by Lewis Orde
It was as if Milburn hadn’t uttered a single word. ‘I’ll have my letter of resignation for you in the morning, sir.’
‘You do that, damn you!’ Milburn watched as Roland turned and walked away, his lips stretched in a thin, angry line. And to think he’d given him the honor of toasting the King!
Promptly at seven-thirty the following morning, Roland presented himself to Colonel Milburn, saluted sharply and handed over a sheet of paper on which he had written his resignation request. Milburn took the document, glanced over it. ‘You’re an idiot, Eagles. That’s all I’ve got to say to you.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Roland saluted again and prepared to leave.
‘Not so fast. I want to know why you’re resigning.’
‘I told you last night, sir.’
‘Now tell me the remainder of it. I think I’m entitled to know that much.’ Milburn picked up a folder which lay on the desk in front of him. ‘I went through your records last night. There is nothing in them that connects with this decision. It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Sir, there is one piece of information missing from those records. My parents are both listed as Catholics, the same as myself. My father, in fact, was a Jew. What I saw in those camps won’t allow me to forget that fact.’
‘I see. Do you think that makes any difference? You’re still a soldier, you still obey orders. Or are you hoping that I’ll have your orders changed now that I know your reason for not wanting to go to Palestine?’
‘No, sir. I would never expect you to.’
‘Good. Because I have no intention of doing so. If you want to throw away a promising career because you’re having what you think is an attack of conscience, that’s your privilege. And if you need a clean conscience that badly, you can damned well pay the price.’ Milburn read the letter of resignation again. ‘Have you given any thought to what you’ll do on civvy street?’
Roland had asked himself the same question all night long. He would be starting from scratch, but he wasn’t about to let Milburn know he harbored any reservations. ‘No doubt I’ll be able to find some kind of business to interest me, sir.’
‘Very sure of yourself, aren’t you? How about money? How are you set up?’
Roland was surprised at the turn of the conversation. He had expected nothing more than a curt interview, yet now Milburn seemed genuinely interested in his plans. ‘I’m adequately funded, sir.’
‘Not from your army pay, you can’t be. Your mess bills are among the biggest I’ve ever seen.’
Roland held back a smile at this remark. During his time at Aldershot he had hosted some of the biggest parties the base had ever known. He liked parties and he liked his friends to share them. ‘I’ve had some luck, sir.’
‘Your racetrack outings and your card games?’ Milburn asked, aware of Roland’s fondness for gambling, which hadn’t diminished over the years. ‘You’ve become quite a legend at Aldershot, but even your good fortune can’t have made you that rich.’
‘I’ve also been moderately successful in the stock market, sir. I had an inheritance to safeguard.’ Roland had carefully invested the entire family legacy in chemical and engineering companies and estimated himself to be worth a little more than fifteen thousand pounds, a very tidy sum. He could have made even more, he thought wryly, recalling the letter he had received almost two years earlier from Sergeant Goldstein. Once out of the army, Goldstein began collaborating on a book about the relief of the camp and had wanted Roland’s help. Roland had never replied, feeling irritated that anyone should profit financially from the ordeal. His own lack of interest had made no difference. The book was published in the spring of 1947 and, as far as Roland could ascertain, was moderately successful. Although he had never read it he had been told that he was mentioned, praised by Goldstein for his swift action to ease the suffering.
‘I still think you’re a fool, Eagles, although I can understand now why you’re doing it. You’ve got courage, I’ll say that for you, giving up everything for a principle. I’ll get the paperwork started but maybe you’ll come to your senses before it’s too late.’
‘Thank you, sir, but I don’t think I’ll change my mind.’
‘No, I don’t think you will.’ Milburn returned Roland’s salute with a perfunctory nod. Perhaps it was just as well, he decided as the door swung closed behind Eagles. The army had no place for an officer who questioned his government’s policies. Just as it had no place for an officer who, he’d just noted, wore two gold wedding bands on his right hand when he wasn’t even married.
