by James R Benn
“What do you mean, Inspector?” Kaz said, stepping between us.
“We’ve heard about bodies washed ashore, secret burials, that sort of thing. Didn’t you think about what might happen if Tom was confronted with all that?” Grange was red in the face, breathing heavily, and I understood his only purpose in calling us here had been to share the blame and spread his own guilt around.
“I’m sorry, Inspector,” I said, “but I can’t share the details. It was important work, and we needed his help. It did have to do with the bodies in the Channel, yes, but he wasn’t involved in burying anyone.” I left out the part about our visits to the charnel-house tents. And the fact that Grange had approved Tom fit for duty.
“So this note makes sense to you?” Grange said, a bit calmer now.
“Yes. We needed to find certain men, and we had to view a good number of the dead to do so. I wish I’d seen a problem with Tom, but he was actually in a fine mood yesterday.” In better shape than I’d been, or so I’d thought, watching him jauntily swinging his arms, telling me you could do anything, once you made your mind up about it.
And he had.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
IT WAS A quiet ride back to Ashcroft House. What was there to say? I’d been wrong about Tom Quick, plain and simple. I should have realized back at the racetrack that a sea of bodies would be more than he could bear. The sight of bombed-out buildings had been too much for him; why should I have expected anything less from visions of the dead and dismembered? We slowed to a halt, and David was out of the house moments after the sound of tires on gravel faded away.
“Well, what happened?” he asked. “How is Tom?”
“He shot himself,” I said, getting out of the jeep and placing my hand on David’s shoulder. “He’s dead.”
“No,” David said, stepping away from me and the finality of the news. “No.” His one good eye went wide, and his scarred mouth formed a half O of astonishment. There were times when David’s burns seemed to be simply part of his face, an awful tragedy, but still him. Other times, like now, the burned skin was a rigid mask that was unable to show emotion, while the undamaged side crumbled at the news and the attempt to deny it. I turned away as Kaz led his friend inside, but I felt Big Mike’s hand on my shoulder, pushing me after them. I’d have preferred to stay outdoors, letting my invisible scar tissue harden against this latest death.
“That is so sad,” Helen said, sitting next to David on the couch and holding his hand after he’d told her the news. “But you did your best as a friend, David.”
“Perhaps I did,” he said. “But even a fellow RAF officer, someone who understood where he’d been, couldn’t help. Don’t you see? That’s the worst of it. The bloody war drove him over the edge, and he wasn’t even … disfigured.” He wrenched his hand away from Helen’s and stalked out of the room. She rose to go after him but was intercepted by Kaz, who shook his head and guided her back to her seat.
“He won’t …?” She couldn’t finish the question.
Kaz assured her he wouldn’t. “He needs to be alone. I’m sure he’s embarrassed to have lost his temper with you.” Calming words, but there was more to it than that. David had likely entertained thoughts of suicide at some point after sustaining his injuries. To have befriended Tom Quick, believing he’d done the man some good, only to learn Tom had blown his brains out, had to have reawakened those lonely thoughts. Tom had seemed normal to David, who understandably may have focused more on the physical than the emotional scars of war. If Tom Quick had ended his own life, having survived thirty missions and returned to his civilian occupation, what did that mean for David? Especially if the reading of the will turned out not to be to his advantage? I couldn’t help but wonder if his father-in-law’s illegitimate son might have posed quite a problem for David’s future well-being.
“What’s wrong with David?” Meredith asked as she entered the sitting room. “He looked quite ashen.”
“A friend of his died,” Helen said, eyes downcast.
“Who?” Meredith demanded. “Anyone we know?” She sat next to Helen, more curious than concerned.
“No,” Helen answered. “A constable. He’d been in the RAF and was working with the baron and Captain Boyle.”
“Terrible,” Meredith said. “It must have been sudden, if he’s been on duty. An accident?”
“Yes,” I said, not wanting to go into details. The room was thick with silence.
“Tell me, Captain Boyle, what have you been investigating?” Meredith said, forging ahead with grim determination. “There are rumors upon rumors.”
