The remains were softened by the years' passing. Let nature return
it to what it was, he thought. Undo what we did. Given enough
time, one day there would again be nothing more than sand and water.
Golden sand and blue water, recovered from man and his battles. The
sands of Gold Beach had turned red from the blood. The concrete
blocks of the pier lay stacked on the beach, testament to man's
capacity for - what? Bravery? Idiocy?

"Alex. There you are. How the bloody hell did you get down there?"

"Hello Robert." Waverly did not turn around. The damn fool made
enough noise to wake the dead. We're getting old. "Go to your
right. You can squeeze through the guard rails." Technically,
trespassing. The jagged trail cut straight down from the steep
slopes on the eastern side of the beach.

His friend scuffled down the path; the grass was worn down to dirt
by countless others before them. "You could have continued on to
the ramp, for pity's sake. You're not a bloody scout any more." He
scudded to a stop beside Waverly and clapped him on the
back. "Bloody hell. Look at my shoes. Good to see you."

"And you. Thirty years ago you'd have been shot dead if you
scrabbled about like that."

Robert laughed. "School's out, ok?"

Waverly smiled and turned to face his friend. "Have you heard from
Sir Frederick?" General Morgan, their comrade even before the war, had created the
invasion plan.

"No. I should have called him. I don't even know if he's going to
be at the ceremonies."

They stood at the foot of the rough incline and watched the waves.

"Remember all those postcards on the wall in Norfolk House? It
still looks the same, doesn't it?" The intelligence unit at COSSAC
headquarters had analyzed thousands of photos and postcards of the
French coastline.

Waverly frowned. "Only if you close your eyes to the town, face the
sea, and ignore the Mulberry."

"Yes, so many changes. It is inevitable. Are you staying in
Arromanches this year?"

"No. I don't care for it anymore. I drove from Rouen. I had to
reserve last year, as it was. The tourists are everywhere. I
couldn't even bear to visit the cemeteries."

"This year is especially busy. Eisenhower's around somewhere. He's
going to speak, of course." Robert took a last look around, and
then turned to climb back up. "Well then. Let's get this done."

Waverly remained behind for a minute, and thought about the first
time they had done this. The twenty years had passed quickly. This
day had seemed impossibly distant, back then. Now, looking back
upon it from the other side of time, the span of years seemed
impossibly short.

His life's work had become unrelenting. He often found himself
stunned by the date on the calendar. Days would slip past
unnoticed. He would emerge from one affair only to plunge headlong
into the next, and when he managed to find a quiet moment, another
week would be gone. Another month. Another year.

His friend's voice floated down to him. "Did you want to sit down
there?"

Waverly closed his eyes. The image was there, reversed. White
blocks strung out on a black horizon. He turned and worked his way
back up the path.

Robert had the small wooden table and canvas chairs out, and was
already seated. Waverly joined him. The leather case waited on the
table top. It still looked new.
Robert snapped open the two brass latches and lifted the lid. The
bottle lay inside, nestled in a towel stolen from their hotel in
London, on the eve of their first reunion.
The two glasses had been filched from the bar.

In November of 1944 they had crossed the Channel to Arromanches for
their little ceremony, landing at Mulberry B. The great floating
harbor would be dismantled that month.

"Here's to peace!" That first toast had been filled with optimism.
They had clinked glasses rather hard, and Robert laughed at the
prospect of smashed glass.

"To peace," Waverly responded. "How long do you think it will take?"

Robert's smile faded. "Let's give it twenty years. In twenty years
we'll be retired. There damn well had better be peace by then."

They'd agreed to return in 1949, in June, and then every five
years. The notches were carved into the label with a pen knife long
since lost, marking the contents for four more reunions. Now the
last portion lay forlornly in the bottom of the bottle.

Waverly poured the last of the whiskey into the thick tumblers. He
raised his glass to Robert. "Here's to peace."

They each took a swallow, and then sat still, catching at each
other's thoughts. Robert broke into a laugh. "We're going to need
another bottle."

Waverly smiled. "We were supposed to be retired by now, as well. I
don't anticipate that occurring any time soon."

"Well, how long should we go for this time? Are we going to last
another twenty years?"

Waverly looked past the cliff, to the beach and beyond, at the
caissons. Weathered, but still there. "We're like the Mulberry,
Robert. We may get on in years, but we will always hold fast. As
for peace - yes, let's give it another twenty years."

Robert thought about it. "I doubt we'll have peace, even then.
When our next bottle's done, someone will have to take over for us."

Waverly nodded. "I know just the two men to do it."

They raised their glasses a final time and drained them.

"To peace."

* * * *

"Illya, what's this?"

"Mr. Waverly is back from his holiday at the beach. He walked in,
put the note and the case on your desk and left. He didn't even
look at me."

The note lay on the case. Its message was short: "Do not open until
1989."

---------------

---

This page is an unofficial site that exists only for the fun of it. All characters and situations from the television show "The Man from U.N.C.L.E." are property of Norman Felton and Warner Bros. Nothing ill is intended by this use of any television characters in these amateur efforts. Any fiction linked to these pages is the intellectual property of the amateur author who created it and is not presented here for profit.