Those Who Fought for Us

  Chapter 1

  The Party

  Gloucestershire, England – Mid-June 1940

  For Trant it was a time of absolute foreboding. There is simply no way to explain it - you would have had to have been there to comprehend the immense magnitude of it all. Although the war had technically begun, the reality of it had not yet come home to England. It had commenced with the capitulation of Austria and Czechoslovakia, both having acquiesced to the Third Reich without so much as the firing of a single shot. Germany had subsequently struck with lightning speed in the previous fall, Poland having fallen by the first snow. And in the spring, France had fallen in little more than a month, in the process driving the remaining allied forces from the European Continent. The entire world was in absolute shock at the incomprehensible speed of these events. Still worse, fear of what the next revelation might be was universal.

  Thus it was that Great Britain was thrust into the role of savior against everything evil in this world, her people now nervously awaiting the next move by Hitler and his henchmen. The vestigial losers of the Great War had come home to roost, and it was now the turn of the British to face the results of the unhappy losers’ two decade long grudge.

  The Great War had pulverized an entire generation of men from Western Europe and beyond, and now these selfsame combatants stood on the precipice of yet another annihilation of potentially even more staggering proportions. This then was the mood that pervaded the peoples of the British Isles in the early summer of 1940.

  On this day Lady Sutherland lounged incongruously in the sitting room of Wharton Manor, as if unaware of the profundity of the times, the afternoon sunlight casting a bright strip of reflected light across the enormous Persian rug that dominated the convivial room. The overall effect was one of rare warmth, even for this time of year within the Cotswolds.

  From her vantage point she could just make out her son Trant and his friend Walter on the lawn, the pair pursuing their own modern version of jousting with one another on the tennis court. Though she was able to observe the pair chasing this way and that, the trees provided just enough cover that she found it impossible to discern which erstwhile knight prevailed.

  At length, their match completed, within minutes Trant strode confidently into the sitting room. Surreptitiously closing her book and placing it on the table, Lady Sutherland inquired with evident anticipation, “Who won?”

  “Who do you think won, mother?” Trant responded egotistically.

  “I suppose that I needn’t have asked,” she replied with a sarcastic grin. “After all, you do take after your father.” She halted for a moment, but then added wistfully, “Tis nice to have you home for a day, my child. I’ve not seen much of you since the war began.”

  “Yes, it is nice, mother,” he responded, wondering to himself at what age he would cease being ‘her child’. “Perhaps never,” he pondered silently to himself.

  “Trant, I’ve been thinking,” she continued, signaling by her thoughtful demeanor a change of subject, “Things are about to heat up. The Germans are going to invade England. Winston Churchill himself said as much.”

  “Yes, I know, mother. Everyone knows,” he responded blandly, “And your point is?”

  “Well, under the circumstances this may sound misplaced, but I’d like to have a party for the 93rd. You know, a sort of going away present.”

  “Why ever on earth for, mother? We’re not going anywhere. The coming battle will be fought right here, in the air over England.”

  “Well, I suppose you’re right, my dear, but in this case ‘going away’ has a somewhat different meaning than physical.”

  Seeing her ominous glance, he replied, “Ah, yes, I see what you mean.” Pausing for a moment to dry his face with a towel, he subsequently added, “So what exactly did you have in mind?”

  “Well, I’d like to have a birthday party for you and invite the whole squadron.”

  At this suggestion he frowned and responded with apparent oblivion, “My twenty-fourth birthday isn’t until April!”

  “Yes, I think that I should know, my dear, as I was there for your very first one.”

  “Right-o,” he responded with a chuckle, but he nonetheless blurted in apparent confusion, “So why have a birthday party?”

  “Dear, you would have had to have lived through the Great War to understand. Let us simply say – there is no time like the present, and a birthday party gives a good excuse to throw the sort of event that I have in mind.”

  “What sort of event is that, mother?”

  “I should think that a costume party would be perfect.”

  “A costume party? Why ever for?”

  “My dear, tis complicated, but bear with me if you will for a moment. Remember when you told me that the average age of the boys in your squadron is about twenty?”

  “Yes, mother, of course I remember telling you that.”

  “Well, you’re a bit older than the rest, so you will undoubtedly have had experience, so to speak, but I should think that many if not all of the boys in your squadron will not have had any experience whatsoever at such a tender age.”

  “Experience, what sort of experience?”

  “Oh, don’t be a muddle-head, Trant. I mean experience with young ladies, of course!”

  “Oh! Well, excuse me for being dense, mother, but one doesn’t normally discuss such matters with one’s own mother.”

  “I know, but these are not normal times, are they dear!”

  “Touché…touché, mother,” and at this pronouncement he paused and, scratching his chin for a moment in contemplation, he continued with, “So tell me more about this party.”

  “Why don’t you leave that to me, dear? I can handle the planning. All that I need know is when you could assemble the squadron for a weekend escape here at the manor. The sooner the better…I’m certain you understand why.”

  “Let me see…we have a drill next weekend, but the weekend after that is free.”

  “How many of the squadron do you think you could persuade to come?”

  “Oh, I should think that for a weekend getaway and a costume party, especially if there will be women present, I could scare up between thirty and forty airmen.”

  “Perfect!” she replied. If you could round them up, I shall manage the remainder of the planning. The costume party shall be on Saturday night, so everyone will need to be here by around four P.M. And they should plan to stay until midday Sunday. How does that sound to you?”

  “Yes, I think that I can arrange that, mother. Where do you intend to discover a sufficient number of appropriate young ladies on such short notice?”

  “Just leave that part to me, dear. I assure you that they shall be fine young ladies from excellent backgrounds.”

  “Yes, mother, I would have expected nothing less under your omnipotent vigilance. Now, I believe that I shall go shower and change for dinner, by which time I expect the entire affair shall be planned to the minutest detail.”

  “Alright, I shall see you at seven, dear,” she replied.

