Call to Duty (22 page)

“An old cowboy who worked on the stud farm where I spent my summers.”

“Ah, yes. So you’ve said. You must have enjoyed your vacations.”

“It wasn’t a vacation,” Zack answered. “I worked like a dog.”

“What did they breed?” the duke asked, now very interested. “Thoroughbreds?”

“Nope, polo ponies.”

“Ever play?”

“Occasionally, during a practice chukker when they needed a fourth,” Zack answered. The duke wandered away, deep in thought.

That evening, the duke sent him word to please join him in the family’s quarters. He was unfamiliar with that wing of the palatial house and a maid had to show him the way. He was not surprised to find Willi and Roger Bertram with the duke. The duke came right to the point. “They tell me the nags are in excellent condition,” he said. “Your doing. An interesting group getting together at Moncton Hall tomorrow. All very keen on horses. Care to join us.” This last was not a question and was only the duke’s way of being polite.

“Hopefully,” Roger said, “we might be able to arrange some entertainment.” He smiled at Zack’s confusion. “Polo, you know. Haven’t done it in years. Just not on during the war. The duke tells me you understand the game.”

“A little.” Zack smiled.

“They’ll be riding over,” the duke interrupted. “I’ll take the carriage. You come with me.”

Zack said that he would like to go and, from the quiet that followed, sensed that he was dismissed. He made his way
back to the big lounge. Now what the hell is that all about, he thought.

The ride the next morning with the duke was not what he had expected. The old man insisted on driving himself and had to be helped onto the seat. But once he had the reins in hand, he was formidable. He drove the matched pair at a brisk trot and had no trouble wheeling the carriage down the lane and through the narrow gate leading to Moncton Hall. Once there, and since the duke was oblivious to most social niceties, he abandoned Zack.

Zack went with the flow of people who meandered in the general direction of a big marquee set up on the lawn. He was grateful that his RAF uniform blended in with the hodgepodge of uniforms and clothes the other guests were wearing. From overheard scraps of conversation, he learned that an important conference was being held at Moncton Hall and that Lord Moncton had used the occasion to schedule a garden party for the participants to break the monotony and drudgery of a war that seemed to have no end. Once, he caught a glimpse of Willi and felt a sudden urge in the lower regions of his body. She was dressed in a riding coat and breeches that accentuated her figure and had attracted her own small following of admirers.

Can’t say I blame them, Zack thought, wondering where the ever-present Roger had disappeared to. He turned away and bumped into a tall, dark-haired man who was dressed for a polo match. “Sorry, sir,” he apologized instantly.

“Ah, our polite American cousin,” Roger said as he emerged from behind the newcomer. He was also dressed in riding breeches, boots, and a polo shirt the same color as that of the man Zack had almost bowled over. “Admiral Mountbatten,” Roger said, relishing the moment, “may I present Pilot Officer Pontowski, currently on the mend at Sherston Hall.”

Mountbatten extended his hand and Zack was struck by the firm handshake. “I see it’s Flying Officer Pontowski,” Mountbatten said. “Roger’s not too keen on rank in the RAF.” His voice was warm and friendly.

The old duke came waddling up. “Dickie,” he said to Mountbatten. “Rotten luck about the match. Can’t find a fourth for the other side.”

“All understandable,” Mountbatten said, obviously disappointed. “It was a spur of the moment idea anyway. Too bad, the prime minister would have loved it.”

“Winston Churchill is here?” Zack blurted.

The duke nodded. “The old boy loves a good chukker,” he said, chin on his chest. “It’s been—what?—three years since we last had a match. Damn war. Would have been good for us and the nags. All need a break.” Then his round face shot up, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “I say, Pontowski. Didn’t you ride on a team?”

Before Zack could protest that he had only been an exercise boy, he was shanghaied into the match. Willi was called over to find him some riding clothes and to get him to the paddock while the others left to warm up the ponies. “What the hell,” Zack mumbled, “I haven’t played in years.”

“Neither have they,” she said, coldly eyeing him. “Whatever did Grandfather have in mind?”

Willi proved very efficient in her duties and had him at the paddock within fifteen minutes to meet the other three members of his team. “There,” she said. “That should do.” Then she left.

