Casualties of War: The Advocate Trilgy

by Bill Mesce

  “Nice spread,” Kneece said. “I don’t remember seeing another stand of trees anywhere on the island.”

  “Orkney’s not much fer yer trees, noope. There’s another wood on Mainland, the one at Binscarth over at Firth parish, but this is the only other one’n’ it belongs to Sir Johnnie.” Old Ted said this last with pride.

  “Why’s he have it fenced in?”

  “It’s ’is, i’n’t it?” The kettle began to whistle. “Don’t mind the coops, gennulmen, I’m not armed for many guests.” Old Ted gestured at the motley set of drinking implements: a teacup, two mugs, a tin cup. “Use all the sugar ye need, Yanks, I gots plenny ’ere, ’n’ the milk, too. That’s from me own cow out there inna bam.”

  “I was asking about the fence,” Kneece persisted.

  Old Ted went back into the storeroom. “Would ye want soompin’ in that tea for the chill?” He returned with a bottle of Black & White.

  “Little early in the day for us, I should say,” Moncrief commented.

  Old Ted poured a healthy splash into his own cup. “I shouldn’t neither, but it’s rhoomatism fer me,” he said and flexed his fingers painfully. “Gots to oil the gears, I do.”

  “The fence,” Kneece repeated.

  “Likes I was sayin’, the squire does as ’e likes wi’ ’is own property, dun ’e? That fence, it went oop when ’e buys the place, ’cause’e was suppose’ t’ put oop one o’ ’is shops ’ere, ’e was, one o’ ’is fact’ries.”

  “What kind of factory?” Harry asked. “We don’t know Sir John. What exactly is it he builds?”

  “‘E’s Johnnie Dooff, i’n’t ’e?’E’s in lots of things, i’n’t ’e? Got himself fact’ries all round the isles, ’e does.”

  “How come he didn’t build this one?” Kneece was sounding impatient.

  “Yer astin’ a wrong man, ye is, young gennulman. That’s a business thing, ’n’ what’s the likes o’ me know ’bout business things?”

  “The war, I suspect,” ventured Moncrief. “I mean, it was before I was posted here, but once the war began I would expect the difficulties of establishing a manufacturing plant in a remote place like this…”

  “You know, back in the States,” Harry said, “in the boon-docks outside Newark — that’s where I live — Curtiss-Wright built a propeller factory. They made a big deal about it; they were very proud because from the time they broke ground to the time they opened the doors it was only ninety-six days.” “Perhaps Sir Johnnie didn’t intend to build propellers,” Moncrief said.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Bowles,” said Kneece, “do you mind if I use your bathroom?”

  “Ya mean the toilet, do ye? Welp, that’s one thing the squire ’asn’t got to yet. No runnin’ water. There’s a closet round the back if ye don’t mind the chill.”

  Kneece nodded a thanks and headed for the door.

  “Oh, Yank, don’t be wand’rin’ off. No offense, like, but the squire don’t like nobody just wand’rin’ round his property” Kneece smiled his acknowledgment, then flashed a look to Harry. While Harry wasn’t quite sure what the look meant, he had a feeling about what it was he had to do.

  He reached into his parka for his notebook. “Mr. Bowles, you don’t mind if I jot all this down as we talk, do you? For the record. You know how it is. When we get back to our bosses, we’re going to have to type up an official report.”

  “Ah, ye can keep yer office jobses, ye can. Not fer me. This is more to my likin’, what I gots’ere.”

  “Mr. Bowles, what exactly is it you do for Sir John?”

  “I just watches the place is all. ’E’s worried ’bout poachers and such-like. Not mooch game on the island. Ain’t that right, Moncrief? If ye had to live on whats ye catch ye’d starve. ’Cause the squire’s gots ’is woods ’ere, the ’untin’ is a little better, but it all belongs to the squire then, dun it? So I keeps the poachers out, tends to mendin’ whatever needs mendin’. Ye know; just general lookin’ out fer the place.”

  “But he doesn’t come up here, does he? Major Moncrief told us that Sir John hasn’t been up here since the war began.”

  “Welp, natcherly, not with the war, would ’e? ’Ard to get round it is, eh? From the big isles up to ’ere, I mean. ’Sides, the squire’s got’is business to tend to, big business with the war.”

  “So he’s in war industries?”

