by James R Benn
The Army Air Force bird colonel, a guy named Dawson, had caught it for real, a .30 round in the shoulder. He'd had a .38 Special in a shoulder holster, and charged the truck, blazing away, as soon as he figured out what was going on. The ambulance we'd stolen came in handy; he and Masters were bundled off in it to the hospital immediately. I stayed with Carrick and Uncle Dan, seeing to the prisoners and helping Masters's men load the BARs and ammo into the truck after the bodies were removed
I lingered, watching the crowds disappear, feeling the darkness creep in as the sun set, the blood red colors of dusk filtering in through the trees. I think I couldn't believe it was over. It was hard to leave the scene, because once I did, I would have to leave Ireland behind.
"Come, lad," Uncle Dan said, draping his arm around my shoulder. "Let's give these costumes back to the boys in their skivvies." We walked to the church, enjoying each other's company, silent, letting the feeling of peacefulness seep back into our bones. As we came to the church door, we opened it without a thought. Entering the Church of Ireland had lost its forbidden quality. It was just a building.
Back in our own clothes, Carrick drove us to the hospital. I wanted to see Slaine and tell her the case was closed. Maybe it would cheer her up. Maybe it would cheer me up. Carrick dropped us off and I felt tired, achingly tired, as we tramped up the steps to the hospital entrance. Major Cosgrove stood at the top, looming large above us.
"I must say, Boyle, splendid job today. Well done."
"Yeah, splendid. How is Slaine?"
"She was awake but the doctors appear to be concerned. She doesn't look well."
"She was shot, for Christ's sake. How do you want her to look?"
"There's no need for that tone, Lieutenant Boyle. Need I remind you, I am your superior officer?"
"What's going to happen to Subaltern O'Brien?" Uncle Dan broke in, trying to short-circuit my temper before I blew. "After she recovers?"
"Well, there's no question of her returning to MI-5, after her questionable conduct. I will leave it to District Inspector Carrick if charges should be laid against her."
"You didn't question her conduct when she got things done for you," I said, stepping up into his face. "But now you're ready to throw her to the wolves. What is it, an Irishwoman doesn't deserve your loyalty?"
"There are larger questions at hand, young man."
"Next time, get somebody else to do your dirty work. You aren't worth it," I said, brushing by him, fighting to keep my fists at my sides, a haymaker begging to be let loose.
"And you, Mr. Boyle, you're supposed to be in police custody!"
"Go to hell," Uncle Dan said, and followed me down the hall, patting me on the back.
We found Colonel Dawson first. He was awake, stretched out in a hospital bed, a cast enclosing his shoulder and arm. Bob Masters sat with him, his bandaged leg up on a chair.
"Well, if it isn't the walking wounded of Brownlow House!" Uncle Dan said. "How are you both?"
"Glad to be alive, thanks to you boys," Colonel Dawson said. "Bob here has been telling me the whole story. You put a stop to something that could have snowballed into a real problem. Nice work."
"Thanks for lending a hand. Sorry you were shot. Doesn't that hurt?"
"It will when the morphine wears off, you can count on that. Listen, you boys ever need anything from the Army Air Force, you look me up. Bull Dawson, at your service. OK?"
"We may need your assistance sooner than later," Carrick said from behind us. "I just ran into Major Cosgrove, and he's demanding that I arrest you, Daniel."
"What?" Dawson said.
"It's a long story, Colonel," I said. "This is my uncle, Dan Boyle. He's a police detective from Boston, and it will be a whole lot easier if you don't ask what he's doing here. But he needs to get out of the country, pronto. He's a little lacking in the paperwork department."
"I've been to Schweinfurt and back, Lieutenant. I don't give a damn about paperwork. You get a telephone in here and I'll have your uncle on the next C-47 flying home. And if he needs to hide out until it takes off, leave that to me."
"See, Daniel, this is how the Royal Black Knights look out for each other," Carrick said, a grin lighting up his usually dour face. I'd seen that look before, the strain and tension vanishing from a policeman's face after a case was successfully solved. Relief for a brief moment, perhaps long enough to get drunk or spend time with your family, depending on your inclination, until the next corpse turned up.
"Saints preserve us," Uncle Dan said.