“Don’t take any notice of the Ice Queen,” his teammate James said. “She hates Yanks on principle.” James was the number three man on the team and would play as the team’s quarterback, feeding balls to the one and two man.

Zack grinned and shook hands with his team. Then he mounted the pony he was to ride in the first chukker. “Go easy,” James warned him. “The ponies aren’t up to scratch.” Zack cut a few figure eights, swinging his mallet. “I do believe he’s done this before,” James said to the other two members of his team as he watched Zack and the pony blend into one. “I think we should put him in as two.” The number two man on a polo team is the hustler whose job is to always be scrapping for the ball.

The crowd were clustered around different players when Zack trotted onto the field. He caught a glimpse of Mountbatten and Roger standing beside their horses talking to Willi and Winston Churchill. The prime minister was the shortest of the group and Zack touched the bill of his helmet when Churchill looked his way. No response.

From the first bowl-in when the referee rolled the ball be
tween the two teams, it was obvious that Roger and Mountbatten were skilled players and had played together before. Zack wasn’t even in the same league. But he was a good horseman and aggressive. At the end of the first chukker, seven and a half minutes of play, his team was down three to zero and they gathered together to plot some new tactics while they changed mounts. “Roger seems to be tiring,” James said. “Press him a bit.” Zack nodded, thankful that they were only going to be playing four chukkers and not the normal six. Polo takes a great deal of upper body strength and even though he was well-developed from the years he had spent in amateur boxing and muscling the heavy Beaufighter through the sky, he was tired.

During the second chukker, Mountbatten’s team scored early on. The Mountbatten made a fantastic under-the-neck shot to Bertram, who charged the goal, driving the ball in front of him. Zack thundered after Bertram. In polo, the ball creates its own right-of-way when it is hit and the player who hit it is entitled to hit it again unless another player drives his pony’s shoulder in front of the horse’s shoulder of the first player. Zack’s pony instinctively responded and rode Bertram’s mount off the ball, giving Zack a shot. He fed it back upfield to James, who made an easy goal.

Zack was surprised at the applause and admitted to himself that it was more the doing of his pony than a result of his own skill. Mountbatten granted him a “Well done” when he rode past. When they lined up for the bowl-in, James, his team captain, said that he had heard Churchill asking about him. Now Zack, encouraged by his pony, pressed Roger hard and broke up a series of plays, keeping the other team scoreless through the rest of the period and all of the third chukker. Finally, they were into the last period and Zack was delighted to discover that his last pony still had lots of steam left.

“Good boy,” he told his mount, patting the side of the horse’s neck. “Time for a little razzle-dazzle.” He charged after Roger when he saw Mountbatten setting up a pass and intercepted the ball, swinging his mallet and tapping the ball to pass behind Roger. They both swung around together and charged the ball, riding shoulder to shoulder and bumping into each other. It was a classic ride-off, each pony bumping into the other as the men fought for the ball, mallets raised
and then swinging. Zack muffed a shot and the ball dribbled to Roger’s off side. But they had overridden the ball and they cut back together, the ball now between them. Roger had a clear shot and cocked his mallet back. But Zack inadvertently hooked the head of Roger’s mallet with his own. Instinctively, he jerked and much to his surprise, almost pulled Roger out of the saddle. His shoulder crashed against Roger’s chest as they caromed off each other. He had a vague impression of Roger fighting for his balance, barely able to stay mounted as he charged after the ball. Now Zack had a clear shot and swung, feeling the satisfying “thunk” as he smashed the ball through the goal posts for his team’s second goal just as the bell sounded, ending the match.

He turned and trotted up field, surprised to see Roger lying on the ground. Willi was running toward the inert figure. He urged his pony forward and reached them moments after Willi had fallen to her knees beside the unconscious man. She looked up at Zack, fury written across her face. “He was wounded, you know,” she spat at him. “You Americans don’t care who you hurt as long as you win.”

Zack wanted to protest that his team had lost. Instead, he snapped, “He shouldn’t have been playing if he wasn’t up to it.”

“Bastards. You’re all bastards.”

He wheeled his pony and cantered off the field.

