Casualties of War: The Advocate Trilgy

by Bill Mesce

  It was not until Berger had returned to Elsworth some forty-seven minutes later and made an accounting of his unit that he realized the two aircraft lost in the cloud belonged to Markham and Anderson.

  It had been a fortnight since the German raid on Donophan, and one week — nearly to the hour — since the raid on Helsvagen. There would still be paperwork to clear up, formalities to attend to, procedures to execute, but for all intents and purposes the matter was now closed.

  *

  I followed the nurse’s instructions and found her in a hedged cul-de-sac in a secluded corner of the hospital gardens. She was reclining in a cushioned garden lounger, snuggled deep in a blue dressing gown with blankets over her legs. A magazine lay open and ignored on her lap, and atop its glossy pages sat a teacup. Her cane was propped against the lounger, but the eye patch was gone, her eyes now hidden by a pair of tinted spectacles. Her head lay back, her face turned toward the bright but cool morning sun. She gave no notice she’d heard me come up to her; behind those opaque lenses she could very well have been asleep.

  Miles beyond, from someplace below the distant line of trees, came the stirring of aeroplane engines. I could see the first ships arc skyward, small fighters glinting in the sunlight.

  I took a moment to study her. Her black hair was straight and a bit matted. I could see the smooth line of her jaw and saw that it would continue round to form a neat oval of smooth whiteness. Black Irish, I thought. The story was the Black Irish were descendants of survivors of the Spanish Armada who had come ashore and never left. Black Irish: bastard children with no native home of their own.

  “Yes?” It issued from her as a sigh. She must have heard me.

  “Miss Elisabeth McAnn?”

  She made a vague motion of her hand in acknowledgment. I walked closer, standing by a bronze sundial. The cement base of the podium was crumbling and the tarnished dial was tilted and unreadable.

  “My name is Edward Owen,” I said, removing my hat. “I’m a friend of Harry Voss.”

  She gave no sign the words registered; her face remained turned to the sun. I looked for some record on it of the last days, a sign of sadness, anger, pain. If it had been there, it had been consumed by something deeper, some dark, bottomless pit: Mater Tenebrarum. Mother of Darkness.

  “How is the good major?” she asked.

  “Do you mind...?” and I gestured toward a nearby lawn chair. Again, that vague movement of her hand. I pulled the chair close and sat. “They sent him home.”

  “How nice for him.”

  “He wanted me to ask after you. How are you getting on?”

  “Did your friend the major tell you why I’m here? They keep asking me if I intend to ‘try something foolish’ again.” There was a flicker of a grim smile, then that dark blankness again. “Curious phrase, don’t you think? ‘Try something foolish’? You can tell them for me, Mr. Owen, if they ask, not to worry. No more foolishness.”

  “Harry would want me to apologize for his not coming by. They transferred him quite suddenly last week; the night after, well, after you were brought here. But he wanted me to come by — ”

  “So you said.”

  “If there’s anything you need — ”

  “Mr. Owen, I think the major has done quite enough on my behalf.”

  The sun was losing its summer glare. The warm, humid mornings had given way to dawns of cold dampness and the first touches of color had begun to tint the trees.

  “Aren’t you chilly out here?” I asked her.

  She shook her head.

  The wind made dry, rustling noises as it passed through the dying leaves. The sound of engines was getting louder. I turned in my seat and saw the growing circle of aeroplanes over the aerodrome tucked behind the trees.

  “Shame, that,” I said. “Quite mucks up the view.”

  “They’ve only just started,” she said. “A new airfield. Opened just a fortnight or so ago, I’m told. Now they seem to fly out more and more. Sometimes more than once in a day. One learns to ignore it after a bit. You’re down from London, then? I remember this time when I was a girl, Mum packed a basket with food and we went down to London, made a day of it at the zoo. Is it true about the zoo? I heard they killed all the snakes.”

  I nodded. “During the Blitz. People were afraid of them getting loose if a stray bomb hit the snake house.”

  “They killed the snakes. But they kept the lions?” A small flash of a smile. “Queer, don’t you think?”

