The Mark of Merlin

CHAPTER EIGHT

“I’m sorry. Did I do that?” he apologized, bending quickly to pick up the towels before the snow from his boots could melt into them. I held out my arm stupidly while he piled them up.

“The kitchen is warm,” I managed to say and, in a daze, led the way.

“Apple pie,” he exclaimed, sniffing deeply as he entered. “That smells good and proper.”

“Been back long?” I asked inanely, putting the towels down on the cabinet and getting a mug down for him. My inner thoughts were too chaotic to sort out. I had the feeling of being on a treadmill. I had to keep moving faster or I’d fall off altogether. Like Alice, running as fast as she could to stay in the same place. Only, as of right now, I wasn’t even in the same place.

“Got in a week ago,” he replied genially.

“Take your things off.”

He divested himself, grinning apologetically as he kept peeling off layers. When he had got down to a uniform tunic, he turned to take the coffee I poured him.

“Just black, thank you, ma’am,” he smiled and edged close to the stove. “That was one mighty cold walk,” he continued sociably, his glance dropping to the pie and away. “I got a lift from the railroad station to the first crossroads. The Coast Guard. Oh, near forgot, the stationmaster gave me some mail for the major and young Murdock,” he said, and having found the letters in his pocket, handed them over to me. “Special Delivery.” His grin was frank and broad.

“You weren’t kidding.” A stupid remark, for one of them, addressed to me, was liberally covered with special delivery stamps. It was from Mrs. Everett and thick. She had probably forwarded me some letter, I thought. It was sweet of her to go to so much trouble. I put the letters down on the sideboard.

“No, ma’am,” he said, turning this way and that to warm all angles of him at the stove.

He had crisp blond hair cut close to his scalp, and I could see the line of a bullet crease along the top of his head. He was stockily built and shorter than the major but still six or seven inches the better of me. He seemed to be waiting expectantly and I realized he wondered why I didn’t call “the Murdock lad” or the major.

“The men are out after wood,” I explained hastily and gestured him to the chair nearest the stove. He thanked me again and sat down, hands curled around the hot mug.

“You sure would need it, day like today.”

“Day like the last several.”

“Ah,” he began self-consciously, clearing his throat, “how’s the kid taking his father’s death?”

“I think I’d better set you straight, Lieutenant DeLord,” I said deliberately. He looked apprehensive. I held up my hand. “Now this may come as a surprise to you but - I’m James Carlysle Murdock.”

“Well, I’m pleased to

” and he did a perfect double take. “Did I hear you right, ma’am? You’re James Carlysle Murdock?”

“Oh, yes, if you knew my father for very long, lieutenant, or very well, you probably discovered he had an odd sense of humor.”

The light green eyes regarded me seriously.

“He was also somewhat stubborn. He had chosen an appropriate name for his firstborn, so it didn’t occur to him to change the name simply because he was disappointed in the sex of the child. I have been James Carlysle Murdock all my life and there have been times, especially since Pearl Harbor, when it has been a liability, believe me.”

The green eyes began to twinkle although the face had not changed expression. The twinkle turned to laughter and then the mouth turned up at the corners as Lieutenant De Lord started to laugh. He continued to laugh until the infectious quality of his mirth caught me up, too, dispersing entirely my apprehensions about him.

“James Carlysle Murdock, well, that’s one on me,” he said.

“No,” I contradicted him, grinning, “that’s one on me.”

This set him off again and I joined in so wholeheartedly that neither of us heard the men approaching until the back door burst open and Merlin came charging into the room.

The moment the shepherd saw the newcomer he changed from a happy dog in from a mad morning of fun into a guard animal, alert, intent, moving slowly, purposefully, towards the stranger.

I’ll say this for DeLord, he didn’t move a muscle. It took a strong will not to retreat from the sight he was facing.

“At ease, Merlin!” I said sharply.

The hackles on Merlin’s back dropped, his muscles relaxed, and he came forward at a normal pace, to sniff the hand DeLord slowly extended.

“Friend,” I added, having just decided that. Merlin was already making a new acquaintance.

This had all happened very quickly so that both Turtle and the major had just reached the doorway when Merlin touched DeLord’s hand with an inquisitive nose. DeLord got to his feet.

