The First Wave bbwm-2

by James R Benn

  "I've had enough of your snotty comments!" Dunbar yelled, jumping up and grimacing as his ribs failed to cooperate. Still, he took a step toward Rita and she instinctively pulled back This guy could turn mean in a heartbeat, and I wasn't surprised that he took it out on the weakest one in the room. I half turned to get between them.

  "You sure you don't need some morphine, Doc?" I asked "You must be in a lot of pain." He looked panic-stricken, stepped back, and regained the little self-control he had left.

  "We don't prescribe morphine for minor injuries, and don't call me doc."

  He grabbed his jacket and walked out of the examining room. A little stiffly, but with all the grace of a Harvard man. A shoeless, thieving, broken-ribbed Harvard man.

  "Poor fellow," Gloria said.

  "Yeah, I guess he's just too trusting to be let out on his own."

  "If I didn't know better, I'd say you didn't like our young Doctor Dunbar, Billy," Gloria said, drilling me with those killer eyes.

  "Oh, he's swell. I'm just a Townie, that's all. We never get along with the Harvard guys."

  "But you seem to be the kind of fellow who gets along with everyone, Billy. People around here could learn something from you."

  "Thank you, Captain. I'm sure I could learn from them, too." About theft, smuggling, corruption, and murder.

  Gloria walked out, throwing a look over her shoulder that said she'd be thinking of nobody but me until we met again. She was good. She was so good that she seemed to draw all attention to herself, and it was only when she was gone that I noticed Rita was still here, cleaning up bandages, tape, and gauze left over from patching Dunbar.

  "She's meeting your Major Harding, you know," Rita said.

  "I'm not surprised. Apparently they used to be an item back in the States. Does Gloria… the captain, I mean, have anyone special here?"

  "First, don't worry about the military courtesies here. We're a pretty loose outfit. First names are fine, unless it's Dunbar or Colonel Walton."

  "And second?"

  "Secondly, Gloria likes to get her way with men. She can twist them around her Utile finger, in case you haven't noticed. But she hasn't gotten tied down with anyone since I've known her."

  "How long has that been?"

  "Since we formed up in the States. I was in the first group of nurses assigned to the 21st."

  "So you were at the base outside of Blackpool?"

  "Sure. We had it easy there. No casualties, occasionally a few patients, leave now and then. It was great."

  "Did you know the original supply sergeant, the one before Casselli?"

  "Freddie? He was a nice guy. No one could understand why he took off like that."

  "What was his full name?"

  "Frederick Hotchkiss. Why?"

  "Do you think there's anything suspicious about two supply sergeants being taken out of the picture?"

  "But Freddie deserted!" She frowned as she tossed the waste into a trashcan.

  "How do you know that?"

  "Gloria saw him drive out the main gate. He never came back. His personal gear was missing, so it seemed clear that he was gone for good."

  "Maybe Gloria was mistaken. Did anybody else see him leave?"

  "No. It was late, after lights out."

  "No sentry at the gate?"

  "No, we're a hospital, not a top secret military unit. People come and go all the time." She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and touched her sleeve to her forehead, leaving little damp sweat spots on the soft green material. She looked tired.

  "What was Gloria doing out that night?"

  "I don't know, I don't keep tabs on her. You're a suspicious fellow, aren't you?"

  "Goes with the job. How about you? Did you kill both sergeants?"

  "No, I take care of patients. Doctors kill them." She picked up a tray of instruments, turned, and walked out, giving me an imitation over-the-shoulder look like Gloria's, fluttering her eyelashes.

  "Tell that cute friend of yours to come back so I can change his bandages. He's not married or anything, is he?"

  "Kaz? No, not married. Or anything."

