Comes the War

by Ed Ruggero

  “Where?” A man’s voice; Harkins thought the man was getting closer. Lowell, now in the garden, turned her torch on, then off again very quickly, signaling. Harkins could no longer see her in the undergrowth.

  “This way,” Lowell called.

  Harkins stood in the small pit in front of the shelter entrance. Behind him, he could hear Wickman sloshing. Then, in between the siren wails, the voice of a second man called, “Ray, where are you?”

  Harkins felt a tiny, electric jolt in his gut.

  “Lowell,” he yelled. “Come back here.”

  It was impossible to hear anything over the siren, so Harkins stepped out of the pit, willing his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  “Wickman,” he yelled. “Come with me.”

  He saw Wickman—just a shadow—trip over the same coaming, then Harkins turned and put his hands in front of him, like a creature in a horror movie. When the siren pitched down again, he called. “Lowell!”

  Just before the signal started its upswing, he heard voices from his left and lurched in that direction.

  “Hello, love,” a man said to Lowell. “Hiding out all by yourself, are you?”

  “No,” Lowell began. She switched on the lamp just as the man grabbed at it and called over his shoulder, “Here, Lenny. Look who’s waiting on us.”

  The torch fell to the ground, but in its light Harkins could just make out Lowell and a man face-to-face.

  “Ray?” a second man called from the weed-choked garden. He said something else, but the siren was climbing again.

  Harkins pushed forward to get between Lowell and Ray, barking his shin on something solid. And it was only because of that second’s delay that he missed getting kicked by Lowell, who brought her foot up into Ray’s groin like she was auditioning for the Rockettes.

  Wickman and Harkins reached her at the same time. Wickman grabbed the torch as Harkins turned Lowell away from the man, who had fallen into a fetal position, his hands on his gut.

  The second man, still a few yards away, turned and ran back toward the street. The siren changed to a single long note: all clear.

  “Jesus,” Wickman shouted to Lowell. “You really laid him out.”

  Harkins looked at the young woman, whose breath was shallow and rapid. He helped her step around Ray and led her to the alley after he made sure the other man was gone. The siren dropped and Wickman called, “What do we do with this guy?”

  “Leave that shitbird,” Harkins said.

  Lowell leaned over, backside to the wall and hands on her knees, trying to slow her breathing. Harkins stood beside her, one palm on her back.

  “I’m sorry,” Harkins said.

  In the radio reports Americans heard at home, in the newsreels, in the papers and their editorial cartoons, the British were always portrayed as plucky, stiff-upper-lip types who helped each other into shelters and stuck it out together against the evil Nazis. In his years as a cop Harkins had seen too much of the seamy side of humanity to believe that was the whole story. Scumbags and thieves and rapists didn’t take a break in a national emergency.

  “It was terrible down there,” Lowell said, still bent over but breathing regularly. “In the tube, during the Blitz. Most people were good, trying to be brave. But others—stealing, fighting over space, taking advantage of women.”

  She stood up, ran her fingers through her hair. Her hat was gone, her shirt pulled loose from her pants, her jacket twisted. She tugged at the woolen blouse, stood straighter.

  “You said your father is a warden,” Harkins said. “He must see a lot.”

  “My father was a warden,” Lowell said. “He’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry,” Harkins said. “Did he … was it in a raid?”

  “Best the police can figure is that he came upon some men rifling through the pockets of six or seven people who were killed when the bus they were on was hit. So, of course Dad tried to stop them. My father believed in law and order. In helping people.”

  Lowell reached down, tried using her dirty hands to brush muck from her dirty trousers. When she stood upright again she looked Harkins in the eye.

  “Anyway, they stabbed him to death.”

  A few yards away Harkins heard people coming out onto the street again, talking in animated tones. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, felt water leaking from his shoes.

  Wickman walked by them. “I’m going to make sure that other asshole isn’t trying to steal our car,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” Harkins said when he and Lowell were alone again.