  “The main reason Harry wanted me to come round was there’s something he thought you should know.” I held out the file containing the photostated after-action report. For a moment, she did not take it, as if to say there was nothing I could offer she needed to know, then she reached out slowly, took the file, and began reading.

  When she finished she let her head fall back, the closed folder held close to her chest. “They’re dead, then?”

  “Major Albert Q. Markham and Captain Jon-Jacob Anderson are missing, presumed dead,” I clarified. “The Red Cross hasn’t reported their capture or that any bodies were recovered. Someone I know in Geneva says that even if Jerry had found them — one way or another — the Germans may just not have gotten round to making the proper notifications. He says they have a tendency to be uncooperative.”

  “But the Army thinks — ”

  “I’m told the chances of surviving a midair collision...well...” I shrugged and she seemed satisfied with that.

  She handed the file back. “Thank you for coming by, Mr. Owen.”

  “May I ask a question? About Dennis O’Connell? Harry...he confided in me, you might say. About what he was working on.”

  She was still, waiting for me to proceed.

  “Harry’s supposition was that what happened to Dennis was because of something Dennis saw, to prevent him from saying anything when he returned. But the wireless in Dennis’s aeroplane was operational until he crashed. If he had seen something, he could’ve signaled it home. The American Military Police could’ve been waiting for Markham and Anderson when they landed.”

  “Really?” She sounded amused.

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe the major was wrong all along. Maybe Dennis hadn’t seen anything.”

  “Then he’d still be alive.”

  Elisabeth’s chin touched her chest in thought, then she laid her head back against the chair. “Maybe he didn’t care.”

  “Didn’t care?”

  “Or maybe he didn’t think anyone else would.” The amused quality returned to her. “It is a puzzlement, isn’t it?”

  I made my good-byes and rose. “Where will you go when you’re released? The doctor said you should be able to leave — ”

  “Soon, yes. I still have family in Ireland.”

  “Getting a visa for Ireland can be a bit dicey these days.”

  “Somehow I don’t think anyone’s going to mind my leaving England. Do you?”

  “If I can help, I’m sure Harry would’ve wanted — ”

  “I’m tired, Mr. Owen. Would you mind?”

  I tucked the file under my arm, returned my hat to my head, and went back down the walk the way I’d come.

  *

  She was right, of course, about her leaving. Within days of her discharge from the hospital, she’d be back in Ireland, and the powers that be would follow her lead, scattering the other witnesses to their complicity.

  Before his jaw had healed, Armando Grassi would be tucked away at a post at Godthab, Greenland, a speck you’ll find only in the best Britannica, and Peter Ricks would get his combat assignment, coming ashore at Salerno the following month. I understand he lost his left arm below the elbow the next May at Cassino.

  The 351st was disbanded. Its duty-fit survivors — like Leo Korczukowski — were distributed to commands in the various combat theaters, while the luckless General Halverson would ultimately find himself commanding six antiquated P-40’s protecting bauxite mines in the Amazonian jungles.

&n
bsp; As for the unfortunate Greshams, the missus never quite recovered from the attack and Charlie could not persuade her to return to their seaside cottage. She died in London the following year of heart failure, with her husband at her side, after which Charlie did return to the Sussex meadows. Compensated by the Americans with a new flock, he may still be tending them to this day.

  And poor old Harry? He was posted to Fort Dix, New Jersey, just a short drive from his family. Perhaps the posting was a bribe, or a reminder of what he’d been missing — and would miss again with another transfer. That was enough to secure his future silence. Or, perhaps like Dennis O’Connell, by war’s end, Harry didn’t care any longer...or thought no one else would care.

  By 1945, against the complete gutting of such metropolises as Berlin, Cologne, and Dresden and their tens of thousands of civilian dead, the thousand or so who died at Helsvagen hardly seemed worth the bother. In the closing act of the war in the Pacific, Curtis LeMay sent his B-29 Superfortresses, their bellies filled with incendiaries, against a rota of Japanese cities of paper and wood, burning away sixteen square miles of Tokyo; a third of Yokohama; two thirds of Shizuoka. Kobe was torched, Nagoya, Osaka, Kawasaki, and when the great cities were cinders, LeMay worked his way through the smaller ones: over half of Tsu burned away; two thirds of Aomori; three quarters of Ichinomiya; nearly all of Toyama. Just a few weeks before the dropping of the first atomic bomb on August 6, 1945, Fifth Air Force Intelligence would issue the following statement:

  There are no civilians in Japan. We are making War and making it in the all-out fashion that saves American lives, shortens the agony which War is, and seeks to bring about an enduring Peace. We intend to seek out and destroy the enemy wherever he or she is, in the greatest possible numbers, in the shortest possible time.