  She gave a little happy laugh as she left. I wondered if people understood how lucky they were when they could just be with someone they cared about. It sounded so easy. I started to think about Diana and suddenly realized that I was alone in the examining room for no good reason. Alone. It scared me. Stuck in a room alone, never able to move on and find the woman I love. It felt like a dream, a real bad dream. Like Kaz, waking up every day to the memory of loss, and the impossibility of ever having anything like the life he had once had. Or Vincent, sitting alone at a bar, sipping mint tea in an Arab bazaar, his homeland more memory than anything else, the dust of Algiers more familiar now than the streets of Warsaw. I looked at the four walls and shuddered a bit. I walked out without looking back over my shoulder.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I was right on time, Johnny-on-the-spot, with a jeep to take Harding and me east, up the coast to the British Motor Torpedo Boat base. He’d drive back by himself. I thought about that return trip, with Harding alone at the wheel, and I felt as empty as the passenger seat beside him. Feelings of loneliness and fear still had me by the^ throat. I tried to shake off the willies and looked at my watch and the front entrance to the hospital, again. No Harding. I killed the engine and the sudden silence sprang out at me. I jumped a bit, sat back, then took a deep breath, trying to imagine what lay ahead, on the other side of Harding's solo return trip.

  Villard's destination was known to the commander of the Vichy French supply depot at Bone. I'd be there tomorrow, and I had to hope he was the kind of CO who would stay at his post and not retire when the British Commandos on a couple of destroyers crashed the docks. I also hoped he was the kind of guy who would spill the beans about^ Villard's next stop. Of course, the best bet for a snitch wouldn't be a guy who'd stay at his post when things got hot and heavy. I'd have to get to the depot quickly, ahead of the Commandos, and do some fast talking, courtesy of the French-speaking British officer they were sending in with me.

  I looked at my watch again. Harding was late, which wasn't like him. Was he sneaking in some time with his old girlfriend? Come to think of it, that wasn't like him either. That was like me. I was becoming irritated. There wasn't much to count on in this war, but Harding had been a consistent hard-ass West Pointer since I'd first met him in England. Now he was showing signs of being a normal guy, a Buy-you-a-drink-buddy? kinda guy. I didn't like it. I preferred my bosses predictable, so I could rely on them, one way or the other. It only meant trouble for me if he started acting like he had half a heart.

  A corkscrew wind blew up and dust gusted around the jeep. I closed my eyes and felt the fine sand pepper my face and force itself into every fold and crevice of my clothes. It was late afternoon and the sun was low in the western sky, pointing long fingerlike shadows toward the eastern hills. Toward Bone, Villard, Diana, and the Germans. It was getting cold, and I pulled up the collar of my field Jacket. My body shivered from bottom to top as I jammed my hands in my pockets, and waited some more.

  Harding came trotting out of the main entrance of the hospital and jumped into the passenger's seat of the jeep. There was a smile on his face and I thought it was almost funny: It was as if we had somehow traded places and he was the happy-go-lucky Yank in love and I was the grim one, sandblasted and focused on my mission, no time for diversions or stories of lost and found love. All of a sudden I had the Urge to punch that smile off his face. I started the jeep instead.

  "Sorry I'm late, Boyle," he said as he threw his web belt and gear into the back seat and put his helmet on. I thought about commenting on the fact that I'd never seen him sorry or late before, not to mention both at once, plus smiling. It would have been funny. My kind of trademark smart-ass comment. I didn't bother.

  "No problem, Major," I said instead, looking straight ahead, easing up on the clutch and heading down the gravel drive to the main road.
There was a convoy passing by, deuce and a half trucks and flatbeds With M-3 Stuart light tanks chained down. We waited as the men and armor rolled along, just like a parade. A jeep with a mounted. 30 caliber machine gun brought up the rear, the GIs riding in it wearing goggles and covered in dust.

  "Hold up for a few minutes, or we'll be eating dirt like those tail-end

  Charlies," Harding said. We sat and watched the convoy move down^ the road, trucks and tanks disappearing into a dust storm that blew down on us like cinders in city soot. More waiting. I felt helpless, frustrated, about to go crazy. I had to say something, anything.

  "Did you get to spend time with Captain Morgan, sir?" That's it, get Harding to talk about his lady friend.

  "A bit. She told me you pulled Doctor Dunbar's fat out of the fire."

  "Yeah. Lucky I came along."

  "She also told me you were obviously covering up for him."

  "That's one smart lady. Sir."

  "Tell me about it."

  I didn't know if he was referring to her or if he wanted to hear more about Dunbar. I went with Dunbar. Going over this again might help me figure something out.