  Moments Later

  Lady Sutherland contemplated for a few moments in solitude and, suddenly reaching for the telephone, she dialed a number. When the party on the other end of the line answered, she said, “Edith, this Margaret.”

  “Hello, Lady Margaret. How are you?” the voice on the other end responded.

  “Fine, and you?”

  “I am quite well, thank you. To what do I owe the pleasure of a call from you today?” Edith replied.

  Lady Sutherland responded, “Edith, I have a bit of a challenge. I am planning a birthday party for Trant in two weeks’ time. I am wondering if you could persuade your husband to supply me with the names of about ten to twenty young ladies of the utmost quality for the party. It will be held here at Wharton Manor. Would that be possible?”

  “Yes, of course, I think that can be arranged. Exactly what qualities are you looking for?”
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  “I’m looking for four qualities. First, they must be between the ages of eighteen and twenty-three. Second, they must be attractive, and toward that end I would need photographs of them. Third, they need to be educated, intelligent, and possessed of good manners, of course. And fourth, they should each be a bit headstrong, and this last qualification is quite important. I realize that finding a number of young ladies with all of these qualities is a challenge, and that is why I’ve telephoned you at Oxford.”

  “Alright, I shall see what I can do. You said that the event is in two weeks’ time?”

  “Yes, and I shall have my man screen the group and reduce it down to perhaps six or seven participants. So please do not let on to any of the young ladies that you have suggested them for the event.”

  “Certainly. I shall get back to you tomorrow, Margaret.”

  “Thank you, Edith. I shall be greatly in your debt,” Lady Sutherland volunteered, and with that she rang off.

  Oxford - A Week Later

  Annabeth Fletcher was, at nineteen, in the flower of womanhood. As the eldest daughter of Charles Fletcher, Viscount of Oxfordshire, she was destined to fame and fortune, and most importantly of all, to marry a member of the peerage. Having been endowed with a slender frame and singular facial features set off by flowing long blonde hair, she was a catch simply to die for. Truth be told, it was well known throughout the whole of Oxfordshire that she was by far the most eligible, most talented, and most attractive young lady within the whole of the shire.

  Accordingly, she had matriculated to Oxford for her university studies, but with the primary motive of increasing her exposure to potential future members of the peerage from elsewhere within the realm. Thus, when word came that she was invited to a weekend party at Wharton Manor, she considered her options. Whereas the Earldom of Winston was indeed a lofty title within the British Empire, it was well known that the family Sutherland had matriculated somewhat ingloriously from Scotland during the reign of James I of Scotland. Still, one had to consider all options, there being very few indeed within Great Britain to both satisfy her father and meet her own standards. She therefore made it her purpose, despite her rather busy social calendar, to treat this invitation with the import it deserved. She would plan everything down to the tiniest detail, and she would ascertain whether this upstart ruffian Trant Sutherland was indeed worthy of an earldom, and if so, perhaps even Annabeth herself.

  That Same Day

  Felicité sat before her mirror contemplating her image. At twenty, she was at that age when one is still uncertain of her own charms. Was she attractive to men? Admittedly, there was beauty in her face. After all, her friends invariably informed her of such. Surveying herself, she couldn’t help but wonder to herself - were her hips too large, her breasts too small? Such was the age-old question that young ladies of her age asked themselves.

  Suddenly, a second equally striking young lady rushed into their dormitory room and announced breathlessly, “We’ve been invited to a weekend retreat in the Cotswolds! Tis at an estate called Wharton Manor, and tis owned by an Earl! Tis going to be a birthday party for the son of the Earl, a flight lieutenant in the 93rd RAF Squadron. The whole squadron will be there!”

  Reverting to her native French language as she often did when she became excited, Felicité responded, “Merveilleuse! When is it to be, Maryann?”

  “Tis next weekend! So we don’t have long to prepare.”

  “What is there to prepare for?”

  “The invitation says that we should arrive by seven P.M. on Saturday night, and that the festivities will commence with a costume ball. We have been instructed to arrive in our costumes, and we should each wear a mask. At the end of the evening there will be some sort of special ceremony.”

  “That sounds delightful,” Felicité replied, “But wait, I have nothing at all to wear! I have no mask, and I have no costume.”

  “Well, then, we had better get to work, hadn’t we!” Maryann replied.

  In the end Maryann settled on playing the role of a tavern wench, most likely because it was convenient more so than because of the innuendo that it portended. On the other hand, Felicité, was decidedly more steeped in the French tradition of carefully conceived attire. Although she had lived in England since she was nine, she had nonetheless retained much of her heritage from her youth. She therefore thought long and hard before settling on the impersonation of a French breed of cat that she called ‘Fifi the Feline’.

  She rushed to downtown that very afternoon and purchased a black mask that covered the upper half of her face, and fortunately for her, the mask included ears that were just like those of a cat. She supplemented the mask by pilfering two black tassels from an ancient chair within the lobby of the dorm, utilizing them to create a set of enticing cat whiskers.

  When she tried on the mask and whiskers, they created the perfect complement to her long wavy blonde hair. She found some gorgeous drop earrings at a local jewelry store, and within a single afternoon she had completed her costume above the neck.

  As a final step she went shopping at a second hand shop, where she located the remaining items that she needed. She bought black gloves and a stunning floor-length and tight-fitting black dress that was cut thigh high along one side. Imagining herself attired beneath in ebony garter belt and stockings, she was confident that the suggestive slit would provide just the right hint of feminine exposure. Having thusly completed her ensemble, she tried on the entire costume and, surveying herself within the mirror, she was immediately embarrassed by Maryann’s unexpected arrival.

  Observing the marginally vulgar image before her, Maryann exclaimed, “My Goodness, Felicité, the manor is going to spontaneously ignite in flames from the collective heat when those fly boys see Fifi the Feline! That costume is simply sizzling!”

  “Merci,” Felicité replied. “Fifi shall purr, and they shall heel in helpless obedience. Imagine the irresistible feline strutting seductively, her panting puppies in tow, each of them bound helplessly by her tantalizing tether!”