  Were anyone to show regrets over such an attitude, the response would be to look at what had happened at Nanking, or the Blitz, the Bataan Death March, the Malmedy massacre, the rape of Manila, and Auschwitz, Bergen-Belsen, Buchenwald, Treblinka, and all those other blasphemies.

  After all: War Is Hell.

  *

  My cab was waiting where I’d asked, in the hospital car park. The cabbie saw me and started the engine but I did not climb in immediately. I took off my hat and let the breeze ruffle my hair. Even over the chugging engine of the cab I could hear the growing din of engines overhead.

  I felt tired. Years tired.

  Perhaps I had left my stamina back in Singapore with the rest of my leg. Or perhaps watching poor sad, mad Harry fight for the quaint belief that with the world afire from one end to the other, right could still be right and wrong still wrong had exhausted my ability to find amusement in man’s self-destruction. The dark humor and condescending remarks no longer anesthetized me against the real pain beneath a catchy headline. Every vessel has its brim and I had filled to mine.

  Himself was right. It was time to sit together, chipped teacups in hand, and discuss the possibility of an editor’s desk. He was right about something else: Cathryn. I didn’t seem to do so well without her.

  The fighters were in formation now, climbing, a raft of small, silvery crosses slipping across the sky, off to rendezvous with their bombers somewhere over the Channel, and then on to points east.

  It seemed to me I’d never seen quite so many of them before.

  Acknowledgments

  There is an idea that writing is a lonely profession, reinforced by the image of a scribbler hunched over his or her keyboard alone with their creative muse. While there is a time in the life of every work when it is solely in the hands of the writer, only the most self-aggrandizing author — or authors — would claim, “I do it alone.”

  First and foremost among our team would be Kate Miciak, our editor at Bantam. Kate would probably slash through here with her red pencil, urging us to make this short and to the point, but that would be doing a disservice to her. Kate has a remarkable deftness with language, knowing the line between succinct clarity and the perfunctory, between poetry and a writer’s indulgence. She shows a wonderful respect for the intent of the author, and knows how to take a writer where he needs to be as gently and in as supportive a manner as one could want. This would not be the book it is without her.

  And not far behind her is our copyeditor, Connie Munro. Long after Steve and I couldn’t abide another review of the manuscript, Connie was still policing each page to ensure that we would appear as literate as we like to think we are.

  There would be no book at all if it wasn’t for my agent, Richard Derus, and the support of his colleague, Claudia Menza. Richard literally pulled the manuscript out of a pile, saw the possibilities, and made the first editorial suggestions. That is what a good agent does. A great agent — which Richard is — also provides much needed hand-holding and shoulder-crying services to nervous, despairing authors.

  We wouldn’t have met Richard were it not for Bob Cope, founder and president of The Writers Foundation. Bob and his annual “America’s Best” competition have long been providing a rare venue, as well as moral support, for new writers. Thank you, Bob.

  Although The Advocate is a work of fiction, Steve and I have done our best to accurately portray the historical period as well as re-create the singular psyche of the time. We would be remiss not to express our appreciation for the talented and diligent authors whose work helped provide us with that basis, as well as those friends and family who shared their experiences.

  *

  Books

  Allen, William L. Anzio: Edge of Disaster. New York: Elsevier-Dutton, 1978.

  Collier, Richard. Eagle Day: The Battle of Britain. New York: Dutton, 1980.

  Doyle, Edward, and Stephen Weiss. A Collision of Cultures: The Vietnam Experience. Boston: Boston Publishing Co., 1984.

  Eisenhower, David E. Eisenhower: At War 1943-1945. New York: Random House, 1986.

  Farago, Ladislaw. Patton: Ordeal and Triumph. New York: Ivan Obolensky, 1963.

