by Joe Joyce
They drove in silence for a moment, each with an elbow resting on an open window, the wind from the car’s momentum ruffling their rolled-up shirt sleeves. ‘A bluff,’ Gifford said at last. ‘That’s what it is. So nobody thinks it’s really important. Just a big enough deal that they’re willing to pay a few dollars to get it back. For convenience’s sake.’
‘Seems a strange way to carry on with your military secrets.’ At least, Duggan thought, G2 could now ask the Americans about the missing sight without having to explain how they knew about it.
‘Typical Americans,’ Gifford said. ‘What is it now since the crash? A month or more. They haven’t been able to find it. So they offer to buy it. It’s the way they think. That the dollar can buy anything.’
And it’ll probably work, Duggan acknowledged silently. They’ll get their bombsight back. And we can tell the Germans what happened without lying or compromising anything. Build up credit for their supposed link with the IRA. And keep that operation on track. See what they want next from their friends.
‘What’s so amusing?’ Gifford demanded.
‘What?’
‘Why’ve you got a dirty little smile on your face?’
‘I have?’
‘I know.’ Gifford raised a finger. ‘You’re thinking about claiming the reward and running off to America to be with Gerda. Or whatever she calls herself now.’
‘Grace.’ Duggan’s smile broadened at the thought. Gifford was the only one who really knew about his relationship with Gerda. ‘All we have to do is find the bombsight.’
‘Why didn’t you say so?’ Gifford demanded with mock impatience. ‘I was wondering what we were doing down here, having conversations as meandering as the roads. It’ll be no problem at all with the mighty brainpower of the Garda Síochána behind us.’
‘And beat the mighty dollar to it.’
‘To the nearest barracks.’ Gifford pointed down the road.
‘Isn’t there a section of your handbook about finding things under Americans’ noses?’
Gifford slapped himself on the forehead. ‘Chapter Twelve, Section Eight, Subsection B Fourteen. I’d almost forgotten.’
‘You’re getting old.’ Duggan speeded up.
The afternoon was beginning to turn dull as a high covering of wispy white clouds crept over from the west, steadily blotting out the light-blue ink of the sky. They came to another crossroads and stopped while Duggan consulted the map.
‘Have you thought about going to America?’ Gifford asked when they got going again.
‘Maybe when the war’s over.’
‘She mightn’t wait that long.’
‘I can’t go before that,’ Duggan said, shaking his head, remembering Gerda once saying to him that this war would never end.
‘Maybe it won’t last that long,’ Gifford said, switching tack as if he was responding to Duggan’s thoughts. ‘Could end very quickly once the Jerries finish with the Rooskies.’
‘How about you? Would you go to America?’
‘Me?’ Gifford sat back against the door in a physical rejection of the idea. ‘God, no. People are expected to work there.’
‘They say it’s a great place for people who can live off their wits.’
‘No, thanks. Americans are too earnest for my liking.’
‘Maybe Hollywood or somewhere like that. That’d suit you.’
‘You think I could be a cowboy?’
‘You’ve already got the six-gun.’
‘True enough,’ Gifford said, reaching under his seat and pulling out his shoulder holster and revolver. He took out the gun, spun the cylinder and pointed it out the side window, resting on his left arm. ‘Maybe we should shoot a few rabbits while we’re here.’
‘You wouldn’t hit a barn door with that thing.’
‘Just as well barn doors aren’t the bad guys,’ Gifford said, withdrawing the gun as they overtook a woman on a bicycle and putting it back in its holster under the seat.
They arrived in a small village, no more than a straggle of houses, a shop and a pub. A church stood at the end, with a cemetery on one side and the priest’s house on the other. Opposite it was the Garda station, a two-storey building with the police shield over the porch. A sturdy bicycle lay against the weathered white pebble-dash of the wall.
They went in through the open door and found themselves in the empty day room. Posters were tacked to a noticeboard warning farmers about the penalties for failing to till more than an eighth of their land, and encouraging young men to join the construction corps and older men to join the local security force. A chair scraped on a wooden floor in an adjoining room and a middle-aged sergeant came in, buttoning his tunic around his generous stomach.