“The lieutenant, by God,” Turtle ground out.

“Major,” the lieutenant acknowledged gravely. “Bailey. Didn’t realize you were back, sergeant.”

“No, sir, just got back. Excuse me, Major,” and Turtle pushed in with the load of logs he was lugging.

Regan Laird, also laden, came in too, hooking the door shut with his foot. There was a clatter as Turtle dropped his burden into the wood basket.

“What brings you to this neck of the woods?” the major asked, stalking - yes, that was the term - stalking across to dump his own load.

“Young James Carlysle Murdock,” drawled the lieutenant, moving to one side to let the men warm themselves at the stove. He leaned back against the inner wall, one hand holding the coffee mug, the other thrust into his pocket. He seemed far more at ease than either the major or Turtle.

At the mention of my full name, the major frowned, first at me and then at the lieutenant.

“He thought I was Mrs. Laird.” I giggled nervously.

“Issat apple pie?” Turtle cried, pointing to it.

“No,” I told him, making a face, “it’s monkey meat.”

Turtle grinned, turning to Laird with a satisfied smile. “I tol’ya we’d eat good when we got back.” I pushed them both out of the way to check on the roast. The fork went in smoothly, two full inches.

“I’d have given odds this meat wouldn’t thaw before late tomorrow,” I commented, closing the door slowly on the delicious aroma. I was very conscious of the major’s alertness, DeLord’s almost insolent ease, and the fact that Turtle wanted to improve the situation.

“Yorkshire pudding?” Turtle asked hopefully.

“If this ever cooks,” I promised, poking the meat again. “It’ll probably be red-raw in the middle.”

“Only way to eat it,” Turtle replied, rubbing his hands together and licking his lips. “Right, Major?”

“Yes,” the major agreed absently. “Could we have some coffee, Carlysle?”

“Yes, yes.” I went to the cupboard, planting my hands on the counter to lever myself up.

“The stool, Carlysle. Use the stool,” the major said in a grating voice that sounded more like Turtle’s.

“Allow me,” said the lieutenant smoothly and handed me down two mugs. I thanked him sweetly, carefully avoiding Regan Laird’s eyes. The air fairly crackled with his annoyance.

“The lieutenant hitched a ride in with the Coast Guard,” I said conversationally as I filled the mugs. “He brought us some mail, too. Special delivery.” I glanced over at DeLord with a special grin for our inside joke.

Picking up the packet of letters, I riffled through them. Two for Regan Laird were in the brown manila envelopes, franked for official business, U.S. Army. There were two V-mail envelopes for me plus Mrs. Everett’s letter and one with a local postmark.

“If you’ll excuse me a minute, I’ll see what my nice landlady has to say,” I said, drawing up a chair to the far end of the table, “since she was ‘specialing’ it to me.”

One envelope, addressed in an unfamiliar handwriting, fell out of the pages and pages of lined tablet paper that had been folded over it.

“Jesus,” I exclaimed angrily, “what does that bastard want with me?”

“Bit, can it,” Turtle growled at me.

I pursed my lips. “Warren!” I flung the envelope distastefully to the table. “Guardian, you read it.”

I picked up Mrs. Everett’s bulky pages; her platitudes and homey admonitions ought to calm me down. I had got the first four phrases deciphered when I realized what she was babbling on about.

“Good heavens,” I cried out, staring at the men. “Someone did get in the house. Mrs. Everett says my room was torn apart. Damn,” I added because she went on to say that all my college notes had been thrown around the room.

All your books [I read on] were scattered and it was the most awful mess. Really, Carla, I was terribly upset. Naturally Father insisted on calling the police and they came and questioned every one of us. I felt simply awful. I don’t know what the neighbors will think, much less your dean. They are so particular at the college where the girls stay. And it was only your room, that was searched. That’s what the police say. That your room was searched. I know you’ll be hearing from them because they have to know what might be missing. I explained to the detective that you were convalescing on Cape Cod with your guardian. I told him that you had left only your books because you were not to study, but rest. But I didn’t want you to think that we aren’t careful of your things. You know how I always lock the doors, particularly since we had that scare before. You know, dear Carla, I find I miss that dog when things like this can happen. He may have upset me a little when you first came here, but I can see now why he’s been such a comfort to you.

