Ian Slater: Rage of Battle

“In this weather? They’ll freeze. Ah, then again, perhaps not, eh, Richard? B and B can be quite cozy, I’m told.”

“I hope so, Geoffrey. They deserve it.”

“Hear, hear. If they can grab a little happiness in this world gone mad, then the best of British—” he paused, raising his glass “—and Yankee luck to them! They’ll need it up there. He won’t understand a word of it, you know. The Scots are quite impenetrable.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Geoffrey. They managed to tow his ship back to Holy Loch.”

“He’ll be off again then, I expect. After the honeymoon?”

“Can’t say. Very hush-hush. He never talks about it. All I know is the ship was towed up from Falmouth.”

“Should you be saying that?”

“Oh, the base at Holy Loch — that’s common knowledge.”

“No, I mean ‘ship’. I understand submarines are called boats.”

“Not anymore. ‘Ships’ these days, and ‘sail’—no ‘conning tower’ anymore.”

“Ships and sail,” mused Geoffrey. “I like that. Possibly because it gives me the illusion, along with this rather bad sherry, that we’re not in this modern world with its pushbutton whatsits. Must say, I’m glad I’m not in it.”

“Not yet at least,” said Richard. “I’m sorry about the sherry.”

“It’s not yours, Richard. It’s mine. I gave it to Anne — far too sweet. And what on earth do you mean by ‘not yet’?”

“Well, apparently there’s this chap Marchenko. Quite ruthless, by all accounts. I’m sure he’s not finished with us. The Telegraph’s reporting that if the Russians get desperate enough, they could very well push the button. Then we’ll all be in it.”

“We’ll all be dead, you mean.”

“No — they’re talking about what you barristers, I think, would call a middle case.”

“What? Gas?”

“And biological warfare, yes.”

“By God, Richard, you’re a cheery soul.”

“Just facing facts, Geoffrey.”

“But this chap Freeman’s got ‘em on the run. Damned tough customer, by all accounts.”

“Yes, but he can’t do it alone. And now the Russians have got America on a two-front war. Then there’s still this Korean business. It’s not finished by any means. The Telegraph’s Tokyo correspondent reports that the Chinese are ready to move across the Yalu if the Americans don’t stop there.”

“They’re not going to stop, Richard. Why should they? They made MacArthur stop, and look what they got. They won’t make that mistake twice.”

“Then the Chinese will come in and the Telegraph—”

“The Telegraph!” said Geoffrey with a trace of irritability. “Fair enough, I suppose, but — good Lord, Richard, they’re not the only source. Don’t they publish those advertisements by that demented Knowlton chap? You know — the hair dryer maniac. Really. There’s more than one paper, old boy.”

“Of course, but The New York Times says much the same thing. That no way the Russians are going to call it quits. We’re not even at the Elbe.” He paused, alarmed at a group of Anne’s “Conservative Club” women purposefully approaching him and Geoffrey.

Richard smiled graciously, murmuring to Geoffrey, “It’s that dreadful Mrs. Lamptini again. They’re going to ask us to dance.”

“What? “ said Geoffrey. “I’m off!”

“Coward!” said Richard. Suddenly the music died, followed by cheers and scattered applause. Rosemary was at the top of the stairs, radiant in a jade-green coat, white imitation fur hat, and corsage, holding her bouquet. She did not try to tease with the bouquet but tossed it gently and straight to Georgina. The ladies were drawn, by ancient rite, toward the young couple, Peter Zeldman and Georgina.

“Ah, prophecy!” said Geoffrey. “Get your checkbook ready, Richard.”

Richard said nothing. Georgina had told him she didn’t like the “best man,” but with Georgina, he knew, you could never be sure. Only time would tell. Anne appeared, fussing about last-minute details as Robert and Rosemary headed out for the car.

“Doesn’t he look wonderful?” Richard heard Mrs. Lamptini say. “Those Americans—”

As most of the guests crowded about the door to wish the couple well, the St. Anselm’s boys, after having checked that their cans and various impedimenta had been firmly attached beneath the car, returned to the food, where an argument was developing about whether or not there were enemy spies in England.

“Of course there are, you twit,” said one of the taller boys — a prefect. “How do you think they know where the convoys are?”

“Well, they haven’t caught any, have they?” said another boy defensively.

“Don’t be simple, Bingham. Those trials are held in camera so as not to upset the populace. My pater told me.” The boy took a toothpick from a silver cup and looked for a cocktail sausage to stab. “Quite frankly, if I were the Russians, I ‘d have spies go after the captains. Of the submarines. Submarine captains aren’t two a penny, you know. And if you get them, then you’ve effectively—”

“Oh, do put a sock in it,” said one of the others. “Come on, let’s see Miss Spence off.”

“Mrs. Brentwood, you nit.”

“All right, Mrs. Brentwood.”

Richard and Anne had gone outside by the car to say their good-byes. When it came time to shake hands with Robert Brentwood, Richard was quite unable to speak, but as the men looked at each other, there was ample understanding.

Richard knew that the war would go on and that men like Robert would be returning to it soon. And that the war of the submarines would almost certainly become increasingly dangerous as more and more countries sought to redress their setbacks on land by sending their secret boats into the seas that covered over two-thirds of the planet. He was sure also that with the Russians having attacked the Aleutians, the titanic struggle would move to America’s shore.

But now, for a moment, for two people very much in love, the world stood still.