by Judy Nunn
‘Think how grateful they’ll be that you brought him home. There’s a lifetime of agony in “missing in action”, Wolf.’
Martin’s words were pragmatic and to the point, but there was something in the way he said them that reached beyond the mere truth of his statement. There was compassion and understanding, and something else. Something that Wolf recognised as faith.
‘People need to grieve,’ Martin said. ‘And when there’s no tangible evidence of their loss, no earthly body, the process is very hard. You’ve helped Sonny’s parents more than you could possibly know by bringing him home.’
Wolf had never thought of Marty as a priest, although he knew he was ordained. Hell, the guy was a missionary. But he’d seemed too practical somehow to be a priest. Wolf wasn’t sure what his idea of a priest was, he didn’t know any personally, but Marty was so real, so direct, so approachable. Perhaps it was because he’d been an army chaplain. Not that Marty himself ever spoke about his army days; it had been Jane who’d told Wolf.
Now, for the first time in their friendship, Wolf Baker was aware that Martin Thackeray was a man of God, and the practicality and wisdom of his words took on a special significance. Wolf felt a weight lifted from him, as if he’d been absolved of his guilt.
‘Thanks, Marty,’ he said inadequately. Did the man know what he’d just done? he wondered, and he took a swig of the bourbon, the raw liquor stinging the back of his throat, as he sought how better to express himself.
But there was no need. Martin registered that he’d been of some help and he was glad. ‘So what do you want to do now?’ he asked. ‘Do you want to talk some more or just get drunk?’
‘What about both?’
Jane delivered the coffee, although she doubted they’d get around to drinking it. Martin was opening another bottle of wine and Wolf had placed the bourbon bottle on the verandah table. So she left them to it and went to bed.
Whilst Wolf talked and got drunk, Martin sipped his wine and watched, commenting only when it seemed to be called for.
‘It was the sheer goddamn helplessness of it, Marty,’ Wolf raged, ‘sitting up there with no goddamn guns.’ He was pacing the verandah now. ‘Flak, flak, flak, everywhere,’ he said, firing into the air with his right hand and spilling bourbon from the glass he was holding in his left. ‘I thought we were going to blow up any second. Boom! I thought, there’ll be nothing left of us. Jesus Christ, I was scared. Sorry.’ He was suddenly conscious of blaspheming in front of Marty, though he never had been before. But Martin took no notice. ‘I can’t wait to be up there with guns. I swear to God I’ll blow the bastards to hell.’ Wolf was aware that it probably sounded like bravado, but he didn’t care, it was all pouring out of him. ‘I will, Marty, I’ll blow them to bits, Jesus, I will. Sorry.’
‘Oh for goodness sake, stop being so reverent,’ Martin said. Wolf’s blaspheming was of no consequence to him, and neither was his talk of retaliation, which he would normally have disagreed with. Wolf was simply letting off steam, and it was doing him good. Martin sat quietly drinking his wine, aware that he was getting a little heady himself, whilst Wolf worked it out of his system.
But when the American sat down, by now quite drunk, and started talking about the death of his friend, Martin could no longer be objective.
‘He was sitting right next to me, Marty, when those bullets ripped through the starboard side of the cockpit. They missed me by inches and they blew the back of his head off. One minute he was there, we were screaming at each other through the R/T, and the next minute he’s slumped over the control panel, dead.’
‘I wasn’t blasphemin’, Marty,’ Tom Putney had said. ‘I was givin’ thanks. It’s a bleedin’ miracle, it is. A bleedin’—’
Martin was back in Dunkirk. The explosion roared through his brain as he remembered. One minute Tom had been there, and the next minute he’d been dead.
‘A quick death,’ he said, ‘he wouldn’t have felt any pain.’ Martin wasn’t sure whether he was referring to Tom Putney or to Sonny. He was getting drunk, he thought, he wasn’t accustomed to heavy drinking.
‘Yes, that’s what I keep telling myself,’ Wolf agreed. ‘I mean, Jesus, I’ve seen enough dead bodies.’ He’d given up worrying about his blaspheming, it obviously didn’t bother Marty. ‘Pearl Harbor was a massacre, blood and guts everywhere. But when it’s your buddy, and he’s right next to you. You know what I mean?’ The bourbon bottle was empty and he was starting to slur his words.
