The Rest Is Silence

by James R Benn

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” I said, approaching a group of fishermen perching on a variety of tubs and crates near a row of a half-dozen fishing craft, keels in the mud of the estuary, lines tied snug to stanchions on the quay. On their laps was a confusion of nets being sewn or mended or whatever fishermen did with them. I got a couple of nods, but most didn’t bother to look up. Yanks were tuppence a dozen along the southwest coast.

  “Sorry to interrupt your labors,” Kaz said, handing packs of Luckies around. That got their attention. “But we need your expertise.”

  “Those cigarettes would buy you a lot more than that, laddie,” the oldest of the bunch said, with a wide grin that could have used a few more teeth.

  “But not from us, eh, Alfie?” This from another grey-haired fisherman. It got a round of laughs.

  “I wanted to ask about the tides and currents,” I said. Before I could say more, Alfie beckoned me closer and raised his head, sniffing the air.

  “Either you fell in a dung heap,” Alfie said, “or you’ve been to see Doc Verniquet. Which means you’re here about the body.” He pocketed his smokes and grinned. “Ain’t that right?”

  “Dead on, Alfie,” I said, which earned me a chuckle. Bringing a bloated, stinking corpse into town must have been hard to keep secret.

  As the others lit up, Alfie studied me. “Think he was one of yours?”

  “Too soon to tell,” I said. “What I’d like to know is where he might have floated in from. You fellows must know the tides and currents better than anyone.”

  “Aye. But why should we help you?” one of the other fishermen said, blowing smoke from one of the twenty reasons. He was younger than Alfie, but not young enough for military service. In his forties maybe, or maybe his weathered skin and thick stubble had just aged him. “Your lot has shut down all the good fishing west of here, not to mention taken homes away from good people.”

  “Now hang on, George,” Alfie said. “It was our lot who took over the South Hams, not the Yanks. And between E-boats and the Luftwaffe, the Germans have had as much to do with keeping us clear of those waters.”

  “Yeah, but we could still have stayed close to the shore,” George said, “if it wasn’t for the Yanks blowing up our homes.”

  “I’m sorry, fellows,” I said. “But I don’t know what you’re talking about. We just got here from London to look into the body they brought in.”

  “The government evacuated the whole area. Our government, that is,” Alfie said, with a hard look to George. “Right before Christmas, it was. Hard on everyone, especially the older folks. Some had never been more than one village away from home their whole lives.”

  “An old fellow from my village hung himself in his barn,” George said. “He’d never been outside of Blackawton, said he’d die there rather than leave.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “That must have been hard.”

  “It was,” Alfie said with a nod. “But most of us feel we had to do our part. If it helps to get your lads ready for the invasion, it’s the least we can do. The government gave us money, after all. It’s not like we were bombed out sudden like. We had a month to pack up and leave, more time than many had after the Luftwaffe come over.”

  “More than three thousand people, I understand,” Kaz said. “Nearly two hundred farms spread out over six parishes.”

  “Polish, eh?” Alfie said, pointing to Kaz’s shoulder patch. “You know what it’s like to lose everything to the war. Our complaints must seem petty.”

  “Loss is loss,” Kaz said, with a sad smile. He looked away, studying the muddy riverbed. Kaz had lost more to this war than most people.

  “Sorry,” George said, after another glare from Alfie. “I know lots of folk have it worse. But I can’t help missing it. We lived in Beesands all our lives, the wife and I. Fished out of there and made a good living, too. Plenty of crab and plaice out on the Skerries and beyond.”

  “The Skerries?” I said.

  “Sand bank out in Start Bay,” Alfie explained. “Off limits now, strictly for the navy.”

  “Aye,” George said. “Ours and theirs. Jerry sticks his nose up this way now and then. The E-boats go out at night, looking for transports.”

  “They ever attack you?” I asked.

  “No,” Alfie said. “We skirt the coast and head west into the wider waters. Jerry likes to stay in the Channel, where he can run back to Cherbourg if things get too hot.”

