by James R Benn
From Paignton it was a straight shot to the bridge at Totnes, driving through fields of sprouting crops and grazing cows. I cruised by columns of marching GIs carrying heavy packs and counting cadence. There were more in the distance, spread out on maneuvers, darting up gently rolling hills, disappearing into tree lines and appearing again like an undulating swarm of brown ants. Under the English sky, it all looked so simple.
We crossed the river, and even miles inland it was easy to see how low the water was. Small boats sat on the mud bottom waiting for the tide’s return, long ropes securing them to the bank six feet up. Would bodies drift up the waterways, the cost of war washing up against farmers’ fields? I shook off the macabre image and slowed as the country lane leading to North Cornworthy narrowed, green leafy branches arching over our heads as we drove. Picturesque. The perfect thing before an afternoon of sorting through the dead.
WE PULLED TO a stop in front of Ashcroft House. Big Mike whistled in amazement as he got out of the other jeep.
“This is where you guys have been shacking up? Not bad,” he said.
“Wait until you meet the family,” I said, stretching after the jeep ride. “How should we handle this?” I asked Kaz.
“Meredith, first,” Kaz said. “She seems to be in charge now. Then a courtesy call upon Lady Pemberton.” I was about to ask Kaz to brief Big Mike on how to act around Great Aunt Sylvia when voices rose from around the side of the house. Angry voices.
“Who’s that?” I said.
“David, perhaps,” Kaz said. It was two men, arguing. David and Edgar? I doubted Edgar would get that worked up over anything. “Wait here,” Kaz said, obviously worried about his friend, but not wanting to embarrass him with a whole posse. As soon as Kaz turned the corner, the voices dropped off. In a minute, he was back with David and Crawford, who sported a dark scowl.
“Crawford will deliver the supplies to the kitchen,” David said to Kaz, studiously avoiding speaking to or looking at Crawford, who bent to the task and left with an armload. Kaz introduced him to Big Mike, who gave David a casual, “How ya doin’? Nice place.” If I hadn’t been watching for it, I would have missed Big Mike’s eyes lingering on the burned face, studying the taut, shiny skin.
“Not mine, I’m afraid. Not really sure who holds the title, not yet anyway. Come inside, we’ll find Meredith. Helen will defer to her in any case; she always does. I am sure we’ll be happy to have another guest, these delicacies notwithstanding.”
Helen was nowhere to be seen, but we found Meredith in Sir Rupert’s study. Or his former study. She was in the classic bill payer’s pose, a mass of envelopes and invoices on the desk next to an open checkbook.
“Sorry to interrupt, Meredith,” David said. “It seems we’re being asked to do our bit for the war effort and house a colleague of the baron’s for a few days. This is Sergeant … er, how do you pronounce that name again?” David gave Big Mike an apologetic look.
“Staff Sergeant Mike Miecznikowski, ma’am,” Big Mike said, stepping forward and offering his huge hand. “People call me Big Mike, though.”
“I can see why,” Meredith said, tossing down her pen and accepting the shake, her delicate hand disappearing into Big Mike’s grip. “What exactly can we do for you?”
“It’s got something to do with that ship being sunk,” David said. Kaz and I exchanged a quick glance. Had news traveled that fast? “The sergeant works with Billy and the baron, and they all need to stay on a few more days.”
“Of course, we shall be glad to help in our small way,” Meredith said, smiling as she rose from her chair. “Welcome to Ashcroft House, Sergeant. David, could you show our guest to his room? Will you all be staying for luncheon?”
“No, we need to get going,” I said. “Thanks very much. I hope this is not an imposition, considering all you’ve been through.” For a dame who was on the outs with her father when he died, Meredith fit into the role of Ashcroft’s head honcho easily enough.
“Not at all, Captain,” she said. “I for one am glad of the distraction. We can’t seem to get a straight answer from father’s solicitor about the estate, and meanwhile, we have creditors whose patience seems to be running out. I’m sending each a small amount from our funds and a note explaining the situation.” She shook her head, as if clearing away cobwebs. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be boring you with our troubles, should I? I’ll ask Mrs. Dudley to make some sandwiches for you to take.”
“Take a look at what they’ve brought us, while you’re at it,” David said. “Food and drink of the gods.”
