The Captain's Daughter (47 page)

The phone rang, startling him. It was Will Morgan. ‘Yes, yes, I heard it too. I’ll meet you at the depot, I’m on my way.’

As he drove down into town still with his Sunday suit on, folk were clustered on the corners talking, neighbours standing in their yards stunned, looking to each other to confirm the news they’d been dreading. Roddy suddenly felt utterly alone. There was no one in his life to share this shock with, no Grandma, no Archie or Mom. No one but Will in the office.

He felt such rage about this invasion, such fury, utter disbelief that a nation could be so arrogant as to think it could attack another without impunity. It was Hitler’s
blitzkrieg
all over again but this time it was on his doorstep. There was only one course of action for a decent man without ties.

‘I’m going to enlist,’ Roddy said, barging through the office door where Will was standing, surveying the maps on the wall. ‘You can run things from here blindfold. It doesn’t take the two of us.’

‘But you’re too old,’ laughed Will. ‘There’s so much work for us. Besides, younger drivers will be enlisting so we’ll need every able guy on the block to keep the trucks on the road. Here, have a drink and calm down,’ he said, shoving a glass of Jack Daniel’s in Roddy’s hand.

‘So we’ll do what they did in the last war and draft in the women,’ Roddy replied, thinking back to when his mother had worked for government in Washington.

‘The drivers won’t stand for that,’ said Will, seating himself down on the desk.

‘Reckon so? You wait, it’ll be law in no time. I’m not too old to do my duty. One of us has to go and it makes sense if it’s me. You’re married with kids.’

‘How come you’ve changed your tune? I’ve never reckoned on you becoming a soldier.’

Roddy sat down in the chair looking out of the window onto the truck yard, shaking his head as he thought of Uncle Selwyn’s medals. ‘My uncles were in the Great War, one was killed at the Somme and the other badly wounded.’

‘But they were English. They had to fight.’

‘You forget I’m half English. No one likes bullyboys taking over the show. It feels the right thing to do,’ Roddy argued.

‘And all the girls love a guy in uniform,’ Will added with a wink.

Roddy ignored his partner’s attempt to lighten the moment. ‘It’s not that. I can’t believe what I just heard. I can’t just sit here and let some guys pound us to pieces.’ He flicked open the order book before shoving it across the desk. ‘You can manage. I trust you. Maureen would never forgive me if I let you go off to war.’

‘There’ll be plenty of war work in Akron. You don’t have to go seeking glory. We can guess how it will affect the business. It needs two heads.’ Will shook his with a sigh.

‘As I said, bring in the women. They’ll want to do their bit too. I’ve made up my mind.’ He stood up as if to leave.

‘After just an hour listening to the news? Better to sleep on it. Have another drink.’

‘No thanks, I don’t need to sleep on this one. My mom and Archie and the folks in England have been going through hell these past years while we’ve had it soft. I’ve felt ashamed earning all this dough, and sending a few parcels isn’t enough. We’re all in it now. It’s time I got off my ass and signed up before they put me out to grass. I’ve had it too easy.’

‘I’ve never seen you so fired up. What’s got into you?’ Will looked puzzled, as if he’d seen a new side to Roddy.

‘Pearl Harbor, that’s what.’ Roddy was on fire with indignation at what was happening. ‘No one does that to us without getting the same back and more. I don’t want a ringside seat in this. Those Japs don’t know what they’ve just gone and done. We’ll show them we’re no sitting ducks.’

In the weeks that followed Roddy never doubted his decision. He enlisted at the recruiting office, was subjected to a medical, had his head shaved and pounded the barrack yard, sweating through long runs and aptitude tests. It was like boarding school all over again but this time there was a purpose. He never wavered from his decision to enlist just as his uncles had done all those years ago. It felt almost his family duty to get those Japs for the carnage and havoc they’d wreaked in the Philippines and Hawaii. So many innocent civilians had been lost in the bombings. It was as if he must sort them out personally. But it was a blow when they kitted him out in standard issue rather than tropical gear. He was embarking for Europe, not the Pacific. He would have to take his vengeance out on Hitler and his storm troopers. That was not in his plan at all and yet he felt guilty at the pleasurable thought that he might just see his family once more if he landed in England.

