by Bill Mesce
“Panache?” the captain offered.
DiGarre smiled and nodded again. “Panache.”
“About General Halverson — ”
“You mind if I call you Harry? Harry, a lot of the other air commanders think I’m pretty lucky. They’re jealous because my Wings are situated so as to make London the best location for my headquarters, while they’re all stuck out there in the boondocks. This puts me nice and close to all the goodies London’s got to offer. Also puts me in a good position to get the inside dope on what’s going on over at SHAEF. I may be close to SHAEF, but that also means SHAEF is close to me. Understand?”
“I think so.”
“When I lose a whole group, Harry — a third of one of my Wings — on the ground in one fell swoop no less, well, my bosses down the street find out about it pretty damned quick. They want an accounting from me. That means I’m going to want an accounting of my own.”
“From General Halverson.”
“The 351st was one of his groups.” DiGarre twirled his glass, looking down into his drink. “You a friend of the general?”
“No, sir.”
“But you have sympathy for him. Laudable. But whether he just had a case of the bad breaks or no, Halverson’s got a responsibility to me and to the men I entrust to him. There are things that have happened subsequently — the things you’ve been poking into — for which he is accountable. That, I imagine, is why he’s so unhappy these days.” The general flashed his quick, lupine smile again. “But that’s not really your concern, is it, Harry? So let’s discuss something that is. I think we’ll be more comfortable over there, gentlemen. Bring your drinks.”
A stack of files in one hand, his drink in the other, DiGarre led them to a collection of lion’s-paw furniture nestled round a marble-topped coffee table under the windows. Harry hesitated, taking an opportunity for a better look at the RAF captain as he passed into the mote-filled columns of light from the windows. Early thirties, Harry guessed. Moving stiffly as if each movement pained. The face was truly misshapen, each of his features unnaturally uneven, and made to look more so by an odd paleness. Harry thought back to his attempt at reassembling the broken porcelain sheep in the shattered front room of the Gresham cottage, and that thought cued his eyes to the barely perceptible lines in the captain’s face — like seams — that might have been scars, and which the captain had tried to dampen with face powder (Harry could see the residue on the man’s collar).
Harry and Ryan shared a settee while the general and the RAF captain took cushioned chairs across from them. DiGarre set his files down on the table and nodded at a crumbly cake on a silver salver. “Piece of cake, Harry? My wife sent it. It’s very good, and you don’t have to agree with me just because I’m your boss.”
“Thank you, sir, but I don’t feel all that hungry.”
“Well, you feel the urge, you help yourself.” DiGarre slipped off his glasses and set them carefully on the table, then took a pair of half-moon reading spectacles from his pocket. He flipped open one of the folders, reading as he enjoyed a few puffs on his cigar and another sip of his drink. Harry took the moment to look over at Ryan for a clue as to the nature of the proceedings, but Ryan’s face was slack and colorless, the usually glinting eyes now flat and lost in the swirls of the Persian rug.
“Yes, well...” DiGarre said. He sat back in his chair and eyed Harry over the rims of his reading spectacles. “I’ve been reviewing your case, along with Colonel Ryan and Captain Leighton-Dunne here. I want to go over it with you to make sure we’re all on the same trail, so to speak. If there’s something you don’t think I have down right, you let out a holler.”
“All right, sir.”
DiGarre leaned forward again, running a finger along the typed sheets in the folder. “Let’s see...The way it looks, seems there was some kind of bad blood all along between this Lieutenant O’Connell and Major Markham. But, uh, as I understand your premise — you correct me, now, if I don’t have this right — you don’t think that’s why he was killed, or because Markham was a little het up that this O’Connell fella lived through the kraut raid while a lot of his other boys didn’t. What was it? Something like forty-odd dead? And then there’s the wounded...But you think it was because of this, um, supposed ‘business’ out at Helsvagen.”
