US Marine Sergeant Lyle Abraham Walters, a thirty-eight year old African-American from New Orleans, had been serving overseas in Iraq when he lost his entire family to Hurricane Katrina on the 29th of August, 2005. Only the support of his commanders and his fellow marines had gotten him through the terrible grief that had naturally followed, along with the man’s own inherent resilience and inner strength. He’d served under Michael Kowalski in Iraq during the First Gulf War, and again following the September 11 attacks of 2001, and as a twenty-year veteran with a wealth of military experience, Kowalski had personally selected the man as a prime candidate to be offered a place with the Hindsight Team.
While his parents had both worked their day jobs to make a better life for their only son, Walters had spent a great deal of his youth in the care of his paternal grandfather. A war veteran himself, Abraham Jeremiah Walters had served on the Western Front with the 761st Tank Battalion, under Patton’s 3rd Army, during the last year of the Second World War. The old man had spent hours recounting tales of his war service, much to the delight of his young grandson, and it was the memory of those stories that’d made it a natural choice for Lyle Walters to join the Marines straight after graduation. It’d also been the treasured memory of those times spent with his grandfather that had made his decision to accept Kowalski’s offer to join Hindsight an easy one.
Walters sat at the upright piano at the rear of the stage that evening, playing along to a selection of jazz and blues instrumental numbers as Evan Lloyd stood up front with his acoustic guitar, accompanied by a pair of Royal Navy junior NCOs on drums and a large double bass. Both of the Hindsight men’s musical skills were well developed, and although both had found themselves a little rusty at first, regular playing with the band during their time at Lyness had quickly returned their skills to a high standard that even they’d been surprised by. They’d learned quite a few popular songs of the time they’d never before encountered, and both Lloyd and Walters had also taken the opportunity to teach their 1940s band mates a few of the songs they’d know from their time, most quite different to the current styles of music to which the others were more accustomed.
“I think someone’s supposed to say something like ‘So… this is it…’” Davies observed softly, his humour strained as the others remained silent. The Hindsight officers sat at one large table… a table that felt bare and incomplete, now that the group lacked the presence of Richard Kransky and Carl Ritter.
“So… this is it,” Bob Green stated in a deadpan voice a moment later, not the slightest hint of emotion in either his expression or tone. “Just about time to ‘Get the hell outta Dodge’…”
“At least we’re able to leave with everyone,” Kowalski stated with feeling, raising a glass of beer to Thorne and then Trumbull, sitting two seats away and opposite Eileen Donelson. “Well done, Alec…”
“Aye, things worked out all right in the end,” Eileen agreed grudgingly, “but don’t for a moment think you’re off the hook, mister… God knows the shit we’d have been in if we’d lost the pair of ye down there, not to mention the bloody aircraft…!” She directed her words at Trumbull, fixing him with an icy glare, and failed to notice as Thorne looked across toward the stage at the same time and threw Lloyd a conspiratorial wink. She also failed to notice, until it was far too late, that the music had stopped as Thorne rose from the table and walked up to stand beside Evan and the other musicians.
Thorne’s own Maton Messiah appeared from behind the bar, and as he lifted the strap over his head and hung the guitar in front of him, he stepped forward to speak into the large microphone that rose upon a tall stand at the front of the stage.
“Good evening, everyone,” he began after briefly clearing his throat, an unexpected nervousness in his voice as he addressed the entire crowd. “For those of you who don’t know who I am, my name’s Air Vice Marshall Max Thorne, Commanding Officer of Hindsight Group. Corporal Lloyd here, who I’m sure you all know for his fantastic guitar work and evil sense of humour…” A faint ripple of laughter washed through the crowd as Lloyd grinned, nodding behind him. “…Has asked me to sit in with the band tonight and help out with some guitar work of my own, although I’ve no doubt you’re all about to discover exactly how lousy I am.” He paused a moment to take a breath, and only the men around him on stage were close enough to see that Max Thorne was actually shaking with tension, a thin film of perspiration breaking out across his brow. “Evan’s asked me to help out tonight because two of the band’s regular members gave their lives this afternoon, defending their country on HMS Warspite… lest we forget…” he closed his eyes and momentarily lowered his head out of respect for all the men of the Home Fleet lost that day, accompanied by several subdued cheers and a few calls of ‘hear, hear…!’ as the huge majority of those present in the room breathed the words ‘lest we forget…’ softly in unison a moment later.
“The men lost today,” Thorne continued quickly, a waver in his voice as his nerves showed through, “were Seaman Hubert Haversham and Petty Officer James Melville. I doubt there’s any chance of matching Seaman Haversham’s accomplishments on guitar with my own meagre abilities, however I’m willing to do what I can.” He paused again, this time for effect as he purposefully avoided staring directly at a completely unsuspecting Eileen. “With regard to vocals however, PO Melville was by all accounts an excellent vocalist, and I wouldn’t dare insult the man’s memory by attempting to fill those shoes.” He took another breath, managing a characteristically broad grin despite the mounting fear he always experienced when about to play in front of crowds. “Instead, I think the singing tonight should be left to someone I know will do us proud…” He half-turned toward Evan, hand outstretched, and was instantly handed a thick folder of clear plastic that was filled with printed sheet music. It was only as he held the folder up for all to see that he fixed Eileen Donelson with an expectant stare, and a look of abject horror spread across her face as she recognised what he was holding.
“Commander Donelson,” Lloyd continued quickly, lifting his guitar microphone from its own, shorter stand and raising it to his lips as he laid a hand momentarily on Thorne’s arm, signalling that he was prepared to take over. He could clearly see his CO was suffering from a severe bout of nerves, and was beginning to worry that if the man to became any more stressed, he’d be no use at all to the band when it came time to play again. “I have it on good authority you were a fine singer back… where we came from…” he finished finally, deciding on ending the sentence in a purposefully non-specific fashion.
“Ah… well… aye, I guess I did sing a little,” she blustered, raising her voice as much as she dared as her face turned the unmistakeably bright pink of embarrassment. She was under no misconception as to where that information had probably come from, and instantly fired a filthy glare at Thorne powerful enough to kill a field mouse at fifty metres. “Just a little…”
“Oh, I’ve heard it was much more than ‘just a little’… we’d all be honoured if you’d give us a song or two! I think we could all do with a little cheering up!”