A Blind Goddess

by James R Benn

  It was a sea of stone and barbed wire. The same monotonous grey both underfoot and rising up in every direction. There were interior fences separating the buildings and sentries in the towers that dotted the walls.

  “I hope it’s as easy getting out as it was getting in,” Tree said. He hefted the bag with Angry’s Class A uniform, forgetting to complain about his arm. A serious prison drives all trivial thoughts from a man’s mind.

  They knew we were coming. We presented the papers authorizing the release of Private Abraham Smith, and waited as the warden reviewed them. Ink flowed, rubber stamps were pounded on paper, and soon we were led into the prison proper by a stern-faced MP sergeant. He didn’t make small talk.

  “What’s that?” I asked as we entered a large courtyard. Attached to one of the walls was a two-story brick structure, about as narrow as a row house. Its reddish hue and bright newness were at odds with the weathered grey stone of the prison.

  “Execution house,” he said. “That’s where the hangings are done. The old gallows was falling apart, so we built that to replace it.” We didn’t talk much after that. I wondered what it was like spending the war guarding your own men and overseeing executions. Most in here probably deserved it, but it would be a helluva thing to explain to your kids when they asked, “What did you do in the war, Daddy?”

  The courtyard was empty. From above, faces looked out of barred windows, watching our progress. There were no shouts or insults, no taunts of the guard, Tree, or me. That meant they ran a tight ship here. Respect, fear, or some combination of the two created an eerie silence as our boots echoed on the grey stone beneath our feet.

  We followed the MP into one of the buildings. Up two flights, and down a narrow hallway, lit by bare bulbs every ten feet or so. It was damp and cold. The walls were the same greyish stone, and each door was solid wood with iron fastenings. Eyes watched us from thin slits as we passed by. The sergeant finally stopped, took a ring of keys from his belt, searched for the right one, unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped back two paces.

  “Prisoner Smith, step out!” he shouted. Angry Smith came into the hallway, blinking his eyes against the harsh light. He took one step from the door and stood at attention. He was a big guy, shoulders straining against his denim shirt. Quiet, too. He nodded at Tree as if he’d expected him.

  “This is your lucky day, boy,” the sergeant said. “Captain Boyle is here to take you back to your unit. You’ll make the quartermaster corps proud, now, won’t you?”

  Angry ignored him. He stood rigid, his fatigues ripped and stained, the letter “P” painted in white on the thighs and back. He was about my size, but it looked to be all muscle. He had a swollen cheek and a cut over one eye about a day old.

  “The Six-One-Seven is a combat unit,” Tree said.

  “Am I talkin’ to you, boy?” The MP glared at Tree, then shrugged at me, as if in commiseration.

  “Sergeant,” I barked, in my best imitation of Harding. “You’ve unlocked the door. That’s all we need you for. Dismissed.”

  “I gotta escort you out, Captain,” he said, spitting out my rank.

  “Then do so, without running your mouth.”

  “Them my clothes?” Angry said to Tree, ignoring the squabble playing out in front of him as he pointed at the canvas bag.

  “Yeah,” Tree said, watching the sergeant. “Everything you need.”

  “I’m a free man now, ain’t I, Sergeant?” He directed this to the MP, barely acknowledging his presence with the flicker of an eye.

  “That’s what the orders say,” the sergeant said, as if reluctant to see even one of his charges proven innocent.

  “Good.” With that, he took off his shirt and dropped it at his feet. Trousers, shorts, shoes, and socks followed, a pile of greasy, green, unlaundered clothing not fit for rags. Naked, Angry stepped over the discarded clothes and took the bag from Tree. Old ragged scars showed on his back as he turned.

  “Hold on,” the sergeant said. “You can’t—”

  “Yes, he can,” I said. “I say so, and General Eisenhower says so, right here in this letter.” I tapped my jacket pocket. “Personnel at the Shepton Mallet Military Prison are to provide all necessary assistance, that’s what it says. And the nice thing is that I get to decide what’s necessary. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, in the neutral tone of a non-com who can’t wait to be rid of a troublesome officer.