  “You shall have them nibbling from your paw!” Maryann replied in awestruck admiration.

  Wharton Manor – Two Days Later

  Felicité and Maryann rode through the front gate to the manor, the stunning view before them causing the pair to gasp in collective delight. “Ooh, Maryann,” Felicité purred with obvious glee, “Isn’t it all too lovely. I am so excited!”

  Upon halting at the main entrance, they were led up the steps by the footman and subsequently welcomed within the manor. The entryway was impressive, a long curving staircase leading the eye upward toward the second floor. It was apparent that the party within was already well underway, as evidenced by the numerous costumed men milling about within their collective view.

  Seeing them enter, an oddly costumed man approached them and volunteered, “Ladies, welcome to Wharton Manor. I am your host Robert the Robin. We shall have your luggage ported to your rooms, so do not be concerned about that just now. First, let me remind you that this is a costume party, so please remain disguised at all times this evening and do not give out your real names. Accordingly, may I know your chosen identities for the evening, ladies?”

  “I am Amy the Barmaid,” Maryann replied with a faintly cockney accent.

  “I say, well done, Miss Amy,” he responded pleasantly.

  “And I am Fifi the Feline,” Felicité replied with a distinctive French accent.

  “My, your French accent is spot on, Fifi!” he responded with evident appreciation, at which Felicité blushed discernibly.

  “Pleased to meet you, Rob Roy,” Maryann interjected playfully, adding luridly, “Sooo, where’s the bar?”

  “Oh, I say, that’s jolly good, Miss Amy the Barmaid! You are right on character tonight. Both of you have chosen your attire quite impressively, I might add.” He paused for a moment and, surveying the pair yet again, he disclosed, “The bar is adjacent
to the library on your left. However, Lady Sutherland is assembling the young ladies in the sitting room at this moment. She has instructed me to inform you that she would like to speak with you right away if you don’t mind. The sitting room is to your right. Ladies, please make yourselves comfortable here at Wharton Manor.”

  “Thank you,” the pair replied in unison, and understanding that his last statement was an implied dismissal, they turned to search out their instructed destination.

  Having withdrawn from earshot, Maryann whispered, “That guy was something special. I wonder who he is.”

  “We shall know soon enough, I suppose,” Felicité responded breathlessly.

  As they entered the sitting room an elegantly dressed lady rose from her seat and announced, “Ah, here they are now. Please ladies, if you will, take a seat with the other young ladies,” and at this, she gestured toward the two remaining chairs. Maryann and Felicité followed her command, joining four other young ladies, all attired in impressive costumes.

  The lady now strolled gracefully to the hearth and turned to face the young ladies. All eyes now focused on her, she commenced with, “Ladies, I am Lady Margaret Sutherland, wife of the Earl of Winston. This is my party. I have screened possible candidates for this weekend’s party quite carefully, and I have selected the six of you that are here tonight. I don’t think I need tell you – these are extraordinary times. And extraordinary times require extraordinary measures. I have chosen the six of you to be here this weekend for quite important reasons. I am hoping that each of you shall join me in pursuit of a paramount mission at Wharton Manor.”

  “And what might that be?” one of the young ladies blurted naively.

  “Right. You will not have reason to know this, my dears, but since I lived through the Great War, I am afraid that I indeed do,” and, pausing for added effect, she subsequently proclaimed, “It seems that we are about to be embroiled in yet another Great War.” Pausing yet again, she stared wistfully into the distance, as if she were seeing something in her mind’s eye. Then, suddenly snapping back to reality, she pronounced, “We lost so many, you see. We lost the flower of Britain’s youth. Those poor boys! They went off to war, and they all died! And now, here we are again a quarter of a century later, about to endure another mass destruction of the flowering youth of Britain.”

  She now paused for yet another moment, but then, regaining her composure, she continued with, “Well, I am here to tell you – I shall not stand for it! Though I cannot stop them from taking the youth of our nation from us, I refuse to let our boys perish without first giving them a proper sendoff!”

  “Oh, so the party is a sendoff!” another young lady put in surreptitiously.

  “Yes, my dear, and we want to send them off properly - with experience,” Lady Sutherland suggested, “So many of our boys died in the Great War with no experience whatsoever.”

  “Experience, what sort of experience,” another young lady inquired skeptically.

  “She means sex!” another young lady replied with palpable disgust.

  “No, my dear, that is not what I mean at all,” Lady Sutherland replied patiently. “What I am trying to say is, experience with the physical appearance and makeup of the fairer members of our species.”

  “What!” Maryann blurted out. “You want us to show off our bodies? Is that why we were invited here?”

  “No, my dear, you put it much too crassly!” Lady Sutherland responded in apparent exasperation. “Let me try again. As I said at the start – these are not ordinary times. The boys who are here for the weekend are about to go off to war, and if what transpired in the Great War is any indicator, half of them will be dead within a year or two. Now, let me ask you this,” and as she did so she directed her gaze toward Maryann, “Do you want them to go off to war and perhaps even perish, never having known anything whatsoever regarding the loveliness of a woman?”

  Maryann glared at her suspiciously, and subsequently averting her eyes, she spat out menacingly, “I still don’t understand what you are getting at, Lady Sutherland.”

  “My dear, I am not suggesting that any of you do anything so debasing as to have sex with them. Quite the contrary, I absolutely forbid it on the grounds of the manor. That is one of the primary reasons that I have chosen ladies of proven virtue such as yourselves for this weekend’s festivities. On the other hand, what I am suggesting is that you treat the troops most generously, in a way that is appropriate given the sacrifices that they are about to endure. And if the opportunity presents itself to allow some of them to be awarded a furtive glance of a particularly delightful feminine charm, then I earnestly hope that you shall consider such an opportunity proactively, and that you shall comprehend and take most seriously that this is a significant part of your calling in the great conflagration unfolding before us - to provide support to the troops in their hour of need. And furthermore, might I remind you that I have planned this party quite carefully. You are all in disguise so that you are entirely anonymous tonight. Should you be presented with the opportunity to display any one of your uniquely feminine attributes, then you shall have the singular opportunity to do so in complete anonymity.”

