Billy Boyle: A World War II Mystery, Vol. 1

by James R Benn

  Damn! Why did she have to get all gung ho and volunteer to be an SOE agent? Would I ever see her again? At least the captain made sense to me now. He knew Diana was about to leave on a mission and didn’t want her mooning over some Yank. He was trying to help her keep focused. Focused on staying alive. He didn’t know how badly she needed a shoulder to cry on, how desperate she’d been for distraction from her spiraling fear—and shame. All that “one must do one’s duty” stuff had worn too thin after what she’d been through. I hoped I was more to her than just a handy shoulder. I kinda thought I was, but then how would I ever find out with her off sneaking around behind enemy lines? Not too much I could do about that right now.

  Daphne downshifted as she took a sharp turn, then punched the accelerator hard enough to snap my neck back. At least she had a machine to take out her frustrations on.

  I thought about cold water and its effect on the human body. How did that fit together with maps, spies, suspects, and suspicious British majors? It was all still a jumble, but a few things were beginning to stand out. Unfortunately, other things still lurked—vague images that failed to clarify into answers, or even connections. I looked at my watch.

  “Almost there, Billy.” Daphne gave me a weak smile and then downshifted again, passing a farmer on his cart, causing the Imp to growl in low gear as we sped by the country perfume of manure ready to be spread.

  “How’re you doing? You OK?”

  “Better, yes, thank you. Nothing like a morning drive in the Imp to cheer one up!” she said with a false bravado that was almost convincing. “Look there, Billy, that must be the way to the base.”

  Up ahead a column of U.S. Army deuce-and-a-half trucks was turning off the main road. We followed slowly, and as the distraction of fast driving faded, I could see the traces of worry working away at her face, bringing the corners of her mouth down.

  “I’m sure she’ll be all right,” I said, trying to reassure both of us. “Diana seems like a tough cookie.”

  “That must mean she knows how to take care of herself, which she does indeed. It’s the emotional price she has to pay that worries me. She made it back from France in one piece, but it wasn’t easy for her afterward. She saw so many terrible things.”

  “Why do you think she volunteered? And please don’t give me any of that ‘doing one’s duty’ stuff. Why her?”

  Daphne took a deep breath and exhaled. “I asked her exactly that. She said she owed it to those men who died when the destroyer sank. She wouldn’t say any more.”

  “Think she feels guilty that she lived through it?”

  “How would joining SOE help?”

  I shrugged, as if it were too much for me to figure out. But I knew. I knew Diana was going to tempt death again. To see if she deserved to live. To see if those men slipping beneath the cold Channel waves would finally stop calling out to her.

  We crested a small hill and saw the Southwold base ahead and to our left. The column of trucks was entering the gate. A fence extended in both directions, ending on the left at a river and on the right continuing into a stand of trees. I could smell the salt-water-laden air blowing in fresh off the North Sea. We slowed as we approached the gate and Daphne pulled out her orders, ready for inspection. She stopped next to the white-painted gatehouse, manned by one American and one British soldier. The American, a corporal with “Ranger” stitched on his shoulder patch, approached the car.

  “Ma’am, sir. Can I help you?”

  “We have orders to enter the base,” Daphne said, offering up a set of official documents, “and we’d like to see the base commander.”

  The corporal glanced at the orders and handed them back to Daphne.

  “You can try to see him, but he’s pretty busy. Better try the exec, Captain Gilmore.” He lifted the gate blocking the roadway. “Go straight and take your second left. Headquarters building is right there. Big sign on it.”

  He smiled and waved us through. I turned around as we drove past. Neither sentry watched us as we went down the road.

  “Pretty sloppy security,” I said. “He didn’t even check our IDs. We could be heading anywhere on this base.”

  “Now that you mention it, Billy, isn’t it usually military police who guard base entrances?”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Those weren’t MPs. Those clowns would let anyone in here.” Daphne took the second left and parked in front of a Quonset hut with HQ painted in red letters above the door. Pine trees rose up in back of the building, shading it from the weak warmth the June sun gave. The Imp attracted a few stares, and Daphne attracted quite a few looks herself when she stepped out. Nobody paid me much attention.

