by James R Benn
"Anything from Love Mike?" A lieutenant, his sleeves rolled up above his elbows, leaned over the operator who had been listening for Love Mike's call sign.
"Nothing. Maybe their radio's out. Maybe."
"Dog Victor?" the officer asked the other GI.
"I couldn't make him out," he said, a weary sigh escaping his lips. "Explosions. Then gunfire. They're off the air."
"Where is all this going on?" I asked. The operators went back to their headphones as the lieutenant took notice of me for the first time.
"Gangi, north of Enna. Those call signs are the First and Second Battalions of the Sixteenth Regiment, and they're in trouble. Who the hell are you?"
"Billy Boyle, from Seventh Army HQ. I have a few questions about Lieutenant Andrews. You have a minute?"
"Sure," he said, extending his hand. "Frank Howard."
"You in charge here?"
"I have the Operations Platoon. We do most of the work here, except for coding. Captain Stanton takes care of that. Let's talk over here."
Howard was a second lieutenant, just like me, the lowest of the high. Close-cropped sandy hair, a sharp nose, and blue eyes with dark bags drooping below them. He had a distinct New York accent, the word "work" coming out "woik," the way the Three Stooges said it. I'd taken enough guff about my Boston accent that I didn't comment on it. I figured if he dropped a few r's, we added them in Boston, so it all worked out. Maybe we could argue baseball, though. That might be fun except that, last I heard, the Yankees were leading the division.
"You're from New York?"
"Neither of us can hide where we're from, can we?"
"You got that right. What did you do before the war?"
"Crane operator, mostly on the docks. My old man was in the union, so I got my card and managed to work fairly regular. How about you?"
"I was a cop. My dad too."
"Doesn't hurt to have connections, especially when times are tough." True enough. Plenty of guys without them got no work at all during the Depression. Depending on family connections might not be fair, but it sure beat standing in a soup line.
Howard stopped to talk to a noncom and went over a sheet of orders with him. He had a few years on me and seemed firmly in control of this operation. He finished with the noncom and I followed him to the end of the tent, where he had his office set up. An empty spool of communications wire on its side supported a field desk, one of those portable boxes that opened to show a variety of drawers and cubbyholes, big enough to hold all the forms, stamps, and red tape needed to run a company. A field telephone and tools rested on another upturned spool, and a wool blanket hung heavily from a line strung from the end pole, half hiding a cot stuck in the corner of the tent.
"All the comforts of home," I said, as he sat in a swivel chair that looked like it came from a lawyer's office. He pointed to a crate of rations, 10-in-1, for me to perch on.
"Nothing like you boys at HQ enjoy, I'm sure," Howard said, lighting up a Lucky without offering me one, and blowing blue smoke above my head. He eyed me with a studied wariness that told me he hadn't found lieutenants from headquarters of much use in this war.
"I've been too busy lately to check out the accommodations," I said, ignoring the jibe. "I've been looking into something that may involve Lieutenant Andrews. Did you know him well?"
"We went through training together at Camp Gordon. He had the Supply Platoon, and did a fine job. We weren't close, but friendly enough. Poker games, baseball, stuff like that."
"You don't seem surprised I'm asking about him," I said.
"I knew somebody would, sooner or later."
"Why?"
"Because of what he did to my corporal. He got him killed."
I tried not to jump out of my seat. This was more than a lead, it was a real clue. "Do you mean Hutton? Aloysius Hutton?"
"Yeah, Hutton. He didn't like his first name much."
"I thought it was a good solid name," I said, thinking about what it had been like to be without a name, when I gave Hutton's to Clancy and Joe, and how speaking it had felt like ashes in my mouth.
"You know what happened to him?" Howard asked.
"I was there when he died," I said. "But first, tell me what Andrews had to do with getting him killed."
"So they even shanghaied a headquarters louie up on Biazza Ridge?" He gave out a sad laugh as he shook his head in disbelief at the thought of a staff officer on the front line. "Andrews was in charge of our supplies, obviously. Rocko Walters was a sergeant who ran the division's Supply Company, and I mean ran it. His CO was a goof-off who left him in charge of the whole show."
