Waves of Glory Page 9

  “All the way down,” Walter said, chuckling.

  A new chain of heavy explosions punctuated the cacophony of antiaircraft fire. “He’s dropping his bombs,” Randolph said.

  “On civilians—women and children. He doesn’t care who he kills,” Walter barked.

  Randolph remained silent. Rebecca said in a trembling voice, “Horrible. Horrible.”

  Walter whirled on the group, pointing at the sky dramatically. “The Hun is a bloodthirsty savage. They have taken Count Graf von Zeppelin’s invention and made a fiendish killing machine of it. Never will you see the RFC—never will you see English gentlemen drop bombs on innocent people—destroy cities just for the joy of killing.” He stared up at Randolph. “Right, my boy?”

  “Quite right, Father. We kill like gentlemen.”

  Brenda was fascinated by the bright cigar. It appeared larger. “It’s closer,” she said. Then she saw streaks in the sky like garlands of fireflies.

  “There’s a pursuit up there,” Randolph said. “Probably a Sopwith Pup. There are two squadrons stationed outside London.”

  “How can you tell?” Walter said, squinting. “I can’t see an airplane.”

  “I saw his tracers.”

  “The fireflies,” Brenda said.

  “Right. The incendiaries glow and every fourth round is a tracer. You can see the burning phosphorus. It’s very bright at night,” the flyer explained like a teacher instructing a student. “Watch behind and above the Zeppelin. He’ll probably attack from that quarter.”

  “Eighteen—twenty thousand feet,” Walter said incredulously.

  There was excitement in Randolph’s voice. “The Pup’s ceiling is nineteen thousand feet. The pilot’s all bundled up and he’s sucking on an oxygen bottle.”

  “My God, my God,” Rebecca said.

  Suddenly, the sky above and behind the Zeppelin was crisscrossed with tracers that appeared very bright. The antiaircraft fire had stopped, but the searchlights still held the behemoth firmly in their fingers. Turning in a futile effort to escape the lights, the giant moved south and a new battery of lights near Chilham—only three miles away—sprang to life, bathing the dirigible with even more light. The control car and four engines were visible.

  “It’s closer—lower,” Brenda said.

  “He’s attacking,” Randolph shouted. “And they’re shooting back.”

  As Brenda watched hypnotized, she saw a dull red glow light up like a new Edison electric lamp inside the huge envelope of the dirigible. “He’s got him!” Randolph shouted triumphantly.

  There was a puff of orange flame high in the sky and all of the men cheered: Walter and Randolph on the porch, Dorset and Pascal from the doorway, Caldwell and Sanders from the drive in front of the four-car garage. But Rebecca and Brenda remained silent, staring upward, unable to break their eyes away from the tragedy flaming to life in the heavens. Quickly, flames raced the length of the great airship, as cell after cell of hydrogen puffed into flame. Dropping its nose, the great airship began to fall, burning pieces whirling off into space in the heated turbulence, other chunks of incandescent wreckage breaking away and streaming down in a fiery torrent. Great roiling areolas of flame stormed above it like luminous spheres, rising, swirling, blinking red, orange, and yellow. Its control car broke loose and dropped, a streaming meteor followed by two tumbling motors. As the dying giant accelerated its nose-first plunge, its girders, heated to incandescence, glowed through the flames and its framework buckled and broke, transforming the once majestic giant into a flaming shower of burning canvas, wood, hot metal, and blazing, screaming men.

  “He’ll crash in the North Downs,” Randolph said.

  “A new sun at two in the morning,” Brenda said to herself. And indeed the cataclysm had given birth to a brilliance that reflected from the clouds in a red glow as if her men had bled on them. But the new sun set quickly, the mass of blazing wreckage plunging into the downs just a few miles east of Fenwyck. Flames leapt and curled for a few minutes, bits of burning wood and canvas swirling in thermals created by the heat of the immolated colossus like sparks in a cyclone. Silently, the spectators stared while the blanket of night closed slowly over the grave until only a dull salmon glow pulsated and faded into the darkness. A gentle breeze sprang up and suddenly they could smell it: the faint odor of burned wood, solvents, petrol, oil, vaporized metal, and a strange, sweet aroma of burned meat, much like overdone roast.

  Walter broke the silence. “A victory! A victory! We showed the Boche swine.” He chortled boisterously.

