David Brentwood’s first shock upon reaching the outskirts of Brussels was to see just how badly damaged the city was. Like so many other soldiers who’d seen action at the front and the terrible punishment meted out by the Russian rocket artillery attacks, he knew that civilian centers behind the front were being hit, but he hadn’t imagined it would be as bad as this. Piles of red and yellow brick rubble were everywhere as the train slowly crept in from the southern outskirts, the rockets clearly having made no distinction between residential areas and military targets — not that David could blame Russians for that any more than he could the Allies’ artillery for the havoc their short-range rockets were now wreaking on the ancient capitals of eastern Europe, church spires and stained glass mixed in with the rubble of thousands of homes as well as the officially designated targets. There was very little wood around, he noticed, most of it already scavenged for fuel, the Atlantic convoys having been hit again by Soviet sub packs.
His second shock in Brussels was that he had not been summoned to identify any of the SPETS he’d seen in U.S. and British uniform around Stadthagen and who had murdered British and American POWs.
Instead David found himself being escorted by the MP sergeant, then by an American captain, to a rather nondescript, musty-smelling basement room in the pockmarked Brussels HQ. A U.S. Marine major sat at a long plywood table supported by sawhorses in front of a crumbling plaster wall, the major flanked by another American, a captain, on his left, and a British captain to the major’s right. It was a recruiting committee for the elite, and now joint, British and American SAS, or Special Air Service, of which little was known by regular units except that elements of the joint SAS regiment sometimes made tactical strikes deep behind enemy lines. They were the British and American equivalent of the SPETS Kommandos, some of whom were believed to be operating in civilian garb behind NATO lines.
David’s orders that he was to ID captured SPETS were, as the American army captain from the three-man interviewing board had put it before taking him inside, merely a “cover.” “Limeys are very careful about recruitment,” the captain explained. “Special Air Service personnel are never identified— not even in their own regiments. It’s always put down as a transfer. Anyway, there are no SPETS for you to identify, Brentwood. We haven’t caught any.” The captain had paused, looking David over carefully before entering the room. “You in the picture?”
“Yes, sir,” David answered unenthusiastically. He didn’t like it. He’d had enough.
Inside the windowless interview room, he could hear the faint hum of the furnace heat recirculating the cloying dust particles from the bomb rubble above.
“Quite an honor, Lieutenant,” the marine major sitting in the center told him.
“Yes, sir.” David wasn’t sure whether the major was talking about the honor of him having been selected for interview or whether it was meant as a compliment to David’s decorations.
There was an awkward silence, the U.S. Army captain glancing up at Brentwood’s regulation somber straight-headed gaze, then at the marine major and British SAS liaison captain.
The marine major cleared his throat. “Course, it’s purely voluntary, but a man with your experience, Brentwood, would—” He looked at the British officer, who was showing no sign of embarrassment over Brentwood’s obvious hesitation. “I think,” continued the major, “your experience in Pyongyang and—” he glanced down at a file “—Stadthagen would prove invaluable to SAS.”
So that’s it, thought David. The major was now pointing out that in keeping with NATO policy, Washington and Whitehall were “actively encouraging” joint Allied participation in both SAS in Europe and further afield in the Pacific, with U.S. Special Forces. It was either Korea, concluded David, or the Russian front.
Then the major threw him the curveball. “General Freeman recommended you — personally.”
The British captain, a bent-stem pipe in his right hand, was scooping dark Erinmore Flake from its pouch and palming it into a stringy consistency before stuffing the bowl. “Please don’t feel pressed, old man,” he told Brentwood. The U.S. Marine major was looking down hard at the pencil he held captive between his burly hands.
