Charles Taylor - First Salvo

The lovely lady who stopped by to make the reservations one afternoon the week before, a Mrs. Pratt, hadn’t really misled him, but a few moments before, he’d told his wife out in the kitchen that he never would have allowed it if he’d realized the type of people who were attending. It wasn’t so much the black man, even though the inn tended to discourage mixed groups; it was something special about these men, something subtly frightening. He couldn’t quite put his finger on just why. They were military — that was obvious. But there was also something in their eyes, the way they looked at you, especially the one that was about to make the toast.

“May I please have your attention — or I’ll break up the place.” Bernie Ryng was getting drunk. Though he laughed at his little joke, his eyes were, as usual, expressionless.

He had been the first one to come through the door that evening, and just the sight of him had scared the innkeeper. “It is the solemn duty of the best man to toast the bride and groom. Admiral—” he sloshed his glass in Pratt’s direction, “—I am not one to go against tradition, but Henry and I want everyone to drink to you first, Dave — to a speedy recovery.”

Dave Pratt smiled back crookedly from his wheelchair. Alice, his wife, was beside him. “Amen,” she whispered silently to herself and reached forward to clink glasses with the others. Thank God he was alive. Tom Carleton, who had hovered at Dave’s bedside until assured Pratt would live, said later that the doctors had not expected him to survive. That had been the first miracle. A few weeks later, Alice decided a second one had occurred when the doctors, to their own astonishment, told her the chances of a full recovery had increased tremendously. This evening she had cut his food for him, but he had fed himself. Earlier that day, as the best man, he allowed Verra to wheel him down the aisle of the little church, since he couldn’t walk with her on his arm. She had refused to listen when he said that one of the others, who could walk, should do the job.

Now, with protracted pauses between phrases as he searched for words, Dave Pratt responded. “If they could have waited another month or so instead of being so randy—” he smiled somewhat lopsidedly at the newly married couple, “—Verra would have had an arm to lean on… instead of having to drive me down that aisle. When you — Bernie or Nellie — are ready… I’ll be walking.” The strain of speaking was mirrored in his features. He grinned at his wife and pointed at the glass on the table before him. “Alice…please…” She put the drink in his right hand, gently holding on to it until she was sure the grip was tight.

“Just a minute, Dave. Gotta make sure everyone’s full up for this one.” Tom Carleton deftly popped another champagne cork as he spoke. As usual, Carleton was anything but spit-and-polish. His shirt had quickly taken on a two-day-old look and his suit pants once again were slung low, emphasizing his ample belly. “I know you’re supposed to be on the wagon,” he said as he got to Pratt, “but a tad of bubbly won’t hurt just this one time.” Making sure the grip was still firm, he filled the glass for Pratt. “There — now everything’s done up proper.”

The admiral smiled his thanks. “If I continue… to get this service, it will be tough to… to get back on my feet.” He gestured slightly in Verra’s direction. “And when I do… Henry’s going to have to be on his toes… to keep me away from you.”

As he took a deep breath to search for his next words, Verra came from the other end of the table and kissed him gently on the cheek, then whispered, “Thank you, thank you so very much.”

“Normally… I would do this on my feet,” Pratt continued. “Seeing it’s family… I don’t think there will be any objections.” He turned to his wife. “Alice, would you stand for me?” She rose to her feet, extending her glass toward Cobb and Verra. “Here’s to one old member… and one new member of the family… whom we welcome with all our heart.” Pratt paused to take a couple of deep breaths. “And here’s to two people… who tamed the lion Keradin in his own den… Russia… and made it possible for us… to be here today — Hank, Verra… to forever.” His head sank toward his chest wearily, then lifted to hold both of them in his gaze. There were tears in the corners of his eyes. Slowly, with an effort, he brought the glass to his lips and sipped his champagne.

The owner of the inn caught snippets of the conversation from the kitchen, relaying each new tidbit to his wife — the newly married couple had done something very dangerous in Russia! The black man had survived two ships blown out from under him in one day! The strange one whose eyes looked right through you was the only survivor of a mission that was still secret! And the fat one had apparently saved Pratt’s life. Then realization suddenly came to the innkeeper. Pratt — so that’s who the gray-haired man was. The commander of the Battle of the Mediterranean, that man in the wheelchair, was actually in his inn!

As the evening progressed, the owner found himself down to his last bottle of champagne. These people must have hollow legs! He was going to have to explain this to one of them, but for some reason he was hesitant, afraid. Finally, he decided on the fat man’s wife. He was now a bit in awe of Mrs. Pratt, and this other woman seemed by far the quietest. When he was able to explain his problem to her — that there was only one bottle left, but that he knew where he could get more — Lucille Carleton laughed. “Oh, Tommy never remembers to carry money. I’ll send someone out to the kitchen in a moment with some cash so you can run out and get some more. We plan to stay here for a while.” Her eyes twinkled merrily.

The innkeeper’s face fell when the black man came through the kitchen doors, a wide grin on his face. The owner’s wife remarked later what a handsome devil that Mr. Nelson was! “So we’re drinking you out of house and home,” Nellie’s voice boomed. “Here.” He extracted a wad of bills from his pocket. “Buy a case. What we don’t drink here, we’ll take with us. You see,” and his grin punctuated his high cheekbones and deep brown eyes, “this will never happen to us again — a wedding, I mean. No lady would be able to live with Bernie — and for me I think once is enough. So keep it flowing, my friend.” Nelson had noticed the innkeeper’s attitude toward him at the beginning of the evening and now his arm encircled the man’s shoulders. “The rest of us made a deal with each other. We’re not going to let the happy couple run off to bed. We’re going to stay here all night.” He gave the man a bear hug and departed the kitchen with a deep laugh.

Each of the party understood how Verra had felt. There were no secrets among them. When Cobb had acknowledged weeks earlier that no matter how hard he tried to convince himself to the contrary, he was once again in love, Verra had insisted that they stay apart until they were married. After all she had been through at Keradin’s dacha, she needed a delay before this fresh start. She loved this strange man, Cobb, who had saved her life, but it also meant a great deal to her if she waited until they were married. Perhaps that would put it all behind her; perhaps it would erase the pain of the past.

Cobb saw the sense to it, and so did the others — after all, they were all family. And now that Cobb and Verra were legally husband and wife, the others like slightly malicious siblings were conspiring to keep them up all night. It was no different than in years gone by, like the days in Vietnam when they drank the hours away and played juvenile tricks on each other.

They were older now. They would never be the same. But they were going to try to bring back those bygone days once more… when they played those old tricks. Cobb would understand, and explain it all to Verra. It was only one night and they were all alive. It would be a celebration of one more beginning.