Upset was a euphemism for scared sick. Her fear of the dog had warred with her desire to mother the war orphan. I had sensed this and had waved the flag violently. Considering how most army personnel were treated before the war, I had no compunctions about exploiting the new status.

Mrs. Everett did not believe in paragraphs nor in much punctuation. Her style, while very like her, lacked the additional flavor of her broad Dorchester accent, but I had a vivid picture of her standing indignantly before me as I read the letter. Embarrassed over the notoriety, concerned over the possible repercussions on her carefully maintained reputation.

So don’t be alarmed, Carla, when the police call to ask you about your things. Kay Alexander was so sweet and came and helped me pick things up and put the room back together again. You’ll be glad to know that nothing was really damaged [I interpreted this to mean the furnishings and linens escaped harm] and everything is back in place just as you like it.

Now, I know Mrs. Laird will cook good nourishing meals for you. I always said you never ate enough to keep a bird alive, and you so [she had crossed out a word with many lines] so slim anyway.

I looked up from my letter, having deleted the last paragraph from my running commentary of her remarks. The major was scowling, Turtle growled deep in his throat, sounding like Merlin, and the lieutenant was watching. Just watching, but I was certain no detail of anyone’s reaction missed his scrutiny.

“Was there anything you wouldn’t like to find missing?” asked Regan Laird slowly.

“I told you,” I began, “I brought everything down here but books, as ordered,” and I glared at him, “and you have the .” The look on the major’s face stopped me. “That’s the trouble with majors,” I complained to the lieutenant, trying to make this sudden switch appear spontaneous. If the major was worried about DeLord’s possible complicity with Warren, I had already said too much. But the expression on DeLord’s face was one of polite interest, nothing more. “The trouble with majors,” I repeated, giving Laird a dirty look, “is that they don’t have enough responsibility to make them humble and too much authority to make them human.”

DeLord burst out laughing. This certainly wouldn’t improve his relations with Laird but when Turtle joined in, the major had to grin at my deprecating description.

“You have to get up early to put one over on Little Bit,” Turtle announced proudly. “But I don’t like this burglary.”

I shrugged. “There wasn’t anything for him to take but, if my Government 18 notes are all fouled up, I’ll .” I trailed off as I saw the major opening Warren’s letter.

He read it quickly, the muscles around his mouth tightening with distaste. He tossed it over to me.

“Innocuous enough,” he said in a flat voice.

I thought I caught a gleam of interest in DeLord’s eyes but he maintained his incurious pose.

I didn’t pick the letter up. For one thing it had floated to my side of the table, right side up, so I wasn’t forced to touch it to read it.

I made an impolite sound in my throat as I read the opening paragraph:

Dear Carla,

Marian and I wish to express again our deep sympathy for your orphaned state. I admired your father

“You hated his guts!” and respected his ability to command

“Which is why you often ignored his orders and snaffled everything with your own.”

I was deeply shocked and grieved at his death. “You probably got roaring drunk with delight.”

You may not have heard that I sustained a wound in Aachen.

“And hoped you were! With no pain-killers.” and have been relieved, temporarily you may be sure, of my command.

“Permanently unless Bradley wants the V Corps to go mass AWOL.”

Marian and I happen to be coming to Boston on the 28th

“I wonder which general’s wife she’s sucking up to now.”

“Carlysle!” The major snapped. and would very much like to see you for old times sake. I will call when we arrive and arrange a date. Affectionately yours,

LT. COL. DONALD H. WARREN

“Affectionately? He debases the word.”

DeLord’s green eyes were sparkling and the hint of a grin twitched at his lips.

“Well,” I said with great satisfaction, “isn’t it a pity I missed them? My timing is superb.” I flicked a finger at the letter and it drifted across the table to Turtle. “Burn it, Bailey.”

Turtle was about to comply when the major retrieved it. He replaced it in the envelope.

“You know Colonel Warren?” DeLord asked me with the most innocent expression I have ever seen on a lieutenant’s face. Even Turtle blinked respectfully.

“Carlysle,” the major cautioned me, his eyes angry.

