by James R Benn
“It’s the way wars are fought these days,” I said. “It’s not your fault.”
“I know,” Quick said. “I did my job, same as some damn Jerry bombardier did his. That’s the weight of it, all of us doing our bit. Bomb by bomb, until one side gives in. Sad that it takes so many. I don’t understand why the Jerries don’t shatter and break just like their cities.”
“You’ve done your share of fighting,” Kaz said. “Now it is up to those men and others like them. The war will be won on the ground, no matter how many bombs we drop.”
“Thirty missions,” Quick whispered into the wind. “The first and the last, they were the worst.”
“Grange told us about your first mission,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“The odd thing is, I’d hardened myself after a while,” Quick said, still staring out over the water, ignoring my words. “By the twentieth mission, I figured I’d be dead soon, and none of it mattered. Then we kept coming home. It was horrifying to think about surviving. What would I do? There was nothing but death in the air and grief upon the ground.”
We waited as he paused, the wind whipping my trench coat, the salt spray bitter on my lips.
“My pal Freddie Swales kept my spirits up,” Quick went on. “He was our rear turret gunner. Those chaps have an average life expectancy of forty flying hours in a Lancaster. Each night mission took about eight hours, so you can calculate the odds for yourself. By twenty-five missions, Freddie thought he could walk on water. When we took off for our last run, I believed it myself. If Freddie lived through it, there was hope for all of us. Hope for me.”
“What happened?” I asked into the silence.
“We almost made it,” Quick said. “We’d crossed the Dutch coast and were over the North Sea when a swarm of Me-109s hit us. It was near dawn, light enough to see them as they nipped at the formation, trying to score hits and get a straggler to drop out and fall behind. They got one, and formed up for one last attack before they headed home. One bastard came right at us, dead on from the rear. The whole aircraft shook as he peppered the rear turret with machine-gun and cannon fire. I thought we were going down, but we made it to the closest airfield, one engine belching flames and black smoke. There was nothing left of Freddie, nothing that you could call a man. The turret was smashed, nothing but a gaping hole. The ground crew pulled out chunks of Freddie and tossed them into a wheelbarrow. Then they hosed out what was left. And there was poor Freddie, all bits of flesh, blood, and bone, a pink froth settling into the ground. They told me I tried to gather them up, but I don’t remember, thank God.”
“No wonder you think the Germans still owe you,” I said.
“Some debts can only be repaid in blood,” Quick said. He turned away and walked back to the jeep.
“He doesn’t understand they are not debts,” Kaz said to me. “There is no payment for suffering and grief, no recompense for dead family and loved ones.”
“Maybe he hopes he can repay his own debts someday,” I said.
“ ‘He that dies pays all debts,’ ” Kaz said, with a shrug.
“Shakespeare?” I guessed.
“Very good, Billy,” Kaz said. “I forget which play. The Tempest, perhaps. I shall ask Edgar tonight.”
We trudged back to the jeep, and as we left the restricted area, I wondered if Tom Quick had ever seen the play.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
QUICK WAS FINE on the ride back. If that word can describe a man who feels responsible for the deaths of families like his own and who watched his friend’s remains get hosed out of a rear turret. We Americans were paying our own butcher’s bill in this war, but the English had been at it so much longer, been so victimized by bombs, loss, and sacrifice that their toll of suffering, horror, and deprivation had to be heavier, an ominous presence felt heavily throughout the land.
We left Tom at Constable Carraher’s cottage in North Cornworthy, thinking it best for him to be with a friend, then pressed on to meet up with Colonel Harding. We crossed the River Dart and followed the directions Peter Wiley had given for Greenway House, the headquarters of the US Navy 10th Flotilla. I made a mental note to write my mom and tell her we should name our place in South Boston. It sure was the fashion here.
Greenway House sat on a wooded knoll overlooking the river. The navy knew how to pick its billets. It was north of Dartmouth, not far as the crow flies from North Cornworthy, but a bit of a drive since the first bridge was upriver at Totnes. A small ferry ran across the river at Greenway, but it was only for foot traffic and bicyclists. A stone boathouse stood jutting out over the water, with two navy launches moored alongside. From there it was a short hop to the big vessels docked at Dartmouth harbor.
