“Yes, sir,” David answered unenthusiastically. He didn’t like it. He’d had enough.
Inside the windowless interview room, he could hear the faint hum of the furnace heat recirculating the cloying dust particles from the bomb rubble above.
“Quite an honor, Lieutenant,” the marine major sitting in the center told him.
“Yes, sir.” David wasn’t sure whether the major was talking about the honor of him having been selected for interview or whether it was meant as a compliment to David’s decorations.
There was an awkward silence, the U.S. Army captain glancing up at Brentwood’s regulation somber straight-headed gaze, then at the marine major and British SAS liaison captain.
The marine major cleared his throat. “Course, it’s purely voluntary, but a man with your experience, Brentwood, would—” He looked at the British officer, who was showing no sign of embarrassment over Brentwood’s obvious hesitation. “I think,” continued the major, “your experience in Pyongyang and—” he glanced down at a file “—Stadthagen would prove invaluable to SAS.”
So that’s it, thought David. The major was now pointing out that in keeping with NATO policy, Washington and Whitehall were “actively encouraging” joint Allied participation in both SAS in Europe and further afield in the Pacific, with U.S. Special Forces. It was either Korea, concluded David, or the Russian front.
Then the major threw him the curveball. “General Freeman recommended you — personally.”
The British captain, a bent-stem pipe in his right hand, was scooping dark Erinmore Flake from its pouch and palming it into a stringy consistency before stuffing the bowl. “Please don’t feel pressed, old man,” he told Brentwood. The U.S. Marine major was looking down hard at the pencil he held captive between his burly hands.
“Purely voluntary,” the Englishman continued, “as your chaps have already told you. And Heaven knows — Medal of Honor, Silver Star… I should say you’ve done your bit and more. Just thought you might like a crack at it, that’s all. Heard so much about you.” He smiled, and what made it worse for David, the Englishman’s smile seemed genuine, without the trace of irony he’d come to expect of some of the other British officers he’d met. The Englishman was now tamping the tobacco into the pipe’s bowl, blowing through it before waving a lighted match back and forth over it. “Just thought you might be a beggar for punishment,” he told David congenially. “Getting a bit bored—” he paused to suck in hard on the pipe “—with all those Flemish girls and couques. Given your record, thought you might be craving a little action again.” The very thought of action produced in David the chilled-bowel feeling he’d experienced before final exams at college, his throat dry, face feeling strangely hot yet cold at the same time, his heart racing, thumping so loudly, he was afraid they might hear it. “Thanks, sir,” he said in a parched voice, “but — all — I don’t think I’m fit enough for your SAS or any other—”
“Quite understandable, old man,” cut in the British captain. “No apologies needed. We’re scouting for new chaps, that’s all. We got rather a bloody nose up in Schleswig-Holstein when the balloon went up.” He flashed another smile. “Just looking around.” Proceeding to draw heavily on the pipe, the Brit winked at him understanding, then glanced at the U.S. Marine major and Army captain at the same time. “Tell you the truth, if I had half the chance, shouldn’t be surprised if I gave the bloody lot up myself. Off to sunnier climes, I should expect. Next to the Pole, Scotland must be the chilliest place on earth.”
The mention of Scotland made David wonder if they weren’t trying to use the fact of his brother operating out of Holy Loch as a possible lure. But he rejected the possibility as soon as he’d thought of it. They probably didn’t even know his brother was there — if he still was. And the last thing the military cared about was trying to reunite family members. In fact, in time of war, it was the last thing they wanted to do. Besides, nothing David could think of could overcome the gut-gnawing fear he seemed incapable of shucking ever since Stadthagen.
The British captain had risen, extending his hand. “Thank you for your time, Lieutenant.”
David shook the Englishman’s hand. The marine major tried to look understanding but came off as grim. The U.S. Army captain meanwhile had opened the door to take Brentwood down to pick up his travel voucher for the trip back to Liege, where he was to await further orders.
After David saluted and left, the marine major shook his head at his British colleague. “I’m sorry, Captain.”
The Englishman held up the pipe in protest. “Not to worry, Major.”
“I do worry. He’s a marine. Hell — I know it was rough at Pyongyang — and at Stadthagen, too, from all accounts. Damn rough! But it wasn’t a sustained action. Some of my boys on the Polish front—”
“No doubt, Major,” responded the English captain gracefully. “But at Stadthagen the lad was completely on his own, and in that kind of situation, at least in my experience, how long a man’s actually been at the front has little meaning. He was captured by SPETS — saw men all around him being murdered in cold blood before he managed to make his break and was hunted to ground again in raging blizzard. Dogs after him. With all that, he kept his head and blew up an ammo dump. After you’ve been through that lot, Medal of Honor notwithstanding, I should think the nerves are never quite the same. Damned sure mine wouldn’t be.”
The marine major conceded the point, but true or not, his pride in the corps had taken a blow because of Brentwood’s refusal to join the joint SAS team.
“Some chaps do recuperate, of course,” the English captain continued, another match scratching, circling the pipe’s bowl as he blew voluminous curls of grayish-blue smoke into the high, windowless room. “In Malaya I remember—”
“I don’t think so,” cut in the major. “In my experience, Captain, once they go to pieces, they stay in pieces. Best thing we can do is ship him home.”
The Englishman was expansive in his agreement. “By all means, old chap. He’s earned it.”
“He has,” replied the major, his tone not so gruff now, but the Englishman knew the major, a row of ribbons attesting to his own valor under fire, still didn’t approve.
“How about his comrade-in-arms?” asked the Englishman. “Black chappie. Thelman, I think the name was? Another one on Freeman’s recommendation list.”
“Yes,” said the major. “We should try him. They went to Parris Island together.”
“Parris Island,” said the U.S. captain, turning to the marine major. “Well, at least we know Brentwood’s a survivor then.”
“I wonder?”
Peter Zeldman, the Roosevelt’s executive officer, was enjoying his leave down in Surrey with the Spences following the wedding, knowing nothing of Robert and Rosemary’s near brush with what MI6 were convinced had been SPETS “sleepers.” Neither did Rosemary’s parents, Richard and Anne Spence, until a registered letter arrived one morning for Richard Spence marked “Personal and Confidential.” It was Robert’s letter of warning about the “charmers” and about a “package” Robert would be sending Richard via Rose when she returned to Surrey.
Till this letter from Robert, the previous postcards of wild, heather-covered Highlands — in reality, rather forlorn and snow-covered at this time of year — had borne no hint to Richard Spence of the danger his daughter and new son-in-law had been in during the final days of their aborted honeymoon. Up to now, the cards, full of a carefree optimism, had been gratefully received by Anne and Richard Spence, whose loss of their son on convoy escort duty still cast a pall over the house. Young William’s death was something they knew they had to accept but which they also realized they would never become reconciled to in a world where so often the good seemed defeated by the bad.