“We’ll need to be sure Edgar doesn’t keep the drink to himself,” she said, leaving the room.
“Very kind of Meredith to be so accommodating,” I said to David as he escorted Big Mike to his room. “She seems different now that her father’s gone.”
“Yes, she does,” David agreed. “Odd duck, our Meredith. Here you go, Big Mike,” he said, opening the door to a room next to mine.
“How did you hear about a ship being sunk?” I asked as we waited for Big Mike to stow his bag.
“From Crawford,” he said. “He mentioned that you and Piotr went out early after receiving a call, something to do with a German attack on a convoy, I think. He was going to go out fishing and telephoned a friend of his on a shore battery to find out if it was safe.”
“Yeah,” I said, remembering the snatch of pre-dawn conversation. “A cousin, I think.”
“That’s right,” David said as Big Mike shut his door behind him. “I assumed that was still your assignment. All right, let’s get those sandwiches organized. So sorry Helen isn’t about to meet our new guest. She hasn’t been herself lately. I think her father’s death has had more of an effect on her than she let on.” I followed as David led us downstairs, not wanting to stick my nose in and ask what he and Crawford had been arguing about. Besides, Kaz would do that in his own way.
In the kitchen Williams and Mrs. Dudley were ohhhing and ahhhing over the rations we’d brought along. Meredith and Edgar were there, too, along with Crawford, who was leaning against a counter smoking a cigarette, having already opened the carton of Chesterfields.
“Sugar!” Mrs. Dudley said, feeling the heft of the package. “I haven’t seen this much sugar since before the war. Thank you, gentlemen. Oh, I must finish packing your lunch!” She scurried off, wiping her hands on her apron.
“It wasn’t necessary, Baron Kazimierz,” Meredith said. “But it is appreciated.” It was funny how people in this house usually addressed such comments to Kaz exclusively. Their types much preferred talking to a baron over a mere American captain. Hey, who could blame them? Kaz would always be a baron, but when this war was over, I’d be a cop again, relegated to the back door of any place as fancy as this on Beacon Hill. Still, Meredith had treated Big Mike nicely, reserving her cutting remarks for her own husband, and that had to count for something. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Edgar inspect the Scotch as Meredith supervised the stocking of the larder.
“Let’s leave that for drinks tonight, shall we?” she said, a disapproving eyebrow raised in her husband’s direction.
“I’ll take the bottles to the library,” Edgar said, not exactly agreeing or disagreeing.
“Have you seen Helen?” David asked, pulling Meredith’s attention away from Edgar, who was walking away from her, bottles clinking in his hands.
“She went out for some air,” Meredith said. “She mentioned something about creditors upsetting her. Well, that’s what they do, isn’t it?”
“I’m sure it will all turn out fine in the end,” David said, directing a reassuring smile at Williams and Crawford. No reason to let the help know about financial problems, even in such a progressive house as Ashcroft, I figured.
“Have you set a date for the funeral?” Kaz asked. “We would like to attend, duties permitting.”
“In two days,” Meredith said. “Thank you. That is most kind. I know Father enjoyed your company, as well as yours, Capta
in Boyle. I do hope you can be there.”
“Don’t worry about that, ma’am,” Big Mike said. “You tell us where and when, and I’ll make sure they get there on time.”
“How nice of you, Sergeant,” Meredith said. “Ten o’clock, St. Peter’s in North Cornworthy. It’s the only church in the village. We’re very C of E around here. Church of England, I mean,” she added for benefit of us outsiders.
“We’ll do our best,” I said, noticing that Meredith was warming to Big Mike as easily as any crusty old general at SHAEF. “But now we should see Lady Pemberton and pay our respects. Is she in her sitting room?”
“Yes, go on up,” Meredith said. “The poor dear is exhausted, so please don’t tire her out. I think the events of the past few days have had their effect on her.” She wished us well and returned to her list of US Army rations.
Upstairs, we knocked on Great Aunt Sylvia’s sitting-room door. She beckoned us in with a weak voice, and we found her sitting in an overstuffed armchair by the window, a blanket on her lap. She did look tired, and quite pale as well.
“Ah, visitors,” she said, her eyes still holding a twinkle of life. “How nice. Baron Kazimierz, Captain Boyle, who do you have with you?”
