Glory Boys (62 page)

‘May I?’ he asked.

‘Of course.’

Abe munched on the toast. Willard remembered this about his old commander. In one way, Abe was naturally spartan. He had never used his rank or his fame or even his army salary to buy himself any extra comforts, not even an extra blanket for his bed or a picture to hang on his bare office walls. But in another way, Abe always managed to make himself comfortable. Here he was, with danger advancing by the minute, lolling on a chair, munching toast. Abe looked up.

‘Remembering old times?’

‘Yes.’

‘D’you miss it? The squadron, I mean.’

‘Yes. I do, I guess I do.’

‘Despite everything? Despite the fear?’

‘Yes.’

‘D’you remember early on, those speeches of President Wilson’s?’

‘Jeez, those speeches!’

In the first months following America’s entry into the war, the American airmen had been called on to drop propaganda speeches over enemy lines. The propaganda was of a strange sort. No flimsy leaflets, but instead long, wordy speeches by the then President, Woodrow Wilson. The speeches were idealistic, innocent. They exhorted the German troops to cease fighting. The speeches painted a picture of a world in harmony, working together for peace. The message was utterly well-intentioned, utterly useless.

And dangerous.

Not to the Germans below, but to the American airmen above. The speeches were big, heavy things. The aircraft dropping them were designed as pursuit planes or perhaps observation planes, but certainly not bombers. The unlucky airmen assigned to delivering the manuscripts had to fly low over enemy lines, chucking ungainly chunks of paper, handful by handful, from the cockpit. Sometimes the speeches wrapped around the airplane’s tail fin and rudder, or snuck into the control wires running along the fuselage. As the airmen wrestled with their planes, the Germans below amused themselves by turning every gun upwards hoping for a lucky hit. After months of near-accident, high command was eventually persuaded to drop the venture.

‘We sure took some ribbing from the Frenchies, huh?’

Willard nodded. He remembered.

‘But, Will, let me ask you something. What did you think, what went through your head, when you had to drop those speeches.’

‘I thought our President knew damn all about aviation.’

‘Sure. What else?’

‘I thought our President knew damn all about the German fighting man.’

‘Sure. What else?’

‘I thought… Shit, I was scared doing it. And what was the point anyhow?’

‘Yes.’

There was a pause. Abe was driving at something, but Willard didn’t know what. Abe tried again.

‘You remember how some of the Frenchies were given those same speeches to drop? They didn’t want to, so they just put their allocation on a truck and drove it around to our aerodrome.’

‘That’s right,’ Willard laughed.
‘“C’est votre Président.”
I could see their point of view.’

‘Right. And what did you think then? When you took those speeches off the Frenchies, knowing it would be your job to drop them?’

‘Heck, I thought… D’you know what, Captain? I felt proud, actually. I felt proud of my country and proud of my President.’

‘Yes.’

‘I mean, the speeches were useless. We all knew that. But they said something. They said something about America. About how it was our destiny to be different. To make peace, not war. To bring freedom. You know what? I felt honoured to drop those speeches. Dangerous or not, stupid or not, I wanted to drop them. To say to the Germans and the French and the Brits and everyone else, look at me, I’m an American and proud of it, Goddamn it.’

‘Yes.’ Abe’s look was unusually direct, unusually intense. ‘Yes. So you do understand.’

‘I’m sorry. Understand what?’

‘Will, how come you miss being a part of the squadron? It was dangerous, frightening, relentless. But you miss it. I do too. Everyone who was a part of it does. How come? I’ll tell you. Because you fought for something you believed in. Fought for something that was bigger than you. And what’s become of that, Will?’

‘I’m not getting you.’

‘What’s happened to our country? Freedom and democracy, we invented them, Will, or at least we put our stamp on ’em. And what’s happened? What the hell have we let happen? We’ve let bootleggers buy the country. We’ve got enforcement officers who take bribes. We’ve got cops who are crooked. We’ve got entire cities owned by the mob. Even Congress isn’t straight, Will, even Congress.’

Willard thought about the Powell Lambert bar, operated in the heart of the Senate. Abe was right and he didn’t even know the half of it.