“Purely voluntary,” the Englishman continued, “as your chaps have already told you. And Heaven knows — Medal of Honor, Silver Star… I should say you’ve done your bit and more. Just thought you might like a crack at it, that’s all. Heard so much about you.” He smiled, and what made it worse for David, the Englishman’s smile seemed genuine, without the trace of irony he’d come to expect of some of the other British officers he’d met. The Englishman was now tamping the tobacco into the pipe’s bowl, blowing through it before waving a lighted match back and forth over it. “Just thought you might be a beggar for punishment,” he told David congenially. “Getting a bit bored—” he paused to suck in hard on the pipe “—with all those Flemish girls and couques. Given your record, thought you might be craving a little action again.” The very thought of action produced in David the chilled-bowel feeling he’d experienced before final exams at college, his throat dry, face feeling strangely hot yet cold at the same time, his heart racing, thumping so loudly, he was afraid they might hear it. “Thanks, sir,” he said in a parched voice, “but — all — I don’t think I’m fit enough for your SAS or any other—”
“Quite understandable, old man,” cut in the British captain. “No apologies needed. We’re scouting for new chaps, that’s all. We got rather a bloody nose up in Schleswig-Holstein when the balloon went up.” He flashed another smile. “Just looking around.” Proceeding to draw heavily on the pipe, the Brit winked at him understanding, then glanced at the U.S. Marine major and Army captain at the same time. “Tell you the truth, if I had half the chance, shouldn’t be surprised if I gave the bloody lot up myself. Off to sunnier climes, I should expect. Next to the Pole, Scotland must be the chilliest place on earth.”
The mention of Scotland made David wonder if they weren’t trying to use the fact of his brother operating out of Holy Loch as a possible lure. But he rejected the possibility as soon as he’d thought of it. They probably didn’t even know his brother was there — if he still was. And the last thing the military cared about was trying to reunite family members. In fact, in time of war, it was the last thing they wanted to do. Besides, nothing David could think of could overcome the gut-gnawing fear he seemed incapable of shucking ever since Stadthagen.
The British captain had risen, extending his hand. “Thank you for your time, Lieutenant.”
David shook the Englishman’s hand. The marine major tried to look understanding but came off as grim. The U.S. Army captain meanwhile had opened the door to take Brentwood down to pick up his travel voucher for the trip back to Liege, where he was to await further orders.
After David saluted and left, the marine major shook his head at his British colleague. “I’m sorry, Captain.”
The Englishman held up the pipe in protest. “Not to worry, Major.”
“I do worry. He’s a marine. Hell — I know it was rough at Pyongyang — and at Stadthagen, too, from all accounts. Damn rough! But it wasn’t a sustained action. Some of my boys on the Polish front—”
“No doubt, Major,” responded the English captain gracefully. “But at Stadthagen the lad was completely on his own, and in that kind of situation, at least in my experience, how long a man’s actually been at the front has little meaning. He was captured by SPETS — saw men all around him being murdered in cold blood before he managed to make his break and was hunted to ground again in raging blizzard. Dogs after him. With all that, he kept his head and blew up an ammo dump. After you’ve been through that lot, Medal of Honor notwithstanding, I should think the nerves are never quite the same. Damned sure mine wouldn’t be.”
The marine major conceded the point, but true or not, his pride in the corps had taken a blow because of Brentwood’s refusal to join the joint SAS team.
“Some chaps do recuperate, of course,” the English captain continued, another match scratching, circling the pipe’s bowl as he blew voluminous curls of grayish-blue smoke into the high, windowless room. “In Malaya I remember—”
“I don’t think so,” cut in the major. “In my experience, Captain, once they go to pieces, they stay in pieces. Best thing we can do is ship him home.”
The Englishman was expansive in his agreement. “By all means, old chap. He’s earned it.”
“He has,” replied the major, his tone not so gruff now, but the Englishman knew the major, a row of ribbons attesting to his own valor under fire, still didn’t approve.
“How about his comrade-in-arms?” asked the Englishman. “Black chappie. Thelman, I think the name was? Another one on Freeman’s recommendation list.”
“Yes,” said the major. “We should try him. They went to Parris Island together.”
“Parris Island,” said the U.S. captain, turning to the marine major. “Well, at least we know Brentwood’s a survivor then.”
“I wonder?”