  “Can I help you, miss?” A GI walked up to Daphne, his hands in his pockets and a grin on his face. There was a parachute patch on his fore and aft cap, and he wore paratroop boots shined to a mirror finish.

  She smiled for a second. “That’s ‘Second Officer’ to you, Private. Accent on officer.”

  Two of his buddies had hung back and were now laughing as his face reddened. He turned away from Daphne and nearly collided with me.

  “Excuse me, sss-sir,” he stammered as he tried to pull off a salute and back up at the same time.

  “Take it easy, soldier,” I said, returning the salute. “Just tell us where we can find the CO or Captain Gilmore.”

  “The CO’s out on maneuvers, but Captain Gilmore’s here. He’s down by the trucks. Our battalion is getting our winter gear today and he’s in charge. We’re headed there. Would you like to follow us, Lieutenant? And the Second Officer, of course.” He offered a tentative grin toward Daphne.

  “Sure, boys. Lead the way.”

  We walked past a long row of Quonset huts, each bordered by a neat row of whitewashed rocks. In back of that row was another row, then another. Thick green grass, still wet from last night’s rain, gave off a damp, earthy smell.

  “You boys ever get out of here?” I asked.

  “Yessir. They give us passes most weekends. We go into Southwold or sometimes up to Halesworth. There’s pubs, movies, that sorta thing.”

  “You’re all paratroopers, I see. The girls must like that. What’s your unit?”

  “Third Battalion, 509th Parachute Regiment,” our new friend said proudly. “But there’s a lot of us, plus the rangers and commandos. There’s fewer girls than GIs around here. Makes it kinda tough.”

  “Lots of competition, huh?”

  “Yeah, I mean yes, sir. Especially with the Brit commandos. They think they have first dibs on the local girls. But they’re out with the rangers on maneuvers today, so I thought I might have a chance. . . .”

  “With the Second Officer,” said Daphne wryly.

  “Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it at all. It was most gallant of you to guide us,” she said, giving him a forgiving smile. “Are the Norwegian commandos on maneuver also?”

  “Probably. They’re part of Number Five Troop, and I think all the commando units are out with the rangers. They’re doing an exercise, attacking the airfield at Lowestoft.”

  Just what the brass had planned for them in Norway, where the plan was to take an airfield in Nordland. At the end of the row of Quonset huts was a large parking area. Two rows of five trucks each had their tailgates down and lines of paratroopers were passing along each, laughing and joking as men handed down heavy coats and other winter gear.

  “We’ve got to get in line, sir. That’s Captain Gilmore over there, guy with the clipboard.”

  “Thanks.” We walked along the queue of men, some already burdened by parkas, heavy pants, fur hats, and mittens. It was cool for June, but the guys looked hot just carrying all that stuff.

  “Captain Gilmore?” I asked as Daphne and I both saluted.

  “Yes, what is it, Lieutenant?” He seemed busy, and didn’t even bother looking at Daphne, which meant very busy in my book. He had his knee up on a crate, balancing his clipboard on it and jotting down numbers as fast as he
could.

  “Sir, we have orders granting access to your base in order to speak to Lieutenant Rolf Kayser, of the SAS commandos, Number Five Troop.”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn. . . .” He finally noticed Daphne. “Excuse me. I mean I don’t care what your orders say. All commando troops are out on maneuvers today.”

  “Up at Lowestoft,” I offered.

  “Right. They should be back this evening, when you can talk to Lieutenant Kayser all you want. Until then, I would appreciate it if you would just stay out of the way. I’ve got a lot to do.” He turned and walked to the next row of trucks, checking his clipboard. I kept up with him, although that had sounded like a dismissal.

  “I see that, sir. But what’s the rush? Winter’s not due for months.”

  “Then you must be the only guy they didn’t let in on the secret. Hey, Doc!”

  “Yes, captain?”

