by James R Benn
"Thornton? I guess so. Why are you so interested? Are you one of Heck's boys?" The air had been full of chatter, friendly ribbing and cursing, but at the mention of Heck's name the sounds faded as all eyes narrowed and turned on me.
"No, I'm not. As a matter of fact, he tried to throw me in jail yesterday." Laughter rose along the benches, and the GI next to me clapped me on the back, saying I must be all right, even for an officer, if Heck couldn't arrest me.
"Heck doesn't have a lot of friends around here," Masters said. "Probably not anywhere, for that matter."
"Why is that, do you think?"
"He wants to get ahead in the army. The only way he knows how is to kiss up to anyone above him and kick down."
"Glad Thornton isn't one of those. I couldn't stand two in a row."
"If you're not with Heck, why are you asking questions about the BARs?"
"I see not much escapes the I&R Platoon."
"Intelligence is our first name," Masters said, tapping his head.
"I am here to look into the theft. At the request of a command higher than Heck. The Brits are nervous about the IRA working with the Germans."
"No wonder Heck tried to toss you in the slammer. You might make him look bad."
"What did you say your name was, Lieutenant?" asked the GI next to me.
"Boyle."
"Mine's Callahan. Funny you didn't say anything about the Brits being nervous about the Red Hand. With a name like Boyle, I mean."
"The thought has occurred to me, Callahan. But the Red Hand isn't likely to be in league with the Germans."
"No, they don't need the Nazis. They have the English."
"OK, Callahan, can it," Masters said. "Remember the lecture. We're guests in this country. Guests don't discuss religion or politics."
"Kinda leaves us speechless around these parts, Lieutenant."
"Erin go bragh," I stage-whispered to Callahan as I got up.
"Go get our BARs, Billy," Masters said. "Good luck."
"I'll do my best," I said as I waved to the group and left to clean out my mess kit.
I liked Masters and his easy way with his men, and how he pushed them beyond regular training to prepare them. An I&R platoon was likely to be sticking its neck out far into enemy territory, and I could see how even one more BAR could make a difference in giving covering fire when they needed to skedaddle. What I didn't like was Callahan reminding me of everything I thought was wrong with this assignment. I wondered if I would still be sitting in a Jerusalem hotel arguing with Diana if it had been clear that it was the Red Hand who had stolen the Brownings. Would MI-5 be as worried if those weapons were aimed at the Catholic minority in Northern Ireland? Especially if they might be used against the IRA active in Ulster?
Erin go bragh, I thought as I wiped down my kit. Ireland forever. Except it wasn't true. How could it be, with six of the Ulster counties still ruled by England? What would it be like if the English had held on to New England at the end of the Revolutionary War? Would we have accepted that, said it was enough, and abandoned six states to be ruled by our former masters?
Liam O'Baoighill had left this island with a note pinned to his coat, charging his descendents with revenge upon the English for what they had done to his family. O'Baoighill was the Gaelic spelling of O'Boyle. We'd dropped the O along the way and become Boyles, making our way in the new world while forgetting the worst of the old and remembering the best as if it were everything that had ever happened. Now I was back.
It was a helluva war.
CHAPTER * SEVEN
"AT EASE, BOYLE."
Major Thomas Thornton had been at a desk too long. He had soft, pudgy cheeks and red-rimmed eyes with dark bags beneath them. He wore a mustache, which suited him, and had his black hair slicked back with too much Brylcreem, which didn't. His ashtray was already half full of ground-out butts, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair as he read through my orders, spitting a bit of stray tobacco onto his desk, where it landed, a tiny brown speck lost amid a pile of requisitions, files, manuals, and all the tools of a division's executive officer. In the corner behind him, three cases of Jameson Irish whiskey were neatly stacked. Liquor was also a tool of the trade, bartering and smoothing the way for whatever your commanding officer needed.
"Ike and the British chief of staff? Jesus Christ, Boyle, you move in exalted circles. Are you any good? Can you find my BARs?"
"I don't exactly move in those circles, Major. I just go where they tell me."
"Sit down, sit down," Thornton said, as if that was something I should have taken for granted. He waved his hand toward a chair and I pulled it up to his desk. "I want my goddamn BARs back, Boyle."