Just then, there was a quiet commotion at the door. Not the door to the corridor outside, but the bedroom door. Annie was there, dressed only in nightgown and bathrobe, hair messed up, sleep still in her eyes. She saw Willard, saw Abe, blinked in surprise. Abe was getting ready to go, hat in hand. He nodded to the newcomer.

‘I guess you must be Rosalind. I’m Abe, an old friend of –’

Her face told him he had goofed. Annie looked at Willard for help. Willard gave it.

‘Annie, actually. A friend of mine. Rosalind and I – she isn’t – she didn’t want –’ Willard pulled himself up. Abe wasn’t his father. He didn’t have to be tongue-tied with Abe. ‘Rosalind broke off her engagement. Annie is just a friend who dropped in unexpectedly.’

Abe smiled and nodded. ‘Nice to meet you, Annie. I’m sorry but I need to get going.’ He looked quickly between the two of them again, reading that even if there hadn’t yet been sex, there was certainly more than friendship. He spoke again to Annie. ‘He’s a good man, you got there. You be sure to hold on to him.’ He turned to Willard. ‘So long, Will. Take care.’

‘So long, Captain.’

‘Captain?’ It was Annie who spoke.

Willard looked at Abe, who answered her.

‘Captain Rockwell, ma’am, only you might want to keep that quiet for now. Willard can tell you why later.’

‘Captain Rockwell? Will’s old commander?’

Abe grinned. ‘Not that old.’

The sleep still caught in Annie’s eyes made her face wider, softer, more innocent than usual.

‘You saved his life. You kept him safe. Thank you.’

‘He told you that?’

‘He doesn’t talk about anyone the way he talks about you.’

Abe put his hat on. He opened the door to the corridor, looked quickly out. There was no one there.

‘He saved my life too, Annie. He ever tell you that?’

And then he was gone.

Through the door, down the corridor, away from the elevators, heading towards the concrete service stairs which would lead down to the hotel basement and safety. And Annie was staring at Willard, Willard at Annie.

Because, no, Willard hadn’t told her that. Hadn’t ever told anyone.

136

France, Somme sector, October 1918.

A dogfight. Two American planes – a Spad and a Nieuport – fighting four Germans, three Fokkers and a clumsy two-seater Albatross. Willard had been one of the American pilots. Captain Abraham Rockwell had been the other.

The dogfight proceeded with the usual terrifying swiftness. Willard couldn’t remember the detail, only the broad outline. Rockwell, somehow, was pursuing the Albatross, but using his pursuit as a ruse to close on the Fokker that protected it. Willard was having a fierce encounter of his own, with neither pilot able to gain a decisive edge. But then the last German plane saw an opportunity to dive at Rockwell, who was now fighting three.

Twist as he might, Rockwell couldn’t avoid placing his aircraft in danger from one gun or another. The first Fokker found his tail, began to close range. Willard, still fighting, was unable to help.

Except that he did.

On an impulse, he turned his plane. He flew towards the Fokker that endangered Rockwell, but at the same time let his own tail appear huge and steady in the sights of his own attacker. For three, four, five, ten seconds he flew, expecting the sudden flare and shock of bullets, the roar of flame, the hot red touch of death.

It never came. Nothing happened. The Fokker closing on Rockwell saw its own position worsen and pulled away. Willard turned to face his own pursuer, whose gun, he now saw, was badly jammed. With the German gun jammed, the odds had shifted: two Americans against the three Germans and one of the Germans an unwieldy two-seater. The conflict sputtered on for a minute or two, before the two sides chose to pull away.

And that was it. Willard’s one moment of perfect heroism. He had saved Rockwell’s life at the risk of his own. Back at the aerodrome, Captain Rockwell had put his hand on Willard’s shoulder and said, ‘Thank you. That was a noble thing you did.’

And that was all. Rockwell had never spoken of it again. And in all his years of boasting, Willard had never mentioned it to a soul.

137

Annie smiled a proper hello to Willard.

What was she, a friend, a girl to have a fling with, or a life partner? He didn’t know, but he did know he liked her better than any of his other girls. More than Evie Moroney. More than Rosalind. More than anyone. He walked to the windows and pulled back the curtains. Light flooded the room.

