Sentimental Journey (64 page)

“The reason I mentioned it is because I think there’s something you ought to know,” Bob said.

“What?”

“Kitty Cassidy is blind.”

She froze instantly, her drink halfway to her mouth.

“Charley told me that Skip didn’t want you to know. Kitty is a very well-accomplished teacher for the blind.”

“Damn,” she said under her breath, feeling that same old pride rise to cover her humiliation. “Now I understand all the questions she’s been asking.” She thought about it, then added, “And that terribly odd conversation at dinner last night.”

“They were more obvious than I believe they thought they were. I felt you should know the truth.”

She felt so stiff that she thought if she moved she might shatter into a thousand pieces.

“You’re upset. I can see that. I felt they were doing such a piss-poor job of subterfuge that you would figure it all out soon enough and then probably be mad as hell.”

“I am mad as hell.” Her voice was clipped. She couldn’t help it. She didn’t want to be this way, not in front of Bob. She liked him, but she was terribly embarrassed.

“I understand.”

“Do you?” She set her drink down. “Do you know what it’s like to suddenly wake up in a world where there is no color, or blue skies, no green grass, a place where you can’t see the look on your son’s face?”

“No. I don’t know what that’s like.”

“No, you don’t. You should keep to your own business.”

“I probably should. But I hate to see a good woman wasted.”

“You think I’m wasted?”

“I don’t know what you were like before. I only know what I see now. You are a beautiful woman, Audrey, with half of your life still ahead of you.”

“A life where I cannot see anything?”

“Kitty is smart and amazingly independent. I’ve watched her. She has a freedom that is surprising for someone who is blind. She has what we Yanks call gumption. But so do you.”

She didn’t say a word.

“I noticed that when she needs help, she asks for it.”

She turned and faced him. “And I don’t.”

“Not in the same way and not often enough. You sit and let the world rush by you. You asked me about Orville and Wilbur Wright. Orville talks quite a bit about how his brother felt about flying. People thought they were crazy. People said they would never do it and probably would kill themselves trying. ‘Why do it?’ people asked them repeatedly. But I remember him telling me something Wilbur said once. ‘If you are looking for perfect safety, you will do well to sit on a fence and merely watch the birds; but if you really wish to learn, you must mount a machine and become acquainted with its tricks by actual trial.’ It seems to me you should think about what you want to do for the next forty years. Do you want to sit on the fence or do you want to fly?”

She couldn’t answer him. She was crying. She heard him walking away, and it about killed her. She raised her hand. “Bob! Wait!”

“I’m here,” he said from a distance, near the doorway.

She took a deep breath and stood, then took a few steps, then a few more. She held out her hands to him. “Will you help me? Please. I want to fly.”

“THIS IS IT”

For two weeks Red had managed to avoid his team. Nothing was going on. It was one of those times when there was nothing to do but sit around and do nothing. Rumor was: the big one was in the works. Eisenhower and Montgomery together in a combined Allied Forces invasion of North Africa.

Before the invasion, they would send in as many teams as they could to muck up things for the enemy. So his team was on alert. They’d all been called in to wait for briefing.

Red spent the afternoon getting some target practice. He knelt at the line, raised his weapon, sighted, and pulled the trigger, again and again and again. Every shot was dead center. He spent an hour firing, until all five targets looked chewed up in the middle and the sergeant in charge told him to get the hell out of there. He left the range still feeling antsy.

He walked back and took a shower, then shaved, checked his overseas pack, and finally went to get something to eat. It was dinnertime, and most of the men from the teams were in the mess.

Red sat down at a table. Inskip was at the opposite end, reading the newspaper. He looked up when Red sat down but didn’t say anything. Cassidy was nowhere to be seen.

Red ate silently while the others talked, occasionally asking him or Inskip a question. Some of the men finished and left to go to the rec room and throw some darts. Finally Skip put down the paper and lit a cigarette.

It was just the two of them, and until now, the last time they’d seen each other was at Branton Manor, where Charley was billeted.

“It’s hard to believe that of all the women out there, you and I find the same one.” Skip was watching him intently.

“Yeah.”

“She told me how you met.”

Red didn’t say anything.

“Sorry, old chap. I guess I beat you to the punch.”

Red looked up at him. “What do you want me to say? Congratulations ?”

“Bloody hell . . . this is stupid!” Skip stubbed out his cigarette and stood up.

Red stood up, too. “Nothing about Charley is stupid.”

“She’s mine, Walker. Remember that.”

Red closed the distance between them. “I’m not going to forget it. Just don’t rub my fucking nose in it. Charley loves you. I accept that. Don’t hurt her.”