"I met Rocko too. When a paratroop officer came looking for men and supplies for Biazza Ridge, he vanished."
"Sounds like him. He was a rat, and someone finally caught up with him."
"I know," I said, letting it go at that.
"Anyway, Andrews had to go through Rocko for our requisitions.
Back in Tunisia, I noticed radios starting to go missing. They were marked down as lost or broken, but I knew we'd never gotten them."
"Rocko was selling them on the black market," I suggested.
"That would have been my bet, but I couldn't prove it. I think Rocko gave Andrews a big payoff and did all the work, to get him hooked." He ground out his cigarette and spit out a piece of stray tobacco.
"And then put the squeeze on him," I said.
"You got it, junior."
"But how did Hutton fit in?"
"Hutton was a genius with radios and telephones. He could repair any damn thing, using spare parts from German equipment if he had to." "But what would that mean to Rocko?"
"My guess is, it meant Rocko could communicate with anyone he wanted, anywhere."
"You mean anywhere you had wire strung, right?"
"Come with me. It's easier to show you," he said.
I followed him out to a smaller tent, about eight by ten feet, not far from Howard's office at the end of the Message Section tent. He pulled open the front flaps and tied them back. Except for a cot stuck in a corner, it looked like a warehouse for radio and telephone parts. A workbench at the far end was littered with tools, wire, tubes, and the guts of gadgets I couldn't identify. A switchboard sat next to an SCR-300 radio, and other electrical hardware encased in canvas or wood with U. S. Army markings stood stacked shoulder-high. I looked more closely at a device connected to the switchboard. It was a long wooden case with black dials set into it and connectors for a dozen or so wires along the top. The faceplate was marked in German.
"What the hell is all this?" I asked.
"Hutton was a loner, and he liked to tinker, so I gave him his own workshop. He came up with some ingenious stuff. This is a BD-72, our standard field switchboard. We can bring in twelve lines and route calls between them. But, like you said, it's only for calls on our wire. We can connect two of these and increase the capacity, but it's still a closed loop."
"But Hutton tinkered with it, right?"
"He sure did," Howard said, with a hint of pride as he tapped the unit next to the switchboard. "This has some god-awful long German name, which translates to something like Special Exchange Telephone Interface. See the line coming out of it?"
I nodded, following the black wire up and out the rear of the tent, where it was tied together with a bundle of other insulated wire.
"That line is spliced into the civilian telephone network. With this dialer, also German, you can call any number in Sicily."
"Who did Hutton talk to on this thing?" I was having a hard time imagining Aloysius Hutton as the kingpin of a Mafia conspiracy, huddled in here calling mobsters all over Sicily.
"I don't think he talked to anyone. He didn't speak Italian, and he wasn't much of a talker anyway."
"But he could make a call and route it to anyone connected through this switchboard?"
"Sure," Howard said. "Or anyone connected through any of our switchboards."
"Like the divisional Supply Company?"
"Definitely, along with division HQ, Corps HQ…"
"What about AMGOT?"
"Yep, we have them too, the Syracuse HQ and the Gela Civil Affairs Office," Howard said. "Connect this with our high-frequency radio, and I could give Ike himself a call in Algiers."
"Get much radio traffic between AMGOT and the 45th?"
"Fair amount. The Civil Affairs officers call in from towns all along our front."
"What about a Major Elliott?"
"Yeah, I've seen his name on a lot of messages. Some coded, some in the clear."
Now I knew why Rocko was so broken up to hear Hutton had been killed. Hutton was his way to contact Vito, Elliott, and whoever else was in on this.
"So Lieutenant Andrews arranged for Hutton to be assigned to Rocko at the supply depot, so he could keep an eye on him and have him make a call whenever he needed to," I said, spelling it out. "But Hutton was in your platoon-right?-not Andrews's. How come he was sent to work for Rocko?"
