The Rest Is Silence

by James R Benn

  “May I ask your business, sir?” the second louie said, in a tone that said hit the road, bub.

  “Yeah, Lieutenant,” I replied. “None of yours.” I flashed my orders at him and watched him gulp as he read through them.

  “No one is supposed to go in there, Captain,” he said. “But this trumps whatever I’ve been told.”

  “We’re looking to confirm the deaths of several officers. We’ll check the dead. Is this everyone who’s been brought in?” I waved at the tents.

  “Yes, sir. We’ve been told to keep all the bodies here. They’re going to start getting ripe pretty soon.”

  “Get used to the smell, Lieutenant. How many wounded do you have here?”

  “About a hundred,” he said. “We’re supposed to keep them all here, too, even the serious cases. They even ordered us not to talk to them. One of the doctors said he was told to treat them as if he were a veterinarian. Meaning patch ’em up, but don’t get friendly.”

  “Who gave those orders?” I asked.

  “Dunno, sir. It was a bunch of officers come through here yesterday. They wore coats with no shoulder patches, but all of our brass gave them a wide berth.”

  “Smart of them,” I said. “Now do the same, okay?” He did.

  I untied the flap of the first tent. The odor of death was new—on the edge of truly putrid, but not there yet. The cold salt water might have slowed the process of decay, but there was no stopping it. I thanked my lucky stars they hadn’t been put inside mattress covers yet. This made it easier to spot the ranks we were looking for.

  “One colonel, two captains, and four lieutenants,” I said to Quick. He had the list of names and descriptions out. The bodies were laid out in rows, close together. Helmets had been removed and packs piled up at their feet. No one had bothered to separate by rank. No officer’s quarters for these men. We found a colonel, but he wasn’t a match. Ditto for the lieutenants. As we walked between the rows, milky, glazed eyes stared at us. Their faces were clean, washed by the Channel waters; features calm, even serene—because the muscles relaxed at the time of death, not because their deaths had been peaceful. The most wide-eyed, horror-stricken grimace fades as the brain loses all control over nerve and muscle.

  “They look peaceful,” Quick said, noticing the look on their faces but not understanding it.

  “Yeah,” I said, seeing no reason to educate him in such matters. A country constable didn’t see much death, not compared to a Boston cop. And all his killing had been done from twenty thousand feet, so how would he know? Better to let him think all the people he’d bombed had ended up with this tranquil appearance amidst the rubble he’d created. “Nothing here.”

  The next tent was different. It looked as if they’d put all the dismembered and torn bodies together. No one looked serene. A tangle of severed legs and arms was piled on one side, three heads sitting on top, helmets still on. Apparently no one had had the stomach to loosen the chin straps.

  The bodies themselves were burned or torn apart by explosions or propeller screws. Packs and belts had been left on. They were probably the only things holding the flesh and bone together. I glanced at Tom, not wanting him to think I didn’t trust him to handle it. He was pale, but he stood ramrod straight. As a matter of fact, he looked better than I felt. I tamped down my queasiness and started the search. I knelt and checked dog tags, skipping the enlisted men when I could find a sign of rank. Fortunately, even the headless bodies still had the chains tucked under their shirts.

  “Lieutenant Winslow,” I said. “Lieutenant Chapman.” Tom shook his head no. “Here’s a Lieutenant Smith. We have one of those, right?” Tom read the serial number. Wrong Smith. We worked our way through the maimed corpses, finally finding one match. Lieutenant Patrick Sullivan. The serial number was a match, which helped since his blond hair had been burned with the rest of him.

  “Thank God we found one,” Tom said as soon as we’d closed the flap behind us. “I’d hate to have gone through that for nothing.”

  The next two tents were better, if any pile of sodden dead men can be better than another. But no BIGOTs.

  “That’s it,” I said. “Let’s head down to the next station.”

  “Perhaps we should walk through the hospital tents,” Tom suggested. “A badly injured man might have been rushed in before they started listing the names of the wounded.”

  “Might as well,” I said. A long shot, but we were on the scene, so why not? We entered the first tent, and a white-smocked doctor tried to wave us off. I showed him our orders, which he didn’t like one bit.

