. “What did you get?”

  “Cheese,” Harland said, stuffing the tin into the seat next to him. “Fancy meeting old Saint Nick on this trip.”

  The left engine turned over with a backfire and Cole jumped. He looked at Harland to see if he had noticed, but the man was almost asleep. Thankfully the right engine started smoothly and Cole felt the aircraft taxi to the runway.

  He looked around the interior of the old Hudson. Some of her ribs were bent and several of her windows had been replaced by sheets of aluminum. There were patches along her roof and Cole wondered if she had seen action.

  He settled into his seat and thought of N-for-Nancy. Up there where the W.T. station had once been he saw Prentice working diligently. He glanced over his shoulder to see that the turret had been removed and wondered how Johnny was getting along. He remembered the gunner’s watch and the death of the tiny raft alongside Firedancer. Past the odd pilot up front was the tunnel leading to the bomb aimer/navigator’s station and he saw Peter’s scowling face and recalled how the man had stayed at the controls so that the others had a chance to live.

  Cole remembered lifting the lifeless form of Bunny from the pilot’s seat and dropping him, dying, to the floor of N-for-Nancy.

  He regretted that he had not been gentler with the pilot. That he had not taken the time to treat the horribly wounded man with the compassion that he had deserved. Cole hoped that he would one day be able to quiet that regret and that he would remember those men as they lived.

  Before he fell asleep, Cole remembered Firedancer and Hardy, Land, Baird, and Blessing, but most of all he recalled the excitement mixed with fear that he’d felt as the destroyer raced through the North Atlantic, trembling with anticipation at closing with the enemy. It was a strange place to find one’s purpose, at sea, but he knew that’s what he had found. He never really belonged anywhere, he had told Rebecca. He had always been, and he thought of this with real irony because of how he had come to be on the deck of that destroyer: an observer. He had stood aside life, content to watch without becoming involved. He had remained uncommitted because there was nothing that had interested him. Or I had not made it my business to become interested, he thought—knowing that it was more the latter than the former. In this way he knew that he had been a coward. But that was in his life, Before. Now, this was the life, After.

  He had read about men going to war—he had taught his students about men at war, but it had been themes, trends, facts and figures that were nothing more than cold notations on a crisp, white field. You cannot go into it, he had often told himself, you cannot go into war and come out the other side the same man. He knew this.

  He knew also that he would not be content with his life in any form, until he was on the deck of a warship in time of war. Despite the fear, death, and carnage—he knew.

  Rebecca. He would go and see her when he got to London. He had had time to think about her and his life without her, and he knew that nothing would have meaning unless he could share it with her. Her husband wouldn’t be back for some time, so he had a chance. He had planned what he was going to say, discarded that, and created a new speech. She had to understand, she had to take him back.

  As the Hudson cleared the runway and banked slowly to gain altitude, Lieutenant Jordan Cole, United States Navy, was deep asleep, teetering on the edge of his dreams.

  Chapter 34

  London, England

  Dickie drove. Cole was simply too tired to concentrate on the road. The Royal Navy officer began pumping Cole for information about Sea Lion and the battle before Cole had even cleared the aircraft.

  Finally, Cole said in exasperation: “Jesus Christ, Dickie. Can’t you wait until I get a decent cup of coffee in me?”

  “I can’t help it,” Dickie said, “I was born an inquisitive child.”

  Cole had told him where he wanted to go when Dickie picked him up at the base. “You’re mad,” was all that Dickie had said but agreed to drive him despite his injured leg. He was going to see Rebecca of course and he had everything planned out—what to say and how to say it, and what not to say; that was perhaps the most important point—that the wrong thing not be said.

  “If I’d known what you were about I should have refused to drive you,” Dickie said with indignation.

  “Shut up.”

  “I do have standards, you know. I’m not completely amoral. I was raised with principles, I’ll have you know.”

  “You must keep them in the top drawer because I’ve never seen them,” Cole said,
and then the anticipation was too much to bear. “Have you talked to her lately?”

  “I haven’t seen her,” Dickie said. “We’ve taken quite a pasting, so I’m sure that she has spent all of her time at hospital. You know we’ve developed quite a friendship, she and I. Brother and sister, that sort of thing. I do hope you two children find happiness with each other. Your dilemma is getting worrisome.”

  “Have you heard about her husband? When he’s due in?”

  “Not for some time, I’m told.”

  The car turned the corner into Warren Square and Cole was relieved to see Rebecca’s house untouched by the raids. He half thought that he would be enveloped in a melodrama: one lover killed before the other had a chance to declare himself. He was nervous, excited, and anxious to see her, to hold her tightly in his arms. Dickie pulled up in front of the house and laid his hand on Cole’s shoulder as he started to get out.

  “Listen,” Dickie said. “You are both my very dear friends and I shouldn’t like to see either one of you hurt.”

  Cole nodded.

  “You must be very gentle with her, Jordan.”

  “I will,” Cole said and climbed out of the car. He walked up the steps and rang the doorbell. There was no answer. He rang it again. He thought he heard a noise inside and thought perhaps he should open the door and simply call for Rebecca. He rang again and almost instantly the door opened.

  She stood there and Cole’s heart raced. He was about to speak when he heard someone call from inside the house.

  “Becky? Who is it, dear?” It was a man’s voice.

  She looked at Cole, desperation in her eyes.

  “Becky?”

  “A friend of Dickie’s, dear.”

  Cole felt cold.

  “Have the poor chap come in. We can’t have any friend of Dickie’s standing at the door.”

  “Yes, dear,” Rebecca said, her voice weak. “Won’t you come in, Lieutenant Cole?”