Gifford introduced himself, handing over his warrant card. The sergeant studied it and sat down behind a desk in a captain’s chair. ‘And you are?’ He looked at Duggan.
‘Paul Duggan.’
The sergeant gave him a hard look, then decided not to pursue his suspicions. ‘To what do we owe this honour?’ he asked Gifford in an unhurried voice. He had a ruddy round face and his fair hair was stretched over his balding head.
‘A bombsight,’ Gifford said, getting straight to the point.
A slow smile spread across the sergeant’s face. ‘Ye’re here to join the treasure hunt.’
Gifford returned his smile. ‘That’s it, Sergeant.’
‘The Castle’s in need of a few dollars, is it?’
‘Who doesn’t need a few dollars these days, Sarge? But there are more important things at stake.’
‘Is that so?’
‘The honour of the force. We think the Garda Síochána should find this thing before the Americans. Can’t have them wandering round our ranch, picking up whatever they want.’
‘The honour of the force?’ The sergeant settled back in his chair and put his hands in his trouser pockets, as if he was relaxing into an evening’s entertainment.
‘That’s it.’
‘Ye wouldn’t be after the dollars yourselves, would ye?’
‘Oh, no, no. Not at all. Our minds are on higher things.’
‘I can imagine that all right. Young bucks like ye. And how do ye propose to find this thing?’
‘With your help, Sarge.’
‘And will I get a few of the dollars too?’
‘You’ll get something much more valuable. A share in the honour.’
‘A share in the honour,’ the sergeant repeated, wrinkling up his forehead in amusement. ‘Fancy that.’
‘The crowning moment of your career.’
The sergeant gave a delighted laugh. ‘Gifford?’ he mused. ‘What sort of a name is that?’
‘Just mine, Sarge. That’s all I know.’
‘And Duggan. Where are you from?’
‘He came down in the last shower,’ Gifford said. ‘Don’t mind him.’
The sergeant gave a nod of sympathy as if he understood Duggan’s affliction. ‘I can’t say I’ve met any Branch boys like ye before. They’re always rushing about in a hurry. Wanting everything they want an hour ago.’
‘Imagine having to work with them every day,’ Gifford sighed. ‘It’s a penance.’
‘How do you put up with it?’
‘I offer it up. For the honour of the force.’
The sergeant gave him a wry smile, a recognition of a kindred spirit. ‘So how can I help ye?’
‘Tell us where the bombsight is,’ Gifford said in an innocent tone, as if he was asking for directions to the next village.
‘I’m beginning to think it’s in one of the bog holes over beyond. Fell in during the accident or thrown in by someone who didn’t want it.’
‘That’d be a pity.’
‘Indeed, it would.’ The sergeant took his hands out of his pockets and opened a drawer in front of him. He took out two sheets of paper and tossed them on to the desk.
Gifford picked them up and handed one to Duggan. Both were fold-out diagrams apparently t
orn from a manual. They showed the wiring of two pieces of electrical equipment. One said ‘Fig 4-40 Bombsight Wiring Diagram’; the other said ‘Figure 5-57 Wiring Diagram (G1048A)’. The first one had parts marked ‘Telescope Motor’, ‘Gyro’ and ‘Automatic Release Switch’. The second had fewer descriptions but also mentioned a gyro and motor; Duggan recognised electrical symbols for switches, resistors and earths.
Gifford gave the sergeant an admiring look. ‘I knew all we had to do was ask,’ he said.
‘If it was only as easy as that,’ the sergeant replied. ‘These were handed in by an honest citizen, one of the rescue workers. Found them in the woods. Thought they might be important.’
Duggan was about to ask if other parts of the manual had been found too, but decided to stay silent, not to interrupt the rapport Gifford had established with the sergeant. At least, he thought, these diagrams prove that the Norden sight was on board the Flying Fortress.
‘That’s it, is it?’ the sergeant asked.
Gifford looked at Duggan, who nodded. ‘He doesn’t say much but he’s a whizz with the pen and ink,’ Gifford told the sergeant. ‘A real scholar.’