  “We’ve been ordered to keep these men quarantined,” he said, loosening his smock to better show off his major’s gold oak-leaf insignia. “And I outrank you, Captain Boyle.”

  “General Eisenhower outranks everyone,” I said. “Take it up with him, Major …?”

  “Major Clayton Dawes, surgeon with the Thirteenth Field Hospital. Look, I’m not interested in a pissing match, Captain. If these orders are legit, go right ahead. Please be quiet and don’t upset anyone, okay?”

  “Just how bad are the injuries here?”

  “Everything from a broken arm to severe internal injuries and third-degree burns,” he said, back on more comfortable territory. “I got pulled in because I was available. I normally do chest and heart surgeries, and there’s nothing much in that line here. We’re basically operating as an evacuation hospital. The walking wounded should be released as soon as possible, and the others sent on to the field hospital in Exeter.”

  “When’s that going to happen?” I asked.

  “Good question,” the major said. “I think the brass is more worried about keeping this whole thing quiet and these boys in the dark than about medical necessity.”

  “I’m not going to argue the point,” I said. “We’re looking for anyone who might be unidentified. Unconscious, no identification, that sort of thing.”

  “There’s only one man here like that,” he said. “Over there, next to Lawson. Lawson’s a sad case himself, but it’s the man in the next bed I’m concerned about. Lawson insists it’s his buddy from LST 507, but that’s not possible.”

  “How do you know?” Tom asked as the major led us through the rows of beds, white enamel frames set on the dirt floor.

  “The only ID we had was his life jacket. It had the name Miller and LST 531 stenciled on it,” the doctor said. “Lawson was from the 507. They’re both navy.” He pointed to a bed where a still form was swathed in bandages. A portion of his face and one leg was all that was visible. The face was mottled purple and red, so swollen from bruising that it was unrecognizable. Across from him another sailor sat on his bed, feet on the ground. He had a cast encasing his upper arm and shoulder and a bandage wound around his head. He stared at the other patient, taking no notice of our arrival.

  “How you doing, sailor?” I asked. He had sandy hair and thin features, and his forehead was furrowed in worry. He looked startled at my question.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Don’t you know, lad?” Tom said.

  “No one’s talked to us, not even the nurses. You’re the first,” he said.

  “What do you remember?” I said.

  “Something hit the ship. There was an explosion. Smoke, fire, yelling and screaming. It’s all a blur.”

  “Do you know this man?” I said, kneeling at his side and pointing to the inert form on the bed opposite.

  “Sure, that’s Hal. He’s my buddy. We been together since basic.”

  “What’s your name, son?” Tom asked, sitting on the bed next to him.

  “George Lawson. Machinist’s Mate. Were we torpedoed?”

  “You were,” I said. “Was Hal with you?”

  “Yeah. We were both getting some coffee when there was a blast amidships. I thought maybe we’d hit a mine. It sounded like the ship was breaking apart. We had our life vests on, since they’d sounded general quarters, but we thought it was part of the exercise.” He c
ontinued to stare at the man he thought was Hal, but his eyes were focused on the memory burned into his mind that night. “The lights went out, and I was thrown against a bulkhead. I guess I dislocated my shoulder and got this cut. Blood was running into my eyes, and I couldn’t see a thing. Hal got me up and guided me toward the deck. We passed a hatch that led down onto the tank deck. Where the Shermans are, you know? All set to roll out over the ramp when we hit the beach. Hal opened it and flames blew out. It lasted a few seconds, then faded. We looked in, but it was no good. Fuel cans were exploding, and men were screaming. I saw one guy on fire, trying to climb the ladder and get out, but he just stopped and fell back. It was like what I’d always imagined Hell to be. A dark pit filled with flames.” He stopped, slack-jawed. “Hal dogged the hatch. That’s regulation, to keep the integrity of the ship. But it was like we were killing those guys.” Lawson stopped, gulping in air as if he’d forgotten to breathe.

  “You had to do it,” I said. “And you couldn’t have helped them.”

  “That’s what I told Hal,” Lawson said. “But he was crying. He kept saying he was sorry, and I didn’t know if he meant for closing those guys in or because he was crying like a baby. I told him it didn’t matter. But I knew it did.”