*
In early November, as one of the most bitter winters in British history began, Roland put on his uniform and captain’s pips for the final time and took a taxi from the army base to Aldershot Station where he could catch a train to London.
The first-class coach he entered was occupied by one other passenger, a woman in her mid-twenties with long auburn hair, wearing fur-lined brown boots and a dark green coat that almost matched the green of her eyes. She glanced up from the book she was reading as Roland closed the door and placed his leather suitcase and coat in the overhead rack. The annoyance that glinted in her eyes on first noticing the uniform turned to interest when she realized that her fellow traveler was a tall, imposing-looking captain.
‘Going on a well-deserved leave?’ the woman asked conversationally as Roland settled into a window seat.
‘A well-deserved permanent leave,’ Roland answered, setting aside the copy of The Times he had been about to read. ‘I just severed my association with the army.’
‘How long were you in for?’ The woman had a soft yet assertive voice which asked questions in a manner which, while demanding answers, caused no offense.
‘Two months over seven years.’ A whistle sounded; the train belched steam and jerked into motion. Roland glanced out the window to bid farewell to Aldershot and the army.
‘That’s a long time, must be quite a wrench.’ The woman leaned forward to study the ribbons on Roland’s jacket. ‘Excuse my curiosity, but is that the Military Cross and the Military Medal?’
‘I came up through the ranks, got the opportunity to be a hero as both an enlisted man and an officer.’ Roland felt quite flattered that she had recognized the decorations. ‘For a woman you’ve got an excellent eye for ribbons.’
‘I should have,’ she said, smiling warmly. ‘My husband was in the army.’
‘Was? He resigned?’
‘No. He died at Arnhem, a lieutenant in the paratroopers.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So am I. We were only married three months. When he was first drafted he was a mild-mannered man. But the army changed all that – he suddenly got smitten with the glory of it all. By the time we were married, just after D-Day, he was completely different . . . totally wrapped up in the military.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘Me? I continued his war effort the only way I knew how, by covering the war from a woman’s angle – human interest stories, articles to boost the morale on the home front.’
‘Journalist?’
‘Sorry, I should have introduced myself. Sally Roberts, London Evening Mercury.’
‘Roland Eagles, civilian,’ Roland countered, and they both laughed. Roland knew the Mercury well. Although it didn’t have the massive circulation of the Star or the News, it was a highly respected newspaper. Roland’s regard for it came not from its liberal platforms but from its racing coverage; the Mercury’s tipsters were among the best in their field.
‘Might I be terribly nosy and ask why you’re getting out?’ Sally asked. ‘Seven years seems such a peculiar number.’
‘It was time, as simple as that.’ He offered her a cigarette from a gold case and held out a matching lighter. ‘What are you doing out here? Big story?’
‘No, it’s my day off. I’m visiting my family on their farm near Aldershot.’ She accepted the light and gazed at his right hand. ‘Why do you wear two identical gold rings?
Two wives? That’s against the law, you know.’
Roland looked down at the rings and explained their significance to Sally. She asked him again why he had chosen to resign when he had and, as the train rolled steadily toward London, he began to talk easily, barely realizing he was being interviewed in a skillful, sympathetic fashion. Sally seemed especially interested to learn that he had been part of the British force at Bergen-Belsen and questioned him extensively about the camp. As he related his conversations with survivors, his desire to help them, he understood that this was the first time he had ever spoken at length with anyone about the concentration camp. It was like washing his soul clean, shedding the last vestiges of horror that remained. Suddenly he was grateful that he had chosen this particular day to leave the army, had caught this train, had entered this very compartment.
For Roland the short journey was over too soon. At Waterloo Station he parted company with Sally, but not before writing down her address in Hampstead and telephone number. From the station he took a taxi to a small hotel off Leicester Square where he had stayed frequently during weekend trips to London. He checked in for a week, estimating that to be enough time to get settled. After unpacking he dialed the number Sally had given him.