  “Well, I never!” exclaimed one of the young ladies, “So we were hand-picked to spice up the action this weekend!”

  At this Felicité leaned forward to Maryann, whispering, “Who is that striking young lady who just spoke?”

  “Oh, she’s some mucky-muck from Oxfordshire. She’s supposed to be the most eligible young lady in the shire. Her name is Annabeth Fletcher.”

  “We must maneuver to meet her. She appears to have a head on her shoulders,” Felicité whispered.

  For her part, Lady Sutherland gazed despondently at Miss Fletcher and proffered with apparent resignation, “I had hoped that you would understand, Miss Fletcher, but if you do not, you most certainly will someday, someday very soon, I fear,” and with this she turned to the entire group and announced, “In the meantime, I wish you all a very happy stay here at Wharton Manor. Now, if you please, it is time to entertain our boys in uniform. Please enjoy them while you can, ladies!”

  At this signal the young ladies rose and made their collective way to the party.

  “How do you like that?” Maryann said with obvious effrontery.

  “I like it ever so much! Actually, I believe that Lady Sutherland is spot on,” Felicité replied.

  “What! Why ever on earth for?” Maryann quipped in obvious exasperation.

  “Well, as she said, she lived through the Great War. Imagine for a moment how many young men she must have known that she never saw again. Imagine with her sense of dread that a similar scene is about to be played out again. Imagine that she may in fact be correct - all or most of the lads in this house shall perhaps be dead before long. Imagine that you could do something about it. I for one would want them to not have died completely in vain. That is all I am saying, Maryann.”

  “Well, then, you just get right out there and start mixing, Fifi the Feline, because you shall never have a better chance than this weekend!” Maryann exclaimed with a self-conscious giggle, and with that the pair headed directly for the bar, each entertaining high hopes for the evening.

  Entering the bar, Felicité noticed the striking young lady at the far end and, seeing an opportunity, she made a beeline for her. “I say, you were spot on in there just now,” she offered upon arriving at the young lady’s side.

  “Why, thank you,” she replied with a pleasant smile, “And who might you be?”

  “I am Felicité Delacroix,” she responded, “And this is my friend Maryann.”

  “Ah, yes, we’ve met,” Annabeth responded pleasantly, “And you, Miss Delacroix, do I detect a French accent?”

  “Yes, you are quite correct,” Felicité replied, “I am French, but I’ve lived in Oxford these ten years.”

  “That is quite a costume,” Miss Fletcher observed dubiously, “Do I detect a Frenc
h motif of sorts?”

  “Yes, well,” Felicité responded with obvious embarrassment, “I seem to have missed the mark. You see, I’ve never been to a costume party in England before.”

  “Oh, no need to be embarrassed,” Annabeth rejoined, “Tis really quite striking, you know.”

  “Thank you,” Felicité replied, “But to tell you the truth, I much prefer your costume.”

  “What, this old rag?” Annabeth responded pompously, “Tis little more than an old ball gown, spiced up with a Venetian party mask. I’m afraid I didn’t really put much into it, you see.”

  Marveling at the way Miss Fletcher filled out such a lovely royal blue gown, Felicité volunteered, “Well, it certainly is lovely.”

  “And how do you find our England?” Annabeth responded convivially.

  “Interesting, to say the least,” Felicité answered ingenuously.

  “Oh? How so?” her new acquaintance queried.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Felicité put in, “Take tonight, for instance, I for one have no idea what is transpiring this evening.”

  “Yes, just so,” Annabeth replied knowingly, “But trust me on this, Miss Delacroix, it is exactly as we three have presumed – a rather sad and sordid affair, if you ask me.”

  At this, Maryann interjected, “I should say so. That Lady Sutherland seems a witch to me.”

  “Quite so,” Annabeth volunteered agreeably, “Now, what say we three join forces for the evening. As I see it, we three have the power, if we stick together, to refute any attempts by Lady Sutherland to besmirch our collective reputations. There is safety in numbers, you know. So, what say you?”

  “Oh, I say, that is quite sporting of you, Miss Fletcher,” Felicité agreed, “Please, count me in.”

  “Me, too,” Maryann added happily.

  “Thank you, my newfound friends,” Annabeth responded, “And please, call me Annabeth. Now, let us join in the festivities and sniff out what nefarious plots there may be lurking about.” And so saying, Annabeth smiled brilliantly and took her leave of the pair.

  “My, she was quite charismatic,” Felicité whispered on her parting.

  Apparently deep in thought, Maryann responded, “Yes, she was. I don’t know her all that well, but I’ve never seen her quite so engaging as tonight.”

  “Well, I feel much safer with her in our camp,” Felicité suggested, “Things seemed to be getting out of hand until we met up with Miss Fletcher.”

  “I agree,” Maryann replied, at which she turned to the bar and ordered a scotch and water. Turning back to Felicité, she queried, “How about you, Miss Fifi? Shall you throw caution to the wind?”

  “I think that I shall stick to French wine,” Felicité responded cautiously.

  “My, my, is that French arrogance, or are you simply playing up your feline role?”

  “Neither,” Felicité replied. “I am simply going slowly for the moment to keep my senses about me. I am still contemplating exactly what Lady Sutherland was getting at.”

  “Seems clear to me, Fifi. She’s looking out for the flyboys. And she is either doing a very good job of it or a very bad job of it, depending on one’s point of view. Which one it is remains to be seen.”

  “Why do you say to that, Maryann?”

  “I’m just thinking out loud. Are you really serious about playing into her game, Felicité?”

  “I don’t know what you mean by ‘playing into her game’, Maryann.”

  “I mean, are you up for showing these flyboys a bit of your knickers? That’s what I mean!”

  “I am not quite certain, Maryann. I’m saying that I’m not ruling out anything at the moment. Let us simply wait and see, shall we? At any rate, in this costume, I suppose that technically I am already showing a bit of my knickers!”

