Billy Boyle (28 page)

“I don’t give a good goddamn.…” He finally noticed Daphne. “Excuse me. I mean I don’t care what your orders say. All commando troops are out on maneuvers today.”

“Up at Lowestoft,” I offered.

“Right. They should be back this evening, when you can talk to Lieutenant Kayser all you want. Until then, I would appreciate it if you would just stay out of the way. I’ve got a lot to do.” He turned and walked to the next row of trucks, checking his clipboard. I kept up with him, although that had sounded like a dismissal.

“I see that, sir. But what’s the rush? Winter’s not due for months.”

“Then you must be the only guy they didn’t let in on the secret. Hey, Doc!”

“Yes, captain?”

A British officer walked over in response to Gilmore’s summons. He wore the commando shoulder flash along with the insignia of the Medical Corps. He was a little older than the American officer, with a tanned and lined face that looked like a sailor’s or a mountaineer’s. It was a hard face, but the blue eyes were soft and expressive. A doctor and a commando. Quite a combo.

“Doc, could you take these two off my hands? Give them lunch, a tour of the base, whatever. They’re waiting for one of the Norwegian guys to get back.” He walked off, still writing on his clipboard and counting off paratroopers, not even waiting for a response. The doctor eyed him as he walked away.

“Executive officer is not a job I’d wish on my worst enemy. Nothing but paperwork and details, no glory. You have to excuse Captain Gilmore; he’s just up to his eyeballs in it.” He turned toward Daphne and smiled. “I am Captain Stuart Carlyle. Pleased to meet you.”

I took that to mean he didn’t care two figs about meeting me, so I horned back in the conversation. “This is Second Officer Daphne Seaton. I’m Lieutenant Billy Boyle. We’re attached to U.S. Army headquarters.” Daphne handed him a copy of our orders, which he scanned and gave back, with the casual disdain for headquarters types that was quite natural among field officers and hardly even offensive.

“How come you’re not out with the commando troops, sir?” I asked.

“I have some training accident patients that needed looking after. A few broken bones, that sort of thing,” he said, moving away from the trucks and the noise of the paratroopers. “First let’s have some lunch, then I’ll show you around.”

“I didn’t know the commandos had their own medical staff,” said Daphne as we followed him.

“We usually avail ourselves of the regular Army Medical Corps,” Carlyle said, “but there are times when a doctor is needed on a mission. Such as when we are in the field in hostile territory for a period of time.”

“So you’re a trained commando?” I asked.

“Absolutely. Had to go through the same basic courses these younger chaps did. Although it helped that I’m an experienced mountain climber. Probably why they wanted me along.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. Before he could answer, we all had to step to the side of the road as two more trucks rumbled by, probably loaded down with scarves and mittens. We walked on quickly, waving the dust away from our faces.

“Since you two are on Ike’s staff, I’m surprised you don’t know. Norway. Lots of mountains there,” Carlyle said, looking back at us as we worked at keeping up with him.

“Oh, sure. The invasion. You guys are headed to Nordland, right?”

“Now that bit’s top secret. It seems the General Staff figured they couldn’t keep Norway a secret, what with the cold-weather gear and training we’ve been doing. The troops on this base know we’re on for Norway, but they don’t know exactly where or when. I’ve been told three different landing spots myself. So keep a tight lip, Lieutenant.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Sufficiently chastened, I shut up for a bit and let the captain chat with Daphne. I thought about that pathetic attempt at security. With practically anyone able to get on base and hundreds of GIs descending on the local villages and drinking themselves silly, word about the upcoming invasion of Norway was bound to spread. These guys would probably be talking about their new winter gear after their second pint. Our German spy wouldn’t even need to get on base to hear about it, he could just sit at a bar and drink. I looked up at the sky and imagined the Luftwaffe sending bombers across the North Sea and blasting this place and these elite troops into oblivion, just on the basis of what their secret agents would hear in Southwold pubs this weekend.

I felt a pang of fear for Diana, and hoped to hell that the SOE had better security than whoever was running this operation. Then Carlyle mentioned lunch and we followed him into the officers’ mess. Nothing fancy, just a long, narrow rectangle of a building, so new that piles of sawdust still showed on the ground outside, little sprinkles of dirty yellow in straight lines where boards had been cut. Inside, the usual smell of coffee, grease, and cigarettes hit my nostrils and reminded me of break time on the beat in Boston, of unbuttoning my blue coat and sipping a cup of good diner coffee, my biggest decision whether to have apple or cherry pie. On the house, of course.

It didn’t smell like a diner, though; it was too new for that. The smell of sawdust hung in the air inside, too, almost palpable above the cooking odors. The wood was rough cut and unpainted, the windows not yet framed in, as if they had thrown this place together in a couple of days, and didn’t care if it lasted more than a couple of months.