Father Frank Bartolini sat at his desk, staring out over the Harvard courtyard, listening to the lecturer drumming into them the important role of the Chaplains Corps in front line battle. They must be all things to all men and never let them down. They were God’s representatives, a symbol of His loving care, always ready to counsel, pray, give comfort, console and rescue the wounded and dying, no matter the cost to themselves.

Frank had been given permission to leave St Rocco’s Church, New Jersey to join the teams of chaplains of all denominations responding to the call to arms.

He’d been ordained for over six years now, working with the Italian immigrant community on Hunterton Street in a beautiful Italianate basilica-style church. It was the dream project of Father Umberto Donati who’d wanted to reproduce the church in his home town in Northern Italy.

Now, Frank was a second lieutenant who must take orders from the military. They were studying martial law, military customs and the discipline of army life, learning how to use equipment and work in close operation with other chaplains. They were treated as one group who must be willing to learn each other’s liturgy and customs, even conducting services should it be necessary. He must learn the Seder service for the Jews and in turn they must learn the rosary and hear confessions.

The thought of being a universal minister taking care of the religious needs of men of all faiths was daunting as well as challenging. On top of this the chaplains were expected to drill themselves to physical fitness. As one of the younger priests he didn’t find this such a problem but for some of the more mature men the hikes, physical jerks and route marches had taken their toll.

Now Frank was waiting for his placement, wondering where he would be sent. Like many others he’d listened to the radio broadcast on that fateful Sunday in December and wondered if he should volunteer. He asked Father Donati and he’d no hesitation in encouraging him to enlist.

‘You go, son. We must fill our quota of priests. There are no atheists in foxholes and there’s a job to be done. Those young men will need you by their side to teach them how to pray.’

Frankie felt proud of his uniform with the Cross insignia on its collar. His parents had bought him a purple silk stole, which he could fold up to use in field services. He was glad so many priests had volunteered, so many of them of Italian extraction like him. He still couldn’t believe how Italy had been seduced into this war at Hitler’s side. He no longer felt any connection to the old country, not like his papa, but his name was distinctive and he felt he must work extra hard to prove his loyalty.

Training was intense and many times he wondered if he would be up to the job when the moment came. Would he show a cool temperament when faced with shelling on the front line, or worse? How would he cope with the sight of terrible injuries, even though they’d prepared them with photographs of what to expect? Would the men respect him?

Frank knew he was no tough nut, not like his brother, Jackie. He would be unarmed, unproven, but the lecturer had said, ‘Courage is only fear that has said its prayers. You must draw on your own faith to carry you through.’ He only hoped that was true.

What he was dreading most was going to sea in one of the big troopships. His sea legs were hopeless. He felt sick even on a boat on a lake. How would his men feel seeing the priest with his head stuck in a bucket for the entire voyage across the Atlantic? He’d be a laughing stock before they even started.

On his embarkation leave he’d returned back home for a farewell meal with his family. He had devoured all his favourites dishes,
arrabiata
, dark and succulent, and a special cheesecake from Bellini’s bakery. He’d sat at the table trying to capture every second of it in his mind. You’ll have to feed off this in the months to come, he’d mused, as Patti chattered on and Mum smiled, pushing back the straggles of hair from her brow, while Jack glanced at his expensive wristwatch, anxious to be off to his haunts in the city.

His family were his rock, his flesh and blood, warts and all, as one of his new Protestant colleagues was always saying. He was going to miss their down-to-earth ways. He would have to work alongside men like Jack, tough, questioning, rough men, who thought priests a waste of space.

It was only when he was leaving that his papa shoved something into his hand for safekeeping. It was soft and oddly familiar. ‘I want you to take this, Frankie, a keepsake from your papa. We’re so proud of you.’

He looked down at the tiny shoe. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said, wondering what this token was doing in his hand.

‘I used to think it was my baby girl’s shoe. Crazy, I know, but in my heart she never died. Whoever’s shoe it was, son, it came from the
Titanic.
It survived that terrible disaster. I want you to keep it on you for good luck.’

‘But that’s just superstition,’ he said, shaking his head, but his father once again pressed it on him.