“I’m all too well acquainted with Lieutenant Colonel Warren,” I replied, stressing the rank with acid scorn, ignoring my guardian deliberately. “The very idea that he was given my father’s command - even for a day - turns my stomach.”

“Carlysle!” the major said more forcefully.

DeLord’s expectant look was an added goad to my defiance.

“I was ignored by him until I reached adolescence and learned, like every other young girl on the post, to keep something solid between me and him. I’ve been condescendingly chaperoned and mothered,” I shuddered violently, “by his dear Marian who’d sell herself to a corporal if it would look good on her Bonnie’s 201 file.”

This time the major grabbed me by the arm and shook me. I swung around long enough to wrench my arm free.

“I’m not army anymore and I can say what I want to now about Lieutenant Colonel Donald Warren. And I can say it to whomever I please!”

Merlin began to growl in his throat.

“You see, the dog agrees. He’d love to sink his teeth into Warren and I wouldn’t call him off. Warren’s had it coming a long, long time.”

“That is quite enough from you, young lady,” the major said in a steely voice. He meant it and for one fleeting second I was positive he’d slap me across the mouth if I said one more word.

Considering he had a very poor opinion of Warren, I couldn’t see why he objected until I recalled that he, or Turtle, had mentioned that DeLord had been thick with Warren after Dad’s death. Well, green-eyed DeLord would bloody well know where I stood as far as Warren was concerned. Discretion be damned.

Turtle had kept his mouth shut during my tirade. DeLord had ducked his head as if that would help him avoid participating in the tense scene. I saw DeLord tenderly finger the bullet score on his head as if it suddenly bothered him.

“Well,” I said, turning my attack to him, “now how do you think James Carlysle Murdock is adjusting to her father’s death?”

The lieutenant shot me a penetrating look, compounded of surprise and shock. I saw him dart a glance at Laird and then at Turtle. He pulled himself back into the pose he adopted - I was sure now it was a pose - and laughed nervously.

“No comment.”

“Chicken!”

He threw up both hands in a mock defense. “I’ll take krauts any day against a colonel’s daughter.” For the first time I noticed the West Point ring on his finger.

“A typical career man’s remark!” I scoffed. “It just volunteered you for KP. Turtle, we need wood everywhere.”

“Sounds like the colonel, too,” DeLord muttered good-naturedly to Turtle. “Yes, sir, ma’am, sir,” he said, saluting me repeatedly.

“I’ll unload the sled,” the major offered before I could pointedly ignore him in my summary disposition of duties.

“Dinner in an hour, with Yorkshire pudding,” and I cocked a finger at Turtle.

One of the basic facts I had learned from the years with my father was that occasionally men enjoy being ordered around by a woman. Just occasionally. Whether it’s a voluntary return to the status of small, naughty boys or whether it’s just a relief not to have to make decisions, I don’t know. But I often found it worked with my father. However, he was quick enough to inform me when I was out of line, if I did not sense it first.

I seized upon this ploy because I wanted some time to think. I wanted the air to clear between Major Laird and myself, now that the unexpected arrival of DeLord had erased the nice sense of companionship between Turtle, Laird, and me.

Whatever those two said, I could not place Robert De-Lord in Warren’s camp. He was a very cool man and his green eyes missed nothing. I was certain he was sensitive to a lot of what was not being discussed.

The major did not seem to trust him nor want him to know that we suspected Dad had been murdered - there, I could actually think it without wincing - and that all my father’s effects were under this roof. It was compatible with the respect in which my father’s men had held him that they would make the duty call, however painful, on his daughter were they able to. That sufficiently explained DeLord’s reason for seeking me out. I had myself, at Dad’s instigation, made several calls on Boston families of combat fatalities. I had been rather surprised to learn that Mrs. Colonel Warren had also paid such visits. She didn’t live in Boston. I wondered what had got into her. Bucking for Warren’s chicken wings, probably.

In the meantime, I set the lieutenant to peeling potatoes.

“I didn’t really intend to impose on your hospitality, Miss Carlysle.”

“Carla,” I corrected automatically. I couldn’t get that message through to the major but the lieutenant was going to start out right.

“Carla.”

“And don’t give me any nonsense about imposing. If a man has the decency to hunt up his colonel’s daughter, he is entitled to one good meal. Especially when he braves blizzards to pay his respects.”