‘I was thinking of giving them to the blacksmith,’ the sergeant said in a lazy drawl. ‘There were some men sitting round the forge the other day watching him shoe a horse and asking if he’d be able to make a bombsight they could give the Yanks.’
Duggan grinned, imagining the smithy hammering out a bombsight on his anvil, sparks flying in all directions.
‘The same man can turn rods of iron into very delicate flowers and things,’ the sergeant said to him, addressing him directly. ‘You’d be amazed.’
‘But would it fool the Yanks?’ Gifford asked, shaking his head as if he was giving the question serious consideration.
The sergeant put his palms flat on the desk and raised himself to his feet. ‘There’s a place called Curley’s in the town. Pub and general merchant. Very scrupulous about the coupons and sticking to the official prices. He might be able to help ye.’
Gifford pursed his lips. ‘Would you be able to talk to him for us?’
‘It’s important, is it?’ The sergeant glanced from Gifford to Duggan.
‘It’s important,’ Duggan said. ‘Part of a bigger picture to do with neutrality.’
‘It might be best if I had a word with him myself then,’ the sergeant nodded. ‘Give me a few minutes to change my clothes. I wouldn’t want to go into another man’s territory in uniform.’
They waited as the sergeant’s heavy footsteps climbed a stairs and crossed a room above. Duggan gave Gifford a thumbsup and they had a short conversation under their breath. Then Duggan went over to the noticeboard and read the poster about compulsory tillage, which warned that farmers who didn’t comply could have their land confiscated. Gifford sat against the edge of the sergeant’s desk and contemplated his feet stretched out in front of him.
The sergeant returned in a dark suit that looked like his Sunday best. ‘Right,’ he said, straightening his jacket around his neck. ‘Ye can follow me into the town and ye go and pull into the church and say a few prayers and I’ll come and talk to ye when I’m finished.’
‘Ah,’ Gifford coughed as if he had something delicate to say, ‘we can offer a little reward of our own. If you think it’s appropriate and it would help.’
The sergeant gave him a questioning look.
‘A thousand cigarettes. Give or take. Player’s and Gold Flakes. And a few bags of coffee. They go together nicely, a coffee and a fag.’
The sergeant gave a nod that didn’t signal approval or disapproval. ‘We’ll see how it goes,’ he said. ‘He’s a decent man, like I said. People started coming to him with surpluses they had of this or that and trading them for whatever they wanted. He found himself with a stockroom full of all sorts of things that he never intended dealing in. He’s not a black-marketeer. Just a decent man who can’t say no to anyone. Always ready to help out anyone who needs a bit extra for a wake or a wedding.’
‘You think he has the bombsight?’
‘I couldn’t tell you. But he might have come across something.’
The sergeant pulled the door behind them and went down the side of the house while they got back into their Prefect. He emerged a few minutes later in a dusty black Morris 8 and drove back down through the village the way they’d come.
‘That was a lucky stroke,’ Duggan said as he followed the Morris at a distance.
‘Nothing lucky about it,’ Gifford said in an airy tone. ‘I told you all we had to do was tap into the great living brain that is the Garda Síochána.’
‘We could’ve run into a sergeant like your boss.’ Gifford’s sergeant was an impatient, humourless and occasionally violent man who had no time for Gifford or what he called ‘fucking-about fripperies’.
‘I bet this is a peaceful area,’ Gifford said, examining the few cattle and sheep grazing the passing fields. ‘And he’s good at keeping it that way. His main problem is probably stopping people killing themselves out of boredom.’
They followed the Morris into the town and overtook it as the sergeant parked on the main street. Duggan circled through the few streets until he came to a large church and pulled into its empty car park. They sat there for a moment and then Gifford opened his door. ‘We better go and pray,’ he said.
At the door of the church Duggan stopped. ‘I’m going to have a smoke,’ he said. He lit a cigarette and walked slowly around the building. There were houses on either side and green fields behind it. A dog barked somewhere, a woman called out to a child in an exasperated voice, and the metal wheels of a cart rumbled on a road. The small-town sounds of a somnolent summer afternoon.
