Captain Alexander Anderson felt a tingle rise from the base of his neck to the crown of his head and his body suffered an involuntary tremor. Alex looked behind him as he rose from his knees. He turned, his eyes darting across the leafless ice and snow covered trees of the cemetery. He expected to see them, to take them in arms and never let them go. But where were they? Where were his wife and daughter? Where were Rebecca and Laura?
Again the feeling hit him. Loneliness. Not just the need of companionship or love for that matter, but an acknowledgement that you are here for some purpose other than dying, like the loved ones you have just lost. It had been this way for months, six now. He looked again at the snow-covered tombstones, some with ice-sickles dripping water as the morning sun tried to brighten the fog-laden land.
Six months earlier a German submarine had torpedoed a pleasure craft of some one hundred twenty feet and all souls aboard had perished to the bottom of the English Channel. The Royal Princess was that ship. Rebecca and Laura had been aboard, aboard because Alexander had insisted that it would be safer in America.
Do to the secrecy of an important SOE operation; the remains of a German V-Rocket were also aboard The Royal Princess. The thought was that the Germans would not think that the British would ship such an important cargo aboard a passenger liner, especially one with an escort.
This information had inadvertently not reached Captain An-derson. It was leaked to big-eared German spies that were on every corner in Britain today. The German U-boat out maneu-vered the British destroyer escort undercover of darkness and performed an “end a round”. U-17 cruised on the surface out of visual range and angled out and around The Royal Princess until it was out in front and waiting. The U-17 sank The Royal Princess and dove deep and away from the destroyer in pursuit, to safety.

Every morning Alexander visited the graves of his wife and daughter on his way to Bletchley Park, the British secret facility that engaged in coding and breaking code as well as other clandestine operations put forth by MI-6, Britain’s elite covert intelligence unit. Every morning he turned away from the tombstones, truly believing that all of it would prove to be a dream, a bad nightmare. But every evening he returned home to an empty flat. That was the worse time, nighttime, when the hands are idle and the mind questions all that is.

“Good day, Captain Anderson.” Lt. Melba Wallace greeted Alex as she did everyday, with a hot cup of tea with a napkin in the saucer to contain spills, and a genuine smile. She actually, at times, but not often, irritated Alex to no-end. No one could be happy all the time. Was one not deserving of a day, when all that is, can be cursed? He had many days like that since Rebecca and Laura were gone, dead. Dead, he still could not say the word even under his breath. Did no one Lt. Wallace know ever die, or suffer pain or poverty? Was she herself immune to the calamities of this world?
“Good morning, Lt. Wallace. Oh, many thanks.” Captain Anderson responded as he did every morning and took his tea to his office desk, which was in a direct sight line with Lt. Wallace’s desk in the outer office. Many a time he had closed his door when the phone call was not private.
Alex sat behind his desk and took a sip of hot tea, only to see Lt. Wallace’s face above the rim of the cup, smiling back at him. He smiled back, but wanted to scream.
“Captain!” Lt. Wallace’s voice squawked around his office.
Damn! There she goes again with that bloody new widget. The widget was a new intercom speakerphone system MI-6 had installed at all of their offices last Monday and things would never be the same again. Why could she not simply hail him from her desk that was no more than ten foot falls away?
“Captain?” The word was six syllables long after bouncing off the walls of Captain Anderson’s office and finally reaching his ears, instead of two. It was a kink that Technical said they were working on. Alex calmed his temper, which was very short for some unknown reason today. He was not at all comfortable ordering women around, and the Military was full of them since the beginning of the war.
Lt. Melba Wallace was not only a woman, but also in her mid-fifties as was he. Alexander did not see himself as old, did not feel old. He forgot at times that the people he was speaking to, were viewing him differently than he did.
Two years ago on the tee-box, that point was been driven home. With rare time on his hands, Alex had stolen half a day to squeeze a few holes in. Paired with three strangers he stood by the tee-box as he always did and waited for his fellow players to tee off.
Alex suddenly realized that it was quiet, too quiet. No one had teed off yet either.
“Beg pardon, Sir!” Alex heard one of the young men say and gesture to the box. All three men were in their twenties and yet Alex had not noticed that he was twenty years their senior. They were waiting for the old man to tee it up.
Alex waited for Lt. Wallace to come in to his office, which thankfully only took one more squawk from the new phone system. He prepared to reprimand someone who reminded him of his Aunt Mildred.
“Captain, is your tele not functioning properly?”
“Lieutenant Wallace, if my tele, worked any better I should think of leaving this world through that window!”
Lt. Wallace did not change the expression on her face, nor did she move. Her reddening cheeks outlined by her very light complexion, was the only sign that she had understood Captain Anderson’s remark.
“Shall we dispense with that contraption, at least while it is just you and I.” Alex softened his voice now, not wanting the woman to cry or do something unbearable like crying. “I appreciate you keeping us up to speed Lieutenant and getting us on the list so early so that we were one of the first departments to receive the new, telephone. Let us save it for our guests, shall we.”
Lt. Melba Wallace was red faced, but red faced because she was having a hard time keeping her anger under control, not because she was embarrassed. Captain Anderson was a good officer and a good officer to work for, but she had just about had it with his temperamental ways, but so what. What could she do about it? She cleared her throat.
“Yes, Lieutenant?” Alex gave up.
“The reason I paged you, Sir?” Paging is what it is called when you are squawked at and Melba knew Captain Anderson did not care for the term.
“Yes? What was it Lieutenant?” Alex was thoroughly irritated with himself now. He had not handled anything well today and morning tea was still to come.
“The Prime Minister rang. He wants to see you immediately.” Lt. Wallace said as though she had just given the time.
“Winston? Well why…” Alex let his words trail off. It had been his fault the message was so long in getting to him. He had been late as well. Time at the cemetery was hard for him to judge. His pocket watch kept excellent time, but some days he forgot to look at it. Today had been one of those days.
“When did he call?” Captain Anderson asked as he gingerly gulped down the still hot tea.
“Half past.” Lt. Wallace said as she examined her wristwatch.
Damn! What a bloody day! The one thing Winston despised was tardiness. Tardiness has no excuse, was his creed.
“A hint? Anything?” Alex asked as he grabbed his jacket and cap and headed for the door.
“No, nary a word. May the luck be with you, Captain.” Lieutenant Wallace said as Captain Anderson walked out the door. The luck of the Irish, she meant, although it was not necessary to expound after such the amount of time they had worked along side one another.
“Thanks, Melba.” Alex slammed the door on his way out.
“Men! It will be a sad day if they ever figure it out.” Melba said as she laughed aloud.