The house itself was stark white, three stories, in the Georgian style, according to Kaz. Only one story less than my house in Boston, which was in the Southie style: clapboards, front stoop and all, but you could probably fit four of the Boyle homesteads into the Greenway footprint.
Shore patrol swabbies checked our IDs before letting us in. The rooms had all been converted into offices, and we found Harding near the back, in a small room that might have been a pantry back when. We gave him our report, short and sweet.
“The only thing to worry about is some guys from the 101st too close to the bombardment area,” I said. “No sign of civilians anywhere.”
“Okay, that’s about all we can do. It’s up to the navy to get it right tomorrow,” Harding said, pushing himself back from his desk and gathering up folders.
“Colonel,” I said, “has Lieutenant Wiley asked you if he could go on the exercise? He’s really itching to get out on the water. He is navy, after all.”
“He put you up to this?” Harding asked, shrugging on his jacket.
“He was afraid to ask himself,” Kaz said.
“That’s because I chewed him out the last two times he asked,” Harding said, getting ready to leave.
“Any special reason, Colonel?” I asked. “It’s only a short run along the coast.”
“Follow me,” Harding said. He took us down a hallway to where an armed guard stood in front of a door. “This is Lieutenant Wiley’s studio. One guard stands here and another outside the window twenty-four hours a day. What does that tell you?”
“That Lieutenant Wiley deserves a promotion,” I said. “Why all the security?”
“Because he’s engaged in top-secret work, gentlemen,” Harding said, his voice almost a growl.
“He’s just asking to be onboard for maneuvers, Colonel,” I said. “Can’t blame a naval officer for wanting to be on a ship.”
“I can blame him for not following orders,” Harding said. “He pestered the officer in charge of manifests for the maneuvers so much they got into a fistfight.”
“Peter Wiley does not seem suited to fisticuffs,” Kaz said.
“Neither of them are,” Harding said with a rueful laugh. “Two desk jockeys fighting over paperwork. It was almost funny. Lieutenant Siebert’s got a lot on his mind, and I think the stress got to him. It just happened to be Wiley who got the brunt of it. Good thing he’s got three days’ leave, it should give both of them time to calm down. But when he gets back, he doesn’t leave dry land. He’s been working hard to complete a major assignment. Another one is coming along soon, and I want him rested, ready, and dry when it does. Understood?”
We understood, at least as much as we had to. Maybe he was painting General Eisenhower’s portrait. Whatever he was doing, he wouldn’t be going far from it.
“There is one other thing, Colonel Harding,” Kaz said as we followed Harding out the front door. He pleaded David Martindale’s case, stressing his knowledge of languages, one good eye, desire to serve, and the fact that he’d graduated from Oxford, which in Kaz’s eyes carried the most weight. It was only when he mentioned photographic interpretation that Harding perked up.
“Are you certain he can see well enough?” the colonel asked.
“Perfect vision in that eye, sir
,” Kaz said. “And as an experienced pilot, he is used to navigation and recognizing ground structures.” I hoped Kaz wasn’t overselling David, but it turned out Harding was in a buying mood.
“Have him here tomorrow,” Harding said. “We’ll see what he can do.”
“One out of two isn’t bad with him,” I said as we watched Harding drive off.
“I wonder if this has any connection to Peter Wiley’s map-making,” Kaz said. “He could be making maps of coastal defenses, for instance. They’d need to use photographs from reconnaissance aircraft.”
“Pretty good guess,” I said. “Let’s go give David the good news about his audition.”
BACK AT ASHCROFT, we spotted Great Aunt Sylvia walking with Lieutenant Wiley on a path to the side of the house. His easel was set up out front, his brushes and paints left ready for his return. It was perfect painting weather: the trees and lawn were a vivid green in the afternoon sun, the sky a clear and sparkling blue after the clouds had blown off. I parked the jeep on the gravel drive, and we strolled over to the painting to take a look.