He finished the cigarette in two slow circuits and went into the church. Gifford was sitting in the second-last row, his head bowed and his arms folded as though he was deep in contemplation or sleep. Duggan slid in beside him. There was no one else in the church: its silence seemed to send the few noises of the town even further into the distance. Gifford gave no sign that he was aware of Duggan’s presence. We should start looking for somewhere to spend the night, Duggan thought. If we’re lucky, the sergeant’s contact will lead us on to someone else who might have the sight. But we could be chasing our tails around here for days yet.
He had sunk into a semi-comatose state when solid footsteps behind them sounded on the tiled floor. The sergeant genuflected with his right hand on the edge of the seat and stepped into the pew, a faint whiff of whiskey on his breath. A brown sack hung heavily from his left hand and he swung it around between them as they made way for it on the seat.
Duggan gave him a look of surprise and the sergeant gave him a big grin and a wink. Gifford opened the mouth of the sack and pulled it down around a cardboard box. On the side was stencilled a big black arrow pointing upwards and some words. One jumped out at Duggan in capital letters: ‘BOMBSIGHT’. The duct tape sealing the top of the box had been sliced open and he pulled back the lids. Inside was a new bombsight, black and neatly efficient-looking. In the centre was an eyepiece over a lens, on the right a half circle of metal calibrated in numbers; on the left a piece of heavy tape kept it from moving about.
Duggan turned to the sergeant and said in a low voice, ‘Thanks, that’s great.’
The sergeant took two bars of Hershey’s chocolate from his jacket pocket and gave them one each. ‘I told him I couldn’t have another drink because I had two young lads waiting outside,’ he whispered. ‘So he gave me these for ye. Thought ye were schoolboys.’
‘A decent man,’ Gifford said, nodding, opening his bar and taking a bite. He made a face and held up the bar to examine it, as if somebody had played a dirty trick on him.
Duggan stood up and lifted the bag, feeling the weight of the bombsight.
‘There’s a bit of weight to it,’ the sergeant whispered. He stopped in the porch and added in a normal voice, ‘he’s got two wakes coming up now. Another old man died out the country this mo
rning. He could do with a few more cigarettes.’
‘Sure,’ Duggan said, leading them to the Prefect. He opened the boot, took out the suitcase and hefted the bag in. ‘Thanks again for all your help. And thank him for us.’
‘You’ll be mentioned in dispatches,’ Gifford added, shaking the sergeant’s hand.
‘But no details.’ The sergeant gave him a steely look.
‘No details,’ Gifford agreed, and looked to Duggan.
‘No details,’ Duggan nodded, handing the suitcase to the sergeant.
‘Ye going back to Dublin now, boys?’
‘We are,’ Gifford said, looking at Duggan, who nodded.
‘Safe home,’ the sergeant said as they got in the car. ‘The crowning moment of my career.’ He shook his head in wonder and gave them an amused smiled.
‘This is it, Sarge,’ Gifford smiled back before he slammed his door.
The sergeant walked away with an added bounce to his step, swinging the suitcase like a young man embarking on an exciting new life.
Ten
Duggan walked into Commandant McClure’s office with the brown sack and let it rest carefully on the floor. McClure eased himself up behind his desk. He glanced at the sack and then back at Duggan’s triumphant face. ‘Is that what I think it is?’ He didn’t sound delighted.
‘It is,’ Duggan said, and gave him a concise report on what had happened in Mayo.
‘Strange,’ McClure said, letting out a long breath and squatting down beside the box to have a look at the bombsight. He turned the box around to read the serial number and other information stencilled on the side. ‘This is a Norden?’
‘I assume so.’ Duggan handed him the wiring diagrams and explained where they had come from.
‘Send them out to the Air Corps.’ McClure straightened up. ‘Ask them what bombsight they are. Don’t mention the Norden.’
McClure went back behind his desk, took two cigarettes from his pack and tossed one to Duggan. ‘Strange,’ he repeated when he had lit his own. ‘Why would the Americans tell everybody about the Norden?’