“It was forty-seven dead, sir. And yes, that’s the way the facts — ”
“We’ll get to the facts in a bit, Major. That’s essentially your case?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then you go on that Markham destroyed his gun film not to hide the attacks on O’Connell and these other two folks, this Gresham fella and his wife, but to hide this Helsvagen thing. I’m supposed to say ‘alleged,’ right, Colonel? ‘Allegedly’ destroyed his gun film?”
Ryan forced a weak smile in response.
Harry looked over at Ryan but Ryan’s eyes were still swimming among the dark colors of the rug. There was something about the dry, quiet way DiGarre ticked off each element of the case that made them sound suddenly fragile. He looked back to DiGarre, his eyes darting between the general and the RAF captain, both of them barely more than silhouettes against the sun-filled windows.
“And your evidence of this ‘alleged’ Helsvagen thing — ” DiGarre pulled a folder out of the pile and opened it. Harry recognized Van Damm’s reconnaissance photos. “ — is based on these recon photos taken yesterday afternoon, and Major Van Damm’s interpretation of same.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The way I get it, even Major Van Damm doesn’t think these pictures are exactly Grade-A quality.”
“We always have the option of another recon fly-by.” DiGarre nodded, not looking up from the open files. “Van Damm says that at this late date it’s doubtful they’d show anything conclusive.” The general poked the top several photos out of the file, spreading them out on the marble table. Harry recognized them as the photos of the field representing Markham’s approximate position at the time he claimed Angel Red had been attacked by German fighters. “We have these, but Van Damm doesn’t consider them indicative, for a number of reasons that I understand he laid out to you, not the least of which is Markham isn’t sure where he was jumped. And then there’s these...” Now he fanned out the smoke-blotted pictures of the burning village. “Know what these show, Harry? They show a town on fire, a few hundred yards downwind of forty thousand gallons of exploding gasoline.” Harry felt his evidence go from fragile to brittle as old biscuits.
“Those pictures also show collapsed buildings,” Harry said. “Fire doesn’t knock a building down.”
DiGarre sat back in his chair. “No, it doesn’t. It can weaken one till it can’t hold itself up anymore. Or, it can get knocked down by somebody trying to create a firebreak. And this is an old place, Van Damm tells me. He says a lot of the buildings there are maybe a couple hundred years old. The concussion of forty thousand gallons of gas going up just next door could blow some of them right over. At least that’s what Captain Leighton-Dunne here tells me. He saw enough of the Blitz close up to be an expert.”
Harry scratched at an itch over his brow. His fingertips came away damp. “There’s the radio traffic that came out of Helsvagen — ”
“And Major Van Damm’s interpretation of it, which, to my mind, is another way of saying informed speculation. As somebody who has to deal with his hits and misses, I ought to know. Van Damm’s taking guesses here based on a three-year-old RAF file on this place; that and kraut tendencies. I think it’s worth noting, Harry, that despite Major Van Damm’s ‘feeling’ that Helsvagen has been stripped over the last few years, these pictures — and Captain Anderson’s gun film — show antiaircraft guns that weren’t there three years ago. The major does have his misses.”
DiGarre slid the photographs back into their file and closed it. He took a sip of his drink and let the liquor sit on his tongue a few seconds before he swallowed. “And there’s this.” He pulled out still another folder and nudged it towar
d Harry. “You’re pretty thorough, I hear; you would’ve come across this eventually, but let me save you some time and trouble. When Mr. Gresham spotted the incoming flight, he routinely contacted his sector Air Traffic Controller. The ATC alerted Air/Sea Rescue, then contacted O’Connell. What you have there is a photostat of the official log of the ATC station covering that sector.”
Harry flipped open the folder and slipped on his own reading glasses to study the white-on-black image:
0824: Station 3-B-3 confirm visual 3 US P47 course 270 range/speed unreptd. 1 ship trailing smoke.
0827: Alert ASR possble splash Sector 3-B.
0830: Contact 47, self-ID radio desig Angel Blue Baker (confirm — elmnt 351 grp Don). Reprt no injury, minor engine damage; safe ETA Don 5 mins.