Peter Zeldman, the Roosevelt’s executive officer, was enjoying his leave down in Surrey with the Spences following the wedding, knowing nothing of Robert and Rosemary’s near brush with what MI6 were convinced had been SPETS “sleepers.” Neither did Rosemary’s parents, Richard and Anne Spence, until a registered letter arrived one morning for Richard Spence marked “Personal and Confidential.” It was Robert’s letter of warning about the “charmers” and about a “package” Robert would be sending Richard via Rose when she returned to Surrey.
Till this letter from Robert, the previous postcards of wild, heather-covered Highlands — in reality, rather forlorn and snow-covered at this time of year — had borne no hint to Richard Spence of the danger his daughter and new son-in-law had been in during the final days of their aborted honeymoon. Up to now, the cards, full of a carefree optimism, had been gratefully received by Anne and Richard Spence, whose loss of their son on convoy escort duty still cast a pall over the house. Young William’s death was something they knew they had to accept but which they also realized they would never become reconciled to in a world where so often the good seemed defeated by the bad.
Georgina Spence, Rosemary’s younger and vivacious sister, was down from the London School of Economics and Political Science for Christmas, but careful not to let Peter Zeldman think for a moment her visit had anything to do with his presence in the house. It was this haughty indifference to him that attracted Zeldman to her. He was sure that behind the sophisticated leftist chitchat and learned allusions, there was a woman waiting to be let out. And he was sure that she couldn’t be so naive as not to think how downright sexual she appeared in front of men. The fact that she disdained makeup as a “bourgeois affectation,” as he’d overheard her telling her mother, only highlighted her natural beauty, the kind of woman, Zeldman believed, who would look as good first thing in the morning as she had the night before.
After six tension-filled months without a woman, the mere sight of her was a feast — and every time he saw her move, he was tantalized by wondering whether or not she wore a bra. Still, he refused to play a game. There was “no time for dancing,” as his Uncle Saul would say. “You want — you ask — you get or you don’t get. That’s all.” Some enjoyed the chase. He enjoyed the sex — all the maneuvering he wanted to do was in bed. He decided he’d give her the weekend to show some interest in him, or rather admit her interest in him, or he was off up to London to take in a few shows and wait for his orders there. Brentwood had told him what a sharp mind Rosemary’s sister had. That was nice, but he didn’t care. He wanted her body. He’d had enough of her mind. Students at LSE, she’d announced, were going to prepare a “pretty deadly broadside” in a petition to the government on the wartime limits on individual freedom. He said nothing. He’d seen good men the so that she could sign petitions, and the only broadside he had in mind was a chance to get her in bed and “fire all tubes.” What bugged him was she knew they were mutually attracted — sexually anyhow. He’d admitted it every time their eyes had met. She couldn’t — or wouldn’t.
“Close the curtains, will you?” he heard Richard Spence asking her in the living room. “Been a bit overcast tonight, I’m afraid.” Spence was referring to the fact that Russian rocket attacks launched from the Baltic usually came over on stormy, cloudy nights when the fighters scrambling from East Anglia had more difficulty seeing them. The problem was that in bad cloud conditions, if the IDD, or identification friend or foe, signals sometimes got jammed, pilots had to go to infrared for air-to-air missile launch, which had caused a number of them to shoot down missiles sent up by their own AA batteries. On occasion, in the split-second world of the dogfight, they’d even shot down friendly fighters in the darkness whose exhaust they’d mistaken for that of an enemy rocket.
Zeldman heard Georgina drawing the drapes shut, and saw her mother, the heavy lines in Mrs. Spence’s face belying the determined charm with which she had tried to hide the pain of her son’s death.
“We’ll be late, dear,” she called out to Richard, who still hadn’t solved the Telegraph’s crossword. Mrs. Spence smiled at Zeldman. “Sure you don’t want to come, Commander? Being a submariner, you might have some very practical suggestions about recycling. I imagine you—”
“Leave him alone, Mother,” said Richard, folding the paper and at last making a move to haul himself out of the lounge chair. “I’m sure Commander Zeldman has far better things to do than turn his energies to the Oxshott Recycling Society. Tell you the truth, I’m not sure I want to.”