  Angry took his time dressing in his Class As. Tree had figured it would be a morale boost for him to leave the prison in his best uniform. After his time behind bars, the pants were a little loose and there was plenty of shirt to tuck in. He knotted his field scarf, donned his Eisenhower jacket, and finally turned to the sergeant, giving him his full attention. He tapped his own shoulder, where the Tank Destroyer patch was displayed. It was a black panther, crushing a tank in its jaws.

  “Combat unit,” Angry said. “Not quartermaster.” The MP ignored him, but I could tell by his face he wouldn’t forget Angry, either.

  Outside in the courtyard, with the MP nearly double-timing it to get rid of us, a rhythmic clapping began. It was a steady, slow clap that built up in speed and volume as we neared the exit. Some white faces peered down impassively at us, while other windows were empty, the prisoners back where they couldn’t be seen, sending Angry off with the only salute they could offer. It was a thunderous echo by the time we reached the door.

  I don’t think I let my breath out until we were in the jeep. I got in and started it up while Tree jumped in the back and told Angry to sit up front. He didn’t want to. He and Tree exchanged glares but I didn’t care about what was going on between them. I just wanted to get the hell out of the gate.

  Once we were on the road, I noticed Tree prodding Angry from the back seat, tapping him on the shoulder, and whispering.

  “You guys want to share the secret?” I asked.

  “No, sir,” said Angry. His voice was deep but coiled, as if tamping down a geyser of words. I was beginning to see where he got the nickname.

  “It’s only right, Angry,” Tree said.

  “Okay,” Angry said. He seemed to steel himself for a verbal ordeal. “Thank you, Captain Boyle. For getting me out.”

  “See,” Tree said with a laugh, “that wasn’t so hard.”

  “You’re welcome, Private,” I said. “Tree had something to do with it too, you know. Got himself wounded, if you count bird shot.”

  “Not where I come from,” said Angry, and I thought I detected the faintest of smiles. “I’ll thank him later for that. But if you hadn’t come along, no one could’ve helped me. So thank you.”

  “No problem. What happened to you in there? Someone beat on you?”

  “When the release papers and Tree’s letter came through. Some of the MPs wanted to rile me, see if I’d hit back. Then they’d be able to file charges.”

  “But you didn’t?”

  “Nope. I let four of them work me over till they got tired. Most of the punches were where they wouldn’t show. A few landed on my face.” He spoke softly, keeping his emotions in check. I didn’t ask about the scars on his back. They looked like they were from a long time ago.

  “It would have been self-defense,” I said. The look from Angry was the only answer I needed. Self-defense for a white man was assault for a Negro. “You need a doctor?” I asked.

  “Probably got a coupla broken ribs. But no doctor. I don’t want to get separated from the Six-Seventeenth again.”

  “There’s an English doctor in Hungerford,” I said. “He’s worked on about everyone else involved in this case. One more with no questions asked shouldn’t be a burden. Okay?”

  “Long as it’s off the record, he can tape me up. But we’re going to war, Captain, and I gotta be there.”

  “We all gonna be there,” Tree said, clasping Angry’s shoulder. “We’ll show ’em. The Germans, the rednecks, and our own people.”

  “Our own is the most important,�
�� Angry said. “You understand what we sayin’, Captain?”

  “I think they call that making history,” I said.

  “That’s right. And we’re gonna make it, or die trying.”

  “That’s a heavy price to pay,” I said.

  “No it ain’t, Captain. Livin’ like a mule, that’s a heavy price. You got me out of prison, and I owe you for that. Now I can die like a man or live like one. If I make it through this war, I’ll settle down here in England. White people here ain’t so crazy, if you know what I mean. No disrespect meant to you, Captain,” Angry said.

  “I know. Understood,” I said. “And Rosemary Adams seems like a good woman. You know her husband is dead?”

  “Yeah. Tree wrote that in the letter. They read our mail and I think that got me a few extra lumps, but I didn’t care. I feel good now. Goin’ home to the Six-Seventeenth, see Rosemary, and go to war. Life looks a damn sight better from where I’m sittin’ now.”

  “Me too,” Tree said. “I got the best damn gunner in the battalion back. The Nazis are gonna wish they never heard of the Six-Seventeenth, right, Angry?”