  “You men know these waters,” I said, getting back on track. “Any ideas about where the body could have come from? France maybe?”

  “Naw,” George said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The currents don’t carry north or south. East or west, depending on the tide.”

  “The Channel’s like a sleeve,” Alfie said. “Water goes in every day, like a man’s arm into his shirt. At the narrow parts, it’s a surge. Less so as the Channel widens, into the Atlantic or the North Sea. Here, it’s strong, as you can see.” He gestured toward their fishing boats stuck in the mud. “Two hours from now the tide’ll come in, and in three we’ll be heading out in deep water.”

  “In and out, four times a day,” George said. “The inshore currents run about two or three knots an hour. More if the winds are favorable.”

  “Which means a body washed up at Slapton Sands could have gone into the water twenty or so miles in either direction and been stuck in the tidal currents until he washed ashore,” I said. I figured the tides ran six hours apart, and at three or maybe four knots an hour, the currents could have carried him back and forth for quite a while.

  “Could be,” Alfie said, glancing at the other fishermen, who nodded their assent. “The winds have kicked up since last week, enough to bring him ashore.”

  “You haven’t heard of any fishermen missing? Boats that didn’t come back from the Channel?”

  “No. If a man was missing, everyone within miles’d know if it. Of course, a body could have gone in right here, from the embankment,” George said. “The estuary goes on for three miles before it reaches the Channel. He could have floated out with the tide and got caught up in the currents, washing up and down the coast until the wind took pity on him and returned him to dry land.”

  “Here, or anywhere up the River Dart to the east,” Alfie said. “We’re not much help, I’m afraid.”

  I thanked them for their assistance, such as it was. As we left, I took stock of their clothing. Corduroy or wool, plain browns mostly. A month or so in the drink and they’d look like the shreds Doc Verniquet had taken off the body.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I GUNNED THE jeep as we crossed the low stone bridge that arched the estuary, letting the wind whip the smell from my clothes. Mud flats and tidal pools spread out on either side as the salty aroma of the ocean grew stronger.

  “I’d prefer the stink of death to actually dying,” Kaz said, holding on to his cap with one hand and the seat with the other. I let up on the gas and drove sedately through a small village. Whitewashed stone cottages with thatched roofs sat close to the road, stark and bright beneath the slanting rays of the morning sun. A pub, a couple of shops, and then we were back in the midst of green fields. Aircraft roared overhead, descending as they passed us, heading for the coast.

  “P-47s, I think,” Kaz said, following their flight with shaded eyes. “Outfitted with the new rockets under each wing.” The P-47 Thunderbolt was easy to spot. It was large for a fighter; long and wide, able to carry a heavy load of armament. We heard distant explosions, then saw the fighters climb gracefully in two groups, engines snarling as they vanished over the horizon.

  “We must be getting close to the assault training area,” I said.

  “I assume we will wait until they are done with live-fire exercises,” Kaz said. “Perhaps we can find a spot for a decent luncheon. We passed a pub in that last village. The dead can wait, after all.”

  “Let’s find someone alive who can tell us what’s going on first,” I said.

  �
�As long as they are not firing five-inch rockets at us,” Kaz said. I had to agree. Kaz was up to date on the newly configured P-47s because General Eisenhower was coming down next week to watch an amphibious assault at Slapton Sands, which was going to feature a demonstration of the new rocket-carrying Thunderbolts. The general was interested in their capabilities against German tanks, which everyone knew we’d come up against all too soon. The Air Force probably had their pilots practicing every day so they’d look good when the brass was watching.

  We came to a roadblock outside of Chillington, a village not rating more than a tiny dot on the roadmap Kaz held folded in his lap. A jeep was parked across the narrow lane, and a sign warning DANGER AHEAD was set up in front of it.

  “Restricted area, Captain,” said the military police sergeant, holding up his hand as he crushed a cigarette butt under one heel. His white helmet and white leather belt were spotless. He managed to sound pompous even when addressing two officers. “You’ll have to turn around.”