‘Yes, Wolf, I do. And I think it’s bedtime. You’re in the spare room. Come on.’
Less than a week later, Martin made his announcement. It was a humid evening in early September, and he and Jane were sipping their cups of tea on the verandah, both having returned from a hard day’s work.
‘A patient arrived at the hospital today,’ he said, having decided to broach the subject circuitously. ‘A leg wound, badly septic, they flew him in early this morning. He’s a chaplain aboard the USS Wasp. Or rather he was. It’s a nasty wound. We can save the leg, but he’ll be out of commission for some time. So the Wasp is without a Protestant chaplain.’
Jane felt a stab of alarm. Where was this leading? Martin wasn’t thinking of offering his services, surely.
‘Some of the troopships are too, there’s a shortage of Protestant chaplains. Reverend Hemmings, that’s the fellow’s name,’ he added unnecessarily, ‘was visiting one of the troopships, and that’s how the accident happened, his leg got crushed in the transfer from a small boat.’
She was looking at him strangely. Behind the growing suspicion and fear in her eyes was something unfathomable, and he found himself rambling, as if to avoid the final announcement.
‘He’s a good chap, Hemmings. Very stoic. He kept quiet about the seriousness of his injury for far too long. It was brave of him really, albeit stupid, but he obviously knew how much he was needed.’ He wished she’d stop looking at him like that, it was most disconcerting. ‘So as you can see, they’re rather desperate, and they need someone out there as soon as possible.’
He tailed off lamely. ‘Anyway,’ he shrugged, ‘I volunteered for the post. I leave in two days.’
Two days! Fear gripped her. ‘Why, Marty?’ She asked after a moment’s silence. ‘Why?’
‘I told you, my love, the men need a chaplain.’
‘But why you? Why now?’ Jane tried to keep calm. ‘This has something to do with Wolf, doesn’t it? Something to do with the other night.’
His old nightmares of Dunkirk had returned that night he’d talked with Wolf; he hadn’t had them for a long time now. He’d laughed them off in the morning, saying that he’d been drunk. ‘Godfrey’s fine reds don’t agree with me, my love, not in excess anyway,’ he’d said. But he’d told her all about his conversation with Wolf, and the agony of guilt the American had been suffering. The evening had obviously triggered Martin’s memory, and Jane had thought no more about it, apart from her gratitude that Martin had been able to help the American. Now she cursed Wolf Baker.
‘It is, isn’t it, Marty? It’s because of Wolf Baker.’
He realised it was anger he’d seen behind her fear. The last thing he’d expected was anger. ‘No,’ he said, bewildered. What on earth did Wolf have to do with it? he wondered. Did she think Wolf had suggested him for the post? ‘It has nothing at all to do with Wolf. Wolf doesn’t even know that I’ve volunteered.’
‘It’s because of him you feel the need to prove yourself.’ The words were out before she could stop them and they shocked her. Her anger evaporated in an instant. She hadn’t meant to sound cruel. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘Is it what you believe, Jane?’
‘I don’t know.’ He appeared neither angered nor hurt by her outburst, but it was obvious he was seeking her truthful answer, and she wondered herself what she’d meant in the heat of the moment. Did she truly believe he was trying to prove himself? And if so, to whom? To her? Did she think he was trying to
prove his manliness by going off to war? No, she didn’t. That wasn’t Martin’s way.
‘I truly don’t know, Marty. All I do know is that you had no desire to volunteer your services before that night with Wolf.’
He was relieved by the honesty and simplicity of her reply. ‘I wasn’t needed,’ he said. He put his arm around her. ‘Coincidence is a fine thing, my love. That’s all it is, I swear, my volunteering has nothing to do with Wolf Baker.’
He kissed her lightly, then sat back once again with his cup of tea. ‘But you may be right, Jane, perhaps I do feel the need to prove myself.’ He saw the worry that sprang into her eyes.
‘Oh not to you, my love.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘Not even to myself. Perhaps I feel the need to prove myself to God. I only know that He’s called me and I must answer.’
He sat sipping his tea, as they did every evening whilst they discussed their day, and Jane wondered how he could be so calm when he’d just shattered her peaceful existence.
