by James R Benn
I was now certain Frances had spat in my tea.
CHAPTER * SIXTEEN
JENKINS AND I left together, he to drive to the bank to make a deposit and me to get back to Newcastle. It was slow going; the narrow roads were wet and crowded. Military convoys choked them, truckloads of GIs going to or from maneuvers, crammed shoulder to shoulder, heads bowed under their steel pots. They all looked alike in their sodden uniforms, faces hardly visible between turned-up collars and helmets canted against the rain blowing into the canvas-covered trucks.
This was how some generals saw them, squads and platoons of soldiers, a percentage certain to be casualties, all of them ready to be sacrificed for a promotion, none of them with a name or a face to remember in your dreams. Maybe that was why they made us march in step. It made it impossible for the individual to stand out. I'd seen plenty like that. General Fredendall in North Africa, who commanded II Corps and had his engineers dig underground shelters for his HQ seventy miles from the front. Uncle Ike blew his lid when he heard about that, and not long after sent George Patton to relieve him. I'd also had occasion to meet up with General Mark Clark a few times. He was the genius who decided there wouldn't be any bombardment at Salerno. Plenty of faceless GIs, including Brennan's pals, died because of it. But General Mark Clark was still there, spending as much time as ever making sure every press release 5th Army put out had his name alone on it. GIs had started to call him Markus Clarkus for his desire to take Rome, not so much from the Germans as before the British.
There were plenty of fine senior officers, men like Colonel Jim Gavin, whom I'd seen up close in Sicily, weeping over the graves of his men after the stand at Biazza Ridge. And Uncle Ike himself. I didn't know anyone who agonized more over the price in lives this war had claimed, and who shouldered a heavier burden, short of a dogface with a fully loaded combat pack under fire. So why was I so hard on him? Thousands of miles from home, under the twin pressures of politics and death, what was wrong with enjoying a little affection? Kay worshipped him, and she knew what the deal was, I hoped. I couldn't see him ever leaving his wife. Kay had to know this was just one of those things. Didn't she? Didn't he?
What about Diana? What did she think about us? Just one of those wartime romances? The wild Irish boy and the aristocrat whose lives were thrown together, experiencing the passion of life amidst death. Who would expect them to last out the peace?
Diana and I wouldn't have ever laid eyes on each other if not for the war, and if I hadn't gotten her sister involved in a murder investigation that turned more deadly than I ever could have imagined. And Diana wouldn't have gone off with the British Expeditionary Force to France, barely surviving Dunkirk, if not for the war. It was death that bound us together, it seemed. Not the fear of death at all, but the thought of living through so much of it. How could love come out of that? Need perhaps; desire certainly. But love?
So what about Diana? For that matter, what about me?
I stopped at an intersection and waited while a column of deuce-and-a-half trucks rumbled by. The rain hadn't let up. It pelted the canvas cover like sudden bursts of machine-gun fire as I turned my thoughts to Jenkins and whether or not he'd pass information on to me. I had done him one favor, warning him about Heck, as an investment. But the picture of him with Slaine O'Brien was too good to waste, a major bargaining chip. If I put that on the table, it would be in a neutral location, somewhere public, not in a Protestant neighborhood, and I'd reserve it for when I needed something big in return.
Finally, the traffic eased and I took the turnoff to Clough, to drop in on Constable Simms. I'd planned on talking to him about Sam Burnham. I remembered Simms worked out of his home, so I stopped at the Lug o' the Tub to ask directions from Tom. I found him tossing peat onto a low fire, alone except for one old-timer in his well-worn suit jacket.
"Billy," he said, "have you dropped by for an afternoon pint?"
"No, still on the job. Can you tell me where Adrian Simms lives? Have you seen him?"
"Not today. You can check with his missus, though. Go up the side road here, past the castle ruins, and you'll see a line of cottages. The constable lives in the first one. The wife's name is Julia, but I doubt you'll be on a first-name basis."
"Not the friendly type?"
"Not until she knows you attend Presbyterian services regularly."
"It'll be Mrs. Simms then. Tell me, is that anywhere near where they found Eddie Mahoney?"