Howard answered, "I didn't have any choice about assigning Hutton. Orders came from division."
"From who, exactly?"
"Don't know. That's what Captain Stanton said. He wasn't too happy about it either. You figure something funny is going on here?"
"Rocko was killed. Murdered," I added, stressing the distinction.
"You think Hutton was mixed up in something illegal?"
"Hard to figure him for a crook."
"I agree. He was a good kid. You got any idea who's behind all this?" "I'm working on it."
"What a waste," Howard said as he looked at the contents of the tent, the tools lined up neatly on the workbench, dust starting to settle on the hardware.
"Just so you know, Hutton did OK up on Biazza Ridge. He stood his ground."
"Good for him. I hope he didn't suffer when he got it," Howard said.
"No," I said, remembering the hole in his forehead and how he had quietly slumped over his rifle. "I don't think he knew what hit him."
"Thanks. You seem OK for a headquarters louie."
"All depends on who you ask. Mind if I look around here a bit?"
"Knock yourself out, pal. Just don't make any long-distance calls."
Howard left and I began to search the tent. For what exactly, I had no idea. With so much funny business going on, there was sure to be some sign of something shady, if only I could recognize it when I saw it. There were technical manuals stacked everywhere, so I flipped through the pages, looking for notes or maybe Mussolini's phone number. A couple of well-read Popular Mechanics issues from 1940 had loose pages falling out. I lifted up every piece of equipment and looked underneath. Nothing but dust. Checked the few items of clothing that were left scattered around and felt under the cot frame. Nothing but a wad of chewing gum.
There weren't any of Hutton's personal effects; those must have been picked up to be shipped home. If there was anything out of place, Howard would probably have noticed. Which meant if Hutton had left anything, he'd had a hidey-hole. I tried to put myself in his place. A loner, he liked to tinker with things. I remembered his hands were smooth, with long tapering fingers. Perfect hands for working with tubes and connections in cramped spaces. He didn't talk much, didn't bunk with anyone, so he probably didn't have a lot of pals. Where would he place his trust? What would seem to be a safe place to him?
I picked up a thin screwdriver from the workbench and eyed the piles of equipment. There were a lot of screws holding these things together, and I tried to guess which one he'd pick. It had to be one he knew no one else would use. The BD-72? No, I'd seen half a dozen others in operation in the Message Section tent. Someone might need a replacement and take his. But no one would need German equipment, right? I got to work on the dialer and the exchange device, unscrewing a wooden side panel from each and looking inside. Nothing. I screwed the sides back on and decided Hutton would not have risked taking these things apart-too many things might go wrong.
I sat back in his chair and stared at the thing. A thin metal plaque was fixed to the side with a diagram of the circuits and a bunch of German writing. Howard had been right about the name- Umtauschtelefonschnittstelle-it was a mouthful. I found a flashlight on the workbench and shined it on the metal. Four small screws held it in place; two of them had very small scratches at the end of the slot. Of course. No need to take it apart at all.
I found a smaller screwdriver and took out three screws. The plaque swiveled down, hanging by the single bottom right screw, as a small piece of paper fell to the table. I picked it up and read five rows of numbers, printed in a neat, precise hand.
92221166
09137422
32290664
71910900
230933
If I hadn't been sitting down, you could have knocked me over with that slip of paper. I had no idea what the first four numbers were, but I knew the last one by heart. It was the main phone number of the Hotel St. George in Algiers. General Eisenhower's headquarters.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I replaced the plaque and put Hutton's tools back where I'd found them. I felt sorry for the kid. I was sure he had been dragged into this by Andrews to get Rocko off his back, and had only been doing what he was told. This, clearly, had been his world: wires and gizmos, radios and transceivers, the stuff of colorful Popular Mechanics covers. A page that had fallen out of one of the magazines lay at my feet. It was headlined RADIO GOES TO WAR! Problem was, it didn't always come home.
"You!"
I swiveled in my seat to see a finger pointed at me. At the other end was Captain Stanton, his red hair no match for the color rising up from his neck.
