Comes the War

by Ed Ruggero

  “It’s incredibly complex,” Payne said at last. “Just thousands of moving parts, all kinds of commanders’ egos getting in the way. I can’t wait to see how it turns out, but I’m also afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “It’s possible the invasion could fail,” Payne said. “Look what happened to the British at Gallipoli in the last war. For that matter, look what’s happening at Monte Cassino. A few Kraut divisions are dug in deep as ticks in the mountains south of Rome. Can’t scrape ’em out, can’t bomb ’em out, can’t pray ’em out.”

  Even the American newspapers most sympathetic to the war effort had howled when the Allies reduced to rubble the seventh-century Benedictine monastery south of Rome, ostensibly because German artillery spotters were using the high ground to hold up the Allied offensive.

  Harkins thought about the thousands of tons of equipment and vehicles he’d seen just on this one drive to the coast. Hundreds of thousands of men geared up and ready to spring. Could the Germans really stop them on the beaches?

  “What would it look like?” Harkins asked. “If it failed, I mean.”

  “An amphibious invasion is like an orchestra piece,” Payne said. “All the parts have to work together just so. And don’t forget, most of the people involved in this thing are amateurs. Me included. I’m Naval Reserve.”

  “You don’t hear much about the possibility of failure,” Harkins said.

  “That scenario keeps a lot of us awake at night. Ships sunk, troops landed on the wrong beaches. Not enough ammunition where it’s needed. Everything piling up at the water’s edge.”

  Payne gave his head a quick shake, trying to clear the images of disaster.

  “There’s no contingency plan to get the troops off the beach if things go south. But a group of us have been tasked to look at the problems.”

  “A doomsday group,” Harkins said.

  “No, doomsday would be if the Germans found out where and when we were coming and were waiting for us. But I have to say, I’ve been impressed with how tight things are. I’m working on the logistics and I’m not even bigoted yet. Probably not until D-minus-ten or so.”

  “Bigoted?”

  “Bigot is the name of a timetable for who learns the details, the big date, and the target area. Starts at the top, naturally, and at every level you only find out at the last minute, when you absolutely need to. Probably only a few dozen people already know. We refer to them as bigoted.”

  “I hope I live long enough to read about all this in the history books,” Harkins said. “So I can make sense of it all someday.”

  Payne was quiet again, and Harkins did not have all the time in the world.

  “What do you know about Batcheller having a falling-out with a guy named Kerr? Lionel Kerr, from the embassy.”

  “What did you hear?” Payne asked, still squirrelly.

  Harkins looked at him. Maybe he just didn’t like cops. Could be that he was feeling the pressure of trying to get all these supplies lined up in the right places for the cross-channel invasion.

  Or it could be that he was hiding something.

  “Lowell,” Harkins said. “Pull over here.”

  They were on a long straight road, bordered by muddy fields, the only living things in sight a few cows.

  “What are you doing?” Payne asked. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “And I want to get out of your way as quickly as possible,” Harkins said. “I also want answers to my questions. Quicker you cooperate, quicker we get you where you need to go.”

  “So, what? You’re holding me hostage?”

  “I don’t care if you call it a fucking kidnapping, Frank,” Harkins said, not trying to hide his exasperation. “But you’ve been less than forthcoming, I’d say, and I’d be within my rights to haul you back to London. Let somebody else run the invasion.”

  He doubted he could actually lock up Payne, or even detain him, but Harkins was committed now, and he liked a good threat.

  Payne grabbed the door handle, but he didn’t have to look around to see that it was a long walk to Bournemouth. He sat back in the seat.

  “Helen had a blow-up with Kerr,” Payne said. Harkins could see, out of the corner of his eye, that Lowell was riveted, frozen in place so Harkins wouldn’t be tempted to make her get out of the car.

  “Over what?”

  “Couple of things,” Payne said. “Helen was a talented economist. Whenever Kerr started in with that horseshit about Soviet farm collectives, she shot holes in his arguments, which were mostly based on information the Soviets put out themselves.”