  “Like I told you, ’e’s Sir Johnnie Doof. ’E’s into whatever there is to be into.”

  “How’d you get this job, Mr. Bowles?”

  Moncrief cleared his throat. “I hate to interrupt, and certainly this sort of thing is hardly my bailiwick so I don’t mean to tell you your business, Major, but what does this have to do with Lieutenant Grassi?”

  Harry smiled and let his eyes drift away from Moncrief to the window. Woody Kneece was squatting by the foot of the dock, peering at something in the swirls of frozen mud.

  “It’s just background, Major,” he replied. “Your bosses are probably like our bosses; they like to see you fill up a certain amount of paper. They’re not convinced you’re on the job unless you’re filling up paper. You’re in ‘admin’ yourself, you understand how it is.”

  Moncrief’s smile turned sympathetic. “I quite see your point.”

  “Besides, Mr. Bowles doesn’t mind, do you, Mr. Bowles?”

  “Gives me soomebody t’ talk to ’sides the kitties, it does. All I ever sees in the way of hooman beans is soometimes the major ’ere comes ’n’ sets wi’ me for a round o’ cribbage, pass the time, ’e does.”

  “Do you think I could get another cup of tea?” Harry asked. Outside, Kneece was moving out onto the dock, examining the boards.

  “Sure enoof, Yank. There’s some water left, I think.”

  “I was asking how you got this job.”

  “I worked in one o’ Sir Johnnie’s fact’ries, didn’t I? Most o’ me life standin’ at ’em machines, stampin’ out machine parts I did, down in Birmingham. That was one o’ the squire’s first shops it was, ’n’ I was there almost from the day it opened. I was just a tyke when I started, a boy, makin’ a few pence sweepin’ the floors. Wi’ ’im all that time, ’e coome to know me personal, the squire did.” Again the tone of pride. “Then it coomes I’m not so yoong, am I? Gets hard gettin’ round, dun it? ’Specially now I got this rhoomatism.” Old Ted held out his splayed fingers for Harry. “A day like this, even that mooch hurts. Anybody else, any o’ these other bastards, ’em bosses in ’em trilby ’ats, ’ey sees ye moovin’ a mite slower, ’ey give ye a look likes yer pootin’ ’em t’ sleep is how mooch ’ey care. ‘Not oop to it anymore, eh, Old Ted? Thanks for all ’em years but ’em machines got to get fed, so piss off! ’Ere’s a door, ye old sod, it’s the dole for ye now.’”

  “But not good old Sir John Duff.”

  “Gimme this position, ’e did, didn’t ’e? Livin’ better ’n’ when I was on the job, I am.” He pointed to the piles of food tins, the bottle of Black & White. “Takes as good a care o’ me as ye can, dun ’e?’Sides, it’s soompin’ t’ do, keep me useful. Ye gotta feel useful, eh?”

  The water was boiling. Old Ted took Harry’s mug and prepared a fresh cup of tea.

  “How long have you been here, Ted?”

  “Oh, welp, let’s see.”

  “You were here when I got here, Ted,” Moncrief offered, “and that was August ’41.”

  “Hm, aye, but it was after that Christmas afore. So, early that year, early 1941.”

  Harry could see Kneece at the end of the dock, on his knees, studying the pilings. “When Major Moncrief’s people found the dead American —”

  “That was a bloody shame, eh? Young bloke, I ’ear. Know any more ’bout that, do ye?”

  “Not yet. Did you hear anything that night?”

  “You mean like a shot?”

  “Well, anything.”

  “Noothin’. Would ya like some biscuits wi’ that? The squire sent oop some very tasty bits, ’e did.” Old Ted shambled off into the
storeroom.

  “I was asking —”

  “Oh, right, welp, no, noothin’ comes t’ mind.”

  “You mean you don’t remember hearing a shot? Or you didn’t hear anything?”

  “I didn’t ’ear noothin’, Yank.”

  “How far away would you say that stretch of the beach is?” Harry asked Moncrief. “Half a mile? That doesn’t seem very far.”

  “Might be a little more. But the weather here can be quite harsh. This is a relatively mild day. Tell him how bad it can be, Ted.”

  Old Ted pried open the top of a tin of biscuits and set it down in front of Harry. “I likes t’ dunk meself. Moncrief there, ’e’s too bloody polite t’ enjoy ’imself, but if ye wants to dunk ’em in there, don’t mind me.”

