by James R Benn
“To the Home Guard,” I said, surprised at the lump I felt in my throat.
“To the Home Guard,” came back at me from up and down the table, and I watched the colonel puff out his chest a bit as he raised his glass and basked in the smile his wife gave him, her moist eyes lingering a little as she watched him.
I realized the talk about Americans all around me was uneasy. I was one of the thousands from across the sea, easy with money, informal beyond the bounds of their polite society, a threat and a salvation wrapped up in one. Their young men were spread out across the globe, fighting in North Africa, in the jungles of Burma, sitting in German POW camps, and we were here, well fed and feeling our oats. They scrimped along with food rationing while your typical U.S. Army base probably threw away more than their whole village ate every day. I wondered how we’d react if the tables were turned.
After that toast, the mood lightened a bit. We talked about the last war, in which all of them had fought, and this war, in which their sons were fighting now and, for some, in which their daughters were taking part, too. The colonel and his wife had lost their oldest son on the Hood, sunk last year by the Bismarck. Their youngest was a pilot in the RAF.
“Fourteen hundred men on the Hood, including Michael,” said the colonel. “Only three were picked up out of the water.”
“At least you sank the Bismarck,” I said, offering what feeble comfort I could.
“I didn’t mind hearing that news, not at all,” the colonel said, taking his wife’s hand.
“What was it, Maurice?” she said. “Over two thousand on the Bismarck , and only a hundred survived. The numbers of war are so horrible. We say two ships sank, but that’s over three thousand men as well.”
The table fell silent.
“They are more than numbers.”
“Your Highness!” None of us had noticed the king standing just behind me, making his way down the table to greet his guests. Everyone started to rise.
“No, please, stay seated,” King Haakon said, gesturing with his arms, palms down, for everyone to stay in their seats. “I am sorry for your loss, for all the deaths in this war. There are no words worthy of such a loss.”
“God bless you, Your Highness,” said the colonel’s wife. The king walked around the table and stood at her side, reaching down from his height to take her hand.
“No, I ask God to bless you.”
I had never thought much about what it took to be a king. Guess I thought it was all giving orders. Shows what I know.
I had another glass of wine and was feeling a little tipsy when the king finished making his rounds and left the room, which I took to mean I could, too. I said my good nights to the Home Guard group and not for the first time wondered what Uncle Dan would say if he saw me now. The party was beginning to break up, and people were starting to file out. I noticed Daphne at the head table, a shock of green surrounded by brown and khaki. Cosgrove arose and intercepted me as I made for the door. For a big guy with a gimpy leg, he could move pretty fast when he wanted to.
“Lieutenant Boyle, I must ask for your assistance. It seems we are a bit short of Home Guard chaps for the exercise tomorrow. We need a few more fellows to fire off some blank rounds at the Norwegians and play the Huns. You’ve been volunteered!” I looked over at Harding, still sitting at the head table just outside the crush of men around Daphne, and he raised his glass with a smile. Thanks a lot.
“I guess so, Major. What do I do?”
“Be at the main entrance at 0600 hours, and you’ll be driven to the exercise area. The baron is going as well, and Mr. Birkeland has offered to lend a hand. They both think it will be great fun!”
Kaz would.
“And wear something more suitable for the field. It’s bound to be muddy out there.”
He was off, leaving me wondering why all armies seemed to start things before the sun came up, and wishing I had something besides my one dress uniform with me. I walked down the hall and up the stairs to my room, each step increasing the pounding in my skull. Too many damn toasts.
Minutes after I made it to my room there was a knock on the door. An enlisted man stood outside, a pile of clothes and boots weighing him down.
“Mr. Birkeland’s compliments, sir. He thought you might prefer to wear these tomorrow.” He handed me a brown wool British battle jacket, trousers, and boots. “Let me know if the size isn’t right,” he said as he went down the hall to knock on the door to Kaz’s room. The duds were fine, which was more than I could say for my head.