“Very well. The commander must do as he likes, of course.” It made Zeldman feel uncomfortable and old, being referred to as “commander,” but despite his telling them to call him “Pete,” English reserve carried the day.
“Oh, do get a move on, Richard,” said Anne impatiently.
“Yes, yes,” he said irritably, reaching for his jacket. “Suppose I must.”
“Don’t come if you’re going to be cross.” She turned to Zeldman. “Last time he came, he just sat there and harrumphed at the professor.” As Richard slipped off his bifocals, popping them into his jacket pocket, he explained to Zeldman, “Professor Knowlton. A bag of wind. Apparently he’s got some mad scheme now for the local councils to recycle shoes. Can you imagine? Last thing I’d want to wear is another man’s shoes.”
“Here,” said Anne, holding his scarf out to him. “Don’t be so negative. You thought he was crazy about everyone handing in their hair dryers.” Helping him on with his coat, she turned to Peter Zeldman. “When they make those jump-up planes—”
“Jump jets, Anne. For Heaven’s sake. Vertical takeoff and landing, to be precise.”
“Well, whatever. I’m sure the commander would like to know,” she added, turning back to Zeldman. “Did you know that the Harriers — those jets were made from layers and layers of material that had to be hand-dried? Presto! The hair dryers. It was very original. I think they’ll give him an OBE.”
Zeldman looked perplexed.
“Order of the British Empire,” Anne explained.
“OPE, more like it,” said Richard, doubling his scarf about his neck. “Order of Pompous Eccentrics. Honestly, the man’s so inflated with his own importance, it’s a wonder he doesn’t take off.”
“Well,” said his wife as they went out the door, glancing back at Peter Zeldman and Georgina, “enjoy yourselves.”
Outside, Richard turned to Anne. “I hardly thought that was necessary, Anne.”
“What?”
“Telling them to enjoy themselves. Sounds like you’re— well — matchmaking.”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
“Good grief, woman, we’ve just got over Rosemary’s wedding. Have you seen our bank account?”
“Oh, stop fretting. It’s like chalk and cheese with those two. He’s interested, I think, but not Georgina. I’m afraid she considers him ‘unsuitable.’ “
“She’s probably right. Don’t mind putting the chap up. Nice enough, and it’s our duty really, as the government says. If it wasn’t for the American submariners, we’d be starving. Everyone knows that. No, I don’t mind billeting the chap at all. Pleasant enough. But we’re not obliged to open a marriage bureau. In any case, Georgina’s far too young.”
“She’s twenty-five, Richard.”
“Yes, and he’s what?”
“Late twenties, that’s all.”
“I’m not talking number of years,” Richard replied. “It’s a matter of maturity. She’s not ready—”
“Oh, stop fretting so. I told you, she has no interest in him whatsoever. Tell you the truth, she’s been rather rude to him. Goes about the house as if he’s not there.”
“Well, she’s studying. Her Michaelmas term paper—”
“Oh, you know what I mean. Or perhaps you don’t. Every time I see you, you’ve got your head stuck in the paper.”
“Leave off, old girl.” It was said politely but firmly— the danger signal that they were close to reliving the terrible time when they’d heard young William had been killed, Richard retreating for days at a time, saying nothing, reading, burying his grief in his own silence, and the two of them quite apart at the very time they both knew they should have been closest.
They were approaching the parish hall. “A big crowd to hear Professor Knowlton. Now, don’t worry, Richard. He’s not Georgina’s type. Nothing’s going to happen.”
“My God!” said Richard. “Look at Knowlton. Old fool. Looks like a recycled coat he’s wearing.”
“Richard! Behave yourself.”
“Yes, yes.” He glanced up at the brooding sky. Clouds were curdling ominously about one another but not yet a solid sheet of gray.
When the phone rang, Georgina jumped, her nerves on edge because of the expected Soviet missile raid, but as she rose to answer it, she pretended to Zeldman her fright was due to her having been absorbed in one of her textbooks.