“You think I’m going to hurt her?” Skip was obviously ticked off. His voice was loud.

“I’m just telling you not to.” Red started to turn away, but he was pissed off and muttered, “Limey asshole.”

Skip spun him around and grabbed him by the shirt, then jerked him forward.

Red drew back his fist.

“Hey, you two.” J.R. broke them apart. “What the hell is this?”

There was silence. Red would be damned if he was going to say anything. He just wished he could have hit him before Cassidy came in.

“Nothing.” Skip turned away.

“It had better be nothing. Save that for the Jerries. I just heard . . . It’s a go. We have to report to the briefing room. Come on.” Cassidy moved toward the door.

Red and Skip followed him, walking a good distance apart.

PART NINE

NORTH AFRICA

1942

LIBYAN DESERT, OCTOBER 11

FIFTY KILOMETERS BEHIND ENEMY LINES

They waited in a truck that was parked out of sight in a ravine about twenty feet from a sharp curve in the road.
Walker
was on a bluff with a set of field glasses, watching the road for the enemy truck convoy. Their job was to get into that convoy and travel with it to the compound. Inside the truck was a team of SIG, Special Interrogation Group, a bogus title for a handful of German Jews from
Palestine
dressed as Afrika Korps, whose mission was to get inside and eliminate the key officers. They had information from one source that Rommel was at the compound.

A squad from the Long Range Desert Group attached to the British Special Air Service would already be in position near the compound. The LRDG’s job was to blow the petrol and ammo dumps.

Inskip was to take out the airfield. He carried enough explosives to blow them all back to
Britain
.
Walker
would take care of the supply bunkers. And J.R.? His job was to steal as much intelligence information as he could.

Walker
came sliding down the bluff. “They’re coming.”

J.R. made for the truck and Skip put out his cigarette and followed.

“You ready?” J.R. asked everyone. “Remember. We let eleven trucks go by. Before Number Twelve comes around the curve, we fall into line.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if we were the last truck?” one of the SIG asked.

J.R. shook his head. “If I were commanding that convoy, I’d make certain the last truck knew they were the last truck. For that very reason. This way Number Eleven truck will think we’re Number Twelve and Number Twelve truck will think we’re Number Eleven.

“About a mile from the gates there’s another bend in the road. We’ll break down there, block the last truck, and take it out. Then the SIG can drive into the compound as Number Twelve, and we’ll take our positions at the perimeters.”

“I hear ’
em
coming, sir.”

“Okay. Start the engine. You in back. Pull that camouflage net over you.”

J.R. was the last inside.

Dimmed driving lights from the first truck came into view and rumbled past. Then another and another.

J.R. counted them off. “That was eleven! Go!”

The truck shot out from the ravine and slid easily into the convoy. The enemy never knew there were thirteen sets of headlights.

EASTERN PERIMETER

There was no sleep for the wicked.

Certainly not tonight. Skip checked his watch, then moved silently along a narrow dip between the road and the perimeter cross-stakes. He needed to find the airfield.

The wooden cross-stakes tangled with barbed wire were positioned lower than the dunes, blocking the view, so he headed for a rise about a hundred yards away. He crawled over the edge and scanned the horizon. He spotted the shadow of a pole with a windsleeve.

Housey, housey. There she is!

He picked up his explosive pack and crept under the fence and over the dunes, sliding down the opposite side feetfirst. Before him was a ten-foot-high revetment made from a pile of logs, rock, and empty oil barrels. He moved along the shadows, hidden by the height of the wall. When he reached the end, he edged around slowly.

The airfield spread below. Over a dozen planes were parked at the perimeter of the small field: Stukas, MEs, and a few bombers— Heinkels and a single JU88 that was parked away from the others. He counted fifteen.

With their usual attention to order, the Jadgwaffe had lined the planes up in groups of three, wings less than a foot apart. He checked out the area and saw a repair hut at the opposite end of the field, along with two trucks, an armored half-track, and some tanks set at angles facing the surrounding dunes.

There was a building about a hundred feet away. Light shone from inside, and he could hear voices and the sounds of a kitchen through the open windows. He suspected it was the pilots’ quarters.

He moved along the building, low, ducking down past the windows, and heard men arguing over music. Then a record began to play, and the music followed him as he ran out onto the field.

It was Wagner. He’d have preferred Beethoven.

They made his job too easy for him, parking the planes in neat sets of three. Because of their proximity, he could set his explosives on the middle plane, near its fuel tank, and blow up all three with a single charge, which left him plenty of explosives for the tanks.