  Without a word, Brenda turned and returned to her room.

  That night Geoffry returned and stood next to Brenda’s bed. His uniform had been burned off and his body was in such an advanced state of decomposition that roasted flesh putrefied in a broth of maggots. The stench was overpowering—a sweet, sticky assault of burned flesh, the reek of decay and corruption. The flames of the burning Zeppelin were in his eyes and he was smiling although he had no lips. Slowly, he raised an arm and reached for her with a hand of blackened, charred bones. “No! No!” she screamed.

  Hilda was shaking her. “Mrs. Higgins!” she called in alarm. “Wake up! Please wake up.”

  Slowly, Brenda came erect and the nurse propped a pair of pillows under her head and turned on the lamp. “Geoffry was here,” Brenda said, staring at the ceiling with eyes of glass.

  “A nightmare, Mrs. Higgins. I’ll get you a glass of hot milk.”

  “I know now.”

  “You know what, madam?”

  “About the honor—the glory they die for. I know what it did to my husband.”

  “But you knew he died a week ago.”

  “Yes. But now I know how.”

  The next morning at dawn, Walter, Randolph, and several of the male servants drove to the North Downs to view the wreckage of the Zeppelin. When they returned, Walter’s eyes danced with excitement and he raptured over the “Roasted Huns.” Randolph was subdued and taciturn. Then early in the afternoon, Lloyd and Bernice arrived.

  Rebecca’s joy was unbounded and she tearfully led her son and daughter-in-law into the drawing room. Walter was in close pursuit, pounding his son on the back and shouting greetings and remarking proudly about Lloyd’s promotion to colonel. Within minutes, Lloyd, his mother, and father were seated on the Regency sofa while Bernice and Brenda sat in a pair of matching stiff-back Louis XVI armchairs. Randolph bent over the elaborate marquetry breakfront and began to pour drinks. Wordlessly, the flyer handed his brother a full glass of Scotch, his father a generous charge of cognac, and each woman a polite portion of cognac in large crystal snifters.

  Brenda studied Lloyd over the bowl of the short-stemmed goblet. The war had done its work. Now forty-five years old, he looked sixty. His six-feet-two-inch frame appeared emaciated, his chest sunken, fingers bony tendrils. He had lost most of his hair and the skin of his skull was pulled so tight, veins in his temples stood out in blue lines. The gunmetal gray eyes shifted nervously and had the same dull, unfeeling look she had seen in Randolph’s. The shocking similarity did not end there: new creases on his face formed the same latticework of anguish and cruelty she saw on his younger brother’s face. Despite nearly a twenty-year age difference, the two brothers had moved closer together and in some strange way, had begun to resemble each other.

  “Geoffry,” Lloyd began in a flat monotone. “I only got word two days ago.”

  Walter explained the circumstances of Geoffry’s glorious death while his two sons emptied their glasses and Rebecca stared at hers. Lloyd nodded silently and took another drink.

  “It took you so long,” Rebecca said.

  “Yes, Mother. We’ve had a bit of business on the Somme and I had the devil’s own time getting away.” He smiled, showing a trace of his old humor. “I’m afraid they can’t keep the show going without me, Mother.” Everyone chuckled.


  “They’ve got to for a week, Lloyd,” Bernice said.

  “Quite so,” the colonel said, taking another drink. He eyed Brenda. “You’re well, sister-in-law?”

  “Yes. Thank you. But I lost the baby.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Brenda nodded her appreciation. “But I am much better. In fact, I dismissed the nurse this morning.”

  “The Hun, you have him on the run,” Walter said after a generous pull from his glass.

  “He doesn’t run, Father,” the colonel said.

  “Your children?” Rebecca asked suddenly while Walter chafed.

  Lloyd obviously welcomed the change in conversation. Smiling warmly, he talked of his fourteen-year-old son Trevor and nine-year-old-daughter Bonnie. His eyes glowed with humanity for the first time and he gestured animatedly. “They’re with their governess at our place in St. James,” he concluded.

  “St. James?” Brenda said.

  Bernice turned to Brenda. “It’s our new place. You’ve never seen it. It’s in London’s West End just east of Hyde Park.”