‘If I asked you not to go, Marty, would you stay?’
‘But you wouldn’t ask me that, would you, my love? Not when Christian men are about to be called into battle and they have no chaplain of their faith to bless them. You wouldn’t ask me that, would you?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I wouldn’t ask you that.’
Two days later, early in the morning of 10 September, they held each other close as the young corporal waited patiently outside in the jeep. Martin didn’t want her to come to Quoin Hill.
‘A long drive to no purpose, my love,’ he’d said.
‘Godspeed,’ she whispered. And she stood at the door of the cottage, Ronnie in her arms, as she watched them drive off, Martin smiling and blowing a kiss first to her, then to Ronnie.
When he arrived at Quoin Hill, amongst the scores of khaki-uniformed servicemen, a familiar figure was waiting for him.
‘Wolf,’ he exclaimed with pleasure as the jeep pulled up. ‘I’m so glad you’re here, I wanted to say cheerio before I left, but everything happened so quickly.’
‘No need to say cheerio just yet, Marty, I’m your pilot.’
The corporal bade them farewell, the jeep took off and the two men stood chatting, oblivious to the activity that surrounded them.
‘You’re my pilot?’ Martin said, incredulous. ‘What a wonderful coincidence.’
‘Not really. Chuck Wilson was assigned to fly you out – that’s how I heard you were going – he’s a buddy of mine, so I volunteered to swap places, Chuck didn’t mind.’
‘Oh.’ Martin was extremely touched. ‘That’s grand of you, Wolf. That’s really grand.’
Wolf gave a nonchalant grin, but he was delighted by Martin’s reaction. ‘No big deal,’ he said. ‘Come and I’ll show you the drill.’
Martin shouldered his kitbag and followed the American to the gleaming blue two-seater plane standing beside the airstrip ready for takeoff.
‘A Douglas SBD Dauntless dive bomber, she’s a little honey.’ Wolf affectionately caressed the wing of the aircraft. ‘And she’s got guns. Thirty calibre,’ he said, pointing to the two machine guns mounted on the fuselage. ‘I feel a lot happier with guns, Marty.’
His wink was personal and cheeky, and Martin was pleased to note that Wolf Baker was back on form. His bounce fully recovered, the American was as irrepressible as ever.
‘And she can travel over 900 miles in four hours without bombs attached,’ Wolf added as he loaded the kitbag into the hold. ‘Like I said, she’s a honey.’
Twenty minutes later they were ready to go, Wolf having rigged Martin out, first with his Mae West lifejacket, then his parachute, meticulously checking every buckle and attachment of the harness. ‘Got to be careful with you amateurs,’ he said.
The rear seat of the Dauntless faced aft, the passenger or crew member seated with his back to the pilot, and as Martin was about to climb into it, Wolf stopped him.
‘Something I want to say, Marty, whilst there’s just you and me.’
Martin looked around at the hive of activity that was the airbase: islanders loading and unloading cargo, mechanics working on aircraft, troops going about their duties. He raised a humorous eyebrow, but Wolf wasn’t to be deterred, he was serious now.
‘It’ll be noisy up there,’ he gave a vague skyward glance, ‘and when we get to the Wasp we won’t have any time together. I’ll be refuelling and they’ll have the welcoming committee out for you, so I want to say it before we take off.’
‘What is it, Wolf?’ Martin asked. The American seemed unsure of what he wanted to say.
Wolf Baker wasn’t unsure of what he wanted to say at all, but he was unsure of the words with which to say it. He admired Martin Thackeray more than any man he’d met.
‘You don’t know what you did for me the other night, do you, Marty?’ he asked.
Martin answered carefully, aware that it somehow seemed important, although he wasn’t sure why. ‘I think I gave you some peace of mind, Wolf, and if I did, I’m glad.’
‘Oh you did that all right,’ Wolf nodded. ‘You sure did that. And that’s what you’ll do for those guys out there.’ Wolf wasn’t accustomed to struggling with words, he’d always had the gift of the gab, but then he’d never addressed a topic so beyond his comprehension.
‘I’m not a religious guy, Marty, and I think in a wartime situation guys like me often envy those who are. But you bridge the gap. I don’t know how you do it, but you do. You’ll get through to those guys out there, just like you did to me, and I can’t think of any man better for the job.’