  “Yeah,” Lowell said. “Me, too. My mother was heartbroken, but only for two weeks.”

  Harkins was quiet, anticipating the next turn in Lowell’s terrible story.

  “Then a bomb hit our house. Spot on. Mum and my little brother and sister were in a closet under the stairs; I was on my way home from my volunteer shift. When I reached my street, I could see our house and the one next door were gone; there was just a giant hole in the ground.”

  “All clear out here,” Wickman called to them from the street.

  Lowell gave the front of her blouse one more brush. A few yards away, the man called Ray had some of his wind back; he moaned softly.

  “The Nazis started all this,” Lowell said. “The Germans. That’s twice in a quarter century. There are times, Jesus help me, that I hope we kill them all.”

  * * *

  Wickman was asleep in the backseat and Harkins was nodding off by the time they got back to the jail near Finsbury Park. Harkins roused himself as Lowell pulled the car to the curb, rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. He’d left Scotland almost forty hours ago and had been traveling by train or staff car almost nonstop for the entire time, except for a forty-five-minute nap at his flat. He was at the point—as he’d been dozens of times since joining the army—where he’d take an hour’s sleep over a steak dinner or a romp with a woman. Or both.

  Lowell turned to the backseat after engaging the parking brake. “Here we are, Lieutenant.”

  These were the first words she’d said on the long drive. Harkins wondered where her head was after the incident near the Anderson shelter.

  “Lowell,” Harkins said. “You want to come inside with me? With us?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “I’d like that very much.”

  Harkins, Wickman, and Lowell went inside to find a different sergeant on duty. The noncom stood when Harkins approached the desk.

  “I’m here to see my prisoner, Major Cushing,” Harkins said. “Probably still in the drunk tank.”

  “Sorry, sir,” the sergeant said. “That prisoner has been moved. Signed out.”

  “What are you talking about?” Harkins said, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant said, picking up a clipboard and flipping to the second page. “A few hours ago. Some lawyer from Eighth Air Force.”

  “Goddammit,” Harkins said. “Gefner.”

  “Yes, sir. That was him. Brought along a couple of big guys, like the prisoner was going to try to escape or something. Thing is, that major was not in any great shape to walk, much less run away.”

  “What do you mean?” Harkins asked. “Was he still drunk?”

  “I don’t think so, Lieutenant. I checked on him about an hour before the fly boys showed up, and he was shaking and sweating. Looked like the DTs to me.”

  “Where did they take him?”

  The sergeant consulted his clipboard again. “Nothing here. But one of the goons was talking about being out in Norwich last night. So they gotta be near there, I guess.”

  Harkins walked outside, followed by Wickman and Lowell.

  “I can’t believe that son-of-a-bitch grabbed my prisoner,” Harkins said.

  “He probably has jurisdiction,” Wickman said.

  “Jurisdiction my ass,” Harkins said. “He’s got no case. Right now, I know more than anybody about what happened, and what I know ain’t enough to bring him up
on charges. Not on sound charges, anyway.”

  The three of them huddled on the blacked-out street. In a moment they heard a woman laughing, then the sounds of shoes hurrying across pavement toward the darkness of Finsbury Park. A man with an American accent said, “In the bushes?”

  “The only people who’ll see us,” the woman answered, “are doing the same thing we’re doing, love. Don’t worry about it.”

  They listened to the retreating footsteps, then Harkins said, “Where’s Norwich?”

  “It’s out in East Anglia,” Lowell said. “That’s where the RAF and the Yank air forces put their heavy bomber bases. Close to the continent. Norwich is a pretty good-sized town right in the middle of it all.”

  “How far?”

  “Couple of hours by train,” Lowell said. “I can get you on your way in the morning.”

  “Us,” Harkins said. “You’re coming along.”

  9

  21 April 1944

  0600 hours

  Harkins woke to a sharp rap on his door. He sat up too quickly and smacked his head on the ceiling, which was just above the top bunk, where he’d been dead to the world for four and a half hours.

  “Sir?”