“Sergeant Michael Miecznikowski, Lady Pemberton,” Big Mike said, giving her a bow that wouldn’t have been out of place at a society shindig. “I’m afraid I will be taking advantage of your hospitality for a few days. Official business; I hope you don’t mind.”
“What exactly is your business, young man?”
“Keeping these two officers out of trouble. It’s a full-time job, Lady Pemberton.”
“So I imagine, Sergeant. What did you say your name was again?” She squinted, as if she was having trouble seeing.
“Don’t even try, ma’am. I answer to Sarge or Big Mike, which is what General Eisenhower himself calls me.”
“Big Mike,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. “If ever a name fit the man, yours does. You Americans always seem so large in comparison to our English boys. Thin and pasty, many of them, while you are so fit and tanned. Even our soldiers often look puny in comparison. Boys of eighteen have been living with rationing since they were thirteen years old, raised without proper foods. There are young children in the village who have never seen an orange. Small wonder that our servicemen are often engulfed by their uniforms.” She waved a hand across her face as if banishing the image from her mind. “But my manners—please, sit down, and tell me what happened so early this morning.”
“We only have a few minutes,” I said, sitting on a couch next to Kaz while Big Mike tested the limits of a chair across from Lady Pemberton. “We’re looking for survivors from a ship that was torpedoed out in Lyme Bay. Some senior officers haven’t been accounted for yet.”
“We hope they’ve been picked up by one of the rescue vessels,” Kaz said, which didn’t sound too much like a lie.
“I think Crawford went out in his boat,” she said. “I seem to recall seeing him from my window, bicycling out shortly after you left. That was today, wasn’t it? I get up before the cock crows these days, and I think I watched all of you leave … Yes, this morning; it must have been. You’ll have to excuse my memory. This isn’t one of my better days.”
“Crawford didn’t mention going out,” I said, watching Great Aunt Sylvia furrow her brow, worrying as she tried to remember the early morning events.
“Apparently he heard from some relative who saw the explosion. He thought it was close enough in that he might find men still alive in the water. But the navy turned him away, saying it was restricted. From what Crawford reports, they have enough boats out and about.”
“Good of him to try,” Kaz said.
“Indeed,” Great Aunt Sylvia said, stifling a yawn. “I mustn’t keep you gentlemen from your duties. It was very nice to meet you, Big Mike. Good luck to you.” Her eyelids fluttered, and she seemed about to nod off to sleep. She managed a wave before her hand dropped limply in her lap.
“Nice lady,” Big Mike said as we walked downstairs.
“She’s a firecracker,” I said, pointing to her portrait on the staircase. “That’s her.”
“Geez, she was a looker,” Big Mike said.
“She did seem tired, and a touch confused.” Kaz said. “Usually she’s quite energetic and clearheaded.”
“She is ninety,” I said. “We all have our bad days.”
We picked up our ham sandwiches and went off on our search for men who would never see ninety. As we drove out on the gravel drive, I spotted Helen on a path coming out of the woods from the family cemetery. Her head was down and her arms folded tight against her breast, quick steps taking her closer to Ashcroft until she stopped and looked up at the house from the driveway. Her body was rigid except for the convulsions of her shoulders. Sobbing for her dear departed father? Or afraid of the future?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“CONSTABLE TOM QUICK,” I said, introducing Big Mike outside the local police station, a small house on the outskirts of North Cornworthy. Tom had been waiting for us, helmet and rifle in hand.
“It must be important,” Tom said. “Inspector Grange sent a bicycle messenger from Dartmouth to tell me to wait for you.”
“It is,” I said. “Have you heard any news?” I wanted to see how far word might have spread.
“Nothing to warrant two jeeps and the biggest sergeant in the US Army,” he said.
“Apparently a ship was torpedoed out in Lyme Bay last night,” I said, sticking as close to the truth as I could. “We have to determine if nine specific officers are alive or among the dead.”
“That’ll be difficult if they’re at the bottom of the Channel,” Quick said. “What’s so special about these blokes?”
“Who knows?” Big Mike said. “Probably all politics. We just follow orders. It was the same thing back in Detroit. I was a sergeant then too, only in blue.” Big Mike pulled out his gold Detroit PD shield, which he carried like a good luck charm, his link to another life.