0832: Attmpt contact other craft — N/R
0834: Attmpt contact Angel Blue Baker — N/R
0835: Attmpt contact Station 3-B-3 — N/R
0838: Alert RA 133rd Inf. Regmnt, request investigate.
0842: Infrmed by 351 grp HQ Angel Blue Baker splash Sector 3-B.
Harry closed the folder. He pushed it back toward DiGarre.
The general let loose a thin stream of cigar smoke before speaking. “So, you say Markham splashes O’Connell because of what O’Connell saw at Helsvagen. According to that log, the RAF was in voice contact with O’Connell, but he didn’t say anything about it to them. O’Connell was in range of every radio receiver in the south of England, in fact, and didn’t say squat. Why do you think that was, Harry? It leads a fella to entertain the notion that maybe O’Connell didn’t say anything because O’Connell didn’t have anything to say.”
The general paused, but Harry said nothing.
“I’m no lawyer,” the general continued, “and I don’t pretend to be. I’m just a civilian — in that regard — and that’s how I’m looking at this. But I’ve been going over this with Colonel Ryan and, for my money, I’d have to say an awful lot of what you’ve got here, Harry, is, oh, I believe the proper term is ‘circumstantial.’”
Harry reached for his drink, concentrating on making the move look smooth and relaxed. “Is that Colonel Ryan’s opinion, too?” Again, he looked over at Ryan, only to find the colonel’s eyes fixed on the floor.
DiGarre’s response was a shrug. “I didn’t ask him.”
Harry shifted in his chair, trying to portray an image of confidence he no longer felt. “A preponderance of circumstantial evidence in a criminal case is hardly rare, General. I’m sure if you’d asked, the colonel would’ve told you as much. And, talking the case out like this isn’t the same thing as a proper presentation in front of a jury — ”
“Oh, did I overlook something?” DiGarre went through a show of concerned alarm as he riffled through the files. “Is there some material I don’t have here? No? Then I can only go on what I see, Harry. And I can tell you that the officers in my command — the officers who’ll probably find themselves sitting in judgment on this thing — are no more lawyers than I am. I’d be inclined to think they’d look at all this the same way I do.”
Harry took another sip of his drink, a slow one. Where the general was going was now clear, however obscure his motive remained. Harry mustered what he thought was a savvy smile. “If you don’t mind my saying so, General, you’re taking the long way around to tell me to back off.”
DiGarre seemed neither offended nor surprised at Harry’s presumption. “Oh?”
“In which case I have to ask: If that’s what you want, why don’t you just order me to back off? Better yet: Have me relieved from the case.”
The RAF captain let out an audible and impatient sigh.
DiGarre ignored the captain, and presented Harry with his furtive little smile. “Truthfully, I considered it. Problem is a lot of people’ve got to where they know about this thing. Oh, not all of it, especially this end of it, but a lot of people know something’s cooking. We’re not looking to pull something that’s going to make those people even more curious. So, we’re looking for a way to bring this whole mess to a close. Quickly — ”
“And cleanly,” Harry said. “Right?”
“Hit the nail right on the head, Harry. Can’t close this in a way that leaves more questions than it answers.”
“Which means you remain on the case.” The RAF captain’s voice was cold, passionless, the ferret-like teeth in his mouth showing the lifeless gleam of porcelain. “It also means that you must be the one to decide its disposition. Willingly.”
“Willingly,” Harry said, nodding. He set his glass down on the table and smiled. “A silent Harry is a happy Harry, right? And this subtle piece of extortion is supposed to make me ‘willing’?” Harry was frankly astonished at his own effrontery. Perhaps he’d taken one sip too many of his drink.
If his abruptness troubled DiGarre, the general didn’t show it. “Extortion? Harry, we’re just taking the time to lay out the situation the way we see it. I’m not sure you appreciate the predicament you’re in.”
DiGarre fingered out and opened another folder. Harry could see his own ID photo in a corner of the typed cover form. “I hear from Colonel Ryan you’re pretty good at what you do. But you’re no Tom Dewey, and Ryan also tells me this’d be a tricky case even for an old hand. No offense, Harry, but I see you haven’t had much heavy criminal trial experience, in or out of the service. We’re all worried that you — what’s the phrase? That your reach might be exceeding your grasp?”