‘Thank you, Wolf.’ It was the perfect endorsement and Martin welcomed it. He had no doubts about what he was doing, just as he’d had no second thoughts when he’d volunteered. God’s will was not to be questioned. But the thought that he might be of some comfort to men like Wolf, men who had not embraced the faith, gave him an added purpose.
‘I hope you’re right,’ he said as they shook hands.
‘Oh I’m right, you can bet your bottom dollar on that.’ Wolf grinned. ‘Now let’s get up there, shall we?’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Wolf’s prediction proved correct. The moment they landed aboard the USS Wasp, there was no opportunity for them to say their goodbyes. Martin was instantly greeted by the Executive Officer who awaited him on the observation deck of the conning-tower.
‘Dr Thackeray, boy are we glad to see you!’ Commander Dickey enthused as he introduced himself. ‘The men have been sorely missing a chaplain. You’re most welcome aboard, sir, I assure you.’
Just before he was whisked away to ‘meet the men’, Martin looked for Wolf. But the American wasn’t standing idly by; he, too, had been pounced upon. The Flight Commander, who had also been awaiting their arrival on the observation deck, had taken him to one side.
‘Good thing you’re here, Lieutenant,’ the Commander was saying, ‘we need a transport plane. Every aircraft aboard is covering operations for the convoys and resupply units headed for Guadalcanal …’
Martin couldn’t hear exactly what was being said, but it was clear that Wolf was receiving orders, so he gave his full attention to Commander Dickey.
‘Thank goodness the Wasp is bigger than she appears from the air,’ he joked, looking about at the massive aircraft carrier. ‘I was rather worried there for a minute.’
The Executive Officer laughed, he’d heard it before. Most novices were visibly shaken upon landing, some were even physically ill. He liked the new chaplain for making a joke of it.
Martin hadn’t actually been nervous at all. He’d found the experience exhilarating. From the moment he’d seen the USS Wasp, far below in the distance, sitting like a miniature toy on the Coral Sea, the watchful destroyers mere dots nearby, he had found the whole process extraordinary. What a miracle of man’s invention, he’d thought, minutes later, as Wolf prepared the Dauntless for landing. He’d twisted his body about in the rear seat, craning his neck for the forward view, determined not to miss a thin
g, and then it had all happened with such breathtaking speed. One moment Wolf was flying low, making his steady approach, then they’d touched down, the far end of the carrier’s runway frighteningly close. Then the hook beneath the aircraft’s fuselage had grabbed the wire, and in only seconds they’d come to an abrupt halt, the Dauntless stationary, quivering like a dragonfly having alighted upon a lily pad.
As Martin followed the officers from the observation deck, he cast another look back at Wolf and this time the American caught his eye. They waved to each other, and just before Martin disappeared through the hatch, Wolf grinned and his wave became a salute. Martin smiled to himself as he descended the ladder.
Wolf turned once again to the Flight Commander, and his grin disappeared. He was finding his orders somewhat daunting.
‘We’ll bring him up in an hour when your aircraft’s refuelled and checked for takeoff,’ the Commander said. ‘Grab yourself a cup of Java in the meantime. Dr Redmond will be with him and he’ll give you instructions. And we’ve been in contact with Bellevue, they’ll have transport waiting as soon as you touch down at Quoin Hill. You should get there by dusk.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Wolf saluted, and the Flight Commander, having returned the salute, left him to ponder the task at hand.
He was to transport an injured naval officer back to Efate, a fighter pilot whose plane had been badly damaged in a dogfight. The rear gunner had been killed and the pilot had made a successful crash landing at sea. He’d got clear of the sinking aircraft, but he’d been in the water for twenty-four hours before they’d picked him up.
‘Surprisingly little physical injury,’ the Flight Commander had said, ‘but a bad case of battle trauma, I’m afraid. He’s going to be repatriated as soon as possible, but Bellevue’s the first step.’
Battle trauma, Wolf thought as he waited on the observation deck swigging the mug of coffee he’d grabbed from the officers’ wardroom. That could mean anything, poor bastard. The guy might be catatonic or he might be a gibbering mess. What if he threw some sort of fit when they were up there? Wolf didn’t know what to expect and he didn’t welcome the responsibility.
