Beyond the Call (7 page)

Robert looked uneasily at the trunk and two huge suitcases that were being loaded aboard the AT&SF
Super Chief
that would carry Eleanor as far as Chicago, and he wondered how she would manage it all. In a few short years of itinerant married life, they seemed to have accumulated an awful lot.

The huge red-and-silver diesel locomotive stood hissing patiently on the track. Eleanor sobbed and clung to him, staring up into his face, preserving this last sight of him in her memory. Caught up in the excitement of the adventure that was ahead of him, Robert didn't quite understand how much this moment meant to her. But he could see the tears, and the few words they exchanged stayed etched in his memory forever.

‘Are you going to be okay?' he asked, seriously concerned about the long journey she had ahead of her, and the delicate emotional state she was in. He hadn't figured that her state might be delicate in more ways than one.

‘Of course,' she said. ‘I'm strong when I need to be.' He didn't believe a word of it. ‘I'm okay, really,' she said, and tried to smile. ‘I just want to see your face clearly enough that I won't forget those rugged good looks.'

The conductor leaned out the door, yelling, ‘All aboard!'

‘Come on,' Robert said, extricating himself from her arms. ‘I don't want you to miss it.'

The horn blew a long, raucous blast. ‘Now, ma'am, quickly!' the conductor called.

She still wouldn't move. Robert lifted her up bodily onto the car steps.

‘Robert, you have to know, I'm—'

‘Don't worry about me!' he said. The conductor took her arm to steady her as the train gave a jolt and began to move. Robert smiled at her. ‘You take care of yourself now.'

The wheels were turning, and the distance between them began to grow. ‘Robert, I love you!' she called out. ‘And I'm pregnant!'

If she'd leaned out and punched him in the jaw, she could hardly have stunned him more thoroughly. He stood watching the glittering silver train snaking its way into the distance, trailing its wake of diesel vapor and noise, Eleanor's last words thumping over and over in his head in time with the clatter of the locomotive wheels.
I'm pregnant
—
I'm pregnant
– Her face shrank to a dot, then vanished; the train accelerated, and soon it was just a sliver on the horizon.

Weeks later, he could still hear the echoes, sitting in the cool quiet of the empty dining hall in the old consular building in Casablanca. He'd come a long way since that parting – much of it sick and barely conscious. All the way, Eleanor's confession had troubled him. She knew him well, and had guessed his feelings. When they flew up to Hamilton to collect their Liberator, Robert had been unable to concentrate, and had to ask Warren to take over the landing.

At first he had felt anger – an unreasoning annoyance, as if she had deliberately got herself pregnant for her own selfish reasons. They had talked about parenthood, and he knew that part of her desire for
a baby was so that she would have a piece of him while he was gone. At the same time, he was aware of how selfish
he
was being. The toxic influence of his own father was at work, messing up his feelings in ways that he didn't understand, and wouldn't begin to understand for a good while yet. By the time they flew past the Golden Gate and touched down at Hamilton, his feelings had changed: his heart ached to the point of almost breaking at the knowledge of Eleanor's love for him. But he still didn't feel that it was right to bring a baby into this world – a baby that, like him, might have to grow up without a father.

Recovered from his illness, and enjoying the pleasures of Casablanca, Robert was consumed by guilt, and finally put pen to paper. He wrote Eleanor a long letter describing his eventful journey – the first communication from him since that parting by the railroad track.

It wasn't received in the spirit it was intended. By this time, Eleanor had built up a head of anger of her own. She wasn't enjoying pregnancy one bit, and her anxiety about Robert was exacerbating the effects of chronic morning sickness. The letter might have been the first she'd heard from him, but not the first she'd heard
of
him. Not long before, she had received a letter from a nurse at the hospital at Dakar, who happened to be a Camp Hill, Pennsylvania, girl herself and had taken Robert under her wing. ‘My name is Loretta,' she wrote, ‘and I am a nurse taking good care of your husband. He is recuperating here in Dakar, and will probably be well enough to continue his mission in a few days.' The fact that Robert made no mention of Loretta in his own missive caused Eleanor all manner of suspicion.

She'd had a hard time since they parted. Feeling insecure and alone, she had lugged her suitcases between trains in Chicago, and finally several blocks home to Hummel Avenue. No one offered to help her. No one had been at the station to greet her either; her father, mother, and brother were all dead.

As far as Eleanor could tell, Robert was being pampered by beautiful nurses and had forgotten all about her. She didn't know where he was going, so she couldn't write him yet. She felt she was losing him
in every possible way, believing that the next she would hear of him would be the dreaded War Department telegram. She prayed extra hard, night and morning, between bouts of throwing up. She would fall asleep by the radio, humming ‘Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree' or ‘Till Then'.
¹¹

Robert, meanwhile, was living out the lyrics to both, crossing oceans to foreign shores – but so far he hadn't held any girls on his knee or given out with those lips of his. And as he sat and wrote his letter in Casablanca, the last trace of his illness was fading away, replaced by a renewed sense of that mingled trepidation and excitement about the adventure waiting for him when he eventually made it to England. Like a million other young Americans heading toward their first taste of combat in that early summer of 1944, he had little conception of what it would really be like, or just how profoundly it would affect him.