  A British officer walked over in response to Gilmore’s summons. He wore the commando shoulder flash along with the insignia of the Medical Corps. He was a little older than the American officer, with a tanned and lined face that looked like a sailor’s or a mountaineer’s. It was a hard face, but the blue eyes were soft and expressive. A doctor and a commando. Quite a combo.

  “Doc, could you take these two off my hands? Give them lunch, a tour of the base, whatever. They’re waiting for one of the Norwegian guys to get back.” He walked off, still writing on his clipboard and counting off paratroopers, not even waiting for a response. The doctor eyed him as he walked away.

  “Executive officer is not a job I’d wish on my worst enemy. Nothing but paperwork and details, no glory. You have to excuse Captain Gilmore; he’s just up to his eyeballs in it.” He turned toward Daphne and smiled. “I am Captain Stuart Carlyle. Pleased to meet you.”

  I took that to mean he didn’t care two figs about meeting me, so I horned back in the conversation. “This is Second Officer Daphne Seaton. I’m Lieutenant Billy Boyle. We’re attached to U.S. Army headquarters.” Daphne handed him a copy of our orders, which he scanned and gave back, with the casual disdain for headquarters types that was quite natural among field officers and hardly even offensive.

  “How come you’re not out with the commando troops, sir?” I asked.

  “I have some training accident patients that needed looking after. A few broken bones, that sort of thing,” he said, moving away from the trucks and the noise of the paratroopers. “First let’s have some lunch, then I’ll show you around.”

  “I didn’t know the commandos had their own medical staff,” said Daphne as we followed him.

  “We usually avail ourselves of the regular Army Medical Corps,” Carlyle said, “but there are times when a doctor is needed on a mission. Such as when we are in the field in hostile territory for a period of time.”

  “So you’re a trained commando?” I asked.

  “Absolutely. Had to go through the same basic courses these younger chaps did. Although it helped that I’m an experienced mountain climber. Probably why they wanted me along.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. Before he could answer, we all had to step to the side of the road as two more trucks rumbled by, probably loaded down with scarves and mittens. We walked on quickly, waving the dust away from our faces.

  “Since you two are on Ike’s staff, I’m surprised you don’t know. Norway. Lots of mountains there,” Carlyle said, looking back at us as we worked at keeping up with him.

  “Oh, sure. The invasion. You guys are headed to Nordland, right?”

  “Now that bit’s top secret. It seems the General Staff figured they couldn’t keep Norway a secret, what with the cold-weather gear and training we’ve been doing. The troops on this base know we’re on for Norway, but they don’t know exactly where or when. I’ve been told three different landing spots myself. So keep a tight lip, Lieutenant.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Sufficiently chastened, I shut up for a bit and let the captain chat with Daphne. I thought about that pathetic attempt at security. With practically anyone able to get on base and hundreds of GIs descending on the local villages and drinking themselves silly, word about the upcoming invasion of Norway was bound to spread. These guys would probably be talking about their new winter gear after their second pint. Our German spy wouldn’t even need to get on base to hear about it, he could just sit at a bar and drink. I looked up at the sky and imagined the Luftwaffe sending bombers across the North Sea and blasting this place and these elite troops into oblivion, just on the basis of what their secret agents would hear in Southwold pubs this weekend.

  I felt a pang of fear for Diana, and hoped to hell that the SOE had better security than whoever was running this operation. Then Carlyle mentioned lunch and we followed him into the officers’ mess. Nothing fancy, just a long, narrow rectangle of a building, so new that piles of sawdust still showed on the ground outside, little sprinkles of dirty yellow in straight lines where boards had been cut. Inside, the usual smell of coffee, grease, and cigarettes hit my nostrils and reminded me of break time on the beat in Boston, of unbuttoning my blue coat and sipping a cup of good diner coffee, my biggest decision whether to have apple or cherry pie. On the house, of course.

  It didn’t smell like a diner, though; it was too new for that. The smell of sawdust hung in the air inside, too, almost palpable above the cooking odors. The wood was rough cut and unpainted, the windows not yet framed in, as if they had thrown this place together in a couple of days, and didn’t care if it lasted more than a couple of months.