"Stand up, goddamn it," he said. "Now!"
I wasn't as worried about the finger pointed at me as I was about the carbine held by the same MP who had kept me out of the Code Section. It wasn't at port arms anymore.
"Sure thing," I said, standing up, keeping the piece of paper folded in the palm of my hand. "What's the problem, sir?"
I placed my hand on my hip, as if my back were sore, slipping the paper into my belt. The MP got nervous, stepping forward and motioning "hands up" with the carbine.
"Hold on, fellas," I said, reaching for the sky. "We're all friends here, right?"
Neither of them wanted to be my pal. The MP held the carbine up to my neck as he took my. 45 from the holster then shoved me out of the tent.
"What's going on?" I asked, looking around for a friendly face.
"You're not asking the questions here, Boyle, so shut up," Stanton growled.
"Actually, I am, Captain. I'm here from HQ with some questions-"
"Take the wind out of his sails," Stanton ordered.
The MP moved his carbine and whacked me in the stomach with the butt, high, in just the right spot to send me to my knees sucking air and watching little starry lights dance before my eyes. I took heaving, gasping breaths that didn't seem to carry any oxygen into my lungs. I had to admire his technique. He'd used the corner of the wooden butt, knocking the wind out of me without breaking a rib. A billy club was better for this move, but he was doing the best he could with what he had.
My breathing calmed down and I was able to lift my head in time to catch a view of Stanton's backside as he trudged off to the Code Section.
"You… a… cop?" I asked, needing a few gasps to get the words out.
"Yeah. Patrolman, Detroit. Don't tell me-"
"Detective. Boston."
"Sorry, Lieutenant," he said, helping me up. "If you had your shield you could've tinned me back there."
"You bring yours with you?"
"Yep. Here, take a look." He pulled out a bright silver badge, Detroit police all right. "Got me out of trouble in Norfolk before we shipped out, and I even got a ride from a French flic in Oran one night. I was drunk as a skunk."
"Good to hear that cops stick together the world over," I said.
"Yeah, well, sorry I had to put you on your knees. You OK now?"
"I think so. What ar
e you supposed to do with me?"
"Watch you until a Major Elliott gets here. Come on, let's get out of the sun and take a load off." He led me by the arm-that insistent yet inconspicuous cop grip that left no doubt who was in charge-into the shade of the Message Section. We sat on folding wooden chairs inside, our backs to the rest of the tent. His chair creaked under his weight, but held. He tossed his helmet onto the ground and brushed back his brown hair. He had blue eyes, broad cheekbones, and a nose that looked like it had been broken at least once.
"Smoke?" He offered a Lucky from his pack. I shook my head.
"So what's your name, Patrolman?" I asked.
"Miecznikowski. You can call me Mike."
"Billy Boyle, and you can forget the lieutenant stuff. When there's no one around, who cares." I stuck out my hand and he shook it.
"You look young for a detective," he said, squinting at me through rising smoke as he lit up.
"I made the grade right before Pearl Harbor. Boston PD is a family business."
"Your old man?"
"Yeah, and uncle too, plus a few cousins."
"Not bad, Billy. You like it, being in the family business?"
"It's all I ever wanted to be. I grew up watching the men in my family carry badges like yours. It's all I know really." It occurred to me that there was a big difference between wanting to be something and becoming something because it was all you knew. Maybe I did want it, like Mike wanted it, all on his own.
"It's good work, especially for us Poles and you Irish. Jobs don't come so easy when you got too many c's and z's in your name," he said.
"Or an O in front of it," I said.
"Can you imagine a half Polack half Mick? O'Chmielewski? He'd starve to death before he ever got work!"
We laughed and swapped stories of walking the beat, desk sergeants, and run-ins with politicians and sons of the high and mighty who ran our towns. Things weren't that different in the Motor City, except that Mike didn't have a bunch of relatives to pull him up the ladder. He was a couple of years older than me and still hoofing it in his bluecoat. Or was.