"Yes, it is."
"You didn't hear any gunshots that night?"
"No, and I wouldn't have, even if they'd gone off outside my door. It was raining something fierce, the wind blowing and howling, enough to make today look like a spring shower."
"Does Grady live in one of those cottages?"
"Ach, no. There's a boreen about a hundred yards before them, it takes you to Grady's place."
"A what?"
"Oh, sorry. A boreen, you mean? It's a dirt track, a cart path at best. Grady lives in the house he was born in, dirt floor and a hearth for heat. Nothing like the line of cottages; they're proper modern houses. Indoor plumbing and all. But he keeps his roof in good repair, and there's plenty of peat for him to burn. It's no grand palace, but it's home for Grady. And not far from the pub," he added with a wink.
"Do you think Julia Simms would be impressed that I was at Brownlow House, headquarters of the Royal Black Knights?"
"Oh, don't mention those words, atallatall, Billy. Oh no," Tom said, shaking his head and laughing, "if you don't want to cause Adrian to miss his supper."
"Why?" Tom looked around and leaned in close, whispering, even though we were a good ten feet from the old fellow at the bar, who hadn't moved since I came in.
"Because Adrian applied to join them at the urging of his wife. To get ahead, you know, make the right contacts. The Royal Black Knights are Unionists through and through, but they spend their time giving money to the church, not rabble-rousing. It's for the well-to-do or those who want-to-do, if you understand."
"Sure. Like the Knights of Columbus back home."
"Well, aptly named, but I don't know them. Anyway, Adrian applies, and he gets past the first few hurdles. He's a member of the Orange Society, all fine and good. But the Black Knights are even stricter than the Orangemen about who they let in. All of a sudden, he's out, and Julia Simms, who is not too proud to boast of something that has not yet come to pass, has to hang her head at Sunday services and for the rest of the week. I think she's still not forgiven poor Adrian."
"For getting blackballed?"
"For not telling her about his background. As far as I know, Adrian met all their requirements--including being born in wedlock and of Protestant parents--all but one."
"What was that?"
"From what I understand, an applicant has to swear that his parents were never connected in any way with the Roman Catholic Church. He did but was called out on it, and that was that. No marching in the July 13 parade every year, under their black banner with the red cross, celebrating our defeat at the Battle of the Boyne. No social gatherings, in suit and tie, so he and Julia can hobnob with their betters. Oh, it was hard times in that cottage for a while, I'll say."
"What was his connection with Catholics?"
"Mrs. Simms made it clear that question was not to be asked of her, nor ever answered by Adrian. Hard times, as I said."
"Are you married, Tom?" I asked.
"Yes, I am. Nearly twenty years now."
"Worth it?"
"It is. Most days." Then he laughed, perhaps to let me know today was a good day, and slapped me on the shoulder. I left wondering how I might answer that question someday. Would I wistfully think back to that English girl and our wartime whirlwind of emotions before I'd settled on a wife, a good Catholic Boston lass? Would "most days" be good enough?
I started the jeep, drove down the road, and passed by what must have been the spot where Eddie Mahoney's body had been left. I stopped and looked back. It wasn't far but I do
ubted pistol shots could have been heard from inside the stone building. I did wonder why the killer had picked this spot. He wanted the body found, that was certain. The pound note was a message to any would-be informant so the corpse had to be where people passed by, to guarantee it would be discovered. It was the perfect place.
A little farther on, I saw the boreen on the left. Muddy tracks between two stone walls curved behind a small rise, and a wisp of smoke rose beyond it, probably from Grady's peat fire. I pulled in front of the first of three whitewashed cottages, all with thickly thatched roofs and black varnished doors with small windows on either side. I dashed from the jeep and knocked, holding my hat against the growing wind.
"Yes?" A thin, black-haired woman held the door open with one hand and clutched at her shawl with the other as rain blew against her. She didn't invite me to enter.
"Mrs. Simms? I'm looking for Adrian. Is he in?"
"No," she said, shaking her head. "Away on police business, he is."
"Do you know where I can find him?" I had to raise my voice to be heard over the wind.