  “Ha! That is certainly true!” Maryann responded gleefully, but then, changing her demeanor, she added in all sincerity, “Still, I’m darned if I’m falling for her line. I am here to have a good time, but I intend to keep my clothes on, and I mean everything!”

  At that moment Robert the Robin came up beside them at the bar and interjected politely, “So, ladies, how did it go with Lady Sutherland in the sitting room?”

  “Perfect,” Felicité replied noncommittally.

  Immediately contradicting her, Maryann interjected, “Quite bizarre, if you ask me, Mr. Rob Rob Robin.”

  He chuckled at her seemingly endless misnomers, but then asked in evident confusion, “Exactly how do you mean?”

  “She seems to think that you flyboys deserve some special attention by the young ladies who are visiting this weekend.”

  “Oh, that,” he responded with embarrassment, “I am afraid my mother has some quite unusual ideas.”

  “She’s your mother?” Felicité blurted.

  “Yes, of course she is. At least she was the last time I checked my birth certificate,” he replied with flippant arrogance.

  Glaring reprovingly at him, Maryann responded, “So you are the future Earl, and you’re a part of this whole deplorable thing.”

  “I say, I’m not quite certain I get your meaning, Miss Amy,” he replied with a mixture of bewilderment and politeness.

  At this she responded derisively, “I should bet you don’t,” and with that she abruptly turned and walked away.

  Clearly confused by Maryann’s behavior, he asked Fleicité, “What was that about?”

  “Oh, don’t mind her. She’s simply irritated.”

  “Why ever on earth for?”

  “She thought that we were invited here this weekend because we are important,” Felicité replied self-deprecatingly.

  “But you were, and you most certainly are, Miss Fifi! I assure you, you were invited for very special reasons. You were screened quite carefully by my mother. I just spoke to her, and she told me that she had extremely high hopes for you in particular. She seemed to think that you might be the key to the success of the entire party!”

  Now herself insulted, she responded carefully, “And what do you mean by that, Mr. Robert the Robin?”

  He returned her gaze doubtfully, as if he had no idea why she looked so irritated to him, but she knew better - she could see that he was most certainly in on his mother’s clandestine scheme.

  “Well, I’m sure I have no idea what you mean,” he responded in apparent confusion and, plunging yet deeper, he added, “My mother indicated to me that she thought that your French background might be just the ingredient needed to rouse things up. I’m certain that she said it just so, Miss Fifi.”

  Downright affronted by his insinuating remark, Felicité was now convinced that this was all nothing more than a devious ploy by him to entrap a few naïve young ladies into a weekend of frolicking with his fellow soldiers. And to think, she had at first fallen for it. It was now apparent to her that he was nothing more than an aristocratic fop, and an immoral one at that.

  Accordingly, she responded with obvious annoyance, “I doubt very seriously that I shall be anything of the sort, Mr. Robin. Now, if you will excuse me, I think that I shall make the rounds and meet some of the lads who are not so opinionated about people of French ancestry.” Having said this last, she forthwith turned on her heel and marched to the adjacent room as nonchalantly as possible.

  For his part, Mr. Robin was left to gape in confusion at the two lovely but enigmatic young ladies who had both succeeded in insulting him within an hour of the party’s commencement.

  Quickly finding Maryann already surrounded by a half dozen entranced airmen, Felicité nestled up beside her as if to say, “Introduce me, please.”

  Maryann caught on immediately, announcing, “Gentlemen, this is my roommate - Miss Fifi the Feline.”

  “Hello, gentlemen,” Felicité volunteered seductively. Suddenly there were numerous pairs of eyes glued to the attractive young lady before them, her costume clearly striking her intended mark. From there events improved quickly, so much so that within an h
our Felicité and Maryann were the life of the party.

  Things were by now going so swimmingly that all thoughts of Mr. Robin and his mother fleeted from the minds of Maryann and Felicité. Both pleasantly tipsy, they found themselves flirting with a captive group of intelligent and attentive young males. Life was at that moment quite as perfect as it could possibly be.

  Within the Library

  Robert the Robin found himself approaching the lovely young lady in the royal blue evening gown. Reaching her side, he offered, “I say, that is quite a lovely gown, Miss, er…?”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Robin. I am, for the evening, Miss Eloise,” she responded turning to face him head on and, presenting him with her most impressive smile, she continued with, “Of course, I already know you, at least by name, Mr. Sutherland.”

  “Oh?” he replied in confusion.

  At this, she volunteered, “Annabeth Fletcher, daughter of the Viscount Morton Fletcher, of Oxfordshire,” subsequently holding out her gloved hand for his.

  Accepting the proffered hand, he leaned forward and supplied the requisite feigned kiss, subsequently responding politely, “Ah yes, I’ve met your father, and a brother, too, if I am not mistaken.”

  “Yes, of course, that would be my older brother, also named Morton, after my father.”

  “Ah, yes,” Robert the Robin responded, “Sooo, we two appear to be the only members of the nobility here tonight, excepting Lady Sutherland, of course.”

  Evading the obvious implications, she replied pleasantly, “Yes, so it would appear.”

  “I assume from my mother that you are a student at Oxford?” he queried.

  “Yes, and quite lucky, I suppose,” she responded.

  “How so?” he inquired vacuously.

  “Actually, although women’s colleges were founded in the nineteenth century at Oxford, it hasn’t been that long ago that women were accorded full equality at Oxford.”

  “Yes, of course,” he replied, “Silly, isn’t it?”

  Her eyes flashing defensively, she responded, “Silly? In what way?”

  Sensing his gaff, he responded, “Oh, I say! I’m quite sorry. I meant no offense. What I meant to imply is how truly unfair it is that it has taken so long for women to receive full equality within the British Empire.”

  “Ah,” she replied, her frown disappearing, “Well said, sir. You seem to have extracted yourself quite nicely from that one. I trust you meant it.”