CHAPTER ▪ EIGHT
THE BELL ONTHE alarm clock sounded like a three-alarmer and my mouth tasted like ashes. I swore I’d punch whoever offered me a glass of wine today right in the mouth. I stripped and knelt in the tub, sticking my head under the faucet and turning on the cold water. The shock drove my headache into submission, if only for a minute, but it was worth it. I dressed in the scratchy wool uniform and clomped downstairs in the heavy boots, ready to play soldier. The uniform stunk of mothballs, and I hoped the open air would clear the smell, which I always associated with my Aunt Bess and the hand-me-down clothes she saved for me, peppered with mothballs for five years in a chest in the attic. I always wished my cousin Owen was a lot less than five years older than me.
Outside, a British army truck was idling, the open bed crammed with eager volunteers, all in the same wool outfit, no rank or unit markings.
“Hurry, Billy!” hollered Kaz, obviously worried I’d miss the fun. Birkeland, beside him, offered me a hand and pulled me up like a fish in a net.
“Come, lad, it’s not every day you get to play at making war!” He laughed and clapped me on the back, a hit hard enough to send me tumbling if there had been room to fall. The truck was jammed with other volunteers from among the government workers at Beardsley Hall and whomever else Cosgrove had talked into this charade.
About a mile down the road, the truck turned left off the road and onto a rutted farm lane, bouncing along as the driver gunned it to keep from getting stuck in the mud. He pulled off the path and stopped. We jumped down from the truck and landed with a squish on the boggy ground. Delightful. Although it was summer, the dampness crept up into my bones and chilled me from the ground up. I was happy to see a table with big urns of tea, which wasn’t too bad with a lot of sugar. We were handed British helmets, which looked like old-fashioned flat helmets from the First World War, and stood in line for our rifles. Kaz was almost jumping up and down with excitement, fixing his helmet at just the right jaunty angle.
A stern British army noncom checked each Enfield rifle before handing it to us, working the bolt and leaving it open, making sure it was unloaded. When we all had rifles he motioned us to gather around him. He picked up a clip of bullets, all blanks, and held it up in one hand, the other grasping a rifle with the bolt open. He spoke loudly, as if there were an exclamation point after every word and we were twenty yards away.
“Now lissen ’ere, sirs. This is the Lee-Enfield Number Four rifle, the finest bolt-action rifle ever there was. In the ’ands of a good marksman it is accurate up to sixteen hundred yards, which don’t mean a thing today, as you gentlemen will be shooting blanks at them Norwegian boys. You will each receive three clips of ten blank rounds each.”
He showed us how to load the clip and work the safety. Then he handed each of us the ammunition. “Now remember, sirs, even though it’ll be only blanks out there, don’t shoot ’em off straight at anyone’s face. You can still get burned or worse if you’re too close. Any questions? Sirs?”
There weren’t, and we found the Home Guard troops and followed them into position. A slight rise in the heath led to trenches dug in the wet soil, with tree trunks laid in front of them. Two old retired Matilda tanks sat just out in front, unoccupied and surrounded by sandbags. The commandos were going to blow them up to make a good show before they assaulted our position. In front of us were gently rolling fields of tall grass and beyond that another small rise with a clump of tre
es. I guessed the Norwegians must be grouped behind there since there were no troops in sight. There were umpires on both sides of the field who would determine when one side or the other could advance or retreat. Since we were playing the bad guys, I guessed they were just window dressing.
Off to the side by the road were benches and chairs for the king and his officers. I could see Harding and Cosgrove standing behind the king. Harding was scanning the fields with his binoculars. Suddenly a referee’s loud voice from behind shouted, “Helmets on! The exercise has begun.”
We strapped on our helmets and I thought how crazy it was that I was all dressed up as a British soldier, playing a German, firing blanks at Norwegians. We knelt to take up positions with our rifles resting on the logs and pointing toward the woods. The damp ooze soaked through my trousers and I shivered, the warmth of the sweet tea just a memory now. I glanced over at Harding and saw him scan the field again. He passed over us and trained his binoculars on one of the small rises of land—a hillock, I guess it would be called—in front of us. What was he looking at?