The following Tuesday morning Zack’s orders arrived posting him back to his old unit, 25 Squadron at Church Fenton. He spent his last day in the stables, helping the old coachman who was showing signs of his age. The duke sent word that he would like Zack to join him for tea that afternoon and Zack dutifully presented himself at exactly four o’clock. But this time, rainy weather had driven them all inside and he was escorted into the library where the old duke waved him to a couch.

“Sorry about Sunday,” the duke said. His wife’s right eyebrow shot up. In all the years they had been married, she had only heard the crusty old man apologize once before. “Didn’t happen as I had planned. The girl is stubborn, like her mother.”

Zack sipped at his tea. “She does seem to have a built-in
aversion to Yanks,” he observed. “Don’t know what I did to make her so hostile.”

“She works with Americans,” the duchess said. “It’s some very hush-hush job, intelligence I think. She claims that Americans are all a pack of Bolsheviks at heart, very rude and have no breeding. Wilhelmina doesn’t like them at all.”

“So I’ve heard,” Zack replied, recalling James’s comments at the polo match. “But she does seem to like Roger.”

“She likes the company Bertram keeps,” the duke grumbled, his chin on his chest.

“Roger,” the duchess explained, “served under Mountbatten on destroyers. Quite valiant.”

“Until they were sunk,” the duke groused.

The duchess shot him a withering look. “Later on,” she continued, “Roger was given command of his own destroyer and was badly wounded in the raid on Dieppe. He almost died. Now he’s on Mountbatten’s staff at Combined Operations.” She held her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I shouldn’t have said that. All very secret you know.”

“The secret is safe with me,” Zack said, smiling at the old lady. He changed the subject. “I take it you’ve heard that I’ve been posted back to my old squadron. I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning.”

“Ah,” the duke said. “The call to duty.”

Zack smiled. “It’s either that or going to jail.”

The duke bit off his reply. So like the Americans, he thought. Always hiding their idealism behind a flippant answer. “Confounded machines you fly,” he groused. “Sorry to see you go.” Again, his wife’s eyebrows raised. It was obvious her husband had become very attached to the young American.

“Twenty-five Squadron is flying a new aircraft called the Mosquito,” Zack told them. “Very fast and maneuverable.”

“Be careful,” the old man said. “Come see us when you can.”

Zack said his good-byes that evening and packed. When he came down the stairs early the next morning, the two cooks and the old coachmen were waiting for him. “Had to say good-bye, proper like,” the old man said, shaking his hand. The cooks had packed him a lunch large enough to feed four people and had tears in their eyes when he kissed them on the
cheek. They walked with him to the door and stood back. Outside, drawn up in fine array, was a four-in-hand coach. Sitting on the box was the old duke, wearing a top hat and greatcoat. A polished boot rested on the brake and he looked very pleased with himself. “I’ll drive you to the station, lad,” he shouted.

“Bloody great fool,” the coachman grumbled. “He can’t handle four horses.”

Zack threw his bag on top and pulled the door open. “Come on then,” he said to the two cooks and coachman, motioning them inside. The three climbed on board with a great deal of embarrassment and Zack followed them as the duke looked on, saying nothing. Then he cracked the whip and drove smartly down the drive.

The train to York was crowded and dirty and Zack shared a compartment with a group of young British soldiers headed for an antiaircraft unit in the Orkney Islands. He broke open the large lunch the cooks had given him and passed it around. “Wherever did you get this?” the sergeant in charge of the group asked. “Black market?”

Zack laughed. “A going-away gift from the cooks in the hospital. Knowing those two old gals, it might be.” They all laughed and made short work of the lunch. Later on, the sergeant told him that was the best food they had had in months. “Things getting pretty tight?” Zack asked.

The sergeant nodded. “We’ve had almost four years of this bloody war and there’s no end in sight. Maybe now that you Yanks are in, things will change.” He was looking at a village they were passing through. “This could be my village,” he said, “seedy, run-down.” Then he straightened up and changed the subject. “Why the RAF uniform?”

“It’s the way I started,” Zack told him. “Back in the States I thought this was our war. But in 1941, it looked like we were going to stay out of it. I didn’t like that so I joined the RAF and got involved. The Japanese changed all that at Pearl Harbor but by then I was in the RAF. I could transfer to the U.S. Army now, but why change horses in midstream?”