"Yes, sir. Can you fill me in on what you've come up with? I have the police report from the RUC and an initial report from the provost marshal but nothing from this command."
"Listen, Boyle, do you have any idea what kind of workload an XO has? I don't have time for reports in triplicate. I'm spending every wak- ing moment getting this division ready for combat. It doesn't take a genius to figure out we're positioned for the invasion, whenever and wherever that comes."
"Probably right, sir. All the divisions that were here in '42 ended up in Operation Torch."
"Goddamn right. While they were invading North Africa we were pulling occupation duty in Iceland. Iceland, Boyle! You know why they call it Iceland?"
"Because it's cold?"
"Cold and dark, and too much damned ice. Except in the summer, when it's light twenty-four hours a day so you can't sleep. I was sent there in 1941 with the first units of this division. I've been pushing paper and freezing my ass for two years, and I don't intend to keep it up for the rest of the war. Iceland makes Ireland look like Miami Beach."
"The BARs, sir?"
"OK, OK. Sorry to unload on you. The project to build up our weapons companies was all mine, and now these fucking Irish have gone and screwed it up. Goddamn it!" He threw down his pencil like a knife; the lead broke and left a piece stuck in a stack of papers. His face was red and a vein pulsed in his forehead.
"You know, sir, I saw plenty of division staff in North Africa. They were all pretty close to the front. It won't be like you're missing out on anything if you stay in this job," I said, trying to ease Thornton's frustration. He seemed to be banking on his ideas about added firepower to get him out from behind his desk.
"Thanks, Boyle." He brushed the piece of lead from the papers and then neatened up the stack, glanced at it, and put it away in a desk drawer. He seemed to lose track of the conversation and looked at me quizzically.
"The investigation?"
"OK, OK. Between butting heads with Heck and everything else I have to do, I haven't had much time for playing detective. You know about Jenkins, right?"
"Andrew Jenkins, head of the local Red Hands, and he supplies the base with produce, right?"
"Right. He buys stuff from all the farmers in the area and sells it to the army. Potatoes, whatever the hell they grow around here. Whiskey, ham, fresh eggs, all sorts of stuff for the officers' messes."
"Besides his truck being used, do you have any evidence of his involvement?"
"Evidence? No. Except that I know he'd do anything to hit the IRA. I wouldn't put it past him."
"Why do you say that?"
"I can tell," Thornton said, as he tapped the broken pencil on his desk. "I can tell when a man wants something, something larger than himself. Something grand. Do you know what I mean?"
"Yes, I do. I've seen it," I said, knowing what he meant. Combat, glory, promotion. "It's not grand at all. But you won't believe me until you've seen it yourself."
"Why?" For the first time in our conversation, Thornton seemed to relax and actually listen, genuinely curious about what I had to say.
"Because I wouldn't have."
"Yeah, that's the hell of it, isn't it?"
"Sure is."
Thornton looked at the broken pencil for a while, then sighed and tossed i
t into the wastepaper basket. He drummed his fingers on his desk, his frustrated energy keeping his body moving even while seated. I sat, the visions of that thing, the unknowable, the unimaginable, flowing through my mind. It wasn't grand at all, I had told the truth about that. It was gruesome and dirty, painful and demeaning, but at times--especially when you realized you were alive and had cheated death--there was something grand about it, something around the edges, in the light of explosions in the distance, the loud thuds of artillery, the rush of adrenaline, the eerie calm in the midst of a fight when time slowed and everything crackled with crystal clarity. There was grandness in the confusion I felt then, the feeling of wishing I could erase it all from my mind while knowing that it was the most significant, important, otherworldly thing I'd ever experienced. Sometimes I wondered if there was something holy in it all, as if I could almost see the best of creation in the midst of the worst of it.
"There's one more thing," he said. "Mahoney--the dead guy with the money in his hand? Well, I'd seen him before. He looked a bit different then, with his brains all inside his skull, but I saw him drinking in a pub in Annalong, a little south of here."
"When was this?"