  They talked of children, friends, and family, carefully avoiding mention of the war. Finally Walter rose. “Your old room is waiting for you, my boy,” he said, grasping Lloyd’s shoulder. “Freshen up. We have a fine dinner planned for you.”

  As Brenda came to her feet, Bernice took her arm. “Rodney, Nathan. I would like to see my nephews.”

  Brenda smiled back into the warm eyes. “The garden. It’s time for their afternoon romp.”

  Although Pascal had prepared an elaborate meal—a vegetable consommé of leeks, potatoes, and chicken stock called consommé julienne; huitres marinées, a broth of baby oysters marinated in white wine; steaks prepared with crushed peppercorns Dorset announced as entrecotes au poivre; exotic vegetables; and a superb crepe suzette sweetened with Grand Marnier and Graves for dessert—the meal was a disaster. Geoffry’s empty chair glared back at everyone, casting a pall like a wet blanket, curbing the appetite for food and creating a thirst for liquor. The three men drank far more than customary: first the Bordeaux and the Chablis vanished before the entrée and the men switched to heavier liquors; Scotch for Randolph and Lloyd, cognac for Walter. Even Rebecca drank more than usual, gulping the Bordeaux and staring at the empty chair. Brenda sipped at her wine until her head became light and the glare from the lanterns diffused like mist-filtered sunlight in the downs.

  Finally, Lloyd leaned back, pulled out a pack of Gold-flakes—a cigarette preferred by the ordinary Tommy in the trenches—and puffed a cloud of pungent smoke into the air. “My boy,” Walter said, emptying his glass. “I have Turkish and Egyptian cigarettes and tobacco in my library.”

  “Very good, Father,” the colonel said, beginning to rise.

  “Turkish?” Brenda said. “We’re at war with them—fighting them in the Dardanelles.”

  The men looked at each other. Walter cleared his throat. “There are ways to get anything you want in this world, if you are willing to pay. Daresay, I could import sauerkraut from the kaiser if I stacked the quid high enough.” He laughed raucously, but the sound was lonely.

  “Another cousin bought it,” Lloyd said, slurring his words. Everyone turned to him expectantly while he emptied his glass and took another pull on his cigarette. “Jerry Cameron of the Royal Scots—he bought the farm at Amiens last week, the sector next to mine. He was leading a wiring party. A ‘whiz bang’ landed on him. Not enough left to. . .”

  “Lloyd!” Rebecca said, her face a book of horror.

  “Sorry, Mother.” The colonel emptied his glass. Immediately, a servant filled it.

  Brenda remembered the jolly, kilted major of the Royal Scots with the huge handlebar mustaches and the big laugh. “Cherry Bottoms,” the Scots had been called because of their aversion to underwear. Now Jerry was gone with cousin David Gellars of the Black Watch killed at La Cateau and Cousin William Ainsworth of the Surreys lost at Mons. All three had left widows and orphans behind. Suddenly, the sharp blade of anguish twisted in Brenda’s stomach and the sour taste of the gourmet meal scalded the back of her throat. But she choked it back and washed it down with wine while everyone else at the table drank and stared straight ahead, avoiding each other’s eyes.

  Walter thumped the table with beefy fingers and made an attempt to elevate the mood. “I have more news. Cousin Reggie’s in town. His destroyer’s laid up at the Royal Navy Dockyard at Chatham and he’s had a bit of the flu.” He nodded at Brenda. “Anyway, I got a wire from him just before dinner. Says he’ll be here in two or three days.”

  “Cousin Reggie?” Brenda said. “I haven’t met him.”

  “Commander Reginald Hargreaves of the Royal Navy,” Walter explained. “Not really a ‘cousin’—he’s the son of my first partner William Hargreaves, who represented Carlisle Mills in New York before—ah, before Geoffry took the position.” He turned to Brenda. “William took a place on Long Island in ‘eighty-eight and married an American—Eloise.”

  “Then Reginald is an American?”

  “No. He was born in Wembley, just north of London, but has spent years in America. Speaks with an accent.” Everyone chuckled. He continued with obvious pride. “Early education in America, but he was accepted by the naval college at sixteen and made sublieutenant by twenty.” Walter held up his glass for a refill and downed it in one draught. Smacking his lips, he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Brenda felt revulsion.

  Randolph broke his silence. “Reggie’s father, William, would split his time between New York and London. He owned twenty percent of the White Star Line and he was loyal ‘til the end. He always steamed White Star.”