Then I saw it. The grass was moving. Here and there I could make out a few crawling shapes, camouflaged with grasses. They must have sneaked forward behind the hillocks and were now crawling out in the relative open, very slowly. Everyone’s eyes were trained on the woods, where we expected the opposing force to come from. I tapped Kaz on the shoulder.
“Is that something moving over there?” I pointed. Birkeland, on my left, leaned forward to see for himself. Kaz squinted through his thick glasses.
“Yes! They’re here, in front of us!” he yelled as loud as he could and then fired his rifle. It almost knocked him over but he held on, worked the bolt, and tightened his grip for the next shot. He hung on to that one, and kept the rifle at his shoulder as he worked the bolt. All up and down our line the Home Guard began shooting and the noise quickly became deafening. Kaz was grinning up at me and Birkeland was enjoying himself too, playing soldier out here in the fields. It was kinda fun, I thought, in spite of myself. I smiled at Kaz and gave him a thumbs-up, as conversation was impossible with the high-powered crack of rifle fire snapping at our eardrums.
Some of the crawling figures stood up to throw smoke grenades. I could see the rest of the Norwegian force coming out of the woods at a trot, hoping to link up with the commandos who were now returning our fire. The umpires were holding them back—a bit of unexpected victory for us. But through the smoke I could see several of the forward commandos rush up to the Matilda tanks, and then scurry back, diving and rolling to cover. Seconds later, twin explosions wracked the air as smoke and flames blossomed from the tanks. That did it. The umpires signaled all the commandos forward, and gave us the signal to move out or surrender. Kaz was loading his last clip, and I had to tell him it was time to sound retreat. I tapped him on the shoulder and cupped my hand around my mouth to yell as the firing from the commandos drew closer and louder.
“Time to go, Kaz—”
Something exploded in my face and cut me off, sound and shock stunning me. I dropped to the ground, put my hands to my face, and felt blood dripping between my fingers. I was still breathing, but the thought kept going through my mind that I had been shot. Not possible, I told myself. They’re using blanks, aren’t they? My face stung like a hundred bee stings. Birkeland and Kaz bent over me as the commandos swarmed over our position, jumping up on the log and vaulting over us, chasing the rest of the retreating Jerries like avenging angels. One of them stood on the log and let loose a burst from his Sten submachine gun, hot shell casings cascading over us. One landed on the back of my neck and added insult to injury.
“Move, you idiot!” I could hear Birkeland yelling.
“Billy, Billy! Are you all right?” I could hear Kaz, too, but couldn’t see him. I touched my eyes, hoping to find they were still there. Intact. They were. I wiped away blood and said a little prayer of thanks that I could see.
“What happened?” No one answered, no one seemed to know. I recognized Jens Iversen as he pushed away the men gathering around me. He took my head in his hands and turned it, checking my eyes and neck.
“You’ve got splinters in your face. Forehead and left side, mostly. It doesn’t look too bad, actually, just a lot of bleeding.” That sounded bad enough to me. He took a handkerchief and started cleaning away the blood around my eyes.
“Look at this.” Birkeland stood by the tree trunk where I had been positioned next to him. There was a ragged bullet hole near the top, and wood splinters were protruding from the gouge it had left.
“A live round,” said Jens, stunned. “Someone must’ve loaded a live round accidentally. Another inch higher and you would have been a dead man.” I tended to think that another inch lower and I wouldn’t be bleeding like a stuck pig, but hell, I didn’t sneeze at being alive.
They half carried me off to a first-aid tent where Jens took over and pulled out several large splinters with a tweezers. “Nothing a first-year medical student can’t handle,” he said. “I’m glad to have the practice.” He poured on some disinfectant that hurt worse than the splinters, then cleaned the remaining blood off my face.
“You’re very lucky, you know.” Anders stood by the half-open tent flap, eyeing my wounds. “Lucky to still have your eyesight.”
“If I was really lucky, Major, this wouldn’t have happened at all.”