‘Sorry,’ said Annie, ‘did I interrupt something? I didn’t know you were –’

The phone went. Willard picked it up. It was the hotel reception, telling him a Mr Roeder was here to see him.

‘Don’t send him up. I’ve a guest staying. I’ll be down in two minutes.’

Willard looked at Annie. He felt light-headed, but joyous. Joy poured through him, as though it were an emotion he’d never experienced before.

‘How fast can you get dressed?’ he asked.

‘Already?’ Her voice sounded upset, as though she thought he was sending her away.

He kissed her softly on the lips. ‘I’m coming too.’

They went into the bedroom and began to dress quickly. Annie wanted to go into the bathroom to look after her make-up, but Willard told her not to bother.

‘Annie, listen to me, I have a question to ask. I want to do something rather dangerous, but worth doing. There may be a little danger in it for you too, though I hope not. I expect I shall need to go to prison for a little while. Will you … will you still be there for me when I come out?’

‘Oh Willard, it’s the Firm, isn’t it? Do you have to –?’

He shook his head. ‘It is to do with the Firm, but not the way you think. Annie, are you happy selling booze? I mean, booze itself is fine, we both enjoy it. But are you happy with the way we sell it? The violence and the graft and everything?’

‘No. No, I hate it.’

‘Me too. It’s time to stop.’

Willard knew that Washington was half rotten – but that still left one good half, even so. He remembered walking through the Senate Library. There had been some men there on the right side of the curtain, men with no drinks in their hands, men who had spoken out against corruption and had actually meant it. He’d enlist their help, senators of the United States, men as honourable as the positions they held. Willard would go to them, seek their protection, resurrect the case.

And as for the physical evidence which might even now be making its way into the Firm’s hands, who needed it? Willard
was
the evidence. What he knew – names, dates, papers, files – what he knew was enough to blow Powell Lambert to kingdom come. The phone rang again.

‘The gentleman you were expecting got tired of waiting, sir. He’s on his way up.’

‘OK. Thanks.’

Willard was calm, as calm as he’d ever been.

‘Time to go.’

He steered Annie out of the room, down the corridor, away from the elevator, heading in Abe’s footsteps for the concrete service stairs and safety. She clung tightly to his arm, matching two of her tripping little steps to each of his long, decisive strides.

He loved her and she loved him. And they’d marry. Some day. Not too soon. Willard didn’t know if he could avoid prison, but he wasn’t worried by the thought. Annie, sweet little adoring Annie, would be there for him afterwards. And, in a funny kind of way, he’d be serving his country once again.

There were different ways to do these things, after all. Different kinds of heroes. Not everyone could be an Abe Rockwell. Most people couldn’t. But Willard could hope to become the best version of himself. Better than any version his father had ever shown him. And the best version was a good one. Not just good, heroic.

By the time they walked out of the service stairs, down through the loading bay, out along the concrete yard at the back of the hotel, Willard wasn’t just smiling. He was laughing, actually laughing.

EPILOGUE

Willard watched Annie go.

She was dressed in a neat grey suit and a matching hat with a blue silk flower on it. She had got thinner than she’d been back in Wall Street days and she’d never had a spare ounce even then. She walked quickly, not because she was pleased to be leaving, but because she could hardly bear it. She wouldn’t even turn to wave because she wouldn’t want Willard to see her streaming eyes. She reached the end of the corridor and turned right. Willard fancied he could still hear her footsteps clicking down the concrete floor, but that was probably fantasy.

The big Irish guard, who had been waiting sympathetically, tapped the table.

‘OK, buddy,’ he said.

He meant: time to go back to your cell. Time to bite off another whole week before the next visit. Time to bite off one more week of the forty-six weeks remaining.

Because Willard had done it. He’d gone to the Senate Library of all places and found two senators whom he knew to be non-drinkers, non-hypocrites, non-corrupt. He’d made them a proposal and they’d bought it. Willard, the two senators, and eight cops hand-chosen by the senators themselves went down to the Firm’s K Street offices. The office building had just one entrance. The eleven men went straight up to Junius Thornton’s office. Willard entered first, then the senators, then two of the cops.

The heavily-built businessman was drinking coffee as his visitors entered. He had the cup raised halfway to his lips – paused – then drank slowly before putting the cup down again.