"No, I don't know where he is or when he'll be back. Your name?"
"Billy Boyle, Mrs. Simms. Pleased to meet you," I said, trying to be friendly.
"I'll tell him you called, Mr. Boyle," she said, and the door shut.
"Lieutenant Boyle," I said to the black varnish.
I decided there wasn't much else I could do that day, other than head back to the pub and start on some afternoon pints, unless I caught up with Brennan before he left. I couldn't find it in myself to blame him for the decisions he'd made. The first was the right one, reporting the fraud he'd encountered while on kitchen duty. But then he was stymied by his own senior officer, who was in on the deal, and found himself threatened if he talked. He had been transferred to the Ordnance Depot only to end up a suspect in an arms theft. Take the money and run, Pete, is what I wanted to tell him. But I wasn't his drinking buddy, I was an investigator sent by General Eisenhower, so it would be better all around if I shook hands with him and told him to stay low.
The wind was up but the rain slackened as I drove up the slight rise leading to the Ballykinler base. Dundrum Bay to my south looked choppy, and the Mournes were invisible behind low, leaden clouds. By the time I got to the main gate, the rain had stopped, and to the west a thin slant of blue promised better weather. As I negotiated the security around the Ordnance Depot, the wind was chasing cloud cover out over the Irish Sea, and the Mournes began to reveal themselves. Sunlight sparkled over the landscape, reflected in the dripping wetness over everything. The transformation was sudden, magical; the world had changed from sullen gray to vibrant green in seconds. Diana was still on my mind, and thinking about her was exactly like that. I could feel angry and hurt, and images of her face would be frozen in dark shadow. Then I'd remember something else, and she'd be smiling, lifting her head to the sunny sky, pulling her hair back behind her ear, her laughter like music on a summer night.
I paused before I opened the door, looking one more time at the clearing sky. Was it possible? Would the anger and disappointment between us clear away, fresh winds dispelling whatever wounds we'd inflicted on each other? I wasn't certain it was possible. I wasn't sure we'd both be alive to find out.
"Billy, what brings you here?" Saul Jacobson was in an unusually relaxed position, his feet up on his desk, his clipboards all neatly hung on the wall behind him.
"I'm looking for Sergeant Brennan," I said. "Is he back in the shop?"
"No. I thought you knew that he's got himself a transfer out of here."
"I wanted to stop by and wish him luck. Where is he?"
"I don't know. He finished up a few things here this morning and asked if he could take care of some personal business. He's shipping out tomorrow, so I figured, what's the harm?"
"What kind of personal business?"
"No idea. It seemed that giving him a free afternoon was the least I could do before he heads back to the shooting war. He isn't in any kind of trouble, is he? I thought that was all cleared up."
"He's not in trouble with me. When did he leave?"
"About 1100 hours. He signed out a jeep."
"Damn, sorry I missed him. You don't look too busy. Pretty quiet around here?"
"Every unit has been ordered to get its gear together, weapons cleaned and ready. No one's on the rifle range, and they canceled maneuvers, so there's not much for us to do. Rumor is the division might be shipping out."
"Where to, and when?"
"Some say back to Iceland, others think it's to England. Maybe Italy. Looks like something's up, though. Hey, did you hear about Thornton?"
"No, what?"
"Heck had him hauled away. The MPs handcuffed him and took him to Belfast. They say he'll be court-martialed for taking bribes."
"Well, well," I said, trying to sound surprised.
"You have anything to do with that?"
"No, I'm looking for BARs, remember?"
"If you find them, you can give them to the next guy who inherits this place," he said, gesturing with his hands to encompass the splendor of his plywood-enclosed office.
"OK, Saul. Good luck if I don't see you again. Keep your head down." We shook hands, and I left, glad to have imparted that bit of military wisdom to someone. I hadn't known how low I could stay until I'd felt the air vibrate from machine-gun bullets flying inches above my head. I could feel the thrumming again as I sat in the jeep, as if hornets were buzzing my neck. I watched the comings and goings, GIs on errands, marching, loafing, standing guard. How long before they felt it, and found out what the Bonesaw could do to infantry out in the open? Stay low, boys, I wanted to tell each and every one of them. They'd been told, I knew, a hundred times, but it wasn't the same as feeling it, knowing in your gut that nothing was as important as hugging the ground, digging deep, staying off the ridgeline, keeping your eyes open, not bunching up, using every fold of ground for cover. . . .