‘This little shoe stands for hope and love and survival against the odds. Plus, it’s a small reminder of home, of your mamma and your papa, and all of us waiting here for your return. Please take it.’

What could Frankie do but agree and hold his father tight, slipping the package into his pocket. ‘Perhaps it’ll stop me being seasick,’ he joked, trying to lighten the mood of the parting. ‘Pray for me.’

‘Every night,’ Mamma croaked through her tears, her hands shaking as she picked up his plate. ‘Take care, son, and Godspeed.’

Angelo watched his son leave trying not to give in to tears. He was so proud of both his sons: both enlisting, one in the infantry and one a front line padre. No one could say the Bartolinis were not patriots. He still couldn’t believe his family back in Italy were now officially the enemy. There wasn’t a mean bone in his father’s body. But in their letters he sensed fear, confusion, silence and suspicion. He hadn’t crossed the ocean and left his family to make enemies of them. He’d tried once to enlist, during the last war, but now he was too old, too weak in the chest, to do much but pray for their safety. Besides, someone had to guard the family honour. Patti was in danger of forgetting her Italian roots. She’d even changed her stage name to Patti Barr.

‘What is wrong with Patricia Bartolini?’ he’d demanded when he discovered this name on a theatre programme.

‘It’s too long. I need something modern, something short and snappy,’ she’d argued, tossing her flame-red hair as if to remind him she was half Irish too. Children these days were showing less respect. He would never have dared cheek his father but one look from those green eyes and he was putty in her hands.

Besides, she had him over a barrel. ‘I am doing a first-aid course,’ she’d also announced. ‘I might want to join up as a nurse.’

‘Two sons in the army is enough for any family. There’s no way I’ll let all my children out of my sight,’ he thundered.

‘For once your papa is right. Hold your horses. Revues give everyone relief from their worries. Entertaining is just another form of service, after all,’ Kathleen added, also petrified of losing her daughter to the battlefields. ‘We want to see your name in lights one day.’

The dear woman knew just how to handle his daughter. He wondered how Maria would have coped with Alessia. She would be married by now in that life that never happened. This was real life, though, and he would concentrate on the family that needed him.

He felt foolish for giving Frankie the shoe, but for some reason it felt important. He would’ve given Jackie his watch if he didn’t fear it would get thrown onto some poker table. What a world they lived in . . . He sighed. And all he could do was sit on the sidelines and watch his precious children slug it out on the world stage.

It was turning out to be a hard labour. Ella felt she’d been trying to squeeze out her baby for days, not hours. It was snowing hard outside and getting dark. The midwife had called, gone, and called back hoping things were moving along apace. She examined Ella again and smiled.

‘This little one is just too lazy and cosy in its nest to want to come into such a wintry afternoon, but there’s no turning back now. You’re fully dilated.’

Ella didn’t want to know the details, she just wanted it over with. Anthony was flying somewhere over Germany, unaware that their baby was on its way. It had been the longest night of her life and yet, for all the pains, she was excited; a new life was coming with all the possibility it promised. She only wished her mother were here to share in the joy. May had been such a good mother, all the resentment and anger she’d once felt had long gone. If only she was by her side to guide her through the coming hours.

The nursery was already prepared. Celeste had returned to Red House, while Archie was on duty in Portsmouth. Selwyn was out guarding the railway lines from fifth columnists. Shortages were beginning to take their toll in shop windows. Cardboard cut-outs filled the empty spaces and knitting wool was scarce, as were cosmetics. Everyone was being extra careful to make their soap, their foodstuffs last, while trying to look bright and cheerful to keep up morale.

After several more hours, the midwife put her cone on Ella’s stomach. ‘I’m going to have to call the doctor if you don’t get going.’

‘Lying here doesn’t help. Let me walk about for a bit,’ Ella said, feeling trapped lying in bed waiting for each pain.

‘That’s not allowed. Mother should be on her side by now,’ Nurse Taylor insisted.

‘Then bring me an old birthing stool. They had the right idea in the olden days. If I walk about it might help things along.’ She made for the rug, pacing the floor, willing the baby inside her to push its way down. ‘Come on, come on!’