Ian Slater - World in Flames

The sergeant mumbled something and closed his mouth, issuing a nasal whistle that immediately caused a stir farther down the aisle, a British naval rating, head bandaged, shouting, “Shut his cake hole!” The man across the aisle calmed the seaman down. Later the American sitting directly in front of David said the Limey sailor was probably freaking out because the whistle sounded just like the Russian RU-six thousands. “Depth charge rockets,” the American explained. “Russkis fire ‘em in horseshoe pattern — twelve at once. Only, they’ve put whistles on ‘em. Like the Stukas in World War Two. Frightens the piss out of you, the sub boys say.”

“You couldn’t hear ‘em under the water, though, could you?” proffered a sapper across the aisle who looked as if there was nothing wrong with him until David saw the man had no left hand.

“Like hell you can’t,” answered the man in front of David.

“One of my buddies is on one of those pigboats — says underwater, you can hear sound four times easier.”

“Faster,” commented David. “Four times faster.”

“You been in subs? A marine?”

“No,” answered David. “One of my brothers.”

“No way, man,” said the sapper across the aisle. “I want something I can get out of. In a hurry.”

“Like what?” challenged someone else.

“Yankee Stadium,” came the answer, the man who said it turning self-congratulatingly to David. But David was no longer there, having seen the line for the John was no more, easing his way out past the sergeant. Outside, canals flashed by under a leaden sky, the train picking up more speed, its sound louder now there wasn’t so much snow to muffle it, the train heading away from Wallonia, where Lili came from, and toward Waterloo, where Wellington had stopped Bonaparte.

Sitting in the relative peace of the washroom, David took out Melissa’s letter. A salvo of Russian rockets couldn’t have stunned him more than the first sentence:

Richard and I are engaged. I know this might be quite a shock, but I wanted to tell you straightaway. You always told me, Davey, that we should be honest with one another— that’s what I’m trying to do now. I hope you understand. It just sort of happened between Rick and me. I thought we were “just good friends”—I know you’ll think that sounds awfully corny, but honestly, we were — I mean we are. I mean we are friends, you know, but, well, Rick has really become quite a different person since you left. Oh, I know I’m not saying this right but — gee, I guess that makes it sound like your going overseas had something to do with it. Not really. It was actually sort of accidental and—

The train took a corner at speed, its rails squealing, throwing David hard against the hold bar. His stomach tightened. Christ! The thought of the wimp in bed with her made him want to throw up. While others were fighting and dying thousands of miles from home, the bow-tied weasel had got into her. Mr. Bland, cost-benefit analysis Stacy would no doubt have meticulously planned his moves. First, exemption from the draft in return for a four-year stint as an SAC missile silo jockey, sitting sixty feet under the ground in his protected, superhardened shelter, wearing his fucking cravat. It was true — women went for the uniform. Hell, what were a grunt’s fatigues next to sharp air force blue?

“Rick feels bad about it,” Melissa explained. “He hadn’t planned it that way.”

“No!” said David. “What other way did he plan it, the fucking—”

There was a thump on the door. “Hey, you all right in there?”

“What—?” shouted Brentwood. “Yeah. I’m having a crap. You mind?”

“Enjoy, man! Enjoy!”

“Damn!” said David, skimming over the rest of the letter, one phrase leaping out at him. “Richard—” Funny how women always used the guy’s full name when they were going to shaft you. Made it sound more civilized, David guessed.

… Richard has gotten me interested in the SAC program, too. I didn’t want to write you until I’d qualified. It’s a very intensive course, as you probably know. Didn’t want to talk about it too much for fear it mightn’t happen. Well — I passed! Not only that, but with “outstanding” commendation. So there, Davey! Who said women couldn’t man the silos? Of course, they’ve been doing it for years, I know, so I’m hardly breaking new ground. But — and this is so ridiculous — SAC won’t permit mixed teams — both operators have to be of the same sex. Can you imagine? TV cameras all over the place.

The next word was blocked out by the censor. Jesus, thought David, even the censor knew he, Brentwood, D., Medal of Honor and Silver Star, was being dumped. “… As if,” the letter went on,

anyone would try any hanky panky down there! Even if you wanted to, there are too many drills to keep you busy the whole shift. Anyway, I really like it, Davey. And it’s kind of nice, I think, that you’re over there doing your thing for the war and I’m here. Sort of keeps us closer. At least we can write, I hope. Some of the girls who have steadies on the subs say they don’t get replies for months on end. Hope you can write me more often than that! I called your mom the other day. She seems fine but is worried, of course, about your brother Ray, well, all of you, of course. But at least she more or less knows how things are with you and Robert and Lana. I mean you do write, but Ray, she says, has just stopped writing altogether. He’s had more laser plastic surgery apparently and it’s amazing what they can do nowadays. But apparently he’s been really depressed lately. He’s asked his wife (sorry — I can’t remember her name) to stop bringing down their two kids because he doesn’t want them to see him that way. Or so your mom says. Your dad’s taking it hardest, I think, though of course he would never admit it!!! Your mom says he keeps telling Ray, you know, “When the going gets tough,” etc., etc., etc.

“Oh Jesus,” David sighed, “no, no—”

He also told Ray the doctors told him that despite the severity of the burns, Ray’s physical condition isn’t too bad really and that he could get another command in time. Of course, your dad means something like a minesweeper. Important, I guess, like trash collectors, but hardly a command — at least not for someone who used to run a guided missile frigate off Korea. Talking of Korea, I guess you’ve heard as much as we have. Aren’t you glad you’re not there now! It really is scary. Rick says that we should’ve nuked them soon as they came across the Yalu. He says that what we should do now is—

The rest of it was crossed out by the censor’s pen.

Just like Stacy, thought David. They put him in a hole somewhere in the Midwest in some friggin’ wheat field and he thinks he’s an authority on how to run the war. “Very scary in Canada,” Melissa went on.

Six big grain silos — huge things like round skyscrapers — no windows and full of wheat, waiting for rail transport to the Great Lakes. They were blown up. ABC Late Night showed shots of one of them — terrific explosion. Apparently they build up a lot of electricity from the dry grain dust and it makes for a very explosive atmosphere, but of course, sabotage is suspected. There’s a big row about how come ABC got an exclusive — live coverage of one of the silos blowing its top. They said they got an anonymous tip, which is probably right — I mean whoever blew it up probably wanted us to see it. Just to show how vulnerable we are. Now everyone’s saying our big mistake was to have let so many so-called “refugees’ into the States during the Gorbachev years — turns out apparently that the head of the KGB was stuffing in as many agents as possible. Nobody figured what would happen after Gorbachev, I guess.