“I’d of pulled out of there a long time ago, Nellie, if I I didn’t feel that. A lot of officers like to brag about their men following them to hell. Hansen’s the only one I’d care to make the trip with.”
“I’m glad you feel that way, Sean. Hansen needs you.”
“That’s what I like about you, Nellie. You’ve always got information. I got here early on purpose so I could talk to you alone. What is Tim up to?”
Big Nellie’s wide puss faltered.
“Come on, Nellie. We’ve got twenty-five counter-intelligence men at Queen Mother’s Gate. Hansen uses them to spy on me. I use them to spy on Tim. There’s been some one-man missions out of his base.”
Nellie’s big paw engulfed the glass of whiskey. “German rocket bases.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“They are well hidden, they’re small, and can send up a snowstorm of flak. We’ve tried several ways to get at them. Right now we’re using Invaders and Marauders. They’re good birds but no hot rods. In elements of threes from medium altitude they’ve got a chance of getting in and out”
“Go on.”
“Our success has been limited. Tim talked his C.O. into letting him try a one-plane, low-level sneak attack. He got back from the mission all right. The plane looked like a sieve. But he demolished the target. So, your brother gets to take in another plane, solo next week.” He belted down the drink, signaled for refills. “When Tim flies low they tell me he likes to count the dandruff in the German scalps.”
Oh, there ain’t no fighter pilots down in hell,
Oh, the place is full of queers ... navigators ... bombardiers ...
Oh, there ain’t no fighter pilots down in hell.
Timothy O’Sullivan entered Pringle’s Blue Hawk with a big-busted redhead on his arm. Tim had a fetish for big-busted redheads.
Nellie and Sean watched him thread his way toward their booth amid the turning of heads, the bulging of eyes.
“Where in the hell does he find them?” Nelson Goodfellow Bradbury inquired with envy. “He’s only been in London for two hours.”
“Hell, look at him,” Sean said. Sean was prejudiced, of course. What woman wouldn’t go for a strapping, handsome, twenty-four-year-old black Irishman with a fast glib tongue and wild ways. Maybe it was all brotherly pride, Sean thought ... but then, Tim’s always had to fight the women off. He and Nellie arose as Tim and the big-busted redhead reached the booth and Tim mumbled a name like Cynthia or Penelope or something like that and she was pleased to meet them, particularly Nelson Goodfellow Bradbury, whom she knew by reputation, of course ... as who didn’t. They were seated, ordered drinks. Tim and Sean traded letters from home. A wordless exchange of glances told them they were worried about their father’s heart condition; he hadn’t come out of it since Liam’s death.
Sean said things were swell at Queen Mother’s Gate; Tim said they were swell at Braintree; Henry Pringle paid his personal respects; they drank some more.
Tim was spotted and called to the piano, where the big-busted redhead delighted the flyers of Squadron Ten by standing next to him and wiggling in time to the music. Tim’s entrance on the scene dictated a round of Irish ballads. A third and fourth round of drinks led directly to a seizure of nostalgia and Tim sang his father’s very favorite in a handsome, rich Irish tenor ...
Kathleen Mavourneen! the gray dawn is breaking. The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill ...
“The son of a bitch can do everything,” Big Nellie said. “He’ll be a cinch if he runs for Congress ...”
The lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking ...
Kathleen Mavourneen! What, slumbering still?
After the fighter pilots of Squadron Ten had been moved to tears, the redhead excused herself to tidy up and Tim returned to the booth.
“Well done, lad. You’re in fine voice tonight,”
“Nellie. I’m in a bind. I need a room.”
Bradbury shrugged. “There’s an all-night party going on at the flat.”
“So, take her to a hotel,” Sean said.
“She’s got a mental block about hotels.”
“Here. Take the key to my place. I’ll take a hotel room.”
“Wouldn’t think of it, Nellie.”
“Sure you would,” Nellie answered. “Besides I’m pushing off early. I’ll be flying on a special mission tomorrow.” He looked Tim squarely in the eyes as he handed him the key. “I’m going to ride an Invader. They’re taking a crack at a V-1 base.”
Tim took the key, avoiding both the other men’s eyes. “Should be interesting,” he said.
The correspondent rose to his full reaches of six feet six inches and lumbered across the room. His journey was punctuated by handshakes, back-slaps, and hi-Nellies.
The brothers were alone. “What’s the matter, Sean? You look real down.”
“We’ve got all weekend to talk about it.”
“Christ, I’m sorry. I’ve got to get back up to Braintree first thing in the morning. Let me put whozits in a taxi and send her home. We can hole up at Nellie’s and talk.”
“The gesture is out of character. I’ll slip into Nellie’s place later and sleep on the living-room couch. Well have a chance to talk in the morning.”
Tim began to protest, but the big-busted redhead returned and her mere presence swayed the argument Sean’s way. Tim and the girl left the Blue Hawk after “regretting” Sean could not join them.
Chapter Seven
“WAKE UP, SWEETHEART.”
Sean blinked his eyes open. Tim, dressed and shaven, stood over him. He looked around. He was in Big Nellie’s flat. He came to a sitting position cautiously. His head throbbed. His mouth held a foul taste. The smell from the kitchen of breakfast cooking added to his discomfort.
“One thing I can’t stand,” Tim said, “and that’s a drunken Irishman.”
“Where’s the broad?”
“Just put her in a taxi. We never heard you come in. What time was it, anyhow?”
“Hell, I don’t know. We closed the Blue Hawk and hit a private party. Pringle poured me here.”
Sean wove to his feet and threaded an unsteady course to the bathroom, threw up, then dunked his head in a basin of icy water. He spread a line of toothpaste along his forefinger and pushed it over his teeth, fished through the cabinet for a brush and comb. The mirror revealed a stubble-chinned, bleary-eyed man in the throes of a monumental hangover.
He went to the kitchen, where Tim labored over the stove. Sean opened the refrigerator and mumbled about no fruit juice, but there was beer. He uncapped one. Thank God Nellie still keeps his beer cold. He flopped into a chair and asked what time it was.
“Six-thirty. I’ll get the eight o’clock train from Waterloo.” Tim shoved a plate of ham and eggs before Sean. He balked.
“How’s the redhead?”
“Cynthia? Good lay. Besides, she is a nice kid. Lost her husband in Greece. Got a seven-year-old boy. You ought to give her a call one of these days ... if Nan ever gives you a night off. ... Listen, big brother,” Tim pursued, “you’re not the binge-throwing type. What’s bothering you? Nan?”
“Partly.”
“Trouble with you, Sean, you’ve always got to fall in love. You’ve got to make a big affair out of it. Christ, can’t you take these women with a grain of salt?” Tim chewed a bite of ham, then waved his fork under Sean’s nose. “You’re going to get yourself in a real sling with this Milford broad.”