Perhaps this war will conspire to bring us together again, my darling, as sure as it drove us apart. Until that time, please don’t think ill of me and remember, always, that you shall always be in my heart.
Please write. I cannot bear not hearing from you.
Rebecca
Cole had memorized most of it and as his eyes lingered on her signature, he realized that he should go see her; perhaps there was a chance that they could be together. He lay on the bed, folded his arms across his chest, and watched the overhead fan turn slowly.
It had happened so quickly, falling in love with Rebecca. Days really. A flash of passion — love so intense that he felt it in every part of his body. Nothing like that had ever happened to him before. The war, Rebecca said, it does that to people. Maybe, Cole thought, or maybe some people just have to be together, despite everything else.
He folded the letter carefully and slid it into the envelope. Two hours away, Dickie said; just jump in a jeep and go to her. Cole realized how easy it would be and the thought gave him hope.
Then he remembered the pain that he felt at leaving her, the betrayal because of her choice of a disgusting cripple over him. Not just a physical cripple, but a cruel, hateful man who treated her like a servant. Cole had gone far away: first to the States for training, then to the Mediterranean for service. Miles away — years away. A man changes, he told himself, and he felt a coldness enter his heart. You deaden your emotions, he convinced himself, you don’t let anything in; not love, friendship, affection of any kind, and then if it’s denied you, you’re still in one piece.
Go to her. The thought was unbidden and came as a surprise to Cole. He pushed it away. He reached over without looking and dropped the letter in the box. Out in the hallway of the Officers’ Quarters he heard muffled voices followed by a laugh. He closed his eyes.
Bury yourself in work. Lose yourself in the war.
More laughter. Other voices. Something about a bottle. Cole reached up and snapped off the bedside light. The noises died down as his mind detailed the work assignments for boat maintenance. Smother the memories until none remained. He was tired and he felt sleep coming easily and with it a sense of satisfaction. Nothing to it, he told himself. Just train yourself to be cold and uncaring so that nothing can get in, and nothing will get out.
Nothing to it.
Deep within he knew that he had chosen to become a coward and decided as well that he would not consider her at all. A tiny voice in his mind said this was nonsense of course and just because he said it was true — that he could survive without pain by denying the memories and holding the feeling at a distance — did not make it so. Too much of her remained: her voice, her searching eyes, the hurt that he caused by simply being close to her when he knew that he should not have been. It was, as she told him the truth when he went away for the last time and something that he knew to be inescapable even if he denied its existence; it could not always be as he wanted.
He had long before come to realize that he was selfish, pursuing things because he wanted to possess them, and once they were within his grasp — he dared not think too long on this because it reinforced the notion that he was as bad as Gregory — he became tired of them.
Maybe, Cole thought, unwilling to accept that notion. A child she called him, not in derision but in explanation. She might as well have said: you are learning about the true nature of love. Maybe, Cole thought again but the thought was bitter, tied to the twin emotions of regret and betrayal — so often false sensations, but they would do for a man too afraid to embrace the idea that sometimes people didn’t get what they wanted.
He knew that the feelings swirling inside would not answer a single question. They were — just there.
Fatigue that swept over him came from things that had happened before: events that he had been unable to control. A love lost, men dead or wounded. Love lost, he thought, disgusted with himself. How melodramatic. Where are the violins and tears or… but it didn’t work. He could not destroy the sorrow with humiliation.
He sunk into deep thought for several minutes, memories flashing through his mind so that each was an accusation. Each a reminder of how he had failed. He could not help Rebecca; he could not save Harry Lowe. The night that he lost six boats — he forced the memories, bringing his will to bear so that the images that haunted him were shattered.
He felt his strength returning, a solid wall of willpower convincing him that he did not have to succumb to any of it. He was strong, unassailable.
It was a perfectly attainable state of mind, Cole assured himself. But then he posed the question: Then why am I so miserable?
Gierek and Jagello stood among a group of Pathfinder pilots and navigators in the briefing hut, listening as the Photo Reconnaissance Interpreter pointed out their deficiencies with the help of a long wooden dowel and a batch of photographs scattered on a slanted table. It was Cherbourg in miniature and the PRI man talked in a strange combination of optimism and chastisement — the way one would talk to an errant child from whom one expected so much more.
“You see, chaps,” said the PRI man with the bushy mustache. “Here is where we had hits before the last raid. Right here. See?” He was accompanied by a bored corporal whose job it was to keep the eight-by-ten photographs in place on the plywood table. “You see, here are the hits. Here. Here.” The dowel flicked across the image. “Here. And we think here.” He looked at the crowded briefing hut as if he were perfectly willing to admit that the chaps at PRI were fallible as well. Jagello crossed his arms over his chest and Gierek rolled his eyes.
“You Polish fellows are doing splendidly and I must say Bomber Command is top-notch. Jolly good, I say.”
“Jolly good,” Gierek muttered. Jagello remained unmoving.
“You can see from the hit records,” PRI slapped the wall to emphasize the strikes. “Our Tall Boys hit damned close to those bloody pens.”
“Jolly good,” Gierek repeated.
“But our latest photos show that the pens are still fully functional. Indeed, they seem to have remained unscathed. I’m afraid that we haven’t quite got the hang of it yet. We’re still just a dash away from the target.”
One of the Polish airmen next to Jagello leaned in and asked for a translation of the English word dash. Jagello obliged him.
“We didn’t hurt it,” he said in Polish.
The other man nodded in appreciation and wrote the word down in a notebook. He had been a schoolteacher and he liked to improve his English vocabulary.
“Now you see, chaps,” PRI said. “We must do better next time. I’m sure that you can. You Polish fellows are doing a splendid job.”
Squadron Commander Gabszewwicz, 205’s commander, stepped forward and said something to PRI. The English officer, not quite finished with his presentation, was taken aback. He tried to recover with a quick: “Well, there you have it.” He tucked the dowel under his arm like a swagger stick and called out: “That’s it, Taylor. Wrap it up, will you?”
“Leave the photos,” Gabszewwicz said and waited patiently while PRI and his corporal left the Briefing Room. Somebody turned on the overhead lights. The place was a riot of photographs and maps pinned on walls and scattered across wooden tables. There was a desk against one wall next to a window with a small plaque on it that read DUTY OFFICER. The surface of the desk was orderly, a remarkable contrast to the rest of the Briefing Room.
Gabszewwicz surveyed the crowded room before speaking. His voice was clear, and the men could tell by his tone that the news was not good.