  Gann, Ernest K. Fate Is the Hunter. New York: Ballantine, 1972.

  Goodwin, Doris Kearns. No Ordinary Time. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1994.

  Jablonski, Edward. Airwar. 4 vols. New York: Doubleday, 1971.

  Jones, Ken D., and Arthur F. McClure. Hollywood at War. Cranbury, N.J.: A. S. Barnes, 1974.

  Katz, Robert. Death in Rome. New York: Pyramid, 1968.

  Kemp, Peter. Decision at Sea: The Convoy Escorts. New York: Elsevier-Dutton, 1978.

  Kershaw, Andrew, ed. 1939-1945 War Planes: History of the World Wars — Special Edition. Hicksville, N.Y.: Marshall Cavendish, 1973.

  Kershaw, Andrew. Weapons of War. History of the World Wars — Special Edition. Hicksville, N.Y.: Marshall Cavendish, 1973.

  Lord, Walter. Day of Infamy. New York: Bantam, 1970.

  Lord, Walter. Incredible Victory. New York: Pocket, 1968.

  Manvell, Roger. Films and the Second World War. Cranbury, N.J.: A. S. Barnes, 1974.

  Nalty, Bernard, and Carl Berger. The Men Who Bombed the Reich. New York: Elsevier-Dutton, 1978.

  Nalty, Bernard. Tigers Over Asia. New York: Elsevier-Dutton, 1978.

  Rivkin, Robert S. The Rights of Servicemen. New York: Baron, 1973.

  Ryan, Cornelius. The Longest Day. New York: Pocket, 1969.

  Schoenburg, David. Soldiers of the Night: The Story of the French Resistance. New York: Dutton, 1980.

  Terkel, Studs. The Good War. New York: Pantheon, 1984.

  U.S. Naval Institute. The Bluejackets’ Manual. 20th ed. Annapolis, Md.: U.S.N.I., 1981.

  Other publications

  Church, George J. “Overpaid, Oversexed, Over Here.” Time. May 28, 1984: 33.

  Dalton, Susan Elizabeth. “Bugs and Daffy Go to War.” The Velvet Light Trap, 4 (Spring, 1972). Rpt. in The American Animated Cartoon. Ed. Gerald Peary and Danny Peary. New York: Dutton, 1980: 158-61.

  Gold, Philip. “Courts-Martial.” Insight. April 13, 1987: 24-25.

  Gordon, William. “Victory At Sea.” The Newark Star-Ledger (New J
ersey). May 27, 1993: 85ff.

  Gordon, William. “Grand Hotel: Return of an Era.” The Newark Star-Ledger (New Jersey). June 15, 1993: 37ff.

  History of the Second World War. Battle of Britain issue. Part 9.

  Horne, Alistair. “Breakthrough at Sedan.” History of the Second World War. Part 5.

  Jenkins, Patrick. “Pentagon Salutes Atlantic City WW II Service.” The Newark Star-Ledger (New Jersey). July 31, 1992: 31.

  “The Kaiser Experiment.” Ms. Gazette. April 1978: 83-84.

  Life. World War II special issue. 1985.

  Naval Education and Training Program Development Center. The Law of Armed Conflict. Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1980.

  Turner, Patricia C. “War Effort.” The Newark Star-Ledger (New Jersey). December 9, 1991: 25.

  Other Sources

  The Imperial War Museum, London

  The Museum of London

  Research Assistance

  John Armor, U.S.A.F.

  Josephine Esposito

  Don Hanle, U.S.A.F.

  Lucy Mesce

  Marie Mesce

  Thomas Mesce, U.S.N.

  Faye Palazzo

  Mark Peters, U.S.A.F.

  Robert Shanahan, Esq.

  Officer of the Court

  Bill Mesce Jr.

  © Bill Mesce Jr. 2001

  Bill Mesce Jr. has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2001 by Bantam Books.

  This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  For taking me to a time and a place

  Yd otherwise never have known

  Prometheus… had made Man’s body to be like the gods; and into him he put a speck of all the creatures on earth…

  There was a speck of the lion, and of the deer, a speck of the cow and of the serpent, a speck of the dog and of the fox, of the monkey and of the owl, the dove and the vulture.