  I was still worried about Diana and confused about most everything, but that never had an effect on my appetite. The kitchen had hot green pea-soup and ham-and-cheese sandwiches stacked up a foot high. Daphne cut her sandwich up into sections and ate them in delicate little bites. It was cute. I ate mine holding it in one hand and slurping up soup with a spoon in the other. Daphne sort of rolled her eyes so I put the sandwich down and finished my soup, trying not to make any loud noises. If I was going to hang around the Seaton sisters, I would have to brush up on my manners.

  “So, Captain, do you know Lieutenant Rolf Kayser?” I asked, once I had polished off the soup.

  “Quite well, in fact. Kayser is one of our finest junior officers. He’s a born leader, very rugged, and his men are totally loyal to him. He looks after them better than any lieutenant I know. But tell me, why is U.S. Army headquarters staff interested in a Norwegian serving with the British commandos?”

  “He may be a witness to a matter we are investigating for General Eisenhower. I can’t say more than that. Got to keep a tight lip on it, sir.” Carlyle didn’t seem to notice I was giving his own line back to him, but Daphne did. She jumped in to avoid any unpleasantness.

  “Captain,” she said, “what does Rolf do, exactly, that makes his men so loyal?”

  “Well, I suppose it has something to do with all of them being Norwegian. In exile together, fighting to free their country: I think that forges a bond between them that we English can’t fully understand. Thank God. But Kayser also makes a point never to leave a man behind, not even the dead. He’s had me put his entire troop through medical orderly training, so they can stabilize a wounded man in the field and try to get him back alive.”

  “That must make a big difference,” I offered.

  “It does, for a seriously wounded man. Treating him quickly for blood loss and shock can keep him alive until he can get regular medical treatment. Any member of Kayser’s troop could act as a competent medical orderly. He’s learned quite a lot of battleground medicine himself by watching me and asking questions. He’s not in any trouble, is he?”

  “We need to talk with him, before he goes off on another mission. Have you been with him in the field?”

  “Yes, several times.”

  “On missions to the Norwegian coast, to destroy fishing vessels and processing plants?”

  “That would be classified information, Lieutenant.”

  “Sure.
I wonder what it must be like to have to destroy your own country’s livelihood. It must be tough.”

  “War is hell, Lieutenant. Isn’t that what one of your generals said?”

  “Yes,” I answered. “General Sherman during the Civil War, commenting on the burning of Confederate cities. He was from Ohio. I always wondered if he would’ve sung a different tune if it had been Columbus going up in flames.”

  “Interesting viewpoint, Lieutenant. You sound like a cynic.”

  “No, just a cop, but maybe that’s the same thing. We tend to see the underside of society most days. Kind of makes you view things differently.”

  “Not unlike our commando chaps. They live with death and killing every day. It seems to make the question of property destruction somewhat inconsequential. You were with the police before the war?”

  “Boston Police Department. Now I’m just a lowly staffer picking up loose ends for Ike. Are you familiar with Knut Birkeland and his fishing fleet in Norway?”

  “One doesn’t have to go on a raid to know that name. He left behind a rather large fishing fleet in northern waters when he came to England with the king.”

  “Would it be safe to assume that his ships would be among those destroyed in commando raids?” I could see Carlyle giving that one some thought.

  “Yes. One could safely assume that if such raids were carried out, Mr. Birkeland’s boats would be amongst those destroyed. If only by the law of averages. He probably owns a third of the fleet in those waters.”

  Daphne and I exchanged glances. At least now we knew that Birkeland was telling the truth. He indeed had supported a policy that was ruining him financially.

  “Did Rolf ever mention a gold coin to you?” I asked.

  “Do you mean his lucky coin?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, lots of the boys have their superstitions and lucky charms. Rolf was beside himself over a month or so ago when his gold coin went missing. He claims it must have been stolen. He said it was his souvenir from when he helped Birkeland get the Norwegian gold out of the country.”

  “Had you ever seen it?”