  “Hear! Hear!” Walter and Lloyd shouted, holding up their glasses and then drinking. Grimacing, Rebecca and Bernice exchanged a knowing glance.

  Confused, Brenda raised an eyebrow. “I don’t understand.”

  “Titanic was a White Star liner. He booked the finest cabin, next to Captain Smith’s.” Randolph drank before continuing. “We see Eloise occasionally, but since William’s death she has remained in the States with Reggie’s two younger sisters. But Reggie, bless him, is an Englishman through and through. He’s only twenty-eight but commands the new K Class torpedo boat destroyer, Lancer.”

  “Got knocked about a bit at Gallipoli, I hear,” Lloyd said.

  “That’s the word,” Walter agreed. “Got a letter from Eloise a couple months ago.” He pushed himself to his feet and wobbled as he tried to stand erect. “Gentlemen, the library.”

  Blinking and walking unsteadily, Walter walked to a door at the far end of the living room. Randolph and Lloyd followed and then Rebecca stood, waved to Brenda and Bernice, and followed the men. Following her mother-in-law, Brenda moved down a long, dark hallway past the breakfast room, sewing room, gun room to the door of the library.

  Brenda had only glanced in at Walter’s library two or three times. A male sanctuary, the panache of the room was accented by paneled walls lined with glass-doored bookcases, hardwood floors covered with layered rugs and a half dozen sporting prints hanging from the walls or, in the Victorian tradition, resting on the shelves of the bookcases. Her eye was attracted to a corner where a magnificent eighteenth-century Carlin long-cased clock veneered with tulipwood, banded with purple-wood, and inlaid with narrow fillets of ebony and box swung its compensated pendulum, inexorably ticking off the seconds. Brenda had never seen such an elaborate timepiece. The dial was calibrated to show sidereal time by a green hand and the date within a panel below the center. Surmounting the dial was a group in gold gilt of Apollo driving his chariot. Even the signs of the zodiac were shown, painted in gold leaf around the dial. Hanging on the wall next to the clock was a wall barometer of ebony and brass, mounted on an elaborate tapering shaft veneered on oak with alternate strips of brass and tortoiseshell. Like the clock, its motif was eighteenth century and French.


  Walter had sunk into the deep leather of his chair behind a huge mahogany serpentine writing desk laden with racks of carved pipes, tins of tobacco, and ash receivers. Within reach on a Sheraton sideboard were cut-crystal decanters filled with cognac, wine, and whiskey.

  Randolph and Lloyd had already seated themselves in plump chairs in postures of alcoholic fatigue, but Walter was staring up at Rebecca, his face clouded with anger. “You have your sewing room. . .” He waved. “This is my place—a man’s place. Please leave.”

  Again, Brenda heard this hard new timbre in her mother-in-law’s voice. “No,” she said. “My boys are on leave—I may never. . .” She choked back the unspeakable and continued, “It may be a long time before I see them again. . .”

  “All right, woman,” Walter shouted impatiently. “Sit over there—all of you.” He waved at a sofa in a corner.

  Brenda felt anger flare and then seethed as she followed Rebecca to the richly upholstered sofa and seated herself between her mother-in-law and Bernice. Quickly, drinks were passed around to everyone; wine for the women, whiskey and cognac for the men. Then, the smoking began; Walter puffing on a pipe, Lloyd on an Egyptian cigarette, and Randolph on a huge Havana cigar. Silently, the men leaned back and the room filled with fumes. Rebecca coughed.

  “You can leave,” Walter said, smirking and puffing on the pipe until the bowl glowed red and blue smoke rolled in clouds.

  “No!”

  The men continued to smoke and drink quietly. At length, Walter said to Lloyd, “The new commander of the BEF Sir Douglas Haig, have you met him?”

  Lloyd held up his glass and stared at the contents. An acid bitterness came through the slurred words. “At the Savoy once—never at the front. None of their sort—John French, Henry Rawlinson, Haig—ever leave their châteaus. We call them ‘château generals.’ They don’t know what it’s like and don’t give a toss.” He drank deeply. He snickered to himself. “Do you know Haig said the Maxim gun was overrated and unimportant. He should charge one—see the results.” His laugh was acerbic. He drained his glass. Walter poured him another.