“Of what?” Kaz asked, a polite smile masking his interest.
“Secret burials in mass graves. Most say it’s American soldiers; some insist a German invasion was thwarted and is being hushed up, which makes no sense at all.”
“A boat did sink in the Channel,” Kaz said, as if explaining the obvious to a dull child. “We are helping to identify the dead. People may have seen bodies being collected from where they washed up along the shoreline and jumped to conclusions.”
“As they always do,” Meredith said. “Any news yet of Peter Wiley?”
“No, we still have not had time to track him down,” Kaz said. Meredith sighed, as if that was quite troublesome.
I excused myself and went outside in search of the open air, away from grief and the stale aftermath of death. Big Mike followed me out onto the terrace and stood beside me silently, his hands deep in his pockets.
“What?” I asked, sensing he was waiting for me to say something.
“So you want Kaz to stay here, right? To make sure his pal is okay.” He looked out to the river, where David was strolling on the path along the water.
“Yeah, sure,” I said.
“And you want me to check the Casualty Clearing Stations on my own,” he said. “You know, for the last two stiffs. Or are you coming with me?”
“No, you go ahead,” I said, realizing Big Mike was issuing orders to an officer the way only a sergeant can. “I’ll go to Brixham when I’m done here. You head south to Slapton. Radio Harding, okay? Let him know about Tom.”
“Already done, Billy,” Big Mike said. “You okay?” He cocked an eyebrow as he turned his studied gaze on me.
“I’m okay,” I said. “I’m alive, aren’t I?”
“You seem kinda distracted.”
“It’s hard to get used to,” I said. “The idea of Tom killing himself.”
“It’s also hard when a guy you count on isn’t all there,” Big Mike said. “Tom’s dead. We’re alive. We need you, believe it or not.” He turned on his heel and was gone. And right. I was shook up—more than I wanted to admit—about what had happened in the Channel. I couldn’t erase those terrible visions of drowned men, upside down, floating in on the tide. And in Tom’s room, I’d been scared, just as David was scared. What would become of us, those who lived through this carnage, after it was over? I had no idea. Death had become a way of life, and it was going to be one helluva shock when Johnny went marching home.
Toughen up, I scolded myself. Kaz and Big Mike deserved better. I had a job to do. I made for the jeep and started it up as Big Mike was driving away in his. He gave me a nod, a sign I was doing the right thing, and I realized the hardest part of a noncom’s job had to be telling officers how to lead their men.
I MADE IT to the outskirts of Brixham, and this time there were no marching soldiers or convoys to get in my way. I got lost, since it had been Tom Quick who’d gotten us here on back roads yesterday. I stumbled upon the coast road outside of town and drove up to the old fort, set high on the cliffs overlooking the Channel. I slowed, waiting for the sentries to step out and check my papers. The ramparts were empty except for the ancient rusting cannon. I drove through the entrance into an eerie silence, the flat parade ground empty. Not a soul, living or dead.
The grass was still flattened where the tents had been. Dark stains on the earth that might have been blood revealed w
here the dismembered bodies had been stacked. The wind blew off the water, cold and salty, whistling through the windows of the crumbling stone buildings. All that remained was a single tent peg protruding from the ground. Not even a cigarette butt had been left behind.
It was as if it had never happened.
Where had everyone gone? Harding had said he was going to check with Dawes about Peter Wiley. Had he come here and found the place like this? Or had he ordered everyone to disperse? Perhaps the last two bodies had been found, and now the big hush-up was in process. Where had Dawes said he was stationed? Exeter. The 13th Field Hospital. I checked the map and found it, maybe an hour north. Time to see the doctor. I thought about radioing in to Harding, but I didn’t want to get ordered back to London right now. If the search for the missing BIGOTs was over, there was nothing to keep us here, but I needed to find out more about Peter Wiley and how he ended up in the drink. Maybe he deserved recognition as Sir Rupert’s son, legit or not. Maybe he really was Ted Wiley’s son. Whoever his father was, Peter shouldn’t have died. Everyone else in that ill-fated convoy had been there because they were ordered to be. Peter went for his own reasons, and until those reasons made sense, I was going to stay on the hunt.