“Our squadron leader didn’t explain much besides target, altitude, and airspeed, so I know about following orders,” Quick said, inspecting the badge. “All right, so how do we handle it?”
“We’ll split up,” I said, unfolding a map on the hood of the jeep. “Colonel Harding gave us a list of Casualty Clearing Stations. Morgues, really, but we don’t want to let on how great the loss of life might be.”
“How bad is it?” Quick asked.
“They fear up to a hundred,” Kaz said, shooting me a quick glance. One lie was as good as another.
“There are clearing stations on the coast near Brixham, Stoke Fleming, Slapton Sands, and at the Start Point Lighthouse,” I said, pointing to the arc of coastline in front of Lyme Bay. “Tom, you and Kaz will start with Stoke Fleming and work your way south to Start Point. Big Mike and I are going to get a boat to take us out into the bay. I want to see the operation to recover bodies first hand. If the navy is putting in a major effort, our chances will be better. If not, then I doubt we can account for all nine.”
“What about Brixham?” Kaz asked.
“If Big Mike and I have time after we get back from Lyme Bay, we’ll head up there. We have a list of the men we’re looking for and copies of our orders from General Eisenhower,” I said, handing a file to Quick.
“Ike himself?” Quick said, a look of amazement on his face.
“Yep,” I said. “And this all has to be kept as quiet as possible. Everyone’s nervous enough with the invasion coming up. The general doesn’t want people panicking about German ships right off the coast.”
“Makes sense,” Quick said, nodding as he studied the list. “Odd, though. These aren’t all senior officers. Four lieutenants, two captains, a major, one colonel, and even a sergeant. No offense, Big Mike, but what’s so important about them? I expected a few generals, at least.”
“Ours is not to reason why,” Kaz said. It was the kind of truism instantly recognized by any cop or soldier
on the low end of the pecking order, and it did the trick. Quick murmured his agreement while reviewing the list and scanning the rest of the paperwork.
“With orders like these, we could detail a regiment to take care of the search and have a few pints while they get on with it,” Quick said with a grin, to show he was joking. But he was right. We could probably wave these around and walk off with the army payroll before anyone questioned us.
“Tempting,” I said. “And the pints will be on me, if and when we find them. We’ll rendezvous at Greenway House and report to Colonel Harding at nineteen hundred.”
“Seven o’clock, Billy,” Big Mike said. “Speak English, willya?” Civilians in uniform—that accounted for most of us over here, as I’d explained to Lady Pemberton a few days before.
I asked Big Mike to drive because my leg was stiff and my healing cuts and scrapes itched like crazy. We followed Kaz and Quick until they turned off for Stoke Fleming and then we headed into Dartmouth. As we drew closer to the harbor, the American MPs and British sailors standing guard were a bit thicker on the ground than they’d been before. Ambulances sat parked along the quay, drivers half asleep or smoking, killing time until the brass decided there would be no more survivors brought in from the Channel. Other than that, it could have been any day at war along the English coast: men, grey ships, the smell of oil and salt mingling with seaweed and garbage.
Our orders got us onboard the USS Bayfield pronto. An ensign named Weber escorted us to the captain’s quarters. He looked about fifteen years old. His khakis were pressed and his tie knotted perfectly. The brass on his cap gleamed, and I figured he must be an eager beaver at the ensign business. We passed an array of twenty- and forty-millimeter guns, and I saw bigger five-inch cannon forward and aft. “You’ve got a lot of hardware for a transport,” I said.
“We’re an Attack Transport, Captain,” Ensign Weber said. “Admiral Moon’s flagship, too. We’re going to be in the thick of it, that’s for sure.” He grinned, the foolish smile of a kid who’s eager for something he knows nothing about. As he knocked on the captain’s door, it swung open, and Weber snapped to attention, his back arched and his eyes wide. A stoop-shouldered naval officer stalked past us, and from the flash of gold on his shoulder boards, I figured he must be Admiral Moon. He didn’t seem aware that we were in the gangway, inches from him as he brushed by. The admiral had a strong face, with a nose and chin that looked like they could cut through oceans like a destroyer’s bow. But he looked haggard—even more so than Uncle Ike. I caught a glimpse of where he’d missed shaving that morning, a patch of stubble along his cheek. How much of that was due to the Operation Tiger debacle, and how much from the pressure of carrying an entire army to the far shore?