"The Sunday before the theft. I had to get out of here for a while, so I drove down the coast road and ended up in Annalong. There's a place, the Harbor Bar, right on the water, where I stopped and got something to eat and had a few pints. I noticed him because he was arguing with someone--quietly, but you could tell it was heated by the way they strained to keep their voices down."
"Would you know the other man if you saw him?"
"No, his back was to me, and he had a cap on. But as soon as I saw the red hair on the corpse, I recognized him. Bright orange, like a carrot. That was Mahoney."
"OK, that's something."
"I told Heck and Inspector Carrick about it, you can check with them."
"Yeah, I will. Anything else you remember?"
"Nope. Now tell me what you need to find my BARs."
"Transport. I'll need a jeep. And if I need some muscle, can I call on your MPs? I met Burnham and Patterson yesterday. They seem pretty capable."
"They're good men. I'll let them know you may be in touch. But go through me. I need to be kept up to date. Check in with me every day." He scribbled out an order for a jeep and a pass to all 5th Division installations and handed them to me. "Motor pool is out and to the left. Follow the lane through the trees, about a quarter mile. Need a ride?"
"No, sir. But one more thing. Can you tell me who received the radio dispatch about my arrival?"
"I never saw one. Northern Ireland Command told me to expect you any day now but I never heard when or how you were coming."
"Then I'd like to start at your Signals Company, talk to whoever was on duty yesterday."
"Is there a problem?"
"No, strictly routine."
He eyed me for a few seconds, then lifted his telephone and made a call.
Ten minutes later I was in a Quonset hut crammed with radios and noisy with the static and tinny crackling sounds of communications gear. A technical sergeant named Lasner leafed through clipboards of dispatch sheets, all the documentation for signals sent and received. Below his sergeant's stripes were two service stripes, meaning he'd been in more than six years. A regular, and it showed in everything from the shine on his boots to the gleaming brass Signal Corps emblem on his tunic's lapels. There were six clipboards, all neatly arranged on a table with wire baskets where the forms were deposited when received.
"Nothing here with your name on it, Lieutenant Boyle," he said as he finished with the last clipboard.
"It wasn't for me, Sarge."
"I understand that, Lieutenant. I mean there are no messages here that include your name. Anywhere."
"Got it. Looks like you run a tight ship."
"Yes, sir. Anything else, Lieutenant?" I could tell he was eager to get rid of me but then again most noncoms would be eager to get a second louie out of their hair, especially if he was from another outfit and was making extra work for them.
"Are all these receipts for messages received? If a message came into Northern Ireland Command HQ to be passed on to you, would they have the same kind of documents?"
"They ought to. And sent, as well. But if I don't have a record of it coming in, they didn't send it."
"I can believe it, Sarge. Everything looks fine on your end."
"Is there a problem, if you don't mind me asking?"
"You know Captain Heck, the provost marshal?"
"Know of him," Lasner said, his tone carefully neutral.
"I think he intercepted a message meant for Major Thornton about my arrival here. Sound likely to you?"
"From what I hear, he'd be careful to cover his tracks. Not that I'm accusing the provost marshal of anything."
"That would mean he had someone working for him at HQ."
"Let's just say I've heard Heck will do you a favor if you find yourself at the wrong end of an MP's nightstick. Only problem is, once he's got you over a barrel, the favors have to keep coming."
"So he'll withhold charges for a price?"
"He doesn't take money, if that's what you mean. He's always looking for an angle, so he'd rather have information. He's smart, Lieutenant. Watch yourself around him."
"You're not the first to warn me. If that's his game, and he's so slick, how can you be certain it wasn't one of your men here who killed the message to Thornton and gave it to Heck?"
"I know my men. I trained them all, and they know what would happen if they pulled something like that." There was a hard look in his eyes, a combination of resentment that I'd asked the question and fury at the thought of such betrayal.
"How about your captain?"
"I couldn't imagine it. Besides, he doesn't spend a lot of time here."
"He lets you run the show?"
"The captain wisely delegates responsibility. I think he's been in Belfast for the last few days."
"Doing what?"
"Whatever it is that officers do while the work gets done, Lieutenant."
"Understood, Sarge. One more question, though. You know anything about the BARs stolen from the depot at Ballykinler?"