“It’s for you,” she said, surprised.
As he took the phone from her, their fingers touched. He watched her walk away. The phone call was from Faslane, the village near Holy Loch, informing him the post office was holding a “familygram” for him — a fifteen-word message each submariner was allowed over a month. Did he want it forwarded to Surrey? The question about whether he wanted it “sent on” meant, however, that it wasn’t from home. Instead, it was a message to him that he must report back to the Sea Wolf within seventy-two hours. He had counted on having several more days at the Spences’—at least till Christmas — if things worked out with Georgina, but now his time with her had suddenly been cut in half.
“Have to leave tomorrow,” he said after putting the phone down.
Georgina said nothing.
At 9:17 p.m. the first Russian salvos could be heard several miles away, their distinctive shuffling noise sounding as if they were chopping the air instead of coming at supersonic speed toward their targets. Peter picked up the TV’s remote control and turned the television off, for, as well as the increasing Russian salvos, an electrical storm was coming in from the Channel. “Better not use the phone either,” he said. “Charge could throw you across the room.”
She barely acknowledged his comment, continuing to read in the soft glow of an Edwardian lamp, its light trapped by heavy blackout drapes. Finally the din of missiles exploding came several miles closer. Suddenly the power was out.
“Okay if I open the drapes?” asked Zeldman. She didn’t answer.
Looking outside at the garden pond, neglected through the winter, he could see, reflected in its icy surface, the stalks of searchlights starting to cluster and intertwine high in the sky to the east. Beyond the garden, yellow slits of headlights came to a standstill — everything stopping during the raid except for a blacked-out commuter train rumbling through the nearby culvert, making its run for the nearest tunnel.
“Right,” said Peter. “I’m off for the shelter. Coming?”
“No, thank you.” She said it as if the missile raid were a mere impertinence and that in any event, it was “too bourgeois” by half to go scuttling into the nearest shelter.
“Suit yourself,” said Zeldman, walking out through the wild shrubs of the English garden toward the shelter Richard Spence had dug not far from an old sun house.
In the momentary lighting of the Nike Hercules air defense batteries around Leatherhead, Georgina saw the ugly, leafless vines of morning glory which had strangled the best of the garden, its wild aspect the result of her mother’s neglect following William’s death. Suddenly, oppressively, the red and bluish flashes of the AA missile batteries nearby, the tang of ozone in the air, the decaying garden, seemed to leap at her in a series of strobe-lit pictures of primeval forces victorious not only in having run riot over the garden, the very semblance of civilization, but over civilization itself.
The Russian rockets were crashing closer and closer, and a rain of red-tailed missiles could be seen plummeting down over Leatherhead and nearby in Oxshott, devastating what had been heavily camouflaged army staging areas.
A salvo of Zhukov J rockets, their long crimson exhausts plainly, if only momentarily, visible, their harsh metallic retching sound rending the air, crashed into the nearby culvert, the explosion blowing out most of the Spences’s windows, the living room’s heavy blackout drapes sucked frighteningly inward, swirling about her but stopping most of the flying glass.
Zeldman, in the shelter, heard the implosion — glass shattering. Within seconds, drawing the Nansen slide bolt and wrenching the heavy door open, he was racing up the short flight of sunken brick steps as Georgina, her nerve breaking as more salvos rained about the culvert, fled the house toward the shelter.
In another flash of a Nike Hercules battery and the glow of fuel dump fires, the two of them all but crashed into one another in the garden. It would have been funny but for Georgina’s frantic panic.
Leading her back to the shelter, Peter Zeldman said little apart from a few quietly given instructions, and sat holding her, stroking her hair, trying to calm her down. For a long time her body remained rigid, tense with fear, but then slowly she yielded — all her pretenses shattered by the closeness of death, their mutual longing unreined by the dull thumps of the rockets’ explosions bringing danger ever closer, her fingers tearing into him as he lifted her high against the shelter’s damp wall, penetrating her with equally wild abandon, the fullness of her release sweeping over her time and again, the air raid reaching its crescendo, their joy a reverie.