“Yes, ma’am,” was all he said to that but his eyes sparkled.

I didn’t want him to get the idea that I was too stupid to realize he had some double purpose.

“How long is your leave?” I went on, not letting him reform his thoughts.

“Oh, I’m entitled to quite a bit,” he temporized.

“You’re peeling them too thick. Didn’t you learn anything at the Point?”

His grin widened. He concentrated on his peeling.

“I certainly look forward to a piece of your apple pie.” He reverted to his original trend of thought.

“Yes, I’d noticed.”

He stopped peeling a moment, looking at a middle distance as he reflected.

“It’s funny, ma’am, apple pie was one of the things you’re supposed to miss.”

I snorted.

“Actually, what I craved most was an Idaho baked potato!”

“Not hominy grits?”

He gave me a rueful grin. “I keep trying to live down my rebel origins. No, a baked potato, hot and fluffy inside, with buckets of butter!”

“The major must have an ‘in’ with the local cow,” I commented, showing him the wheel of butter.

His eyes widened with delight at such a supply.

“In Europe,” he continued, peeling carefully, “the potatoes are small and yellow. When you can get ‘em at all. Oh, all right in stews and such but they don’t bake.” He turned the potato over in his hand. The russet was not exactly in prime condition nor very large, but the flesh was white. “Your father was a good rough cook. Did you know?”

I snorted. “And who do you think taught him?”

“I got a few days off in October and made for Paree.” I expected him to respond to his reminiscences in some typically military fashion, a smirk, a smile, or a grimace. But he went on, “And, of all people, guess who I met?” He slapped his thigh for emphasis, a gesture entirely out of character, “Who do I run into but Colonel Murdock? Never guessed then he’d be my C.O. in a few weeks’ time. And guess where?”

“You tell me.”

He looked at me squarely for a moment, wonderingly.

“Buying stamps!”

He paused and deliberately finished peeling the potato. I said nothing.

“Yes, ma’am. We were fellow philatelists.” He glanced up at me. “He was lucky that day. He picked up some departing German officer’s abandoned collection. Has it been returned to you?”

He was regarding me squarely, his eyes on mine, his face grave.

“Yes, Lieutenant, it has.” I failed to add that the two onionskin lists were in my pocket, one with his name in pencil at the top.

He heaved a counterfeit sigh of relief. It irritated me beyond measure that he continued this playacting. He must be aware I was not fooled by it.

“I’m very glad, Miss Carla, because I know some of those stamps were valuable. Your father was very pleased to get the French-Chinese 1900 issues.”

That gave me pause for those were some of the items Dad had listed and checked off.

“I was afraid,” the lieutenant continued, concentrating on his potato for a moment, “that it might have gone astray in the shuffle at Division HQ. Or that someone might have offered you a good price for it?” He gave me a quick look.

“The peels are getting thick again,” I remarked caustically.

He paid attention to his peeling.

“Or maybe,” he suggested softly, “you know enough about stamps to realize the collection is valuable?”

“Yes, I do know Dad’s stamps are valuable.”

“The ones he got in France?” and DeLord scanned my face.

“I haven’t gone through them closely but I thank you for the warning. No one will get them without paying a lot for them.”

We were looking directly in each other’s eyes now. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking or what reaction he had been trying to get from me. He was forewarned, at any rate, if his part in all this was devious.

I had a sudden urge to level with Robert DeLord completely. I disliked underhanded dealings and hidden meanings. I liked things open and understood. I preferred to know where I stood with people and I wanted them to know where they were with me. My instinct was to trust DeLord. Dad had. He might even have trusted DeLord with information he didn’t pass on to Turtle or the major for some peculiar reason. He might even have charged DeLord with keeping an eye on Warren - which would account for DeLord’s interest in that man. If Dad had been conscious as DeLord had been bringing him back in the jeep, he might have told DeLord something, even who murdered him. And if DeLord had buddy-buddied Warren maybe there was a damned good reason. It would certainly explain DeLord’s line of questioning as well as his efforts to reach me. And the major? Oh, no. No!

“Good,” DeLord was saying, accepting my implied warning.

“By any chance,” I replied, twisting my dig a little, “would you be interested in buying them?”