  “Of course I did,” he replied, still embarrassed, and searching for a face-saving means of retreat, he offered, “I say, Miss Fletcher, I must admit I find you quite lovely.”

  “Thank you,” she replied noncommittally, “And?”

  “And…” he stammered, “Well, er, one cannot predict what shall transpire over the next few months, but if all goes well, might you consent for me to call upon you?”

  “Why, that is most kind of you, Trant. May I call you Trant?”

  “Yes, of course, Miss Fletcher.”

  “Please, call me Annabeth, if you will.”

  “Yes, of course. Then shall we say, when the battle is ended, I shall search you out, Annabeth?”

  “Nothing could possibly please me more so,” she responded politely, and seeing he was about to make his withdrawal, she took his outstretched hand and added pleasantly, “I shall look forward to it, Trant.”

  For his part, Trant found a new spring in his step as he made his way to the ballroom, whereas, having achieved her first and only objective for the evening, Annabeth secretly pronounced the party a perfect success.

  At eleven-thirty the butler circled through each room, announcing, “Gentlemen, it is time to gather in the bar for Lady Sutherland’s surprise entertainment. Please make your way there now. This way, please!”

  “Ladies, if you will please follow me to the library,” he subsequently entreated, upon which the young ladies commenced twittering to one another as to the meaning of this development.

  The lads all crowded within the bar and, as a means of preparing for the upcoming festivity, they served themselves with potent nightcaps, thereby heightening their already libidinous anticipations.

  “I say,” Trant’s friend Walter offered, “What is going on, Trant?”

  “I’m certain I’ve no idea,” Trant responded sheepishly.

  “Surely you should know something, if indeed anyone should,” Walter queried.

  “What? Why should I?” Trant inquired vacuously.

  “Just tell me this, Birdman,” Walter said accusingly, “Who is planning the evening’s final event?”

  “Oh, that,” Trant murmured dismissively, “My mother is, of course. I should have thought you would know that, Walter.”

  “Aha!” Walter exclaimed pointedly, “I knew it! I knew something untoward was going on!”

  Self-consciously brushing back a wayward feather, Trant replied, “What the…what in tarnation are you talking about, Walter?”

  “How soon we forget!” Walter expostulated, “How soon we forget!”

  “Forget? Forget what?”

  “Trant! You seem to have forgotten telling me not three days since of your concern that your mother had something up her sleeve.”

  “Oh, right…” Trant mumbled, “Supposing I did. What has that got to do with it?”

  “Everything! It’s got everything to do with it, my friend.”

  “I say…I’m quite certain I have no idea to what you are referring,” Trant stammered.

  At that moment the butler appeared yet again, announcing, “And now, if you will, gentlemen, please follow me to the ballroom,” at which the crowd followed as instructed.

  The attendees having assembled, the ballroom suddenly became hushed as Robert the Robin stepped to the head of the room, announcing pleasantly, “Gentlemen, I hope that you have quite enjoyed the evening’s festivities. I trust that you have also found your room assignments to your liking. And now, the time has come for the final event of the evening.”

  At that moment Lady Sutherland entered the room and, clapping her hands imperiously, she announced, “Gentlemen, we have arranged a special treat for all of you tonight. Now, if you please, turn and approach the stage at the far end of the room,” at which the entire crowd followed her bidding.

  Before them stood the curtained stage and, Lady Sutherland clapping her hands once again, the curtain was silently drawn wide. Onstage there stood a large rectangular frame tightly overlain with a single white opaque sheet, on each side of which stood a young lady, the pair of them apparently holding it in place. For their parts, the two young ladies stood absolutely motionless, bedecked in elegant undergarments the likes of which the flyboys had never in their lives laid eyes upon. Off to one side stood a grand piano, played appropriately by Amy the Barmaid.

  Jaws dropping in collective awe and appreciation at the unlikely scene before them, the flyboys gathered still closer round the stage. Everyone having now assembled close in, Lady Sutherland signaled for the pianist to pause, at which she announced, “Now, gentlemen, we come to the penultimate moment of the evening,” and, halting momentarily as a means of focusing attention on herself, she now commenced her carefully planned oratory, “You, who are about to go off to war, are to be commended. You are the flower of Britain’s youth and, having myself survived the Great War, I am all too aware that some of you may not survive this one.

  “Youthful though you may be, because of your about-to-be-endured sacrifices, we ladies, those who must necessarily stay behind, now offer you our undying gratitude for your efforts to save our world, and as a semblance of our gratitude, we present you this graphic symbol which I shall term ‘The Profile of a Woman’.” And at this, she clapped her hands yet again and simultaneously commanded, “Ladies!”

  The music now recommenced and, a bank of lights suddenly flashing on from above the stage, there appeared within the frame the image of a single motionless figure. The overlain sheet having been some sort of
diaphanous gauze, the overall effect was one of a rather stunning portrait of a blonde-tressed woman who, though posed quite innocently, to all appearances wore nothing at all save the mask and whiskers of a feline. There was an immediate hush from the crowd, the airmen stunned by the realization that though she was separated from them by a thin layer, there stood directly before them an entirely naked woman.

  The silence was shortly replaced by a parade of “oohs” and “aahs”, all evincing admiration and appreciation of the hitherto unknown charms of a woman. And suddenly, the transcendent splendor of such a vision now apparent to one and all, the room erupted in an enormous round of applause, accompanied by cheers such as, “Bravo!” and “Lovely Ladies!”

  The applause having eventually begun to ebb, the lighting was at Lady Sutherland’s signal quenched and, the curtain subsequently drawn, Lady Sutherland announced with mock superiority, “Gentlemen, can there be any further doubt as to the perfection of the objects of your collective affections? I submit to you that your attentions are well placed!” at which the crowd of well lubricated airmen roared their collective approval.

  After still further rejoicing, Lady Sutherland announced, “And now, we are all soldiers in the war against the most evil regime the world has ever known. Please join me in singing God save the King!” The subsequent chorus was absolutely deafening.