  “Ike says I don’t have to, Sergeant,” I said as I passed him my orders. I couldn’t help myself. Even though I come from a family of cops, I grew up hearing stories from my dad and Uncle Dan about the MPs they ran into during the last war. According to them, the snowdrops—so called because of their white helmets—spent way too much time and trouble keeping the fighting men from liquor and French ladies. Dad and Uncle Dan were both cops themselves. Detectives on the Boston Police Department, where I’d worked in the family business until this war came along.

  “I’ve heard of SHAEF,” the sergeant said, handing the papers back. “First time I’ve ever seen anyone from Supreme Headquarters. You’re a long way from London, sir.” He spoke evenly, but the sarcasm about officers from HQ was clear. I was thinking of a way to get even when Kaz spoke up.

  “Sergeant,” Kaz said. “Is the way ahead clear? Of bombs and explosions, I mean.”

  “You must have heard the P-47s, sir. They’re done for the day. But they are running landing exercises down at the beach. May I ask your business here?” By now, his two companions had gathered around, probably glad of a break in the dull routine. One was an army private, the other an English constable with a rifle slung over his shoulder.

  “You heard about a body washing up on Slapton Sands?” I asked, grateful for Kaz’s interruption. This MP might have thought it’d be funny to send a couple of junior officers into a bombardment if I’d rattled his cage enough.

  “Yes, I found it,” the constable said. “Wish I hadn’t. Horrible sight.”

  “They brought it through our checkpoint,” the sergeant said. “That what you’re here about?” He seemed friendlier now that we were talking about a gruesome corpse.

  “It is. SHAEF wants to be sure it wasn’t a Kraut,” I said. “Mind if we borrow the constable? It would be helpful if he could show us exactly where the body was.” The sergeant didn’t mind. The constable’s shift was up in an hour, and we could give him a lift back to Dartmouth. Besides, two guys could stand around and smoke as well as three.

  “Tom Quick,” the constable said from the rear of the jeep after we’d introduced ourselves. “Don’t mind a drive to the shore, I’ll tell you.” Constable Quick was dark haired, with deep brown eyes and a confident way about him. He looked to be in his late thirties, maybe on the short side of forty. He wore his dark blue uniform well and handled his rifle like he was used to it. Bobbies had only been armed for the duration of the war, and some of them had never fired a shot in their lives.

  “Boring duty?” Kaz asked as we drove off.

  “It can be,” Quick said. “But the worst of it is turning people back when all they want’s to check on their homes. That’s why I’m there, to provide a local face for the poor souls from the South Hams. Some try to sneak in, so we have to patrol the whole area. Sad business, really.”

  “Are you from the South Hams yourself?” I asked.

  “No, I come from Newton Abbot. I’m assigned to the Dartmouth division; we work with the army quite often.”

  “What’s the W.R. stand for?” I asked. Quick was wearing a British Tommie helmet with W.R. CONSTABLE painted on the front.

  “War Reserve Constable,” Quick said. “I was a regular constable before the war, then I joined the RAF in ’39. Served as a gunner on a Lancaster until I took some shrapnel in my leg. They invalided me out, even though it only gave me a slight limp. The police are undermanned enough to overlook a minor injury, especially if it gets them an experienced officer. Temporary duty only, though, until the end of the war.”

  “I was a cop myself, before the war,” I said. “Back in Boston.”

  “Thought you might have been,” Quick said.

  “Why?” Kaz asked, turning to face Quick.

  “Because he asks a lot of questions. A good copper never stops asking questions, does he, Captain Boyle?”

  “No,” I admitted. “Once you get the habit, it’s hard to break. So I expect you asked some questions yourself after you found the body.”

  “Indeed,” Quick said. “I didn’t think he was a serviceman, and the Yank MPs were quick to agree. They had no reports of anyone missing, and the last thing they wanted was a case they couldn’t solve. Besides, he’d been in the water a long time, probably since before the whole American army descended on the South Hams. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but it’s been a handful, let me tell you.”