“Me? No, ma’am,” he answered with honest surprise. “Not on a lieutenant’s pay.”

Turtle came in. He looked sardonically at the lieutenant’s labor but said nothing, passing through to the back porch. I heard him rumbling on to the major. The conversation with DeLord had been punctuated with the cracks of an ax against wood and the thud as logs were piled against the side of the back perch. As I heard the clumping of several pairs of feet approaching, I switched to more general conversation. I could see that it rubbed my guardian exactly the wrong way to find me and Robert DeLord in congenial good spirits. I paid Major Regan Laird no attention whatsoever as he stood peeling off layers of clothing.

“Sun’s over the yardarm, Turtle,” I announced when the sergeant came in.

I ignored Turtle’s startled look at the use of his nick name. He shot a menacing glance at the lieutenant who did not so much as flutter a muscle. The sobriquet might never be used by anyone but me but I’ll bet anything the whole regiment knew it.

“Gotta wash,” the sergeant mumbled. He and the major disappeared.

I listened for the major’s explosion when he entered the bathroom. His profanity, muffled but unmistakable, startled the lieutenant. I gave him no explanation and continued blithely to set the table as I pumped him.

“You never saw Camp

Fort Dix

I’ll never get that straight,” I groaned, “before its new exalted position, did you?”

“No, Miss Carla.”

“Just Holabird and Benning?”

“That’s right.”

“But Holabird was provost marshal school, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, I reckon so, but they took in other units just before Pearl, about the time I got there.”

“I see.” And I was beginning to. And I wondered if I liked that conclusion. If Major Laird and Turtle had also had their doubts about DeLord, maybe they had a good reason, apart from the one they gave, for distrusting him. But Dad hadn’t and, as regimental C.O. he would have known that DeLord was provost marshal. But why should a secret P.M. be attached to the regiment? Warren had pulled an awfully costly blunder at Bois de Collette in the Cotentin Peninsula that had decimated two companies, but to warrant a P.M.? No. There had been some extenuating circumstances. If Dad had only got rid of Warren the man had been an albatross forever. He had a way of giving orders that positively antagonized officer and enlisted man alike. He was the greatest refugee from the Civil War since Custer and he never had been able to understand the necessity for changing tactics that had been successful in Napoleon’s day. For instance, the need for tank support of infantry (Warren, Dad had told me, considered tanks a Buck Rogers’ lunacy) and the necessity of sustaining an artillery barrage until visible casualties among your own men - these new tricks of warfare Warren simply could not accept. But Dad had gone to the Point with Warren and Dad had his own Scotch ideas of loyalty. Well, they had cost him his life. Did DeLord suspect that? That would have brought down a provost marshal. But DeLord had been with the regiment long before that. Why?

Nor could I see any connection between provost marshal and a perfectly respectable stamp hobby. Not unless Dad had taken blocks of stamps from the French postal service and they were raising a Gallic fuss. But Dad was discriminating and large blocks didn’t interest him. And, anyway, Dad had been in Paris before DeLord joined the outfit, not after. So it wasn’t stamps exactly .

I heard the major’s heavy step in the corridor. There was no mistaking the suppressed anger in that determined thump. I wondered if he wanted to take me over the coals for doing the laundry, or for festooning it in the bathroom. At any rate, he was livid, or the scar was a very reliable pressure gauge. And I just didn’t care.

It did seem a little ungrateful of him when you considered the efforts I had saved his majorial dignity. I couldn’t picture him bending over a steamy washboard. And there is nothing like combat boots to foul up socks for fair. But oh, he was mad.

Fortunately, DeLord’s presence was inhibiting and, though the major’s eyes blazed with fury, he said nothing. He stalked over to the cabinet and got out three glasses. I was about to remind him there were four of us when he swung his body around, shot a frown at DeLord, and took down one more.

“Soda?” he barked at the lieutenant.

“Neat!”

This, too, annoyed the major. He put the glasses on the table with a thud which roused Merlin. He had been snoozing under the table but sat upright with a throaty growl, aware of the undercurrent in the room.