  “And they fought over that?”

  “It was more that Kerr didn’t like being upstaged by a woman. She also let him have it one time when he took credit for one of her ideas at some meeting. I don’t know the details, but apparently he did that a lot, especially to the women.”

  “Okay,” Harkins said.

  When Payne didn’t respond, Harkins said, “Is that all? Was that the big falling-out?”

  “No,” Payne said. “Kerr was the same arrogant ass he’s always been, but a few months ago Helen started really attacking anyone who spoke up for the Soviets. She always called them our ‘so-called’ allies.”

  “And this was a change?”

  “I don’t think she was ever a fan of the Russians, but she became much more adamant, more strident in the last few weeks that I was up there.”

  “What happened?” Harkins asked.

  “Something about Poland, or maybe the Polish government in exile in London,” Payne said. “Maybe the Polish squadron in the RAF. I honestly don’t know.”

  Cushing had said that the Russians were the source of whatever information Batcheller used to write the report Cushing had been carrying when Harkins arrested him, the report Sinnott would not let him see. But that seemed unlikely if she didn’t trust the Russians.

  “Is it possible that she worked with the Russians, or a Russian, on a report of some sort?” Harkins asked.

  Payne chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Is it possible? I guess so. It just doesn’t seem likely, you know?”

  “Do you know the names of any of the Russians, anyone from the Soviet Embassy, that Helen knew personally?”

  “She talked about a couple of women she liked, but I never met them and their names all sound the same to me. Sorry.”

  “How did Batcheller…?” Harkins began. “How did Helen get along with Annie Stowe? Were they close?”

  Payne looked at Harkins, like he expected there to be more to the question.

  “I think so,” he said. “Sure.”

  Harkins sat quietly, his notebook on his lap. In the front seat, Lowell had not moved. He could hear the ticking of the cooling engine, then a few drops of rain on the roof of the car.

  “Do you think Lionel Kerr is capable of murder?” Harkins asked.

  “No,” Payne said. “I mean, I don’t know. He’s a vain little peacock and I can’t stand the guy, but murder?”

  “Okay,” Harkins said to Lowell. “Let’s get Lieutenant Payne to his destination.”

  Fifteen minutes later Lowell, following Payne’s directions, pulled the car to the side of the road in Bournemouth, which was hard by the English Channel. A deserted beach curved alongside gray water, and a phalanx of houses stood shoulder-to-shoulder looking out over the sand. A hundred miles to their south was occupied France.

  When they stopped, Payne opened his door, then turned back to Harkins. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help,” he said, sounding sincere. “Helen was a lovely woman, just a nice person, and I hate to think what happened to her.”

  Harkins thought Payne wanted to hear something encouraging, like Harkins saying, “I’ll find her killer.” But he couldn’t promise such a tidy ending.

  “Thanks, Frank,” Harkins said.

  Payne closed the door and started to walk away along the sidewalk.

  “What do you think, Lowell?” Harkins asked.

  “I
think you should ask him where he and Batcheller stayed when they spent any free time together,” she said. “Overnight, I mean.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Batcheller’s landlady didn’t allow gentlemen to stay overnight. Isn’t that what you told me she said?”

  “Okay,” Harkins said. “Pull up there.”

  Lowell moved the car forward and caught up with Payne. Harkins rolled the rear window down.

  “Say, Frank. Where did you and Helen stay when you visited her? Your free time together. You must have had some nights off, right?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  Harkins tilted his head toward Lowell, so Payne would think Harkins was looking for a place to bed his driver.

  “Oh, I see,” Payne said. “We stayed in her room. Whenever Annie wasn’t there, of course.”

  “Okay,” Harkins said. “Thanks.”

  When Lowell pulled the car back into traffic, Harkins said, “So he’s lying about that.”

  “It doesn’t mean he’s lying about everything,” Lowell said. “It could be that he was hiding just a few specific things. Things he didn’t want to discuss with a police officer.”