  Harry dipped the end of a biscuit in his tea before taking a bite, and this seemed to please the old man. One of the cats was on the table now, and nosing toward the tin.

  “Out o’ it, you!” Old Ted said and the feline leapt for safety “Ye ’ad yer kippers! Don’t be a bloody swine now! What were we sayin’? Oh, aye, like Moncrief there says, if the wind was oop that night, ’n’ blowin’ away from ’ere, ye coulda been settin’ off cannons ’n’ I coulda not ’eard’em.”

  “Do you remember seeing anybody around that day who wasn’t familiar?”

  “Nope — ‘Ere! What’s ’e up to?” Old Ted caught sight of Kneece standing at the end of the dock and rushed out the cottage door. Harry and Moncrief followed.

  When they reached the dock, Kneece was sitting on one of the pilings, affecting a relaxed air as he lit a cigarette. He maintained that attitude even in the face of Old Ted’s red-faced bluster.

  “You was just s’pose’ t’ use the toilet, eh? Whatcher doin’ out ’ere, then, eh? I told you the squire don’t want nobody roamin’ all ’ere ’n’ there, didn’t I?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Bowles. I just thought I’d step out here for a little fresh air, have a smoke —”

  “I can see ye ’avin’ yer smoke, Yank! But I told ye —”

  “Here now, Old Ted, no harm’s been done,” Moncrief interposed, stepping forward, his voice conciliatory. “So the lad came out for a taste of the sea air.”

  “I told ’im —”

  “Yes, yes, old boy, we all heard what you’d told him. But it’s done, then, eh? Why don’t you go on about your business and we’ll be off. We’re done here, yes, gentlemen?”

  Harry and Kneece agreed, Kneece apologized again, and they climbed back into the jeep and drove off, the old man balefully glaring at them from one of the cottage’s windows.

  “I know it seems petty and all that, all this fuss from Old Ted, but you have to understand he takes his responsibilities to Sir Johnnie very seriously,” Moncrief explained.

  “He was right,” Kneece said. “I mean, factually, it wasn’t a big deal, but when you’re a guest in somebody’s house, you should honor the rules of the house.”

  “Why, that’s quite civil of you, Kneece.” Moncrief sounded impressed. “My experience with Americans is they seem to prefer a more… informal attitude. They seem to treat every home as if it’s their own. Mind you, it’s little bother to me, a fellow wants to throw a leg over the arm of his chair and all that, it can be quite refreshing, quite cavalier and so forth. But, be that as it may, as you say, when you’re a guest in someone’s house… I wish more of you Yanks were cut from the same cloth.”

  “Well, Major, you have to understand.” Kneece, Harry thought, seemed oddly intent on the scenery passing by beyond the plastic windows. “We may all be Yanks, but those Yankees are another thing. In my part of America, we get raised right.” Kneece gave Harry a mocking smirk. “Isn’t that so, Major?”

  “So, you’re done with us then?” Moncrief asked. “Will you be off to London? Not until after lunch, of course, we should still be in time for that. Or will you be with us for supper as well?”

  “We still have some odds and ends to tidy up,” Kneece replied cheerily. “Besides, we’ve been traveling pretty hard the last couple of days. It wouldn’t hurt us to lay over for the night and fly out in the morning. What do you think, Major? Could you use a good night’s sleep?”

  “Always,” Harry said, truthfully.

  *

  “Get off!”

  The shout woke him, and he was startled to hear it was his own voice, here in the real world. He thrashed about his bunk, yet still felt that force, that great suffocating hand from his nightmare, on his chest forcing him down.

  “Shhh.” It was hissed in his ear.

  Harry’s hands reached for his chest. The hand was real.

  “It’s me,” the whisperer said. Harry recognized Kneece.

  “You all right, Harry?” Jim Doheeny called out of the dark, from the other side of the bunk room.

  “Say you’re all right,” Kneece whispered.

  “I’m OK, Jim. Just a bad dream.”

  “Pick up your clothes,” Kneece instructed. “Tell him you’re going out for some air.”

  “I’m going outside for a cigarette,” Harry said.

  “You want company?” Doheeny asked.

  “No, thanks, Jim. I just need a few minutes to myself.”