“Not bad at all,” Kaz said. It was unfinished, but Wiley had captured the house perfectly: a grey granite mass that looked like it had sprouted fully formed from the rocks. The grass seemed to bend in a breeze that you could almost feel.
“The lad’s quite a painter,” David Martindale said, coming up from behind us. He’d been out hiking, dressed in old tweeds and carrying a walking stick.
“Yes,” Kaz said. “He has captured the essence of the place.”
“On the outside, at least,” David said. “It’s even gloomier than usual inside today.”
“What do you mean?” Kaz asked his friend.
“Sir Rupert is in a foul mood, and doesn’t look well on top of it—or because of it, I can’t tell,” he said. “Meredith has been arguing with him; there was quite a lot of shouting. It was better when they weren’t speaking to each other. Helen burst into tears and ran off, so I decided to get some fresh air and wait for things to calm down. I was hoping you’d be back, so I would have some decent company.”
Having decided to avoid going inside, we strolled around back to the terrace and sat admiring the view of Bow Creek where it flowed into the River Dart. To one side, I watched Peter Wiley with Great Aunt Sylvia on his arm, returning from their walk in the gardens, an iron gate covered in ivy behind them.
“She must have been showing him the family plot,” David said. “She had markers erected for her son and husband. Louise is there too, shipped back from India, where she died. Helen says her mother insisted upon it. She hated India. Or Rupert, I could never sort out the difference.”
“Not a happy marriage?” I asked.
“At the end, apparently not. Who knows what it was like earlier?” David said. “Helen says India got to her mother, but she insisted on staying with her husband. Meredith says Rupert was a horrible cad about something, but she keeps her mouth shut about it otherwise. Could be some truth in both stories.”
“It’s hard to tell with families,” I said. “Everyone has their own version of events and memories of what happened. The farther in the past, usually the less reliable.” Meredith must have been referring to her father’s affair, but I wasn’t about to let that cat out of the bag.
“What did Meredith mean about the ring,” Kaz said, “when she challenged Sir Rupert? She said, ‘Now do you believe me?’ when Peter said his mother had received it as a gift.”
“I’m not sure,” David said. “Helen once alluded to a rumor about Meredith stealing some family jewels when she ran off to London. I never took much stock in it until last night, when Edgar mentioned her having money to burn when he met her.”
“I am beginning to think we should take our leave soon,” Kaz said. “If these arguments continue, it could be uncomfortable for us to be here.”
“Oh no you don’t, Piotr,” David said. “Don’t abandon your old chum, I beg of you.” He said it with an easy laugh, but I knew he was serious. “Tell me, have you talked to your colonel about me? Any chance of a spot at SHAEF?”
“There is some good news, perhaps,” Kaz said. He told David the plan for the next day, stressing that it was a long shot.
“Brilliant!” David said. “If I wanted to take my chances inside I’d fetch drinks, or look for Williams to fetch them. It’s grand to have a butler, even an old fellow like that.”
“If there wasn’t such bad blood between the Sutcliffe and Pemberton clans this would be a nice setup,” I said, imagining the life of an English country squire. I liked the way they ran things here, not as snobby and pretentious as a lot of other homes I’d visited. But the past and long-buried secrets had a way of ruining even such an idyll as Ashcroft.
“How was Tom today?” David asked, and I was reminded that it wasn’t merely secrets that ate away at the heart. The war corroded everything it touched as well.
“We saw another side of him,” Kaz said, perhaps sensing that I was struggling with the question. “He’s lost so much, but still wants revenge. There seem to be two parts of him: the family man who understands the death he has visited upon others, and the airman who did his duty while hardening himself to the horrors he has endured—that is, until he broke under the pressure.”
“They’re both shattered men,” I said. I told David about Tom’s pal Freddie, the rear turret gunner.