  "The good news is we can eliminate Dunbar and the supply clerk as suspects in this smuggling operation. They're both small-time operators without enough sense to come in out of the rain. Dunbar got rolled trying to freelance half a dozen morphine syrettes Willoughby lifted for him." I told him about Willoughby and the supply truck and Dunbar at the Kasbah and his gambling debts. It felt good to talk, to take my mind off… what? What was bothering me? I couldn't pin it down, but I knew that Vincent had spooked me.

  "They don't sound like the throat-slitting types," Harding agreed. "But that doesn't mean they shouldn't be court-martialed."

  "I kind of had to promise a few things to get information out of them." I kept my eyes on tail of the convoy and waited for Harding to blow up. Not that a lieutenant's promise meant much to a major.

  "What information?"

  "I got Willoughby to admit it was Dunbar put him up to stealing the morphine, and Dunbar told me that their first supply sergeant went missing when the 21st was back in England. He took off one night after lights out. Captain Morgan was the last one to see him."

  I let that sink in. For the next minute Harding didn't say a thing.

  "What promise?" It took me a minute to get what he was asking.

  "I promised not to turn them in."

  "Boyle, according to the Articles of War-"

  "Major," I interrupted, "I know. They shouldn't get away with it.

  But why should they sit out the war in a stockade?" He took a second, shifting in his seat, as if he was trying to get used to a new idea.

  "What exactly do you mean?"

  "Transfers. Willoughby to an infantry outfit at the front, and Dunbar to a Battalion Aid Station, as close to the front as any MD will ever get."

  "Aid stations can be dangerous places," Harding said, nodding. "They're usually within enemy artillery range. Should cure the good doctor of his gambling problem. I think I have some paperwork to do when I get back to HQ."

  With that, Harding nodded toward the road and I turned right onto the two-lane highway. We picked up speed, the wind whipping around us and biting through my field jacket. It seemed to blow some of the sand away, and the cold wind made my face feel cleaner. I didn't want to punch Harding any more, at least, but that uneasy feeling stayed in the pit of my stomach.

  I was glad I had switched to a wool shirt, courtesy of Willoughby's supply stores. He'd also given me lined leather gloves, a scarf, and a wool cap. Kind of a thank you for not having him court-martialed, but I didn't think I'd be getting any more gifts from him. He'd be too busy trying to stay alive, and hoping no rear-area slob lifted the smokes from his rations. It felt good for a minute to think about that, but I couldn't keep my thoughts together. Everything was a jumble. Kaz, Diana, Harding-everyone was finding or losing somebody. I didn't like how things were adding up, and I didn't want to be the one to break it to Harding. I downshifted as the road rose up and snaked over a ridge. The wind from the south blew harder, scattering dust across our path. And, I had to admit, I didn't want his reaction to screw up my search for Diana.

  "It'll be colder inland," Harding said, pulling out his own gloves. "If you end up in the hills, get ready for some really cold nights. It's almost tropical along the coast here, but don't count on it lasting."

  "You can't really count on many things lasting, can you, sir?"

  "Guess not, Boyle." Harding looked at me sideways, trying to figure out what I was getting at. I wasn't much at subtlety, so I didn't say anything else.

  "The one thing I can't figure out is the link between the smuggling ring and whoever killed Casselli and Jerome," I said. I switched on my headlights. They were taped over, just a little slit open to let a bit of light out. A precaution against snipers, night fighters and who knows what other dangers up at the front. They illuminated enough of the road to show me what I was just about to run into, but not enough to warn me in time to avoid it. About as logical as the army got. It would protect me against the Luftwaffe spotting me from two thousand feet up, but not against a donkey in the road. I slowed down.

  "It might not be the same killer," offered Harding. "And those two deaths might not be connected."

  "Maybe not," I said. I thought about Casselli's slit throat, and how that was probably the work of a man. But Jerome's overdose, or poisoning, could easily be woman's work. It was too soon to suggest that to Harding, and anyway the phantom man and woman could have been working together.

  "Jerome was involved in a revolt against the government here. There could be a number of people who'd want him dead," Harding said. "Are you sure there has to be a link?"