  At the end of the chorus Lady Sutherland made one final announcement, “And now, you who are all soldiers in the cause for freedom of the entire world - may God be with each and every one of you. And should Great Britain prevail in this second Great War of my lifetime, God grant that we shall all meet here once again when it is all over! And now finally, good night and God speed.” The crowd gave one last round of applause, the evening festivities having come to an all too glorious ending.

  “Now, I wish you all a good night’s rest. We shall reconvene for breakfast at nine tomorrow morning,” she commanded.

  The crowd having now dissipated, Lady Sutherland was nonetheless not quite done. Locating Felicité in the library, she tugged her aside and said, “My dear, that was absolutely stunning! I hoped that you might be the one, but of course I had no idea that you were possessed of such fortitude! Thank you so much for paying attention to my plea! I had hoped the weekend would be a roaring success, and it shall be - all because of you.”

  Felicité eyed her cautiously for a moment and responded, “To tell you the truth, Lady Sutherland, I’m still uncertain what to make of it all.”

  “That may be, my dear,” Lady Sutherland replied jovially, “But I promise you, you shall see the importance of it all in due time.”

  Failing to follow Lady Sutherland’s line of thought, Felicité blurted vacantly, “How is that?”

  “My dear, if the coming war is anything like the previous one, then everything you know and believe in shall change dramatically by war’s end.”

  Sneak Peek

  My Father the God

  By

  D. Allen Henry

  Foreword

  In the interest of brevity, I shall endeavor to explain my part in this matter as simply as possible, so that you, the reader, may progress as expediently as possible to the events portrayed herein.

  My name is Robert Moorehead. I was born in 1942 in Boston. Shortly after the death of my wife’s father, his lawyer, Mr. James Dudley, contacted me, indicating that her father had made quite an unusual bequest to me. I admit that I prevaricated for close onto a year, but eventually, my curiosity getting the better of me, I determined to contact Mr. Dudley. Thus, on a frigid morning in February of 2004, I found myself being ushered into his law office at Squires, Dudley and Millhouse, located in downtown Boston.

  Upon grasping the outstretched hand of Mr. Dudley, a squat fiftyish looking man, I was offered a seat, he for his part, cocking his head in what I interpreted to be an inquisitive glance that portrayed mystification not unlike my own. After a few moments of mutual silence, he cleared his throat, emitting, “Ahem,” a sort of preamble, or so I presumed, and subsequently launched into his carefully planned soliloquy, “Mr. Moorehead, I have been asked to provide you with a key - a key, I might add, that unlocks a safe deposit box at Boston National Bank, just down the street from my office. The contents of that box are not precisely known to me. However, given what I do know in this circumstance, I feel it only fair to forewarn you, sir, that the contents shall in all likelihood be quite earthshaking for you.”

  I recall staring pensively at Mr. Dudley and, entertaining not the slightest notion as to his meaning, I inquired doubtfully, “In what way, sir?”

  “Mr. Moorehead, I am honor-bound by my charge, though he is now deceased, to divulge nothing more to you on this subject at this time. My explicit duty is to hand the key over to you, thenceforth informing you that you shall find the deposit box in question listed under your name, the passcode being your initials, followed by the numeric sequence of your birth date.”

  Inexplicably intrigued by this pronouncement, I accepted the proffered key, inquiring insistently, “Is there no more that you can intimate to me, sir?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps, I can, sir, but not at this moment in time. At a later time, after you have had the opportunity to sufficiently digest the materials that await you, I may be able to fill you in somewhat.”

  “I see,” I mumbled self-consciously, meaning in fact exactly the opposite and, arising from my seat, I thrust my hand forward to him, saying, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Dudley. I shall say good day to you.”

  “Likewise,” he replied, solemnly taking my hand in turn.

  Upon departing his office, I made straight for the bank in question, whereupon I was promptly admitted to the vault. Exactly as had been described to me, I was forthwith led to the deposit box in question, thereby utilizing the proffered key to open it.

  Within, I found only a single item – an unbound manuscript, and though it was obviously well-worn, it was bound neatly with a piece of red ribbon, a bow gracing its frontispiece. Above the bow was the hand-written inscription – For Robert.

  Having no idea what was contained therein, I forthwith departed none the wiser. However, I must confess to you that the revelations secreted within would eventually turn my own world upside down and, although upon reading it I felt initially disinclined to publish the manuscript, the passage of time has altered my thinking, leading me to believe that there is something profound to be gleaned within these pages. Indeed, it has taken me close onto a decade to summon the fortitude to take the final step, the publication of this manuscript in fact being that penultimate step.

  The manuscript before you is exactly as it was received by me a decade since. There is, however, one small alteration, a change made by me. I took the liberty of assigning the title listed on the frontispiece, as the term For Robert was not in my view intended to be a title for the manuscript. And so, dear reader, I wish you a pleasant and enlightened read of My Father the God.

  Prologue

  I was born in Cambridge, England in 1920 and, although one could say that I am English by birth, I regard myself as a Scot, having been sired by that illustrious archeologist Sir Alastair Stewart, he who was knighted by Queen Elizabeth II in 1964.

  It could accurately be said that I was born in another century, perhaps even more provocatively, another millennium. But for me, it was nothing more than the time period that I was chosen by the gods to inhabit this earth and, the fact that you are reading this now being evidence that I have passed on, I can say this – though the ride was never simple, being on the contrary endlessly circuitous and complex, I am quite satisfied with the lot that has been my life. I have recorded herein the salient events of that life, as best I can remember. I have done this for you, Robert.

  You may wonder why I never attempted to relay this story to you during my lifetime. Certainly one could charge me with cowardice on this point, but I would argue to you that though this assertion may in fact be accura
te, it has little to do with my motivation for choosing this method to inform you of the events portrayed herein. And while I cannot prove this to you, myself having now been laid to eternal rest, I would hope that you will believe me when I submit it to you in this way – I felt it best to leave sleeping matters lie so long as I lived, but, in your interest, to inform you of the revelations herein at such time that they might soothe your conscience without causing undue emotional harm.