  “Not sure what you’re getting at,” Harkins said.

  “Lieutenant Payne reminded me of my uncle Terrence. Uncle Terry.”

  “In what way?”

  “Uncle Terry never married. He used to go to the continent once or twice a year on holiday. Paris. Berlin before the Nazis was quite libertine.”

  “Uncle Terry was a homosexual?”

  “Maybe,” Lowell said. “Didn’t matter to us; we all loved him. But it had to be kept hidden, you see? It’s a crime in this country and one can wind up in prison.”

  “Like Oscar Wilde,” Harkins said.

  “Exactly. He got two years at hard labor.”

  Sentences were much harsher in the American military. Harkins heard of a U.S. Marine convicted of sodomy who got ninety-nine years.

  “So Batcheller pretended to date him as a favor? Help him hide his secret?”

  “Maybe they were doing each other a favor,” Lowell said.

  13

  22 April 1944

  1800 hours

  Harkins and Lowell were back in London by late afternoon. She was able to park just a few blocks from OSS headquarters on Grosvenor.

  “Will you need me this afternoon, sir?” Lowell asked as they got out of the car.

  “You have someplace more important to be?” Harkins asked.

  “No, sir,” Lowell said. “I want to help in any way I can.”

  “Relax, Lowell. I’m only teasing. I’m not letting you back into the driver rotation at the motor pool, and you’ve already been helpful.”

  Lowell smiled and pulled her shoulders back, looking a little taller as they weaved through the heavy pedestrian traffic, almost all of it Americans in uniform.

  “But if you start missing Corporal Moore, let me know,” Harkins said.

  “Funny you should mention Corporal Moore,” Lowell said. “I’ve been thinking about her.”

  “She haunting your dreams?”

  “Not yet. I was wondering, sir. And I hope I’m not being impertinent here, but you have so much more experience than I do.”

  “Spit it out, Lowell,” Harkins said. He walked quickly, and she lengthened her stride to keep up.

  “Well, I’ve noticed that you don’t suffer fools, or bullies.”

  They stopped at a corner to let traffic go by, and Harkins remembered to look to his right before stepping into the street.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, when Lieutenant Payne was less than cooperative, you threatened him.”

  “So?”

  “And you resist Major Sinnott, too. Some of your comments could be construed as insubordinate.”

  “You going to turn me over to the manners police?”

  “No, not at all, sir,” Lowell said. “I want to know how you judge how far you can go.”

  “I’m not sure I think about it very much, which is why I’ll wind up in the stockade at some point. Or I’ll be a lieutenant until the end of the war.”

  “Do you care?” she asked.

  When they reached the far curb, Harkins stepped close to a building, a storefront with boarded-up windows, to get out of the crush of foot traffic. He stopped and faced Lowell. “Are you worried about me?”

  “No, sir. I guess I wish I had a little more of your gumption.”

  “You’re smart. You can use your wits to stand up for yourself, or to defuse a situation. I’m more likely—or I have been more likely, in the past—to use my fists. Not always a great idea.”

  When Lowell didn’t respond, Harkins asked, “You getting pushed around?”

  “Well, I’m a private and a woman, a young woman, so it’s not surprising that I’m at the bottom of the pecking order. But I feel like there are times when I shouldn’t put up with so much.”

  “Then don’t,” Harkins said. “Sometimes you just gotta say ‘fuck it.’”

  Lowell looked down at her feet, maybe embarrassed. Harkins knew his flippant remarks weren’t helping.

  “You read a lot in your dad’s bookshop?”

  “All the time,” she said, looking into his eyes again. “We two were quite the bookworms.”

  “Ever run across e. e. cummings’ poetry?”

  “Some.”

  “He’s got a phrase somewhere, ‘there is some shit I will not eat.’”

  “I remember that,” Lowell said.

  “Well, that implies that there is some shit you will eat.”

  “I never thought of it that way.”

  “But you have to draw a line somewhere. At some point you’ve got say, ‘enough.’”