  "If they were only after morphine, anybody could figure out that a military hospital and medical supply depot would have a lot of morphine on hand. But how many people in French Northwest Africa knew about penicillin before we landed?"

  "A few doctors would know about it in theory, but that we can produce large quantities? Nobody."

  "Then how come, a few days after we land, a crooked Vichy officer shows up and steals our entire supply? How did he know about it? How could he have hooked up with anyone fast enough to set it up? How did he obtain an American uniform? It was obvious from the crime scene that Casselli knew and trusted whoever killed him. How could he have become acquainted with an outsider well enough to trust him after just a couple of days?"

  "Find Villard and ask him," Harding said, as if all I had to do was look him up in the phone book.

  "I'll do that," I said, thinking that as long as Villard was the key to finding Diana, I'd damn well find him, and soon. "Meanwhile, can you get to Bessette again and really question him?"

  "Not right now. Negotiations with Darlan are still very delicate. We can't grab one of his aides without seeming to implicate Darlan himself. Orders are to keep hands off."

  "Orders from who?" I asked, even though I knew the answer. "Somebody's Uncle."

  Chapter Nineteen

  The rest of the ride was silent, except for the sound of wind-driven sand pelting the side of the jeep whenever a big gust kicked up. It peppered my helmet as I squinted to make out the bit of illuminated road in front of me. We stopped once at a crossroads to check the map. Harding clicked on his flashlight, cupping his hands over it to keep the light from leaking out into the darkness surrounding us. He hand-signaled left and killed the light. I spun the wheel and headed down toward the coast to the MTB base. The wind was at our back now, beginning to lessen as the landscape sloped down, away from the rolling brown hills and rock outcroppings inland. It was late evening, the only light coming from a half-moon drifting up from the horizon. The stars were splashed across the sky like diamonds on a jeweler's black velvet cloth in a Washington Street shop. It was beautiful, and I didn't care.

  My head was filled with a jumble of thoughts that wouldn't quit, my heart was pumping like a six-inch hose
at a four-alarmer, and my gut ached like I had swallowed a bone. There was just too much going on, too many things changing when I needed them to stay the same. I knew myself well enough to know that I worked best on familiar ground. When I knew where I was, and the people around me. I liked things nice and steady, even though I didn't always let on. I always gave officers, whether they were cops or U.S. Army, a hard time when I could get away with it. Someone with more brains than me might ask why I'd gone into law enforcement in the first place. Sure, it was sort of expected in my family, but I could've done something else. Pumped gas, worked down at the docks, any job that didn't have a guy wearing brass telling me what to do. Truth was, I didn't mind it that much. I liked to smart-mouth back once in a while; it really suited me. Everybody, including me, knew what was expected of them. It was like that in the army, too. Except now. Kaz was close to cracking up, I couldn't trust Harding with my latest suspicion, Diana was who- knows-where, and now Uncle Ike was getting in the way of this investigation, which was my only ticket to finding Diana. Plus, I had no idea how the whole thing hung together. I couldn't make it add up. And I liked things to add up at the end of the day. Maybe that's really why I liked being on the cops. It gave me a chance to set things right. Right, the way they ought to be, but never really were. I looked up at the stars and wondered, not for the first time, why did God in heaven leave things so screwed up down here? My Mom would've whacked me good if she ever heard me say it, but God disappointed me more often than He should.

  I stopped thinking and started watching the road, which was just as difficult. It had narrowed down to one good lane and I could catch a whiff of salt air. Soon I could make out a white gate in the distance, and a small light glowing in a guard shack. I slowed down as Harding pulled a set of folded orders out of his field jacket, shaking the sand loose as he opened them.

  A British Marine, flashlight in one hand, the other resting on the grip of his holstered revolver, stood in front of the gate. Two others stood casually by on either side, holding Lee-Enfield rifles instead of flashlights. Harding showed the Marine the orders, and he read them like it was his great-aunt's last will and testament. He seemed sorry everything was in order and reluctantly had the gate pulled up. Must've been a slow night. I drove down a gravel driveway, tires crunching on the loose stone, as the smell from the sea grew stronger. Salt and diesel fuel were in the air, mixing with woodsmoke and the faint odor of cabbage. The scent of war.