Vengeance 10

The colonel gave him a sad smile, then clapped him on the arm. ‘That you could, lad. That you could. A sacrificial lamb in either case. Just like we were in the last war at Ypres.’ Somewhat absently he tapped his leg. ‘Didn’t get this there. Happened in a car smash near Brighton twelve years ago. Had absolutely nothing to do with any war.’

‘It doesn’t seem to make any difference, then, does it, sir?’

The colonel gave his leg a last swat and limped on. ‘No, I suppose it doesn’t. Just remember,’ he continued, almost as an afterthought, ‘what you’re about over there. No sense inviting trouble. Think about that.’

* * *

Memling did think about it as the train lumbered south from Scotland. The raid against the still-unnamed French coastal town had other objectives which they were not being told about yet. They had given him less than a month to bring his Canadians up to shape. The problem was that with very few exceptions they were fresh from training camps in Ontario. They simply were not ready — by his standards. They needed blooding, a few easy raids into Norway, nothing more than a lightning-fast hit-and-run operation to get them used to the confusion, the mistakes, and the fact that nothing ever went as planned; in short, to teach them what individual initiative really meant. But there was damned all he could do about it now.

* * *

Janet was waiting for his train even though it was six hours overdue into Euston. He saw her at the barrier, and she waved and pushed across the crowded concourse until they met under the great clock. Taking his hand, she gave him a soft kiss on the cheek and, as they drew back in mutual embarrassment, leaned forward again and kissed him soundly on the lips.

There were no taxis to be had, naturally, and they walked slowly along Woburn Place, which was thick with pedestrians. As overcast as it was, there was little chance of the Luftwaffe appearing tonight. The Bofors anti-aircraft battery they passed in Tavistock Square was manned, but the crew were relaxing on the park benches with cups of tea and laughing with the NAAFI girls.

Janet had written to thank him for his note a week after he had left in February, and he had replied, thus beginning a correspondence that had become a regular part of their lives.

He had almost ignored her first letter, as he was still haunted by Margot’s death. But Memling was an intensely lonely man, had been most of his life, and the few months he and Margot had had together had worked a permanent change in him. In addition, he was intelligent enough to realise that the more time passed, the more pristine his memories of those brief months became until they had taken on an air of unreality.

Memling was surprised at the rush of excitement he had felt when spotting Janet at the barrier, a slim, pretty, dark-haired girl in a slightly shabby coat and a short victory skirt. He glanced at her now in the glow of a blackout lantern, but the blue light gave her complexion a sickly cast. She felt him looking at her and glanced up and smiled, and his heart turned over.

He struggled for something to say, but the best he could come up with was ‘Did you have much trouble finding me a place in an officers’ club?’

‘Yes. Quite a bit of trouble, in fact.’ She gave him an impish grin. ‘I could not find a room in all of London.’

‘Really?’ was all he could think of to say.

Janet squeezed his hand. ‘Really. You might think me a bit forward, but I am going to have to put you up at my flat again.’

Memling’s breath caught in his throat, and Janet took the moment’s silence for disapproval. ‘Oh, I know what you’re thinking… I mean, perhaps it is too soon…’ She stopped, and as she was still holding his hand, her weight had swung him about to face her. Her expression was somewhere between apprehension and defiance, and Memling stopped fumbling for words.

* * *

Janet had arranged to have the following day off, but Memling came wide awake at 4.30 a.m., a hopeless victim of years of discipline. He was standing beside the bed before he was fully awake, reaching for his trousers, at the same time blinking at the darkened room, trying to remember where he was and wondering why his Fairbairn knife was not strapped to his leg — his usual storage place when asleep. Janet turned on the bed lamp, gave him an exasperated look, and ordered him back to bed.

‘Whatever in the world possessed you?’ she demanded sleepily. ‘Why, it’s not even five o’clock and I can sleep as late as I want this morning.’

Memling stretched under the warm blankets, feeling the softness of her back and thighs, and gathered her into his arms. ‘I just wanted to have your full attention,’ he muttered, and began stroking the soft smooth skin that was a wonder to him. She half turned so that her nipples caressed his chest, and his breathing nearly doubled.