A SUDDEN CHANGE
in the note of the engines, and a simultaneous stomach-lurching drop in altitude, told Robert that the C-47 was beginning its descent, stirring him out of his memories. They were approaching their destination – Marseille-Marignane airport, near Marseille. Peering out the little square window, Robert saw the white-flecked blue of the Mediterranean angling up toward him as the plane banked and turned.

He shifted in his metal seat. The Army really knew how to punish a soldier's rear – he was glad he hadn't been a paratrooper. Maybe the purpose of the design was to make you happy to jump out of the plane into gunfire at the end of your trip. God knew how many more hours of it he'd have to endure before he reached the Ukraine.

Immersed in his memories, he had almost forgotten where he was. Had Casablanca really been only eight months ago? He was a different man now – a father, a combat veteran, and a Lucky Bastard. His feelings about most of those things had changed since the last time he looked down on the blue Mediterranean. Eight months, 35 combat
missions, and one very perplexing visit to London. The mature, toughened 25-year-old he'd become looked back in wonder at the innocent 24-year-old he had been; the boy looking forward to adventure.

He had survived by luck, and now he was safe, and one day soon he would come marching home, into the arms of Eleanor. That was all he yearned for now – hearth and home. Captain Robert M. Trimble was done with adventure.

Unfortunately, adventure wasn't done with him.

R
OBERT'S ITINERARY RAN
like a whistle-stop tour of cities recently liberated from the Germans. He'd seen Paris, now Marseille; from Marignane, the next flight took him to Naples, and then on to Athens. In both places his schedule allowed him a little time to gaze in wonder at the sights before being whisked away on another butt-walloping flight. He passed through Cairo, and then on to his last stop before entering the Soviet Union: Tehran.

He was held up in Tehran for more than a week. His entry to the USSR was being stonewalled by the Soviet authorities. Pathologically suspicious of any outsiders, they were determined to ensure that every single ‘i' was dotted, every ‘t' crossed on Captain Trimble's paperwork before they would allow him within their borders.

Alone in a foreign country, with no friends and nothing to do, Robert spent afternoons idly walking the streets, looking in shop windows and taking in the sights and sounds and smells of the city. He became aware of an unsettling atmosphere of hostility. He wasn't mobbed by beggars and street sellers the way he had been in Cairo, but the groups of turbaned, bearded men who loafed outside the cafés, smoking their bubbling
ghalyans
¹²
and drinking coffee, would pause in their conversations and stare at him in a way that made his flesh prickle – a cold, flinty gaze that radiated profound dislike.

Why the Iranians would regard an American officer in this way was a mystery to him. He wasn't aware that he was treading on occupied territory. Iran, after centuries of resisting colonization by the British
and Russian empires, had finally succumbed in 1941 to a joint military invasion by the forces of both those countries. The purpose was dual: first, to secure Iranian oil fields from capture by the Germans (who at the time were driving irresistibly into Soviet territory); and second, to establish a transit route – the Persian Corridor – through which Allied supplies could be ferried into the Soviet Union. The old ruler, Reza Shah, who had resisted Western demands before the invasion, was deposed, and his son, Mohammed Reza Pahlavi, was given the throne. The Persian Corridor had become a busy route, buzzing with military and diplomatic traffic.
¹³
The café-dwellers of Tehran saw the foreign uniforms on their streets and were not pleased by the sight.

A more hospitable atmosphere was to be found in the American diplomatic compound. But even that wasn't free from strange experiences. Weird encounters in embassy buildings were starting to become a feature of Robert's life. It occurred on the Friday evening after his arrival, when he was dining alone in the sumptuous restaurant. The lieutenant in charge of the restaurant approached his table.

‘Excuse me, Captain,' he murmured. ‘The shah is dining here tonight, and would like to meet you.'

‘The who?' said Robert, not sure he'd heard right.

‘The shah, sir. The Shah of Iran … the king …?' Seeing the light of understanding dawn on Robert's face, the lieutenant explained: ‘The shah and the queen are dining at that table over there, and wish to be introduced to you.'

Robert, dazed, stood up and followed the lieutenant across to a table where a smart-looking couple were seated. They were very young – no older than Robert himself. The man was handsome, with a long fleshy nose, slick black hair, and small, bright eyes – his sharp suit and penetrating gaze gave him the appearance of a Sicilian gangster. The woman was dressed and made up like a movie star. She was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman Robert had ever met – the kind who could stun a fellow dumb just by looking him in the eye. These two exquisite fashion plates were the first couple of Iran – the shah and his consort, Queen Fawzia.

It was the shah's habit to dine here on Fridays (the Islamic day of rest), as part of his efforts to maintain cordial relations with the Western Allies. Or so Robert was told. What he was not told was why the shah would take an interest in him, a lowly American captain. Only later did he realize that it might have had something to do with the diplomatic status that had been conferred on him. It was also possible that the shah, who was meticulous in gathering information about everything that passed in his nation's diplomatic circles,
¹⁴
had picked up whispers about Captain Robert M. Trimble; that he was passing through on some mysterious purpose that was of interest to the highest and most powerful US authorities. (If so, he knew more than Robert himself did at this point.)