  “Dr. Verniquet said he’d been in the water a month or more,” I said, confirming his hunch. “And keeping the peace among thousands of GIs while guarding the border around the South Hams sounds like a huge job.”

  “It is, and the force is shortstaffed. A lot of the pensioners who came out of retirement at the start of the war have had to leave, and most of the younger lads have joined up. So it’s up to the lame and elderly most of the time, but we manage, even with the black market to add to our woes. Which brings us back to our friend from the Channel.”

  “You think he was a criminal?” Kaz asked.

  I slowed as we entered Stokenham, one of the villages emptied out by the government. It was a ghost town. Shops and homes along the main road stood with broken windows, open doors, and bits and pieces of furniture on the ground as if the buildings had spewed them out. A curtain fluttered in the breeze, a frayed token of surrender. One house had burned, its roof caved in. At the center of town, dozens of GIs sat around a First World War monument, eating K-Rations. More came out of the Church House Inn by the side of the road, tossing their empty ration packs on the path. The village looked like it had been plundered.

  “What’s this?” I asked, shocked at the sight. I knew the residents were gone, but I had never imagined their homes and businesses would be treated like dump sites in their absence.

  “Criminal, really,” Quick said. “But the lads who come through here aren’t the only ones to blame. At first we patrolled the area, but there weren’t enough of us. Vandals and thieves had their chance before the army. So when the first troops came ashore, they found the homes wide open. The live-fire rounds they sometimes use for realistic training have only added to the destruction, as you can see. A house full of bullet holes is ripe for desecration. Most of these men probably think the entire area’s slated for destruction.”

  “Or don’t care,” I said as I watched a large rat scurry into one cottage. We drove out of Stokenham in silence, until Quick got back to Kaz’s question.

  “I think it likely he was up to no good,” he went on. “We had no missing persons who matched the general description, and I talked to some fishermen over in Paignton who said they hadn’t heard of anyone lost in the Channel.”

  “We spoke to some in Kingsbridge who told us the same,” Kaz said.

  “Good,” Quick said. “Plus there’s the bullet wounds. Looked to me like a small caliber. What did Verniquet say?”

  “Same thing,” I said. “Probably a pistol, certainly nothing like a machine gun.”

  “Right. So I’m thinking a dispute be
tween black marketers. This fellow’s on the losing end of the argument and gets tossed overboard or off the end of a dock, and the tides keep him out in the Channel waters for weeks. Here, we’re close now,” Quick said. “Bear right.”

  We drove along a body of water to our left, a series of small, despoiled cottages to our right. At one time, it must have been a beautiful spot. On the other side of the water, low hills rolled across the horizon. The smell of salt air was sharp on the wind. As the road curved, we saw the long beach beyond the hills and a large beachfront hotel that had certainly seen better days. Gaping holes showed in the masonry, and smoking craters dotted the grounds.

  “That’s what the P-47s were aiming at,” Quick said. “It was scheduled for demolition but kept in place for target practice. This stretch of beach is Slapton Sands; the water on the other side is called Slapton Ley. A few miles up the beach is the village of Slapton itself.”

  Several LCIs—Landing Craft Infantry—sat on the beach disgorging GIs. These weren’t the small Higgins assault craft, but much larger vessels that could carry over two hundred men and deposit them on the far shore, with dry feet, via gangways on either side of the bow. They were designed as follow-up craft, so the good news was that if you were on one of these, you wouldn’t be charging across the beach into machine-gun fire. Or at least, that was the plan.

  GIs wandered about, clustered in small groups, smoking and chatting as if on holiday. A few officers yelled and hollered as they pushed the men off the beach and up the road we’d driven in on. If this was training for D-Day, no one was taking it seriously.

  Quick directed us past the bombed-out hotel to the shingle beach, the pebbles making a continuous click clack sound as the waves washed over them, drawing them back into the deep. We left the jeep and walked a few yards as Quick got his bearings. The wind off the water was cold, and I buttoned up my trench coat as it flapped around me.