  Harry waited for the sound of Doheeny resettling himself on his bunk. “Now what?” he asked Kneece softly.

  “Now we go.”

  *

  It was after midnight, but the aerodrome at Kirkwall was hardly silent. Below them Harry could hear the thunder of a Sunderland’s engines pulling it from the waters of Scapa Flow into the night sky. The patrolling and hunting never stopped.

  Kneece led Harry to a jeep parked by the barracks where they’d been billeted. “Get in.”

  “Where’d you get the jeep?”

  “Let’s just leave it at I got it.”

  Then they were through the aerodrome gates and off down the road.

  “I hope I remember the way.” Kneece peered through the windscreen, trying to divine landmarks in the feeble beams of the cat’s-eye headlamps.

  “Remember the way where?” But as soon as he’d asked, Harry answered his own question. “You saw something out there today.”

  “Pardon my enthusiastic language, Major, but you’re goddamned right I saw something today.”

  “Why didn’t you say something before?”

  “I didn’t want to bring it up in front of Moncrief. That Brit was on us like a tick on a bloodhound all day. I thought he was going to follow me into the latrine, I swear to God.”

  And indeed, ever since they’d left Old Ted that morning, Moncrief had hovered close about them, as if the major felt it was his obligation to host them through every moment of their stay. He’d conducted them on a tour of the air and naval facilities, stood at Kneece’s shoulder as the captain had questioned airstrip, communications, and radar personnel to corroborate what Moncrief had told them, kept up an incessant and incessantly banal conversation all through dinner, and hadn’t seemed of a mind to leave them to themselves until they’d retired to their billet.

  Kneece gestured out at the moon-washed pastureland. “This place reminds me of the low country back home. I don’t mean it looks the same, but just like home it’s farmers, most of ’em not having a lot of cash money. They need a fence, they split some wood and they got a fence. What’s a fence? Uncle Ray used to say all you need is enough to keep the cows out of the com and let people know this is somebody’s property After that, you let two barrels of double-aught shot do your fencing for you.”

  Harry was irritable with the cold, and with still being half asleep. For the moment, his customary civility failed. “What the hell’re you talking about?”

  “Major, look around. Fella makes a fence of split rails, or he makes a wall of fieldstone. It costs a lot of money to do something more, because the material’s got to come up all that way from England or Scotland or wherever. But Mr. Sir Lord High-and-Mighty Johnnie Duff paid to put in a coupla miles of steel fence here. For what? To keep people o
ut of a factory he didn’t build?”

  “Maybe he’s just funny about his property. He doesn’t like to share. That old guy said something about poachers —”

  “Pardon my French, Major, but that sounded like a pile of pigshit to me. You know how much blood you got in your body?”

  The sudden change in subject left Harry bewildered. “How much blood — ?”

  “Factually, five to six quarts. A quarter of that is all jammed up in your head.”

  And Harry finally knew what Kneece knew. “There would’ve been blood under Grassi’s body,” he said.

  “Shot from the back, he falls forward. Even with all that gassing Moncrief did about the wind and such, as much blood as would’ve come out that bullet hole, there still would’ve been a good bit under him, protected by his body. Even those two Looney Tunes Macnee and Donlay would’ve seen it, there would’ve been so much. And it didn’t just wash away.”

  “He was above the high-tide mark, drier underneath than on top.”

  “I don’t know how much you know about what happens when you die, Major, but when you’re dead the blood settles in the low spots. The blood would’ve settled in Grassi’s front, in his face. You’d be able to see it, blue under his skin.”

  “Like a bruise! He wasn’t killed on the beach. He wasn’t killed on the beach!”

  “The only place close by where a plane could come in and land unseen —”

  “Is Johnnie Duff’s lovely little forest.”

  “It had to be someplace close. That’s what I was looking for when I climbed up on the jeep. We figured his plane probably didn’t get here until after 2000 hours. Stands to reason Grassi must’ve been killed soon after. The blood had had time to settle in the body, but in the morning when they found him rigor was just coming on. It usually takes four hours to set in, but if he was outside all that time, with cold like this, it’s like keeping a body in an icebox; rigor would be delayed by hours. Grassi’s body had to have been out on the beach most of the night.”

  The jeep bounced past the dark windows of the village of Stromness and toward the beach where Grassi had been found.

  “You saw something out at old Bowles’s place,” Harry said. “What?”