I left them to plot Uncle Dan's escape and went in search of Slaine. I found her room and waited by the door as a doctor checked her with a stethoscope and felt her pulse. He wrote notes on her chart and left, brushing by me without a word. I pulled up a chair and sat by her bed, watching as her eyes focused and found me.
"Billy! What happened? Tell me, please." There was energy in her voice but she looked weak and withered against the white sheets. A thick dressing covered her chest, and tiny drops of sweat beaded her forehead. Her hair was damp and flattened against the pillow, the curls faded and limp. I tried not to show my surprise.
"I'll tell you everything, don't worry. You look pretty good for having been shot and left for dead."
"I guess not all Irishmen have a way with words but thank you. I feel horrible, though. Tell me, what's happened?"
"It's all over. Guns recovered, Taggart dead." I told her the whole story, starting from when she was shot and finishing up at the truck with Grady hugging the last BAR to his chest.
"It was last night that I was shot? I'm so confused." She tried to raise a hand to her head but let it drop halfway.
"This morning, actually."
"And you, you were shot too, weren't you?"
"Yeah, right through the arm. Hurts like hell, but I'm fine."
"Major Cosgrove came to see me," Slaine said. Her lips pressed together, and she blinked her eyes, determined not to shed a tear.
"He have anything useful to say?"
"That I should take all the time I need to recover, and that he'd find an easy posting for me when I was ready. Out of the way, I suppose."
"Maybe I can help. I do have friends in high places. When you're better, we can arrange a transfer."
"I don't know, Billy. All I know is Ireland. I wouldn't be much use elsewhere. But never mind that, I think it'll be a long time before I'm out of this bed, if only to judge by the look on your face."
"It's just a shock seeing you all bandaged up."
"You're very diplomatic," she said, forcing a weak smile.
"I may have to leave soon," I said. "We need to get Uncle Dan out one step ahead of Cosgrove, and once that's done I should report back to General Eisenhower."
"Yes, of course." There wasn't any way around it but I could see the sadness in Slaine's eyes. She'd be left alone, disgraced, without a job of any consequence, and maybe facing charges. I doubted that DI Carrick would open up that can of worms but it was a worry nonetheless. I tried to think of something else to talk about, other than Cosgrove or MI-5.
"Remember back in Jerusalem, you told me there was one Irish-American you thought highly of? Who is that?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, Billy. I can be rude sometimes, I know. I think the world of you, and what you accomplished here. You saved many lives."
I knew she was right because I'd come to learn the arithmetic of war. Some deaths now equaled fewer deaths later. It all made sense but when it was you pulling the trigger, you only focused on the deaths now, not the lives saved later.
"Thanks. But who is this other guy anyway? I think I'm jealous," I said, making a joke of it.
"My father read a lot of history, and he left quite a collection of books. He enjoyed reading about your American Civil War, and I picked up his interest when I was older. Did you know that the Irish fought on both sides?"
"Yes, the Fighting 69th, right?"
"On the Union side, yes, they were called the Irish Brigade. There were
Confederate Irish regiments too. A boy named Michael Sullivan fought with the 24th Georgia, mostly Irish. At Fredericksburg, commanded by General Meagher, the 69th charged the heights against the 24th, both sides knowing they were fighting and killing fellow Irishmen. It didn't say in the history books but I can imagine that they wept as they fired and reloaded."
I looked at the floor, unable to meet her eyes, having done all those things myself. "What happened to Michael Sullivan?"
"The Irish Brigade retreated back across the Rappahannock River, leaving behind their regimental banner. It was the green flag of Ireland with the golden harp upon it. Michael Sullivan, who had killed his share of Irish brethren that day, came upon the flag. He wrapped it around his chest, hiding it under his shirt, and swam the Rappahannock to return it to the Union Irish. His own men, thinking he was deserting, fired on him, wounding him in the leg. When he was taken prisoner, he asked to be brought before General Meagher. Once there, he removed the regimental banner and presented it to the general. Meagher was so overcome he had Sullivan's wounds treated, and offered to release him anywhere within Union territory. Sullivan declined, asking only to be taken to the river, so he could swim back to his own lines, which he did. He was an Irishman to admire. Loyal to all, even when divided by war. And always faithful to his duty."