  It was Lowell. He’d asked her to wake him at six to get on the road to Norwich, a trip that would take up most of the day.

  “I’m awake,” Harkins answered. He swung his legs over the sharp edge of the bunk, which had been slapped together out of packing crates. He lowered himself to the floor, found the uniform he’d worn yesterday in a wet pile. It smelled like the filthy water from the Anderson shelter.

  “Give me a few minutes, okay?” he said.

  “Of course, sir,” Lowell answered. When he heard her walking down the stairs he found his shaving kit and a pair of fatigue pants for the trip to the WC and washroom. Ten minutes later he was back upstairs, rooting through the remaining uniforms in his duffel bag. He pulled out wrinkled olive trousers and a matching shirt, then dumped everything searching for the tan necktie, which the Army insisted on calling a kerchief. There was no mirror in the room, so he did his best, grabbed an overseas cap with his silver first lieutenant’s bar and headed downstairs.

  Harkins found Lowell sitting in the kitchen with Mrs. Ludington, his landlady, a dainty china teapot with pink roses between them. The two women were laughing quietly at something but stopped when he squeezed into the room. Lowell stood.

  “Good morning,” Ludington said. “Feeling better with a bit of sleep?”

  “Much better, thank you,” Harkins said, blanking on her first name.

  “I’ve had a nice little chat with Pamela here,” Ludington said. “I’d say you’re in very good hands.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Harkins said. He looked at Lowell. “Are we ready?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. She picked up a book from the table and squeezed by him. “I’ll be right out front.”

  When she was in the narrow hallway, Lowell turned back.

  “Thank you again for the tea and biscuit, Mrs. Ludington. I hope to see you again.” She put on her cap—she’d changed out of her muddy uniform—and headed for the front door.

  “Hope I didn’t wake you last night when I came in,” Harkins said.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that, Lieutenant,” Ludington said, standing. “I like a bustling house.” She reached for the teacups, managing to lift both in her right hand.

  “Let me help you with that,” Harkins said.

  “Not at all,” she said, scooping up cups and saucers and a tiny plate with a half biscuit on it. “I’ve learned to get along quite well, thank you.”

  As she busied herself at the sink, Harkins said, “Good-bye, then,” and went out the front door. Lowell saluted as he approached the car, which was parked directly in front of the house. Before Harkins could speak, Lowell said, “Her first name is Beverly.”

  “What?”

  “Her first name is Beverly. It just looked like you forgot for a moment.”

  Harkins wrote the name in his cop’s notebook next to the street address of his lodgings.

  “How did you know I forgot?”

  “Just a hunch,” Lowell said. “My dad owned a bookshop and I used to work there. He always had his nose in a book and frequently forgot the customers’ names, so I got in the habit of prompting him. You just looked a bit lost, like he did at times.”

  Harkins paused with his hand on the car door handle.

  “Okay, how about we turn that razor-sharp eye toward the investigation? What do you say?”

  “Happy to help, sir. In any way I can.”

  Harkins thought she was smiling, but she turned her face away from him as she climbed into the driver’s seat.

  * * *

  An hour later, Harkins and Lowell squeezed onto a crowded train at London’s Liverpool Street Station, bound for Norwich. Sinnott had dumped a bunch of work on Wickman’s desk the previous day, so the captain was staying behind.

  The train was packed with GIs headed to East Anglia, a fertile and formerly quiet agricultural region that jutted into the North Sea like a fist aimed at the continent, with Nazi-occupied Netherlands across the cold stretch of water and, beyond that, Germany. Since 1940, scores of airfields had bloomed here at Britain’s closest point to her enemy’s homeland. GIs called England “the world’s largest aircraft carrier.”

  Many of the men on the train were still drunk from liberty in London, so Harkins insisted that Lowell ride with him in the officers’ car. When a conductor pointed out that she was supposed to be with the enlisted soldiers, Harkins said, “You want me to put this young woman on a car with seventy-five drunk Americans?” The old man nodded sagely, checked their tickets, and moved on.