  “You made it up to the main deck?” I said.

  “We must have, but I don’t remember everything. Next thing I know, we’re aft and guys are jumping off everywhere. The ship was listing, and the fires were spreading. We had twenty-two DUKWs—you know, those amphibious trucks—lashed on deck. All fueled up. They started to go one by one, huge fireballs shooting into the sky, ammo going off, the whole works.” He looked beyond us, his eyes still seeing gouts of flames arcing across the night sky.

  “What about lifeboats?” Tom asked.

  “Some were lowered, but the davits were rusted on a lot of them. I remember one sergeant fired his M1 at the chain, and that did it. The boat fell into the water, but I think it landed on a few guys.”

  “What did you and Hal do?” I said, trying to keep him focused on his pal. Maybe this was him, but it looked doubtful.

  “I tried to get Hal to jump, but he was scared. Said he couldn’t swim, that he’d always been afraid of heights too, and it was a good distance to the water. But we had to go. The fire and the explosions were getting closer. I told him the ship was sinking, which was good news since we wouldn’t have so far to fall, you know? Making a joke about it. But it didn’t work. I dragged him to the railing but he grabbed on with both hands and wouldn’t let go. He begged me to stay with him, even when I told him we’d both die right there. He was crying again, saying, ‘Please doesn’t leave me alone,’ and I even tried slugging him, but nothing worked. Finally I said I was going over, and he had to follow me.”

  “Did he?” I asked.

  “I didn’t look back,” Lawson said. “I jumped and must have hit my shoulder. The pain was something awful. I looked all around for Hal but couldn’t see him. The water was cold, really cold, and my teeth were chattering. Then the whole ship blew. It was like the biggest fireworks display you ever saw. I hope Hal saw it, it was really something.”

  “How long were you in the water?” Tom asked.

  “I don’t know. I tried not to look at all the soldiers floating upside down. I don’t know why no one told them how to use those life belts. And why did they go in with those heavy packs? It doesn’t make any sense …” His voice trailed off as he tried to come to grips with the illogic and ineptitude of Operation Tiger. He stopped, head bent, and I wondered if he’d passed out.

  “What happened next?” I prompted him.

  “What? Oh yeah. I drifted for a while and finally found a wooden hatch with two other men on it. There wasn’t room for me, but they let me hang on. I lost consciousness, I think, then all of a sudden I was being pulled aboard a small vessel. An English fishing boat, I think. There were a couple dozen guys they’d picked up, maybe more. There were nets and the crew was civilian, so I figured they’d seen the explosions and come to help. I asked everyone about Hal, but no one knew anything about him. Then I woke up here, right next to him. What luck, huh?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said. “And you’re lucky to be alive, Lawson, remember that. Now relax. The doctor said you’ll all be transferred to a real hospital soon.”

  “Good,” he said. “Hal too?”

  “Of course, my boy,” Tom said with a forced grin. “All of you.”

  “There was nothing else to say,” I told Tom as we exited the tent.

  “No,” Tom Quick said. “He needed that lie, and we were just the people to give it to him.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  WE WALKED IN silence to the jeep, the shadow of death and lies following us from the tents. Tom got in, adjusting his tin-pot helmet so it hid his eyes, or perhaps so he wouldn’t have to look at me. I thought about driving him back to Inspector Grange but didn’t bring it up. Tom had been right when he’d said no one got their druthers these days, so I started the jeep, ready to head out to our next grisly stop.

  “Look,” Tom said, pointing to a truck coming through the gate. “More bodies coming in?”

  “Probably the GIs from the beach,” I said. But I stopped the jeep and watched as the truck backed up to the tents—thankfully not the one for dismembered corpses. Three bodies came off and were manhandled none too gracefully into the tent by GIs wearing gloves and masks. “Let’s take a look.”

  Inside the tent, the three new arrivals were laid out at the end of a row. Two GIs, a sergeant and a PFC. No packs, rifles, or life belts on those two. Maybe they went into the water dead, or drowned the old-fashioned way, right side up. The third man was navy, by the look of his khakis. He had on a US Navy life vest and wore lieutenant’s bars. I didn’t pay much attention to his face, since the dead had all started to look alike to me, but as I reached for his dog tags, I noticed the sandy-colored hair and the blue eyes, and a gasp escaped my throat.