"Only that Major Thornton is mightily pissed off about it. Heck has been nosing around asking a lot of questions too, looking through stacks of shipping receipts, bills of lading, making himself a real pain. Every time he shows up, it takes us a day to put the place back together. You investigating that?"
"Yeah. And I'm not working for Heck, to answer your next question. Any rumors about who was in on the heist?"
"A million of them, but I won't waste your time. Hang on, there is something here." He flipped back through the message receipts until he found what he was looking for. "I guess it's OK to give you this, since Major Thornton said I should help you out. Or did he already tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
"Here. This message came in yesterday morning from some inspector from the Royal Ulster Constabulary. Local flatfoots investigating the heist. Inspector Carrick asked the major for service records for Sergeant Peter Brennan." He handed me a copy of the message form.
"Who's that?"
"Pete's a buck sergeant at the Ballykinler Depot."
"You know him? What kind of guy is he?"
"We're not pals but he seems OK. He's been with us about six months now."
"Thanks, Sarge, you've been a big help. Can I have this?"
"Sure. I've got another, we do them in triplicate."
"God bless army paperwork."
"So who do you work for, Lieutenant, if you're not part of the provost marshal's office?"
"I'm here at the request of the British."
"Well, you know what they say. It takes a thief."
"What do you mean by that?"
"That the English are pretty savvy, sending an Irishman. Boyle-- that's Irish, right?"
"We're not all thieves, Sergeant," I said in my best stern disciplinaria
n officer's voice.
"Sorry, sir. No offense intended. It's just a saying."
It takes a thief to catch a thief. I never believed that saying. In my book, it took a cop to catch a thief, and that's what I was. A cop on loan, courtesy of my Uncle Ike, who even now might be writing love notes to the beautiful Kay Summersby. Another Irish thief, this one out to steal a general's heart. Or was it an inside job?
CHAPTER * EIGHT
I THOUGHT ABOUT asking Thornton why he hadn't mentioned the request for Brennan's files. If Brennan was a suspect in the eyes of the Royal Ulster Constabulary, I shouldn't waste a minute before I talked to him. I could always find Thornton later, but if an Ulster cop was interested in a guy named Brennan, then I figured I had better get to him first.
I drove the jeep out of the headquarters camp, splashing through water in muddy potholes as shafts of sunlight split the gray clouds drifting out over the Irish Sea. Thick, green grass grew along the sides of the boreen on the wooded hillside, which descended to the main road running along the coastline. The wet ground smelled fertile, the warmth drawing out odors of loam, pine, and sheep dung as a breeze from the sea salted the air. Gray stone cottages dotted emerald fields encompassed by stone walls, every rock the same uniform color and size, as if they came out of the ground ready-made for building fences and thick cottage walls. I squinted my eyes against the welcome sun as I caught the smell of smoke from a house close to the narrow road. It wasn't wood smoke, I was sure. It was more of a musty, green leaf smell, and I realized it must be peat. There wasn't a tree thicker than my arm in sight, and except for the small pine forest I'd left, there had hardly been any trees anywhere I'd passed. Another reminder that even though this country looked and felt familiar, far more familiar than North Africa or Sicily, it was still a foreign land, a land of strange habits and ancient hatreds, a place my ancestors had come from and of which I knew little but fables and stories.
Brennan was an Irish name, a Catholic name. Not that there weren't Irish Protestants, and a few who weren't pro-British--the IRA even had some Protestant members--but historically, the Irish were Catholic, and religion had been a weapon used against them for hundreds of years. The only reason any Protestant was in Ireland now was because the English had sent them here generations ago, to rule the land by taking it away from the natives, who all happened to be Catholic. The British had called them papists, and passed laws eliminating all rights to land and life. Those laws were now gone but the memory of them hung in the air that every Protestant and Catholic on this island breathed, reminding them of the wars, wrongs, and oppressions their people had borne. So a Brennan suspected by a Carrick of any crime here could expect little sympathy and less justice. The RUC wouldn't have jurisdiction on a U.S. Army base, but if Brennan was a suspect and went into town for a drink at the wrong local pub, he could disappear out the back door faster than you could say Red Hand.