The story had drained her, I could see. She was pale, and her face bathed in sweat. I took a washcloth from the bed stand and gently ran it across her cheeks and forehead. I struggled to speak, the sadness of the slaughter fresh in my mind. Today's and yesterday's as well.
"Hell of an Irishman" was all I could say.
"My father wrote much the same thing in the margin of his book. That's why I always remembered the story," she said, a glow of excitement showing in her eyes before they nearly closed. A minute passed, and she struggled to keep them open. "I'm sorry, I have to sleep now, Billy. Will you come back to see me before you go?"
"I'll stay right here for now. Sleep. I'll be here when you wake."
She smiled, a faint, childlike smile, as she closed her eyes. I pushed the chair against the wall, leaned my head back, closed my eyes, and let sleep find me as well.
* * *
"BILLY, WAKE UP, lad." I sat up, not knowing where I was or who was speaking to me. It was Uncle Dan, his hand on my shoulder. "I've got to go now, Billy. Dawson has an aircraft leaving tonight."
"Quiet," I said, motioning him out into the hall. "She's sleeping."
"Wait a minute, Billy," Uncle Dan said, his hand still on my shoulder as he watched Slaine. "I don't think so."
I went to her side as Uncle Dan called for a doctor. It wasn't necessary. No pulse, no breath, her lips pale. I held her hand and there was no warmth, no life, no movement or response. She was dead, whether from Taggart's bullet and the damage it had done, or the wounds, loneliness, and guilt of a lifetime. It didn't matter which had killed her. Agus bas in Eirinn.
It was time to leave. I placed her hand on her breast and turned away as the doctor and nurses rushed in, knowing it was too late, hoping that Slaine had had time for one last dream, of peaceful green fields perhaps, or maybe Michael Sullivan himself, waiting for her, and all the other Wild Geese who had served every cause but their own.
CHAPTER * THIRTY EIGHT
HUGH CARRICK DROVE us to Langford Lodge. I sat in the back as he and Uncle Dan chatted, comparing notes, talking shop, probably each thinking the other was not a bad sort, considering. I wished death could roll like water off my back, letting me join in on the cop talk and sly jokes. But instead it clung to me, as dreary as the darkening sky and the too familiar gray landscape of Lurgan drifting past the window. Our route to Lough Neagh took us through the city but bypassed Brownlow House, which was fine with me.
The air had turned cold, winter showing its bite on a fading autumn day. Smoke drifted from rows of chimneys, and I wondered who would take the peat from Grady's croft.
It wasn't fair, any of it. We were in a war, and there was plenty of killing to go around. That Grady and Taggart had planned to trigger warfare in all of Ireland, for revenge as much as for the Cause, didn't bear thinking about. But I couldn't stop. The waste of innocent lives, the suffering, all for a blood debt that could never be repaid, always demanding a new reprisal, a repayment of pain again and again through the generations. It made me wish I was a common soldier fighting the Germans, man to man. It had been the last thing I wanted when I started working for General Eisenhower, the thing I avoided with all the wit and lies I could muster. But now, recalling the combat I had seen, it seemed cleaner--somehow purer in its intent--than the furtive murders and planned slaughter I'd seen here. Combat had been horrifying, and I'd never been so scared, but it was straightforward. Live or die. No gray areas, no wondering about each pull of the trigger. In combat, you knew who the enemy was; they had different uniforms, and they wanted to kill you. It was simple.
I dug out Pig and ran my fingers over his belly. I understood why Pete Brennan had wanted to leave all the black market intrigue, investigations, and suspicions behind. Put a rifle in his hands and he'd know where to shoot. It was appealing in a way. It would burn away any guilt he felt about his role in the black market, leaving him pure and clean, or dead. It took an honorable man to choose either of those over a rear-area job and plentiful graft.
I rubbed Pig again and understood something else. Diana. It was the same with her. She hadn't yet burned away the guilt she felt, the memories of the wounded soldiers drowning when that destroyer went down in the channel, and the death of her sister, Daphne. Diana was still alive, and that would never be anything but a burden until she did everything she could to prove she deserved to live.