  It was Peter Wiley.

  I stood up, shocked. It was someone I knew, a man who I’d seen alive a few days before. A boy, really. His slight frame and fine features looked out of place among the soldiers girded for combat with their heavy boots and field jackets. All Peter had were his summer khakis and low-quarter shoes. He must have been cold going into the water. He looked cold even now.

  “That’s Peter Wiley,” I said.

  “The lieutenant Colonel Harding was looking for?” Tom Quick said. “He’s supposed to be at Greenway House by now. What’s he doing here?”

  “I’m not sure. He wanted to go on the exercise but couldn’t get permission. Looks like he found his way onboard one of the LSTs.”

  “Worse luck for him,” Tom said. “He should have stayed ashore. We’d best move on, we’ve still got names to cross off our list.”

  Then it hit me. Peter Wiley was a BIGOT. But he wasn’t on the list. How did he get on an LST without authorization, especially given his top-secret status? You didn’t simply stroll onto a ship heading off to a secret invasion exercise, with or without a top security clearance. Did Harding know about this? Doubtful, since he’d been adamant that Wiley stay ashore. I couldn’t mention the BIGOT classification to Tom; even mentioning the name was forbidden. But I needed to work out what had happened here.

  “Give me a minute,” I said, kneeling at Wiley’s side. Tom moved off, giving me privacy to pay my last respects. It was a cop’s respect I gave him, checking his pockets for anything that might give me a clue as to what he was up to. Nothing. I unbuckled his life vest and looked for anything that might have been secreted inside. Again, nothing. Stenciling proclaimed the vest PROPERTY OF THE US NAVY, but that was it.

  Nothing. Which was odd. A lot of guys didn’t carry wallets, since they carried their IDs around their necks and Uncle Sam didn’t care about driver’s licenses. It was nothing but another thing to lose when you shipped out. But most usually carried cash, maybe a money clip, or a picture of a wife or sweetheart in their breast pocket. Pet
er Wiley had none of that. No wristwatch, ring, or even a pencil, which I wouldn’t have been surprised to find on an artist.

  I removed the bulky vest and laid it under his head. He was past caring, but it seemed wrong to let it drop to the ground. As I did so, my fingers felt a bump at the base of his skull. I turned his head, brushing aside the hair to reveal a sizeable bruise.

  “What did you find?” Tom said, stepping closer.

  “Looks like he hit his head at some point,” I said. “It might have knocked him out.”

  “Might have killed him, too. He had a life jacket not one of those belts that turned fellows upside down. Would have been a mercy, since he wasn’t found soon enough. Cold water will kill you sure as a bullet, but not as fast.”

  “Or maybe he went into the water unconscious,” I said. “Or was hit by debris once he was in. Hard to tell.”

  “Impossible,” Tom said. “And it hardly matters, does it? Sorry, but I didn’t know the lad, so he’s only another corpse now. I don’t mean to sound heartless, but there are plenty of poor souls here we could cry over. We’ve a job to do, haven’t we?”

  “Yeah, we do. I need to have a word with Major Dawes before we go. Wait in the jeep if you want, I won’t be long.”

  I found Dawes and waited while he finished checking a patient. As ordered, he didn’t speak to the man, simply checked his wound and left a nurse to re-bandage him. I asked Dawes to look at Wiley’s body, and we went to the tent.

  “What am I looking for?” Dawes asked as we stood over the body.

  “What killed him,” I said. “There’s a sizeable lump on the back of his head.” He knelt and felt the skull, turning the neck each way.

  “Without opening him up, I couldn’t say for certain, but it doesn’t seem to be a fatal wound. Could easily have knocked him out and left him with a concussion. But if there was bleeding into the brain, that would be deadly.”

  “Can you tell if he drowned?” I asked. “Water in the lungs?”

  “It’s not really definitive, unfortunately,” Dawes said. “When a drowning victim first takes in water, the vocal cords can constrict and seal up the air tube. Ten percent of the time this seal holds until the heart stops. So water in the lungs tells us that the person was alive at the time of immersion, but the absence of it confirms nothing.”