It was at that point, so Harry told me later, when the scotch might’ve gotten the better of him, and his anger flared. “You’re asking me — ‘nicely’ — to close up shop and let Markham and Anderson walk, right? Is that it?”
DiGarre’s look of shock and dismay seemed no more sincere than his earlier warm welcome. “No, no, no, of course not! Sorry to give you that impression, Harry. I guess we hadn’t gotten to that yet. Colonel Ryan, I believe we’re in your territory now.”
Ryan cleared his throat. He tried to face Harry, but his eyes kept wandering back to the rug. “We’d still like you to prosecute the case.”
“That’s practically a precondition, Harry,” said DiGarre.
Harry shook his head, thoroughly confused. “Prosecute what case?”
Ryan cleared his throat again. “The O’Connell murder. The attack on the Greshams. Both are more substantive cases. Airtight, actually. The general, he’s, um, sure that any jury panel would convict.”
DiGarre nodded in agreement. “I’d be willing to bet they’d convict that Anderson character in the bargain, too. Accessory, complicity, whatever it is. You boys know the right legal term.”
“It’s a solution which would see the situation right all round,” the RAF captain said. “Even for you, I’d imagine.”
DiGarre nodded again, quite pleased with the offered tertium quid. “The Army enforces discipline, our Allies are assured of our good intentions, and you...Suffice to say that such a conviction would be appreciated top to bottom. That’s what you’re worried about, isn’t it, Harry? Making sure you get that conviction?”
“C’mon, Harry, don’t play the virgin.” Ryan smiled weakly, a pitiful ghost of his usual style. “It’s no different from a plea bargain, and you know as well as I do how many times we plea ’em down just to clear the docket. And it’s not like they’ll come out of this with just a rap on the wrist. A conviction on O’Connell and the Gresham attack...They go all the way on that.”
“After all, Major,” the RAF captain sniffed, “you can only hang them once.”
Harry sat for a long moment, taking in the presentation. “You don’t care if they’re guilty or not. You’d hang these guys for something they didn’t do just to hush this up? Why? Why?”
The large room went quiet. There was Ryan, slumped and weak in his chair. DiGarre sat studying him with careful calculation. And there was the RAF captain.
“It’s not a matter of caring,” the RAF captain said finally.
“I can see that,” Harry said.<
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“It’s a question of priorities,” the RAF captain said. “At this particular juncture, their guilt or innocence is, at best, of only secondary importance.”
“Captain’s right, Harry,” DiGarre said. “It doesn’t matter what they did. The issue is that they would even be charged with this; that they would even be suspect in this kind of action.”
“I can’t say you gentlemen have persuaded me,” Harry said, “but you sure as hell have me bamboozled.”
DiGarre nodded in genuine sympathy. “We have, at this moment, two central priorities, Harry. One is the preservation of the Alliance. You know, people back home look at us as one great army making war on the Hun. The sad truth is that destroying the Germans is just about the only thing we agree on. On its best days, this grand alliance is nothing more than a very shaky coalition.”
“Colonel Ryan explained the diplomatic problems to me.”
“No, Harry. Ryan explained some diplomatic problems to you. We’ve got DeGaulle and his Free French making more trouble for us than Vichy. There’s Czech units, Polish units, and God knows who else jammed on this island, and they’ve all got something to say about what we do, when we do it, how, where, and every other damned thing. We’ve got the Bolshies and they’ve been rabid paranoid since 1917. It doesn’t matter that a lot of their predicament is their own damned fault. They figure the ten or fifteen million people they’ve lost in this war so far is atonement enough. Hitler’s throwing almost eighty percent of his war effort at the East right now, and the Reds aren’t too subtle about accusing us of letting them wear the krauts down with Russian blood. There’s a lot of people looking for us to make a misstep and use it as proof that we don’t know what the hell we’re doing.”