It might kill her. It might free her. Either way, I finally understood.
"We're here, Billy boy," Uncle Dan said. I looked up and saw the sign for Langford Lodge, USAAF Base Air Depot. The MP at the gate consulted a clipboard, gave a snappy salute, and we drove down a road running alongside the main landing strip. Dark shapes of B-17s and B-24s, bristling with machine guns, stood out against the stars. Beyond the runways was Lough Neagh, the huge lake that I'd flown over on the way in, black water as far as the eye could see in either direction. The base was operating under blackout conditions, and the darkness combined with the large, silent aircraft to produce an eerie feeling of barely restrained lethality.
A jeep met us near the main building, and the driver signaled for us to follow. He took us to a hangar, its massive doors open to reveal a C-47 being readied for takeoff. He told us Colonel Dawson had said this was as good as it was going to get, leaving in twenty minutes for Bradley Field in Connecticut--with refueling stops in Iceland, Greenland, Newfoundland--and that he never saw us and never wanted to see us again. He waited, watching us as we said our goodbyes.
"Uncle Dan, I'm sorry you got pulled into all this," I said.
"Ah, Billy, I jumped in feet first, and I was glad to give you a hand. It was good to be by your side. We all miss you back home, you know? You've become quite a man out here. But are you all right? I know this hasn't been the Ireland of our dreams, has it?"
"I don't know what to make of it. Every time I think I understand something, it changes. I can't find any solid ground."
"Or maybe you see another side of things. Remember, these fellows Taggart and O'Brick, they're the sort who outlived their time. It would have been better for them to have died heroes twenty years ago. Instead, they lived on, nursing their hatred into madness. Don't feel bad about putting a stop to that. I don't. I was sent to do a job, and I did it. So did you. So stand tall, boy. It doesn't mean the cause is a bad one, just that standing close to its center for too long can burn any man out."
"Thanks, Uncle Dan. Really," I said. I put out my hand and he grabbed me in a hug, slapping me on the back, rubbing his hand on my head.
"Give my love to Mom and Dad and little Danny, OK?" I said, burying my face against his neck. He took me by the shoulders and put on a stern look.
"I will give your love to all of them, and Danny's not so little anymore! But if you don't write your mother right away, and more often, I'm going to tell her you're drinking and smoking and whoring all over England. Now go on, don't waste any more time here."
We hugged again, and he shook hands with DI Carrick before boarding the plane through the rear cargo door. Our escort, an Army Air Force lieutenant, gave Uncle Dan a sheepskin leather flight jacket, cap, and gloves.
"Compliments of Bull Dawson," he said. And with that, Uncle Dan was gone. We watched the crew close up the plane, and it taxied out into the darkness, the drone of the engines deafening, until it rose into the night and vanished among the stars.
"You look to come from a good family, Lieutenant Boyle," Carrick said. I knew that was a major compliment from an Ulsterman when it concerned an Irish Catholic. Maybe there was hope after all.
"I try to live up to them," I said, "every day." We stood, watching the darkness in the empty hangar. "Thanks for all your help," I finally got out.
"Don't mention it; it was my duty. Where can I take you now? You deserve some rest."
"I think I'll stay here, to wait for the next flight."
"Don't you have a report to make?"
"Only to Major Cosgrove, and he can come get it if he wants. The army has its BARs back, the German agents are in custody or dead, and the IRA plot has been stopped. What else is there?"
"Indeed. You've done well, Lieutenant. Good luck." We shook hands, and he clasped my arm before he let go, and drove off into the night.
"So, Mac, what's your story?" the air force lieutenant asked me.
I thought about all the places I could go. A side trip to London, drop in on Kaz, spend a few nights of luxury with him at the Dorchester. It would be easy, and I could talk things over with him. Maybe even have a few laughs.
"I'm headed for Algiers," I said. It wasn't Kaz I needed to see.
"Well, Bull said, whatever you guys want. I can have you in Gibraltar by tomorrow night, Algiers the next day. We got a B-24 outbound in the morning, ferrying VIPs to Gib for when the president and General Marshall stop there on the way back from meeting Stalin. Room for one more if you don't mind being squeezed in with admirals, generals, and journalists."