Ian Slater - Rage of Battle

Don’t be damn silly, he told himself, and plugged in the earphones. Rewinding the tape, he heard the high screech-like a torpedo closing. He stopped it, pushed “play,” and lay back. There were a lot of “ifs” hanging about, but one certainty he’d been taught at Annapolis was that when you’re the commanding officer, “there is no possibility of assist.” You had to be alert, and that meant you had to get sleep. “Remember Montgomery,” one of his instructors had been fond of saying. “Delegate authority until you’re needed.” You simply had to wait. He closed his eyes and listened to the timbre of Johnny Cash and “Sunday Morning Coming Down.” Problem was, would they finish the MOSS in time for the TACAMO rendezvous? He was wide awake.

As a squally rain swept down from the North Sea over Surrey and Oxshott heath, Richard Spence, in search of Rosemary, pulled up the collar of his mackintosh and, berating himself for not having brought an umbrella, made his way uneasily along the sodden, slippery path, having to stop every fifty yards or so to wipe the condensation from his bifocals. In the fading light the shapes of the trees in the distance momentarily took on the shape of people, of what he wanted to see rather than what was there. Yet despite the foul weather, the pelting of the rain and the wind roaring through the big oaks, Spence found the ferocity of the storm strangely comforting. Compared to the quieter but tension-filled atmosphere of his house, the often brisling animosity between Rosemary and Georgina and the silent, but pain-filled, determination of his wife trying her best to cope with the death of their son, the vicissitudes of nature seemed to him, if not more manageable, then the least of his worries. He felt bad for feeling like this, realizing that for the men at sea, like Rosemary’s Robert and those on NATO’s lifeblood convoys en route from Canada and the United States, the Arctic-bred storms would be met with less equanimity. But at least nature didn’t come with a net of complexes woven about it; its moods were direct and unequivocal. With his daughters — who knew? Georgina’s smile could mean the very opposite of her intent, Rosemary’s bad temper with Georgina the very antithesis of her normal disposition.

He saw a figure on the path about a hundred yards away coming toward him, but whether or not it was Rosemary, he couldn’t be sure. From the walk, it seemed to be a woman, all right, but she was wearing a scarf about her head, the wind taking the cloth to a sharp point like one of the sleek bicycle race helmets that had been so popular following the Tour de France in July. The Tour de France — he wondered if he or the world would ever see one again.

Whoever it was had her head bent down against the rain, facial features hidden by the collar of a dark coat, dark brown like Rosemary’s or black, he couldn’t tell through the smear of the rain on his bifocals, the sweeping curtains of rain increasing in their intensity. He heard a dog barking somewhere nearby, but how close it was, whether it was anywhere near the figure, he couldn’t tell, his hearing these days not what it used to be, the main reason they had rejected him even for the army’s administrative reserve, relegating him instead to the home guard auxiliary. Not even the proper home guard, he thought wryly. In a way, it was worse than being rejected outright — a kind of waiting list of old crocks. Yet inside he felt the same as when he was fifty, and at times stood staring at the mirror in the morning, finding it difficult, except for the few streaks of gray in his hair, to believe he was in his late sixties — that the reflection looking back was him. Sometimes he felt like two different people.

It was Rosemary approaching, hands thrust deep in her brown jacket pocket, scarf whipping hard in the wind like the defiant flag of a surrounded army, reminding Richard of the trapped British Army of the Rhine, which, with the Americans’ Ninth Corps, was still reeling, trying to catch its breath in the Dortmund-Bielefeld pocket.

“Daddy — what are you—?”

“That boy Williams—” he said, his face scrunching under the impact of freezing rain.

“Wilkins,” she said.

“He’s tried to kill himself.”

Her head shot up, rain-streaked cheeks making it impossible to see whether she’d been crying after the row back at the house.

“But—” she began, and stopped, realizing it must have something to do with her. Or did it? Perhaps the school had wanted to notify her because she was the boy’s teacher.

“Rose—” Now Richard Spence faltered, throat constricting, the sound of his voice swallowed by the frenzied sound of the wind in the big, dark oaks. Instead of finishing what he had intended to say, he put his hand on his daughter’s arm, turned her toward home, and began anew, his voice rising through the howl of the storm. “He left some kind of note apparently. The headmaster said the boy wants to have a word with you.” Richard stumbled and had to stop again to wipe his glasses. “I didn’t get any more details,” he lied. “We were rather flustered, I’m afraid, and Mother was worried about you being out in this.”

“Why on earth would he—” began Rosemary, but her words either trailed off or were inaudible to her father as they passed through a new onslaught of rain. She was already beginning to feel responsible for Wilkins, just as her father knew she would.

“I think…” said Richard, his eyes fixed on a branch bending dangerously. “C’mon!” he shouted, indicating the branch. “That’s near breaking point.” As they passed through the thick copse of alder before crossing the road, Rosemary felt his grip tighten on her arm. “I think the headmaster would like a chat.”

She pulled her coat higher against the storm’s rage, the wind’s rushing now like an angry sea, and for a moment she was assailed by fear for Robert, and the realization that the real reason behind her row with Georgina was her growing conviction that she was pregnant. Suddenly she felt guilty about everything, about what she now judged to be her unwarranted retorts to Georgina — she should have dealt with it with grace. She felt guilty about giving Wilkins a Saturday morning and for what she knew was an unreasonable anger toward the boy, wishing, for a dark second, that he had finished the job — her Shakespeare class would be much easier to teach.

As they emerged from the wooded area onto the grassy knoll, she was thinking how Shakespeare wasn’t necessarily a civilizing influence. What he did was to tear the wrappings of civility aside.

“You must understand,” Richard was saying, “the boy was — I should say is… ” She didn’t get the rest of it and had to ask him to repeat it. “Clearly,” said Spence, “the boy’s very disturbed, and I don’t want you blaming yourself.”

Oh my God, thought Rosemary. It is something to do with me. He must have written something in the suicide note saying she’d driven him to it. She didn’t feel she could face Georgina.

When they reached the house, she saw Georgina at the window as they started up the crazy stone path. Richard saw her, too, as she left the window to open the front door.

“Now,” Richard cautioned Rosemary, “don’t you two start, for goodness’ sake.”

Georgina was the picture of sisterly concern. It was genuine — which made Rosemary feel worse. If she was pregnant — the thought of telling her parents mortified her. Besides, with a world at war, she wasn’t sure anyone should have a child. But then, she didn’t see how she could ever bring herself to—

“Rose!” It was her mother, holding one hand over the phone, looking frightened from the kitchen. “A Mrs. Wilkins wants to talk with you. She sounds terribly upset.”