Major Laird, until that moment unaware of Merlin’s presence, sprang backwards, hunching, his hand automatically seeking a nonexistent gunbutt at his hip, all his combat reflexes alerted by the unexpected noise. For one split second I wondered if he would be foolhardy enough to lash out at Merlin. Even as that outrageous thought crossed my mind, I realized how unworthy it was. Mad at me the major might be, but he was not the sort of person who slapped down the next guy in line for someone else’s fault.

“Easy, fella,” he said although the admonition went to the wrong person. Merlin sneezed and lay back down.

I wondered if the major realized he looked a trifle foolish, at least to me he did, overreacting to a dog’s growl. I glanced at the lieutenant out of the corner of my eye. I amended my thought and decided I was foolish. The lieutenant approved the major’s quickness. It was analogous to Turtle’s reflex attack on me yesterday. I was the one at fault, I chided myself, being very childish, selfish and thoughtless. These men had been in combat. Their nerves were still wire-tight and battle-honed. I had no right to play on their emotions and set up situations that increased their tensions.

“Oh,” I exclaimed, as if suddenly remembering, “I’m sorry about the bathroom, Major. I left stuff all over. I hope you didn’t mind my taking over like that. Force of habit. I always did it for Dad.”

“Thank you,” the major said stiffly, his head barely inclining in my direction. “It was kindly meant, I’m sure, but unnecessary.”

“Dry yet?”

He shook his head and continued fixing the drinks. Turtle barged into the kitchen.

“Freezing upstairs,” he croaked, warming his hands over the stove.

The major handed drinks around. The lieutenant hopped up nimbly for a man who affected a languorous attitude most of the time.

“The colonel, God bless him,” grated out Turtle, raising his glass. It still had the quality of a prayer, not a toast. Was Turtle getting religion?

My inner question helped me over the moment. No tears and only a slight constriction in my throat, so it surprised me to see a grimness to the lieutenant’s mouth. It passed so quickly I may have been reading more than was there.

Turtle reversed a chair as he usually did, and, seeing Merlin sprawled under the table, arranged his feet carefully.

“Wore him out, we did,” the sergeant laughed, taking a long swig. “Good stuff. By God, good stuff.”

“I didn’t realize that shepherds had retriever instincts,” was the major’s comment, relaxing for the first time since the lieutenant’s arrival.

“Oh, Merlin is full of surprises. Did you think to make a sled dog out of him on the way back? He’s strong enough to pull quite a heavy load.”

Turtle cleared his throat, grinning wickedly at the major.

“We tried,” the sergeant admitted.

The major grinned, glancing under the table.

“He didn’t seem to think too much of the idea.”

“He’s been cooped up so much lately, he may just have needed the run,” I decided.

“Swim,” the major corrected me. “He didn’t stay in long, though.”

I laughed heartily. “He’s a frustrated lifeguard. I remember one time Dad and I went over to Wildwood Beach that’s Jersey coast. Merlin wouldn’t let me in the water. The sea wasn’t rough or anything and Merlin’d been in. We couldn’t understand it. Then Dad tried and he wouldn’t let Dad in. Dad was furious. A boy, about four or five, started to wade in and Merlin ran around him until the child was so terrified he went screaming back to his parents. I want to tell you we had quite a time. The lifeguards called the police and wouldn’t listen when Dad and I kept trying to explain that Merlin was not rabid, had had all his shots, was a trustworthy animal and you know.” I nodded significantly at Turtle who nodded back sagely. “They were all set to take Merlin by force when someone started screaming out in the ocean. Come to find out, Merlin wasn’t so stupid. There were swarms of jellyfish and men-of-war coming in with the tide.” I shuddered at the thought of those slimy, stinging tentacles. “How Merlin knew they constituted a danger, I don’t know. But he wasn’t going to let me or Dad or that child in the water. The others, already swimming, I guess he figured he couldn’t help.”

“Dog’s near human,” the lieutenant commented appreciatively.

Merlin, who knew we were talking about him, laughed happily up at us, his tongue dangling sideways out of his mouth.

The eggy aroma of Yorkshire pudding now overlaid the combined smells of meat and woodsmoke. I hastily checked my dinner.

“Sure do admire pioneer women, coping with these things,” I groaned, trying to avoid the blast of hot air from the oven. “We got to eat right now.”

“No complaints here,” Turtle assured me.