“I’ve heard the rear-gunner position on a Lanc is one of the worst,” David said. “An unheated glass bubble, not even enough room to wear a parachute. If the plane goes down, the gunner is expected to open the door behind him, reach for his parachute, and put it on, all while rotating the turret sideways so he drops out backwards.”
“A dubious prospect,” Kaz said. “But not as dubious as Constable Quick’s chances of putting all this behind him.”
“So it’s worse than we thought,” David said tentatively.
“I think so,” Kaz said. “A man who mourns his wife, children, and best friend, as well as all those whom he has killed, while at the same time hungering for the blood of his enemies, is unlikely to reconcile those two impulses. Grief or a terrible rage will win out in the end. He cannot live with both.”
Kaz was the expert here, so I simply nodded my agreement. We sat in silence for a while, the sun nearing the treetops and the air turning cold. I finally left to find Peter and deliver the bad news about Colonel Harding’s orders for him to stay ashore. Kaz and David stayed behind, surveying Bow Creek as it flowed along, a constancy amid the ruins of this century.
As I came around to the front lawn, I saw Sir Rupert heading away from Peter and entering the house. Peter sat at his easel, staring at the canvas, not taking notice of my approach until I was nearly on top of him.
“I talked with Colonel Harding,” I said. “I did my best, but it’s no go.”
“What?” Peter said, blinking as if he’d been daydreaming. “Oh, the exercise. That’s too bad. I’ll find another way, thanks.”
“The only other way is to talk to Harding’s boss, but I doubt Ike has time to see you,” I said. He was distracted, and I wanted to be sure he understood the situation.
“Yeah, of course,” Peter said. “Thanks for asking, Billy, I appreciate it.”
“It’s important?” I asked.
“It could be. I won’t know until I’m there.”
“Perspective?”
“I shouldn’t have said even that much,” Peter said. “Forget about it, okay?”
“I forget stuff all the time,” I said. “Lady Pemberton showing you around?”
“No, not really. She showed me the gardens, that’s all. Sir Rupert is busy, I guess.” He looked away, his eyes hitting the woods, the house, the canvas, looking everywhere but at me. An unpracticed liar.
“Sure,” I said. “Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”
“I’m not sure I should have come here,” he said. It was obvious that something else entirely was on his mind.
“The search for
perspective leads us to strange places,” I said, hoping he’d explain himself.
He didn’t.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“I DON’T CARE!” Meredith’s shrill voice echoed in the hallway as I began to make my way down for dinner. “You can’t do this to me, I won’t stand for it!”
A door slammed. Hard. I retreated a few steps back to my room, not wanting to collide with her while she was fuming. I heard footsteps stomp by my door and another slam. I hoped Edgar wasn’t stuck in the bedroom with her. I stepped out into the hallway, making my way to Sir Rupert’s study.
“Is everything all right?” I asked Sir Rupert, leaning into the doorway of his study.
“Sorry about the display, Captain Boyle,” Sir Rupert said, leaning back in his chair. “A bit of a long-standing feud. I do apologize.” He sighed, looking pale and tired as he patted his damp forehead with a handkerchief. “I will join you shortly. I need a moment.”
I left, knowing it must have been embarrassing for a guy like him to acknowledge family discord. I wanted to make sure Meredith hadn’t whacked him one, though, given her tone and ferocity.
“I trust he’s alive and kicking,” Great Aunt Sylvia said, swooping along in her ancient dress, a dark blue floor-length affair with a high collar and a pearl brooch.
“None the worse for wear,” I said, offering her my arm on the stairway.
“Good,” she said. “I hate to see them fight, but it is sadly nothing new. She fought with her mother too, but over silly things. There she is: Louise.” We stopped as she pointed to one of the portraits decorating the staircase wall. A serene expression graced the young face of Louise Pemberton in her flowing white dress. Wide blue eyes; light, flowing hair; porcelain skin; and a thin figure—all probably enhanced by the painter’s art, but she was still beautiful. And familiar.
“Helen looks a lot like her,” I said.
“I agree,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. “Meredith takes after her father, which may be why they disagree so often. It happens quite often, don’t you think?”