  “Isn’t that poem about a conshy who gets killed?”

  “Conshy?”

  “Conscientious objector.”

  “Oh,” Harkins said. “Right. Yeah, I think he does die. You have to be ready to suffer the consequences.”

  “Are you?”

  “I’m not doing anything that’s going to put me in front of a firing squad,” Harkins said. “Not yet, anyway. The most I’ve gotten is a few slaps on the wrist. To me, it’s worth it to do what I think is right. I don’t want to be sitting around twenty years from now—assuming I make it that far—trying to avoid thinking about the time I was a coward.”

  Lowell watched the traffic for a moment, a tiny crease between her eyebrows. “There’s another private in the motor pool. Agnes Bercon. She follows Corporal Moore around like a puppy. Like a bodyguard. Bercon punched another girl in the face for making a rude comment. Broke her nose.”

  “So you’re worried Corporal Moore is going to get Bercon to punch you, too?”

  “It’s crossed my mind,” Lowell said. “It wouldn’t be pleasant. Bercon is a big girl. Much heavier than I am.”

  “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Harkins said. “The vast majority of people you run into have never been in a real fight and will go a long way to avoid one. When it comes to guys, most of the big ones have never had to mix it up because they intimidate people with their size. But if somebody thinks you’re willing to go through with it, most of the time they’ll back down.”

  “And what if you’re wrong? What if they’re willing to let it come to blows?”

  “Then you might get your ass kicked.”

  Lowell did not look reassured.

  “I’ll share a couple of things my brother Patrick told me when I started boxing. First, getting punched in the nose probably isn’t going to kill you. It’s unpleasant, but you’re not going to die.”

  “And second?” Lowell asked.

  “You get knocked down, get back up again.”

  Lowell allowed herself a tiny smile. “A life lesson.”

  “I guess,” Harkins said. “Look, I’m sorry if I’m not being much help here. And what applies to guys might not apply to girls.”

  When she didn’t respond, Harkins looked at
his watch. “How about this? Whichever one of us ends up in the stockade, the other will visit. Okay?”

  “Or ends up in the hospital.”

  “Or the hospital.”

  “It’s a deal, sir,” she said.

  * * *

  On the second floor of OSS Headquarters, Harkins found Wickman and Sinnott in the hallway.

  “So,” Sinnott said. “How was your little jaunt down to the channel?”

  Before Harkins could answer, Sinnott noticed Lowell and said, “Who’s this?”

  “Private Lowell is my driver, sir. She’s been helping me.”

  “You have a private helping you investigate a murder?” Sinnott spoke as if Lowell wasn’t there.

  Harkins didn’t want to get into a debate, so he just said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Okaaay,” Sinnott said, though he clearly found it odd. “Did you learn anything new about Batcheller? Anything useful?”

  “It appears she had some sort of a falling-out with a guy at the embassy,” Harkins said. “Lionel Kerr. Apparently, Kerr is a fan of the Soviets; Batcheller was not.”

  “That’s it?” Sinnott asked.

  “Those are the highlights,” Harkins said.

  “Not sure what that has to do with Major Cushing,” Sinnott said. “I got the impression you were keen to find something that would exonerate him.”

  “I’m looking for anything that will help me understand why this woman was murdered,” Harkins said. “And who did it. I am not looking to exonerate Cushing or frame him.”

  “Well, all of that will come out soon enough, I guess,” Sinnott said. “Captain Gefner already has Cushing’s trial scheduled. Could be as early as two weeks from now, first week in May.”

  “I haven’t even filed a report yet,” Harkins said. “Why is Gefner in such a goddamn hurry?”

  “Look, I know you want to have everything tied up in a neat bow,” Sinnott said. “But we don’t have the luxury of all the time you’d like to take. Besides, Cushing is the Eighth Air Force’s problem now. And when you’re called to testify, don’t bring up that damned report that you’re so eager to see. It won’t be part of the evidence.”

  “Things are moving too fast,” Harkins said.