  Cole found himself moving into the house in a daze. There was the staircase and next to it was the telephone table with the black instrument sitting on the white lace doily. Nothing had changed, he thought dully as he walked into the parlor. There was the large oak table that had served as their bomb shelter, and the fireplace and the sofa where Rebecca lay the last night that he had seen her.

  “Can I take your hat, Lieutenant Cole?”

  “Cap, Becks. Hats are for civilians, aren’t they, Lieutenant?” The words came from a small form, bundled in blankets, sitting in a wheelchair near the fireplace. White bandages, stained brown along the edges, covered the man’s head and one side of his face. The skin that was exposed was red and mottled. One of the man’s legs was missing. A pair of crutches were propped against the wall behind him.

  “This is my husband, Lieutenant Cole. This is Gregory.”

  Cole’s mouth was dry but he tried to sound as natural as possible. It was then that he noticed the smell. It was the faint scent of charred flesh and salve.

  “How do you do?” Cole said. He forced himself to add: “Call me, Jordan.”

  “Royal Navy, are you?” Gregory said. “Is he Royal Navy, Becks?”

  “American, Greg,” Rebecca said with strained pleasantry.

  “Of course he is. Sit down, Jordan. Would you like a drink? Becks can make one for you, can’t you, Becks? She’s developed a taste for it herself. I’d do it, you see”—he gestured to the missing leg—“but part of me is still in North Africa.”

  “No,” Cole said. “Nothing for me.”

  “Nothing? Never heard that from a Royal Navy chap—”

  “He’s an American sailor,” Rebecca said. “Don’t you remember—”

  “Of course I do,” Gregory said curtly. “Friend of Dickie’s. Well, he won’t mind if I have a drink.”

  Cole saw Rebecca’s chin tremble. “The doctor—”

  “The doctor, the doctor, the doctor,” Gregory mimicked in a shrill voice. “Fix me a drink and be quick about it. And have a double yourself, my dear.” He turned to Cole. “Hardly took a sip when we were married, now she drinks enough for both of us.” Rebecca handed him a glass. “If I let her.”

  “I just came by looking for Dickie,” Cole said. “I don’t want to intrude.”

  “Of course you were looking for him,” Gregory said, staring into his drink. “Why else would you be here?”

  Rebecca knocked over her glass. “Please don’t be rude, Greg.”

  “Rude? Was I rude?” He looked at Cole, the burned skin on his face seeming to glow angrily as he attempted a smile. “Was I being rude, Jordan?” The words came out slowly, bitingly.

  Cole stood. “I should be going. It was a pleasure meeting you, Gregory.”

  “Of course it was. You were charmed by my presence. Forgive me if I was terse. Time for my pills, you know. The only way to manage the pain. Pop a few pills, down a few scotches. Come back again.”

  Cole nodded.

  “Becks?” Gregory called out. “See our visitor to the door, won’t you? Then hurry back and make me another.”

  Rebecca followed Cole into the hall and handed him his cap.

  “Why did you come here?” she said, her voice breaking.

  Cole swallowed heavily, trying to fight back his anger. “I came here to tell you that I love you and I want you to marry me. You’ve got to get away from that bastard.”

  “He’s just bitter. He lost his leg and his friends. It’s going to be very difficult for him. I can help. I can help him.”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Becky? I say, Becks? Can you come in and give me a hand? I’ve got to piss like a racehorse.”

  “Don’t do it, Rebecca. Don’t throw your life away.”

  “I’ve got to go to him.”

  “I love you.”

  “Oh, Jordan,” Rebecca said. “I know that. I love you as well. When I sent you away before I thought that I should die, but when Greg came home I realized what I had to do—where my duty lies. You’ve got to understand that. You’ve got to understand that I can’t continue to live with the guilt of betrayal. I know that you love me as much as I love you. Every part of me feels the love of that lost little boy.” She took his hand in hers, tears streaming down her cheeks. “We can no longer see each other. We were just something that happened during the war, that’s all. You must believe that. You’d better go.” She began closing the door when she stopped and tenderly touched his cheek. “Good-bye, darling.”

  Cole felt nothing as he walked down the steps. Dickie must have been talking to him for several moments before he realized he was at the car.

  “Her husband’s home,” Cole managed.

  “Bloody hell!” Dickie said.

  “He’s a son of a bitch. He’s going to sap every bit of life right out of her. She’s going to let him.”

  Dickie lit a cigarette and offered one to Cole, who refused it.

  “That’s that, then,” Dickie said.

  “The hell it is,” Cole said angrily. “I’m going to get her back. I don’t know how, but I’m going to get her back. If I ever saw anything worth fighting for, it’s that lady in there.”

  “Cole! For God’s sake, think of her feelings.”

  “She doesn’t know which way is up. I’ll do it. I’ll get her back come hell or high water… .” Then Cole remembered what she asked of him and the agony that he had brought to her life. He turned and looked at the closed door, her words ringing in his mind, and exhaled a ragged breath; the fight was out of him. He choked back the tears that he knew were close.

  “Jordan?” Dickie said.

  “‘When I was a child, I spoke like a child,’” Cole whispered. “‘I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways.’”

  Dickie remained silent.

  Cole remembered the hospital where he first saw her, and the picnic in Hyde Park, and the terror that he felt when he thought that she had been killed in the bombing raid. And he knew
, despite his soul screaming that he must not go back, that she was right.

  “Come on,” Cole said to his friend. “Let’s go get a drink.”

  Acknowledgments

  The following have helped in the preparation of this book and deserve special mention.

  Kay Davis

  Karen Loving

  The Royal Air Force Museum, Herndon; G. Leith,

  Curator

  Michaela Hamilton

  Bob Mecoy

  Michael Lynch

  Thomas Ross Wilson

  Denton Loving

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  Copyright © 2004 by Steven Wilson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

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  ISBN: 978-0-7860-3307-2

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

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