I’d been through Exeter before. It had been bombed heavily back in ’42, when the Luftwaffe conducted their Baedeker raids, so-called because they chose targets from Baedeker guides to England, selecting only those cities that had been awarded three stars for architectural and historical significance. The RAF had gone first, bombing the medieval city of Lübeck and starting a competition to see which side could incinerate or blow up the oldest buildings. I wasn’t keeping track, but I knew the rubble was still knee-deep in parts of town. I didn’t want to inch my way through miles of backed-up traffic, so I pulled over when I came to an encampment and asked the MP at the gate where the 13th Field Hospital was. He gave me directions, and for once luck was on my side. It was close, and I didn’t have to drive through bomb-damaged Exeter.
I drove around the encampment, rows and rows of canvas tents surrounded by barbed wire, green fields on the outside, mud and green khaki the predominant colors on the inside. Goat Town and Spam Town.
A road sign marked the turnoff for the field hospital, and I followed a curved drive that led to a large, three-story brick house. It made Ashcroft look like a cottage. Ambulances and jeeps were parked on one side; in the field opposite were rows of tents with red crosses painted over the olive drab.
Inside, two MPs stood behind a clerk seated at a table. I asked where I could find Major Clayton Dawes.
“Why?” one of the MPs said. The clerk, a skinny Private First Class, fiddled with his pencil and looked down at his paperwork.
“Beat it, kid. Go get a cup of coffee,” I said, and the PFC was gone so fast his swivel chair rolled back against the wall. “Now, let’s start over. Take me to Major Dawes, and show me you’re bright enough to handle basic military courtesy.”
One of the MPs kept chewing his gum like a contented cow. The other, who was trying to appear intimidating but instead looked increasingly nervous, tried to rethink the situation.
“Why, Captain?”
“You’re almost there,” I said. “Shows you’re not a complete moron. Stand at attention, both of you!” For that last bit, I used my best Sam Harding voice. They jumped. The only thing that made me madder than an MP acting like he owned the world was an MP who made me act like an officer. I’m an easy guy to get along with. Ask anyone. But I don’t like to be played for a fool. I stood closer and looked the guy in the eye from about six inches away, waiting. Finally, he got it right.
“Sir! Why do you wish to see Major Dawes, sir?”
“Very good, Sergeant,” I said, stepping back. “Since you asked so nicely, I’ll give you an answer. None of your goddamn business. But here’s the thing: now I want to know why you even care. Tell me as we walk, okay?”
“Sir, you can’t see Major Dawes.” He relaxed a bit and I stepped closer again, and that put an end to that.
“Two questions, Sergeant,” I said. “Is Major Dawes here, and can you read?”
“Yes, sir,” he said, deflated.
“Which question are you answering?”
“Both, Captain. He is here, and I can read.”
“Good,” I said. “On both counts. Read this.” I pulled out my orders and waved them in front of his nose. Waved them a good bit, actually, since they were due to run out soon, and I didn’t want him looking too closely. I made sure he took in the name Eisenhower and a few choice sentences, then stuffed the papers back in my pocket. “Now take me to Dawes.”
“Okay, Captain,” the sergeant said, telling his silent partner to stay put. He took me up two flights of stairs and down a hallway flanked by rooms filled with beds, mostly empty, all of them waiting for what was about to come.
“So why’d you pull the tough-guy stuff?” I asked as we strode around a corner, more shining linoleum stretching out in front of us. This place went on forever. “You knew any officer worth his salt wouldn’t put up with that.”
“Orders, Captain. Straight from Special Agent McLean. He’s in this room, with the doctor you wanted.” He halted, pointing to a closed door with a painted sign that said CHIEF SURGEON.
“Special Agent? CIC?” I asked.