‘I didn’t expect to hear from you quite so soon,’ she said. ‘I just got in the door, haven’t even had time to take my coat off, and the phone was ringing off the hook.’
Roland grinned at his timing. ‘I find myself with a night in London, my very first night as a civilian, and nothing planned to celebrate it. How about helping me out?’
‘I thought you were looking for somewhere to live.’
‘That can wait until tomorrow. Will you have dinner with me?’
Sally smiled. All the way home from Waterloo Station she’d been hoping he would call her. ‘I’d love to.’
Roland offered to pick her up at seven-thirty. Sally suggested that since she had a car, she could come into town and save him the bother of traveling out to Hampstead. Attracted by the idea of being driven around, Roland accepted immediately.
Precisely at seven-thirty, a red prewar MG pulled up outside the hotel where Roland waited, snuggled against the chill in a bulky sheepskin coat. He had to bend almost double to get in, finding it difficult to maneuver his six-foot-two frame into the sports car. Sally waited for him to get comfortable before she sped away, changing gears with a swift dexterity that Roland couldn’t help envying.
‘You drive as well as a man.’
She flashed him a quick, angry look. ‘Don’t you mean that some men drive as well as I do?’ Before he had the chance to reply, she added, ‘That’s the second time you’ve made that comparison. You mentioned on the train that I had an excellent eye for ribbons – for a woman. Don’t tell me you’re one of those unenlightened buggers who believes that a woman belongs in the kitchen, Roland Eagles. I thought the war finally put that Neanderthal philosophy to rest for good.’
Roland gave himself a mental kick. Damn it – he did think that way, but so did every career army officer – it went with the uniform. Men fought the wars and women stayed home. Well, he reminded himself, he wasn’t an army officer anymore. It was time to change. ‘You’re perfectly right,’ he said. ‘Some men drive as well as you do. I apologize.’
‘Accepted.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To a tiny restaurant in Bayswater which does gastronomical wonders with the little food the government allows.’ She double-declutched from fourth to third and accelerated past a line of slower traffic along Regent Street. Roland caught a glimpse of the Cafe Royal on the right and Adler’s department store to the left. ‘Or do you have any better ideas?’
Roland confessed that he did not and allowed himself to be led. After so many years in command it might make for a pleasant change . . . Besides, Sally was unlike any woman he had dated while in the army. The others had all been thrilled by military tradition. He sensed that Sally didn’t give a damn for it.
In Bayswater, she pulled up outside a dimly lit restaurant called Antoine’s and led the way inside. It was a family establishment where the middle-aged French owner and his wife acted as both cooks and waiters. From the way they fussed over Sally, Roland could see that she was a regular customer. With a faint twinge of envy he wondered how many other men had been there with her.
‘What do you recommend?’ he asked once they were seated at a cozy corner table. A candle set in a wall bracket above the table sent shadows flickering across her face.
‘Everything. Just make sure you don’t leave a scrap. With decent food being so scarce these days, Antoine gets very upset to see it wasted.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve been told that I’m a voracious eater.’ Roland was true to his word. He left neither a drop of the onion soup, a crumb of the home-baked rolls, nor a sliver of the chicken cordon bleu. And while Sally struggled to match his hectic eating pace, he eyed her plate and deftly picked off a slice of veal.
Sally was wide-eyed with amazement. ‘Is it your habit to take food from other people’s plates?’
‘Only when it appeals to me,’ he answered with a quick, infectious grin. ‘Really, this is very good, you should try some,’ he added, helping himself to another slice.
Sally surrendered the battle, setting down her knife and fork and allowing Roland to finish her meal; she had eaten enough already. ‘Would you like to order your own dessert, or should I order two servings and two forks – both for you?’
‘Would you believe that during the first week in Bergen-Belsen I lost ten pounds? That place made me so sick I couldn’t eat a thing.’