Anders gave a rueful laugh as the tent flap was flung open and Rolf joined the crowd, full of apologies. He stood in front of me, wringing his hands like an abject schoolboy. It was odd, seeing this large, powerful man, his head scraping the top of the tent, almost cringing.
“Jeg er slik trist, gjorde hvordan dette skjer?” Rolf said, looking back and forth between Jens and me.
“We don’t know how it happened, Rolf. Slow down and speak English,” Jens said as he pulled another splinter out of my forehead.
“Lieutenant Boyle, I don’t know how this could’ve happened! All of our weapons were checked and then loaded with blank rounds. I am trist . . . very sorry. I can only think a rifle had a round in the chamber that was unaccountably missed.”
“Unaccountably,” I agreed. “Don’t worry about it. I won’t be playing any more war games today.”
“We are all sorry,” said Jens. “It would have been so ungracious to shoot one of our own Allies!” They all laughed. It hurt when I did. A joke is supposed to relieve the tension, but when I got up to leave and brushed past Anders, he looked grim. I wondered why. I wondered why everyone else had been full of apologies and concerns, and he had sounded like he was issuing a warning. Or a threat. I didn’t know anything except my head really hurt, and I wished it was only a hangover.
An hour later I was lying on my bed and Daphne was dabbing my cuts with a warm washcloth, making cooing sounds and telling me everything was going to be all right. That made almost getting a bullet in the forehead worthwhile. Kaz paced back and forth in my small room nerved up from the exercise and the shooting, while Major Harding leaned against the wall and tried to look concerned. What a picture.
“We’re due at the conference in a few minutes,” he stated, glancing at his watch. “Why don’t you stay here and rest up.” I tried to get up on one elbow.
“But, Major, I want to. ...” The room started spinning and my head found the pillow, fast. I spoke looking up at the ceiling. “We need to observe everyone who was at the exercise this morning.”
“Why? Are you saying this was no accident?” Harding said in disbelief.
“Think about it . . . sir. Let’s say there was one live round loaded accidentally. It could have been fired off into the air or at any one of those Home Guards or Norwegians running around out there. But it wasn’t. It ended up a few inches from my head. What are the chances of that?”
“It had to end up somewhere, Boyle,” Harding answered. “What makes you think you’re so special?”
“Because we’re here, looking for a spy.” I lowered my voice, feeling like an actor in a
bad melodrama. “And I’ve been asking around about the gold. Either a thief or a traitor or both tried to kill me today.”
“And failed,” Kaz spoke up, “which means we should not leave Billy alone.”
“Hold on,” Harding said firmly. “We are about to announce that we are going to invade Norway. I need all of you there. Boyle, keep your .45 handy if you’re worried and lock your door. We’ll check in on you when it’s over. Let’s go.”
I had Kaz dig out my piece and I put it under the blanket.
“Be careful, Billy.” Daphne smiled down at me. “I want you to dance at my wedding.” She kissed me on the cheek like a big sister and scooted out of the room after Kaz. Harding looked out the window as if he took the threat to me seriously.
“No way in here except through that door, Boyle. Can you get up and lock it after me?” I swung my legs out of the bed and steadied myself. My head was throbbing but the room wasn’t spinning as much as it had. Harding looked at me impatiently.
“I can make it, Major.”
“OK. Looks like you’ve stirred things up, Boyle. Good work. But try not to get yourself killed.” He turned and left. Not wanting me to die was the nicest possible thing Harding could’ve said. It fit right in with my plans. I locked the door and decided to run a tub and bathe away my troubles. With everyone scurrying off to the conference in the main hall I had the water pressure all to myself. Hot water filled the tub and I had a glorious soak. Another hard day at the war. I relaxed and let the steam rise up around me. Was it just this morning that a bullet had slammed into wood inches from my nose? In the safety of the steamy bathroom it all seemed far away. Maybe this army deal was going to work out after all, as long as the bullets didn’t get any closer. I wondered what it was going to be like for the poor GIs landing on the cold shores of Norway. They’d have more than one stray bullet to worry about, and there wouldn’t be a warm bath afterward. Oh well. Real tough for them, but no reason not to enjoy a good tub.