“Afraid so, Captain.” He knocked on the door. The US Army Counter-Intelligence Corps was a secretive bunch, but one thing they were well known for was operating in civilian clothes or plain uniforms with no indication of rank. I always figured it was because most of their operatives were noncommissioned officers, and it helped to shield them from the kind of routine I had used on the MP.
“What?” a voice barked out from the office. The MP opened the door.
“This captain wants to see Major Dawes, Special Agent McLean. And he’s got the orders to prove he can.” With that, the MP shut the door behind him, probably glad to be out of the cross fire.
Dawes sat in a chair across from McLean. A second agent lounged against the wall behind him. Both CIC men wore unadorned uniforms, no rank insignia except for the “U.S.” brass collar insignia, which at least told those who knew about these things that the agents were not enlisted men.
“I need to talk with Major Dawes,” I said. “Alone. What’s your beef with him?”
“Security precautions,” McLean said. He was thin and wiry, scraggly brown hair beating a retreat from his forehead, small eyes too close together, and nicotine stains on his fingers. He drew on a butt with about an inch of life left in it and ground it out in an overflowing ashtray. He looked like a man who enjoyed his work. The other Special Agent was dark, silent, and grim faced. He looked like he didn’t enjoy a damn thing. “What do you want the good doctor for?”
“I have a headache,” I said. Dawes looked up at me, panic in his eyes. Maybe he thought he was going from the frying pan into the fire. “How much longer are you going to be?”
“Long as it takes,” McLean said. “What’s your name and unit?”
“Boyle,” I said. “SHAEF.” I handed him my orders, canning the wiseacre routine. He didn’t seem the type to fall for it.
“Let’s talk outside,” McLean said. Once we were in the hallway, he folded his arms across his chest and jutted his chin in my direction. Not the most welcoming posture. “Tell me, Captain, are we working the same beat here?”
“You tell me,” I said. “You’ve seen my orders. They’re from Ike himself.”
“Yeah, pretty impressive,” the Special Agent said. “But they don’t say what you’re investigating.”
“You first,” I said. “General Eisenhower would want it that way.”
“Fair enough,” McLean said, nodding as if he thought the Supreme Commander might have a point. “Operation Tiger. Heard of it?”
“I wish I never had,” I said. “What’s your angle?”
“You first, Captain.”
“Okay. I met Major Dawes at the Brixham Casualty Clearing
Station. I was identifying bodies.”
“There were a lot of bodies there, Captain.”
“I didn’t say all the bodies. And that’s all I won’t say.”
He laughed and unfolded his arms. A good sign. “CIC has been ordered to provide security for the aftermath of Operation Tiger,” McLean said. “We got the go-ahead last night to close down the clearing stations. I guess they’ve recovered all the bodies, dead or alive, by now.”
“So your job is to remove all evidence it ever happened,” I said. That seemed right up CIC’s alley. Back in the States, CIC informers had been recruited among soldiers to report on their fellow servicemen, passing along tidbits about politics and lack of enthusiasm for army life. Supposedly they’d halted that program and were now busy preventing sabotage, investigating military personnel given access to classified information, and generally snooping.
“Basically, yes,” McLean said. “Which is what I’m busy with right now. Why do you want to talk to Dawes?”
“It’s about a particular body,” I said.
“That wouldn’t be a naval lieutenant, by any chance?”
“Peter Wiley,” I said. McLean nodded, and I began to sense why Dawes was in hot water. “You were a body short, and you found out Dawes had Wiley here in the morgue.”
“Yeah,” McLean said, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. I could tell he didn’t like the idea of losing a corpse, or being blamed for blowing the cover-up. “The deceased are being buried today, and Brixham was missing one. We checked with the ambulance drivers, and one of them admitted to bringing Wiley here.”
“He’d been ordered to by Major Dawes, who was acting on my behalf. I hope you didn’t send the poor slob to Leavenworth to split rocks.”
“Naw, he’s cooling his heels downstairs. He gave us the major’s name and we were just having a discussion with him about why he stole a corpse. He didn’t mention you.”
“Are you shocked that he didn’t rat me out to CIC? Not everyone caves in to you guys,” I said.