  “Damn straight, Tree.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  IT WAS LATE afternoon by the time we pulled into Hungerford. Doc Brisbane was in his surgery and confirmed Angry had two broken ribs but said they weren’t the worst he’d seen. He taped up Angry, changed the dressings on Tree’s wounds and mine, told us to stop getting injured, and sent us on our way.

  We were all hungry, and when I offered to stand for dinner and pints at the Prince of Wales, Angry and Tree didn’t need their arms twisted. I found Kaz, and was surprised to see Big Mike waiting in the bar. After introductions, we got a table. Big Mike pulled me aside as we were about to take our seats.

  “Billy,” he said in a whisper. “I found out Cosgrove is okay, he’s going to make it. They got him in that rest home at Saint Albans, but it’s all hush-hush. He wants to see you. Just you, alone, was the message. Colonel Harding said the visit would do him good.”

  “Thanks, Big Mike,” I said. “I’ll drive up tomorrow.” Cosgrove probably wanted details about the case, to be sure nothing about the Millers had been compromised. I wondered if Harding was in on it. I usually complained about the army keeping me in the dark, but this was a secret I’d rather not have been burdened with.

  “Billy, you owe us a story,” Kaz said as we sat. “You never finished the story of what happened with Basher.”

  “Yeah, Billy,” Big Mike said. “Last we heard Basher dumped a bucket of dirty water on Tree, but doused the boss at the same time.”

  “Man, seems like months ago we were telling that story, Billy,” Tree said. “Time to wrap it up.”

  “We need to bring Angry up to speed?”

  “Tree tells that whole damn story every couple of weeks,” Angry said. “Glad you got most of it out of the way. Be a pleasure to hear someone less long-winded tell it for a change.”

  “Okay,” I said, taking a long drink of ale. Stories are thirsty work.

  BASHER HAD KEPT quiet for a week or so after getting chewed out by Deputy Superintendent Emmons. Tree and I thought it was over, but that was because we were dumb kids. Basher was watching us, biding his time, waiting for his revenge. Mr. Jackson warned us to be careful, and so did Dad. But we thought we were smarter than them all.

  After work I’d head over to Earl’s Garage where Tree worked. We’d talk, and I’d help him so his boss wouldn’t get mad. Tree was a good mechanic, and he taught me a lot about engines that summer. Basher brought his car in once to get the oil changed, and he watched Tree the whole time. I thought it was odd that he did that, since he wasn’t a regular customer. I told Dad about it that night, and the next day I found him down in Mr. Jackson’s office.

  “Son, we both think Basher’s up to something. You and Tree need to lay low for a while,” Dad said.

  “Best if you two don’t hang around together so much. White boy and a Negro boy can only be trouble,” Mr. Jackson said. “It’s not your fault, it’s just the way things are.”

  “Is that what you think, Dad?” I wondered if Dad was getting pressure from his boss, or if he really believed that.

  “I think Mr. Jackson knows what he’s talking about. It’s the smart move. Let Basher find something else to get all riled up about.”

  “Okay,” I said, not willing to argue with two fathers.

  “Billy,” Dad said. “Don’t soft-soap me.”

  “No, really, I get it. We make a convenient target. And Tree would get the worst of it, so I understand.” They were relieved. The first thing I did after work was to run over to Earl’s and tell Tree.

  “Yeah, Pop read me the riot act this morning,” Tree said. “What are we gonna do?”

  “I don’t know. I have enough money once I get paid this week to buy the Indian Scout. But it needs work. I thought I could do it here.”

  “You can,” Tree said. “Earl said it was okay, long as you help me out. He’s not a bad guy.”

  “But what if we get caught?”

  “They can’t stop you being a customer of Earl’s, can they? Are that’s what you’d be. Sort of.” It was with that twisted logic that we began to deceive our fathers, which was not a minor transgression in either of our households.

  I bought the Scout, wheeling it in at night to Earl’s to avoid any chance of being seen. I’d sounded out my dad about getting a motorcycle, but Mom heard and before he had a chance to give his opinion, she’d weighed in. He went into his study and shut the door on us both. I kind of doubted he’d say yes, but he never said no, either.