“Alex, something must happen that will allow the Americans to see. They must see and realize that if it is not too late, it soon shall be. We can not hold off Hitler for ever.”
Alexander shifted uneasily in his chair. Rarely, if ever did Winston use words like, too late. Winston Churchill was too optimistic and too confident a person to allow such words to be a part of his vocabulary. Winston had not faced death, both political and physical, and survived because he thought it was, too late. But Alex knew Winston, and The Prime Minister was worried.
“By God! I should think that our blokes dying on the bloody battlefield for two years would be enough for the Yanks! Not to mention our people barely surviving on third rations of bread and broth!”
It was a sore spot with Alexander. Winston had met with Franklin D. Roosevelt, President of the United States, on several occasions. President Roosevelt sees, as Winston put it, but as yet he had been unable to make either the American people or their Congress see.
Now the situation was critical, beyond critical. If the Ameri-cans did not enter the war, there would be no Great Britain, just as there was now no France, only a Vichy token.
“I speak of this now,” Churchill paused and rolled his cigar as if the words he required would be found there and imparted to his silver tongue, “for I believe that soon, indeed very soon, the Americans will have no choice, but war!”
Alex knew that tensions in the Philippines and the South Pacific were strained between the Japanese and the Americans. President Roosevelt had ordered the US Navy’s Pacific Fleet moved from the west coast of the United States to Pearl Harbor in the Hawaiian Islands in July of 1941. That was four months ago. FDR had pushed the patience of the Japanese.
On the other side of the planet the German U-boats were only one American ship’s sinking, away from having the United States declare war on Germany. Yes, there were several fuses lit, it was only a matter of time until they burned to the powder keg.
“Things may be about to change, Prime Minister.” Alex paused as he waited for the words to register with Winston.
“Change, Alex?” Churchill’s eyes were brighter, expectant.
“We received word just before I arrived, that two, possibly three heavy warships are preparing to move southeast, toward the Hawaiian Islands. Japanese warships.”
“Carriers?” Winston’s eyebrows rose.
“We think they maybe flattops, but the recon was overcast and a positive ID could not be made. But I would wager they are aircraft carriers.”
“Have we made the Americans aware of this?” Winston said and looked mischievous.
“Not yet.”
“Then, do not.”
Alex looked at Winston, not sure if he heard correctly.
“When?”
“Perhaps, never.” Prime Minister Winston Churchill bit the end off a new cigar, lit it and Alexander’s cigar.
Winston winked at Alex. “War is Hell, my boy. Now it be-gins.” Winston said and blew out three rings of smoke, each slightly larger than the next. “Keep me informed.”