I gasped, realizing I'd forgotten to breathe. I'd felt the hot Sicilian sun on me for that moment. The ground had been brown and broken, not green and smooth. I clutched the steering wheel, relaxing my white-knuckled hands. Never mind, I told myself. They'll have to find out for themselves. In their place I wouldn't have listened to anyone else either. I hadn't, and I knew how Brennan felt, seeing all these faces and knowing so many would die, stunned at the rapid violence of combat, unfired rifles in their hands, calling out for their mothers, as they always did. Mama, mutti, madre.
I started the engine and gazed straight ahead, driving through the base, avoiding looking at each face I passed along the way.
CHAPTER * SEVENTEEN
AT 5:00 A.M.--OR 0500, as I was informed--someone thumped at the door to my Quonset hut with a message. Too early for me. I'd stopped at the the Lug o' the Tub and stayed longer than I should have, watching GIs drink their beer while trying to sound manly and brave in the face of the unknown. I'd listened to Grady tell stories of the Anglo-Irish War without mentioning the Lewis gun. In turn I had told him about Diana but never mentioned Jerusalem. We each kept our wounds hidden.
The message had been from Hugh Carrick: Come to Clough immediately. I retraced my route of not so long ago, watching for some sign of the RUC. Clough wasn't so big that I was likely to miss anything. As the early morning mist rose from the ground, it looked like each stone wall corralled a field of fog. The top row of stones stood above the thick grayness, like grave markers all in a line. The sun came up over Dundrum Bay to the east as the sound of sheep bells echoed from hill to hill. Farmers and police, early risers both, tending their respective flocks.
I knew which way to turn even before the pub came into view. Not far down the narrow road to Grady O'Brick's dirt-floored cottage and Julia Simms's proper Presbyterian home, a gaggle of police cars and a military police jeep were parked. Not to mention a gray Austin four-door sedan, license plate FZG 129. The car Red Jack Taggart had been in, slewed to the side of the road, the front caug
ht up in brambles along a stone wall. When I saw the Austin, I knew there would be a body inside. It had been driven off the road at the same spot where Mahoney had been left.
District Inspector Hugh Carrick stood in the middle of the roadway, dispatching constables to search the fields on either side. Adrian Simms stood, with Sergeant Jack Patterson, next to the Austin.
"Lieutenant Boyle, good morning," Carrick said. "I thought you'd want to be here."
"Who's inside?" I asked, hoping I was wrong.
"Your Sergeant Brennan. In the trunk. Local man who makes the milk deliveries saw the car and stopped by Constable Simms's home to report it. When he gave Simms the license-plate number, Simms called it in straightaway."
Pete's name hit me like a two-by-four. Why him? It made no sense. He was free and clear, set to ship out today.
"Are you sure?" I couldn't take it in. I'd been imagining Pete boarding a ship in Belfast Harbor.
Carrick beckoned me to follow him to the car. Patterson vaguely stood to attention and gave me a quick salute. I touched my hand to my forehead and froze as Simms opened the trunk. It was Pete Brennan, expert ordnanceman, veteran of Salerno, last survivor of his squad. He was on his side, his back to us, knees drawn up to his chest. Two black-and-rust-colored holes punctured the back of his skull.
"Small-caliber weapon," I offered, although I was sure that had been apparent to Carrick. No exit wounds.
"Execution," Carrick said.
"Aye," Simms said. "Typical IRA job."
"Who owns the car?" I asked in a low voice.
"A Catholic businessman in Londonderry. He reported it stolen four days ago. He appears to have no connection to this business."
"Why would the IRA kill Pete?" I said out loud, but I was speaking to myself.
"Maybe a falling-out over the BAR theft?" Simms suggested.
"He had nothing to do with that. He was shipping out today to Italy. Why kill him?"