Mrs. Roget looked at Beatrice in disbelief when the entire letter had been read and said: “Does that mean that William Paul won’t be coming home?”
The words were so tragic, so filled with pain, that Beatrice was sure that the old woman’s heart was breaking as she said them.
“Yes,” was all that Beatrice could say. “I’m afraid so.”
Mrs. Roget might have remained seated for another ten minutes, Beatrice wasn’t sure. She folded the letter and handed it to the woman, who slipped it carefully in her coat pocket. There were no tears, only shock as if the whole thing were so monstrous that it could not possibly be true.
Mrs. Roget stood and said: “I had better go home and tell Mr. Roget.”
Beatrice found herself staring out the shop windows at the driving rain. Captain Hardy was someplace, out there, and she would not even receive confirmation should anything happen because they were no more than acquaintances. She wondered of the thousands of women who waited to hear something of their loved ones. She was one of them now, not the kind-hearted lady who would provide comfort, but a woman taunted by the unknown.
Topper came into the shop. “I can’t get a thing. I think they’ve jammed us.” He moved to the window and studied the darkness. “Clearing up some. May be clear by morning.” He noticed Beatrice. “Here, now, Bea. Put that up. Time enough to do that tomorrow. Why, you look all solemn.”
“No,” she said, forcing a smile. “Just thinking, that’s all.”
Topper came over to her. “Bea, it’ll all be fine. Things work out, they do.” He cupped his hand under her chin. “Now, if you trust me, I’ll fix you a spot of tea.”
Beatrice found herself smiling. She found strength in her brother’s optimism and she decided that she could do nothing but wait. She felt fear gnawing at her, and the hollow feeling that comes of being helpless. What would happen, would happen, but she knew also that Topper’s plain, solid reassurance that George Hardy would return was her salvation. “Topper. You’re a Rock of Gibraltar.”
Chapter 25
A half-dozen crumpled sheets of paper lay near Cole’s bunk. The words were there, but they hid behind years of anger, loss, and frustration. The beginning of every letter was trite and awkward, and he had ripped the paper from the tablet in disgust, wadded it up, and threw it on the floor.
What could he say to her? I’m sorry for all these years? Maybe I’m not coming back? He rolled his eyes at that one; chances were they’d end up shepherding a herd of fat cargo ships to the assembly point and then be assigned to watch for whales.
The letters all started “Dear Rebecca,” but then his mind refused to function and what had followed that was a clumsy string of words. He was saved by a knock.
“Come in,” he said.
Edland opened the door and glanced at the scattered balls of paper.
“Writer’s block?”
Cole slipped his pen in the tablet and pushed it away. “How’d you get in here? I thought we were sealed off.”
“You are,” Edland said, looking over the sparsely decorated room. “But I got in.”
“Yeah, well, we’re a little busy now, what with the invasion coming and everything, so you won’t mind if I don’t invite you in for a cup of tea, will you, Commander?”
Edland shook his head and leaned against the doorjamb, folding his arms across his chest. He had an unconcerned air about him. “I’m here to ask a favor,” he said.
Cole smiled in interest. “A favor. Sir. Now what makes you think that I’m in a position to grant you a favor? Sir.”
“You are. Trust me. And don’t load your sentences with too many sirs. It might lead a person to think that you weren’t sincere.”
The smile disappeared. “What’s the favor, Commander?”
“I want to go out with you.”
“No dice.”
“It’s important.
“I don’t care.”
“It won’t take me any time to get the orders cut.”
“Go ahead,” Cole said. “If this weather eases up we might be gone before the orders get to us. You’ll just be standing on the dock waving bye-bye, sir.”
“Okay,” Edland said, nodding. “I was out of line. Let’s forget the orders and rank and all of that nonsense. The request for a favor still stands and I know it’s a favor.”
“Why?”
“The hydrofoils.”
Cole laughed. “Your Sea Eagles? Again? Look, those things may exist. For all I know, there are thousands of them waiting just off the French coast right now. They’ve got my squadron patrolling about as far south as they can without putting us at the South Pole. Even if you go out with us, and don’t get excited because you aren’t, we’ll be lucky to see a seagull.”
“I’d still like to go.”
“Okay, Commander,” Cole said, standing. “Let me lay this out. My boats are worn out; my crews are worn out so if those super boats really exist, like you say, it’s going to be a short fight. I don’t think you want to be there.”
Edland nodded again, unfolded his arms, took a moment, and finally gave Cole a look that said he hadn’t changed his mind.
“You know this isn’t a romp,” Cole said. “Guys get killed.”
“I know.”
“Yeah,” Cole’s voice hardened. “I guess you do know.”
Edland heard a commotion in the hall and stepped aside as DeLong stuck his head in. “Hey, Skipper?” He realized that Edland was standing in the doorway. “Oh, sorry, Commander.”
“What is it, Randy?” Cole said.
“We got the word, Skipper. Crank ’em up.”
Edland looked at Cole. Cole had never liked the man. He came from a privileged class and carried himself as if he were better than anyone. But even though Cole didn’t want to admit it, there was enough similarity between the two for him to understand Edland.
“All right, Commander,” he said. “Draw your gear from Randy. It’ll get cold out there.”
“Gear?” DeLong said, surprised.
“Get him squared away, Randy. He’s going with us.”
“Yeah, but, Skipper…”
“Hop to it. We don’t want to be late for the invasion.”
“Thanks, Cole,” Edland said, and followed the confused DeLong.
Cole looked at the blank tablet on the desk and promised himself that whatever he had to say, he’d say it to Rebecca in person.
Gierek stood next to Jagello in the twilight, a steady rain drenching them both.
“Something’s wrong,” he said as the erks moved about the Mosquito. He heard the sound of the other Pathfinders, the short sputter and sharp crack as the exhaust was cleared and then the steady, low rumble of the engines warming up. He could see them aligned on the hardstand; three aircraft, their squat bodies glistening in the rain, water whipping off the wings as the prop wash of the powerful Merlin 25 engines blasted it into fine clouds of mist. The frying pan the erks called it; aircraft dispersal point in official correspondence. “It’s where we warm you blokes up, ain’t it?” an erk had reasoned to him. The English.
“Well?” Jagello said, straightening his parachute harness. It would be a long flight with no room to adjust the straps in the plane.
“Something’s wrong,” Gierek repeated, walking around the aircraft. He checked the undercarriage, the engine nacelles, elevator trim tabs, aileron tabs, and flaps. He looked for leaks or signs of structural damage, or any hint that the aircraft might betray him far from home. He watched as the erks topped off the tanks with petrol, not just full, but full to the lip of the fuel filler spout. He was careful about his aircraft and for that reason he had come back each time, but as he inspected the craft he kept looking over his shoulder as if a ghost followed him, whispering: “All is not right.”