‘I do believe you.’ She reached across the table to clasp his hand, welcoming the streak of compassion she sensed in him. It was an odd trait, she thought. If anything the army usually hardened a man, not softened him . . . She studied him in the unsteady light of the candle. Even though he was relaxed, his face reflected a sadness as if it mirrored the tragedies he had witnessed. Despite the sharpness of his blue eyes there was also a warmth and an easy familiarity about him that made Sally feel she’d known this man for much longer than she had.
‘What would you have done if you hadn’t called me, Roland? Or if I’d been busy? Or if we hadn’t even met?’
‘Probably gone to bed with a book and spent the night wondering whether I’d done the right thing by leaving the army. That’s why I’m exceptionally glad I caught that train.’
Sally was surprised to find herself blushing, not something she did with any frequency. Even the soldiers she had interviewed at the front with their unintentional vulgarities had never caused her face to redden. ‘Thank you. And as far as I’m concerned, I think you did make the right decision.’
They left the restaurant a short time later and returned to the hotel. As they walked hand-in-hand through the lobby toward the stairs, the night clerk gave them no more than a passing glance, lifting his head from his newspaper just long enough to recognize Roland.
‘Who’s the picture of?’ Sally asked as Roland turned on the light and closed the door. She pointed to a small framed snapshot on the mantelpiece and walked across for a closer look.
‘A family picture taken in the summer of 1940. It was only a few weeks before . . . before I lost them.’
‘Where are you?’ Sally scanned the photo, seeking a younger version of the handsome, articulate man who had taken her to dinner.
‘Someone had to press the button.’
‘Oh, I see.’ His casual reply made her laugh, but as she turned away from the mantelpiece she felt a momentary awkwardness at causing Roland’s memory to wander down an unwelcome avenue. She quickly searched for a way to lighten the mood, to bring their relationship back to the bright footing it had enjoyed before. ‘And there you are, in all your fearsome glory,’ she said, picking up a larger photograph from the chest of drawers. ‘Why do you display a picture of yourself in uniform? Could it be vanity to complement your healthy appetite?’
‘Just
to remind myself of what I was, I suppose.’ He took the photograph – taken a year earlier at Aldershot – from her and studied it. Was it just an unflattering pose or did he really look that old, the hair starting to thin at the front, gray showing around the temples, lines at the mouth. God, he thought, where had youth gone? And what would this woman think if she knew his true age?
‘How old do you think I am?’ The question flew from his lips before he realized what he was saying.
‘About twenty-eight, thirty maybe,’ Sally answered as she removed her coat.
‘Try twenty-three.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Never more so.’
She stood in the center of the room, coat trailing from her hand, staring at him. Perhaps she had made a mistake, but surely not by that much. ‘Twenty-three? You told me you were in the army for a little over seven years. How old were you—?’
‘I enlisted on my sixteenth birthday. I lied about my age.’
‘Right after your family was killed?’
He nodded. ‘Some birthday present, eh?’
She folded her coat across the back of a chair, walked toward him, stood on tiptoe and wrapped her arms tightly around him. As he bent to kiss her he noticed the faintest trace of garlic, but instead of repelling him it was like an aphrodisiac; the taste and smell of a healthy, beautiful woman who had just dined well and now yearned to satisfy another, deeper hunger.
‘Somewhere inside this slightly older woman, Roland Eagles, is a tiny voice crying out that I should feel like a cradle snatcher. But I don’t. Why?’
‘You tell me.’ His hands slid down her back until they rested on her buttocks; as he drew her closer he could feel her thigh pressing gently between his legs.
‘Maybe it’s because you’re by far the most mature twenty-three-year-old man I’ve ever met. Is that why you asked me how old I thought you were? Is that what your vanity wanted to hear?’
‘Is vanity such a sin?’ Roland had never considered himself vain, but if Sally wanted to label him as such he’d play along.