  Lowell did not look happy.

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me you can take care of yourself, right?” Harkins asked.

  She took a moment to answer. “I appreciate that you’re looking out for me, sir. I really do,” she said. “It’s just that it’s hard to earn respect from the men if we’re always being coddled.”

  “I’m not looking out for you, Lowell,” Harkins answered, leaning back in his seat. “I’m looking out for myself. I’ve got a lot to do today and I don’t want my driver getting shanghaied. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What do you have there?” Harkins asked, pointing at the book Lowell had brought from Beverly’s home.

  “It’s a medical textbook,” she said, holding it so Harkins could read the book’s spine. Minor Surgery.

  “Beverly was a surgical nurse before the war. After she lost her arm she trained as a librarian.”

  “I have a friend who is a surgical nurse,” Harkins said. “She wants to go to medical school after the war, become a surgeon.”

  “Are there many women doctors, women surgeons, in America?” Lowell asked.

  “Oh, sure,” Harkins said. “I’ll bet there’s as many as ten or twenty.”

  “In the whole country?”

  Harkins sat back and studied his young driver. She was smart and, like his friend Kathleen Donnelly, no doubt frustrated at the limited options available to women.

  “Let’s just say she’s going to have to fight her way through,” Harkins said.

  “Is she up to it?” Lowell asked.

  Harkins looked out the window. He knew Kathleen from the old neighborhood, where he was a year behind her in school and he’d nursed a debilitating crush. The war had thrown them together in Sicily. The teenaged beauty of his memories had been worn down by the backbreaking work, too thin and too dirty and too tired. Harkins had been smitten all over again, as if meeting her for the first time. They had shared one night in a sweltering supply tent, bathing each other out of basins and lying together on a pile of clean hospital sheets. He had also seen her at work, caring for patients and mustering hospital resources to save lives. She was fierce and competent and, it turned out, fairly uninhibited for an Irish-Catholic girl.

  Ten days later
the war pulled them apart. He had written her a dozen mooning letters that he had not sent, and four chatty notes that he’d signed, “Yours, Eddie.” He had not gotten a letter from her in two months.

  “Yes, she’s absolutely up to the challenge,” Harkins said. “What about you? Is that your future? Nurse? Doctor?”

  Lowell shrugged. “I’m not sure. I asked to borrow this because I’m interested and because I may be of more use if I know a bit of first aid.”

  “Ready to keep your favorite Yank alive in an emergency?”

  “Exactly, sir,” she said, opening the book and looking down. “As soon as I find a favorite.”

  * * *

  A wheezing locomotive turned what should have been a two-hour trip into a four-hour test of stamina by the time they pulled into Norwich. Lowell, who was turning out to be very resourceful, had arranged for a staff car, and within ten minutes of disembarking they were squeezing along narrow country lanes, headed for the military police barracks at a crossroads village called Blofield. In the forty-minute drive Harkins did not see a single civilian vehicle. Almost all private cars and even the few pieces of mechanized farm equipment had been mothballed because of petrol rationing, Lowell explained.

  Instead, the narrow lanes and unpaved roads were crowded with American military hardware of all shapes and sizes. For a while they crawled along behind a flatbed truck hauling the wing of an airplane. When they were finally able to pass, Harkins saw it up close; it looked brand new, as shiny as if it had just been delivered from a factory, someplace in California or Mississippi.

  They found Major Frederick Cushing in the infirmary, alone in a small room off a larger ward. The hospital, which was just a series of connected wood frame buildings with walls of tarred paper, was heated only by a few tiny stoves. The staff had hung GI blankets over the windows to try to keep the heat in; Harkins wondered if spring would finally come in May.

  Cushing was not asleep, but he was not quite awake, either. His face shiny with perspiration, he tossed and turned on a sweat-stained sheet, even though this room, too, was cold. Harkins told Lowell to wait outside while he went in. As he approached, he noticed Cushing’s right wrist was handcuffed to the bed frame.