  Things were going well. Basher was leaving us alone, even on the few times Tree came to see his dad at work. I’d gotten a used oil pump and installed it, and was planning on working on the brakes next. My thinking didn’t really go much beyond that.

  One day, as I was about to finish up at work, Basher brushed by me, giving me a hard elbow in the ribs. He grinned as he and two other cops made for their squad car. He was happy, and Basher was only happy when other people weren’t. I ran to the garage, and found Basher taking a statement from Earl. The place had been robbed, a window broken to gain entry, and a crowbar taken to the cash register. They’d gotten fifty bucks in cash.

  And my 1922 Indian Scout.

  They had Tree in the squad car, and wouldn’t let me near him. Earl swore Tree was a good kid and had had nothing to do with it, but they thanked him for his cooperation and drove away. There was only one thing to do.

  Dad was working a homicide down on Fulton Street; he’d been in the station that day and told me to tell Mom he’d be home late. I jumped a streetcar and looked around until I saw the police cars. The coroner’s wagon was just taking the body away and Dad was talking to two beat cops. I waved until I got his attention.

  It wasn’t pretty. Disturbing your dad at work to tell him you’ve been lying to him is never a good idea. When your dad is a homicide detective with a fresh corpse, it’s truly a horrible idea. The fact that he’d warned me about Basher meant that I had to endure the iciest glare ever. When Dad got mad, he got loud and yelled a lot. When he got really mad, he got quiet as the veins bulged on his neck.

  He dispatched a couple of bluecoats over to Tree’s house, telling them to make sure Basher did everything by the book. When I asked him what he meant, his look went from stern and angry to weary, as if he didn’t want me to hear what grown men were capable of.

  “Son, they’re going to find the money and your bike on the Jacksons’ property. That’s what this is all about. It’s what Mr. Jackson and I tried to tell you. This isn’t kid stuff. This is real life, the way it happens when you go up against guys like Basher without a plan.”

  “You mean they’re going to arrest Tree?”

  “There’s no way out of it, Billy. They’ll have evidence.”

  “But you can tell them, Tree wouldn’t do this. Earl at the garage even said he was a good kid!”

  “Evidence, Bil
ly. They have evidence. It’s phony, you and I know that. The judge might even suspect it, but the law is the law. I’m sorry. Best I can do is make sure Basher doesn’t pull anything like claiming Tree resisted arrest. My men will keep an eye on him. Now go home, and we’ll talk later.”

  I took the streetcar home to South Boston, wishing it would never stop.

  They let Tree out on bail. Mr. Jackson had to put up his house for the bond. The prosecutor argued that the young man was a flight risk, and only the loss of his father’s home would serve to keep him around.

  Of course, Tree lost his job. Earl said people wouldn’t trust the garage if the guy accused of robbing it still worked there. He had a point.

  I knew Tree had been planning on going to college in the fall, and I figured that I could sell my bike, once it was out of the evidence impound, to help him out. It was only right, since the whole thing was my fault. We’d both jumped in feet first, but Tree was the one paying the price.

  I decided to do some detective work of my own. I canvased the neighborhood, like Dad talked about. But since I was a kid, a lot of people didn’t want to be bothered. One old lady didn’t mind. Mrs. Mildred Bishop lived in a walk-up apartment overlooking the alley behind Earl’s Garage. She stank of cigarette smoke. Her house stank, her cat stank, and two fingers on her right hand were stained yellow with nicotine.

  “I wake up coughing sometimes,” she said. I tried to hide my surprise. “So I get up and have a smoke. I always stand by the window, it helps me breathe. The other night, when they said the garage was robbed? Well, I was up a lot that night. I had just lit a Pall Mall when I heard a sound outside. It was warm, so the windows were wide open.”

  “What sort of sound, ma’am?” I asked. I had my notebook out and was scribbling her statement, or what I thought a police statement looked like.

  “Breaking glass. I thought maybe a stray cat had knocked some bottles over. People are always leaving bottles stacked in the alleyway. I didn’t hear much else, until near the end of my cigarette. A truck pulled up and stopped in back of Earl’s. Someone came out and loaded what looked like a motorcycle on it. They had boards out so they could run it up the back.”