  So now, let me presage my account with a short rumination, an account of my own father. He was quite the character, you see. Having somehow survived the horrors of The Great War despite the loss of a leg, he subsequently married my mother, Edwina Turnberry, whom he is said to have met at the funeral of her older sister Elizabeth, she having been taken at a quite young age by the flu pandemic of 1918.

  My father matriculated to Cambridge University, where he was an august member of the faculty of Trinity College for over forty years, in the process becoming a singularly famous archeologist. Due to his professional obligations, he was always off on trips to here and there about the world, indeed to anywhere that there was something quite ancient to be dug into. Unfortunately, I was not allowed to accompany him on these sojourns, being perhaps too mischievous for my own good. Thus, I grew up within the uniquely sterile atmosphere of the academic world.

  That is, until the summer of 1933, when I was afforded my very first opportunity to accompany my father on a dig. And, although I myself found it quite unexciting, what a dig it was. My father was ensconced at Amarna, two hundred miles up the Nile from Cairo, Egypt, at the site of the city built by the mysterious Pharaoh Akhenaten, he who had ruled around 1350 BCE.

  I don’t mind telling you that for a boy of twelve, the opportunity to escape his homeland on such a lengthy journey was in those days quite unprecedented. Indeed, it was only a decade earlier that Howard Carter had discovered the tomb of Akhenatan’s son Tutankhamun in the Valley of the Kings, some distance upriver from Amarna. Still, upon our arrival in the desert on a torpid day in early June, I was shocked by my first view of the vast wasteland before us, not to mention the unbearable heat.

  My memory of that summer is most likely badly tainted by the lengthy passage of time. As I recall, I was prone to run about untethered, spending my days chasing after nothingness, boredom ever my staunchest ally, as my father was constantly engaged in digging obsessively for things that were simply beyond me. Still, there is one event that occurred during that sojourn that has remained vivid and fresh in my mind for nigh onto seventy years.

  As memory serves me, my father’s assistant came trotting my way, signaling that I should follow him forthwith. Intrigued by such a rare circumstance, I immediately dropped the handful of pebbles that I had been deploying as artillery for my imaginary army, and fell into step with him. Arriving at my father’s side moments later, I halted abruptly, querying incongruously, “Father, you sent for me?”

  “Aye, son, indeed Ah did,” and, so saying, he took my hand and, dragging me forward, he impatiently tugged me as hastily as he could some thirty yards distant. Then, suddenly stopping at an entirely unremarkable spot, and pointing enigmatically at the abundant Egyptian sand, he announced serendipitously in that endearing Scottish accent of his, “Ye simply main see thes!”

  Peering downward at the appointed spot, I searched in vain for the presumably ancient discovery my father referred to and, spying nothing whatsoever, I responded doubtfully, “Uhm, Ah dorn’t see anythin’ a’tall, father.”

  “Reit, boot bide a moment,” he cajoled, displaying a rare smile of anticipation. Following his command, I leaned forward, at length perceiving a tiny circular hole in the ground.

  “Ye mean that wee hole there?” I inquired, pointing to the innocuous and nearly invisible shaft.

  “Precisely,” he responded, “Noow, simply observe,” and at this he bent forward, placing his hands on his knees. Sure enough, within moments, a beetle appeared, clearly intent on some mysterious mission. “Ah, thaur he be, son!”

  I stared doubtfully and, subsequently turning back toward my father, I announced acrimoniously, “Dad, Ah’m a bit auld fur bugs.”

  “Aye,” he replied jovially, “But when ye hear why Ah sent fur ye, ye shall be fascinated with thes a body.”

  “Reit,” I responded doubtfully, “Whit’s it all aboot?”

  Pointing at the beetle yet again, he pronounced, “That, mah son, be a god!”

  I peered non-plussed at the innocuous insect, responding, “Ye cannae be serioos.”

  “Och, but Ah am – Ah most certainly am. It be a dung beetle, and in Egyptian times, it was indeed quite a god.”

  “Why ever on earth fur?” I replied in confusion.

  “The dung beetle be the ultimate survivor. It subsists wholly oan dung.”

  “Och,” I sneered in revulsion, “Dinnae sound godly tae me!”

  “Aye, but bide an’ watch. Haur he comes, an’ examine if ye will exactly whit he is draggin’ alang with heem.”

  “Looks loch some sort ay wee ball,” I responded.

  “Reit. It be a dung ball. An’ watch, he’ll be draggin’ it intae his den.”

  “Ugh! That be indeed nasty,” I recall remarking in disgust.

  “Reit, boot quite soon he shall complete his ministrations, an’ at that point, he shall seal himself within his den, to all appearances entombin’ hisself forever. Boot bide a few days, an’ suddenly a horde ay newborn beetles shall burst forth frae the selfsame spot.”

  “Och, I say, noow that do soond interesting,” and, subsequently mumbling to myself, I added inanely, “An’ quite strange as well.” Then, on further contemplation, I added, “Hoo does he dae it, father?”

  “Simple – he be a god!”

  “Reit,” I murmured cynically.

  “Seriously, the ancient Egyptians coods see nae other reason fur sech a mystery than that the dung beetle coods produce offspring frae the excrement ay other animals. The dung beetle is therefore one ay the greatest gods frae Egyptian antiquity.”

  “Interestin’,” I said, still pondering, “But whit be the significance ay it all?”

  “Guid question,” he replied. “Let’s jist say, the warld be mysterious, an’ sometimes stoatin things can come seemingly frae wee or naethin’, in this case – dung. The dung beetle lives its life in filth, solely fur the benefit ay its progeny.”

  I peered at my father doubtfully, having no earthly idea what he was insinuating, but for some reason, that event stuck in my mind. Indeed, it has remained with me for a lifetime, and little did I know then, but one day, I would begin to understand the significance of the lesson that he taught me that day.

  And now, without further delay, here within these pages is that lesson.