His mind screamed at him to look as the boats battled one another, the thick waves of the Channel crashing over the bow or against the hull as 155 chased the E-boat. The starboard twin .50-caliber machine guns banged away at the enemy boat, and each time they fired, Cole felt himself jump. He’s okay, he’s okay, Cole kept telling himself, but he could not bring himself to look.
When the E-boat burst into flames and sank low in the water, he heard DeLong shout in triumph. Cole’s body began to shake in relief. He fought back the vomit stinging his throat as they picked up the German and Edland questioned him.
Now, as he stood on the bridge, the sharp taste of bile in his mouth, he clung tightly to the spray shield, willing his body to be still.
All the time he could hear DeLong singing some little silly song about fishies and a dam. He wanted to shout “Shut up!” but he kept silent. After an hour or so he felt normal. He hoped no one had seen him lose control, especially DeLong, and he finally relaxed. He forced himself to look toward the left.
DeLong was at the wheel, scanning the horizon. He noticed Cole looking at him and rewarded him with a broad grin.
“Hell of a day at sea, wasn’t it, Skipper?”
Cole smiled weakly in response. How much more of this can I handle?
Chapter 12
Dickie Moore lit Rebecca’s cigarette in the relative quiet of the tearoom. The place was nearly deserted; a strange state of affairs when there always seemed to be thousands of people swarming to or from trains. But it was almost four o’clock in the morning and most people had fallen asleep on the long wooden benches in the waiting areas or sat close over tiny tables, trying to ease their fatigue with cup after cup of strong tea.
Rebecca nodded her thanks but stayed Dickie’s hand. “A new lighter, Dickie?”
“A present,” he said, his eyes alight with playful conspiracy. “From a very dear friend.”
“A lady,” Rebecca said, smiling.
“Well, I bloody well wouldn’t accept such a gift from a man,” he said, slipping the lighter in his tunic. “Dear father would have been the first to suggest that I was a nancy, but I was pleased to prove him wrong. I think that creates a dilemma for the old boy. His only son likes girls, but his only son likes girls far better than he likes anything else, so he achieves little in life. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“You should never say such things about yourself,” Rebecca said, mild reproach in her pale blue eyes. “You give yourself far too little credit.”
“Ah,” Dickie said, “but far more than my creditors do.” A waitress swept by, filling their teacups. Dickie waited until she was out of earshot before he said: “So you’re off to the country?” He thought that this was the best way to broach the subject of Rebecca leaving her husband. He might have started with something such as: “So you’ve finally come to your senses,” but that would have been too blunt. She was his friend and he had sense enough to realize that she had been a long time making this painful decision.
“Yes,” Rebecca said, “back to Farley Park for a while. Both Mother and Father are pleased at the thought of me moving home.”
“And,” Dickie began, half in spite and half in jest. “Oh, I can never recall that chap’s name.”
“It’s Gregory, Dickie,” Rebecca said, shaking her head at her friend. He would never be more than a delightfully mischievous boy. “You know very well what his name is.”
“I forgot. I truly did,” Dickie replied, tossing in just enough sincerity to fool no one. “Is it permanent? I mean that you’re not going back to him — are you?”
“No. I shan’t be going back. There’s no reason to continue with the marriage, really. He has settled on a life that doesn’t include me.” She looked at her teacup in resignation.
“Makes him a fool, doesn’t it? A perfectly lovely creature such as yourself. A philandering husband, war hero or not. He must be blind, is all that I can say.” Dickie looked around as if he suddenly realized where he was. “And why, oh, why did you insist upon this ungodly hour to depart London?”
Rebecca laughed. “I thought that you belonged to the night, Dickie?”
“Night, yes. But, dear girl, this is early morning, and at this time of day I am usually tucked in and doing” — he smiled — “doing whatever good little boys should be doing at this hour.”
“It was the only connection that I could make, Dickie, and you are a lamb for coming to see me off.”
“Some of my lady friends might consider me more a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
The shrill wail of a train whistle broke the expanse of the huge train shed, while several engines lay next to their platforms, chugging softly.
Dickie shook off the silence that had descended over them with a subject that had been bothering him since she arrived. He had seen her walk into the tearoom, stop, and search over the few patrons and scattered tables until her eyes finally rested on him. It seemed an ordeal for her. “You’re not looking well, Rebecca.”
“What a perfectly dreadful thing to say,” she responded playfully.
“We must not be humorous about this,” Dickie said. He was serious and he wanted Rebecca to understand that he was concerned. “You look all done in. Although, I shouldn’t wonder considering Gregory’s nocturnal habits. And your job cannot have helped. Sixteen-hour days at the hospital, I mean, really, dear. Didn’t you ever consider your own well-being?”
“There was never any time for that, Dickie,” Rebecca explained. “I was needed there. People needed me. That’s what kept me going through all of this nonsense with Gregory. There was so much to do. There still is. I hated to leave; I feel as if, in a way, I’m abandoning the hospital.”
“Well you’re not going back,” Dickie said. “Not to the hospital and not to that randy husband of yours. You’ve come to your senses and you’re getting away, and from the looks of the circles under your eyes, not too soon.”
“I’m tired, dear,” Rebecca said. “That’s all there is to it. And I hate not being active. When I was a child I spent nearly a year in bed with fever, and I vowed that I would never give in to that nonsense again. So you mustn’t worry about me. Don’t give it another thought. When I’m well again I shall return to nursing. It is, after all, my life. I am devoted to caring for others.” She lifted the lid of a creamer and peered into the tiny pitcher. Satisfied that there was enough left, she replaced the lid and poured some of the contents into her tea. The white liquid turned into a brown swirl, and she spooned it into oblivion. “Have you heard from, Jordan?” It was a casual question but Dickie could tell that it had been carefully prepared and timed.
“I have,” he said brightly. “Last week, in fact.”
“How is he?” she asked, seemingly preoccupied with her tea.
“Well,” he lied. He thought it a bit amusing that she pretended not to care, but then he remembered that Jordan was not the only one who suffered when she sent him away. “Quite well indeed. You know those American chaps. Overpaid, oversexed, and over here. He’s on PT boats; like our Motor Torpedo Boats. He was in the Mediterranean. Did I tell you that?”
“No.”
“No. Well, there he was and when things cooled a bit there, he was shipped back to England.”
“Is he well?” she asked hopefully. “Really?”
Dickie reached across the table and patted her hand in reassurance. “Of course he is. Never better.” He realized that the charade was failing and smiled at Rebecca. “Why am I such a bloody poor liar? One would think that with all of my experience that I should be a positive expert at it. No, he isn’t well. He is terribly thin, and he looks very worn.”