I was still worried about Diana and confused about most everything, but that never had an effect on my appetite. The kitchen had hot green pea-soup and ham-and-cheese sandwiches stacked up a foot high. Daphne cut her sandwich up into sections and ate them in delicate little bites. It was cute. I ate mine holding it in one hand and slurping up soup with a spoon in the other. Daphne sort of rolled her eyes so I put the sandwich down and finished my soup, trying not to make any loud noises. If I was going to hang around the Seaton sisters, I would have to brush up on my manners.

“So, Captain, do you know Lieutenant Rolf Kayser?” I asked, once I had polished off the soup.

“Quite well, in fact. Kayser is one of our finest junior officers. He’s a born leader, very rugged, and his men are totally loyal to him. He looks after them better than any lieutenant I know. But tell me, why is U.S. Army headquarters staff interested in a Norwegian serving with the British commandos?”

“He may be a witness to a matter we are investigating for General Eisenhower. I can’t say more than that. Got to keep a tight lip on it, sir.” Carlyle didn’t seem to notice I was giving his own line back to him, but Daphne did. She jumped in to avoid any unpleasantness.

“Captain,” she said, “what does Rolf do, exactly, that makes his men so loyal?”

“Well, I suppose it has something to do with all of them being Norwegian. In exile together, fighting to free their country: I think that forges a bond between them that we English can’t fully understand. Thank God. But Kayser also makes a point never to leave a man behind, not even the dead. He’s had me put his entire troop through medical orderly training, so they can stabilize a wounded man in the field and try to get him back alive.”

“That must make a big difference,” I offered.

“It does, for a seriously wounded man. Treating him quickly for blood loss and shock can keep him alive until he can get regular medical treatment. Any member of Kayser’s troop could act as a competent medical orderly. He’s learned quite a lot of battleground medicine himself by watching me and asking questions. He’s not in any trouble, is he?”

“We need to talk with him, before he goes off on another mission. Have you been with him in the field?”

“Yes, several times.”

“On missions to the Norwegian coast, to destroy fishing vessels and processing plants?”

“That would be classified information, Lieutenant.”

“Sure. I wonder what it must be like to have to destroy your own country’s livelihood. It must be tough.”

“War is hell, Lieutenant. Isn’t that what one of your generals said?”

“Yes,” I answered. “General Sherman during the Civil War, commenting on the burning of Confederate cities. He was from Ohio. I always wondered if he would’ve sung a different tune if it had been Columbus going up in flames.”

“Interesting viewpoint, Lieutenant. You sound like a cynic.”

“No, just a cop, but maybe that’s the same thing. We tend to see the underside of society most days. Kind of makes you view things differently.”

“Not unlike our commando chaps. They live with death and killing every day. It seems to make the question of property destruction somewhat inconsequential. You were with the police before the war?”

“Boston Police Department. Now I’m just a lowly staffer picking up loose ends for Ike. Are you familiar with Knut Birkeland and his fishing fleet in Norway?”

“One doesn’t have to go on a raid to know that name. He left behind a rather large fishing fleet in northern waters when he came to England with the king.”

“Would it be safe to assume that his ships would be among those destroyed in commando raids?” I could see Carlyle giving that one some thought.

“Yes. One could safely assume that if such raids were carried out, Mr. Birkeland’s boats would be amongst those destroyed. If only by the law of averages. He probably owns a third of the fleet in those waters.”

Daphne and I exchanged glances. At least now we knew that Birkeland was telling the truth. He indeed had supported a policy that was ruining him financially.

“Did Rolf ever mention a gold coin to you?” I asked.

“Do you mean his lucky coin?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, lots of the boys have their superstitions and lucky charms. Rolf was beside himself over a month or so ago when his gold coin went missing. He claims it must have been stolen. He said it was his souvenir from when he helped Birkeland get the Norwegian gold out of the country.”

“Had you ever seen it?”

“No, he didn’t mention it until it went missing. He wasn’t supposed to have it in the first place, so that’s understandable. Is he in trouble?”

“No, he fessed up to King Haakon. All was forgiven.”

“Good. We’d best be going if I’m going to give you a tour of the base. There are a few interesting things to see. We’ll need to finish by 1600 hours. I have to make my rounds.”

We left the officers’ mess and got into Captain Carlyle’s jeep. He drove us around the base, showing us barracks for American paratroopers, rangers, and the British and Norwegian commandos. Same basic spindly wood-frame construction, with metal Quonset huts scattered between them, looking even more temporary and uninviting. Next to those were an exercise field and an obstacle course. I didn’t like them much in basic training and wasn’t impressed with them here either. He drove along the beach, pointing out a dock with several landing craft and small boats tied up to it. There was also an airstrip with cargo planes and a couple of those small Lysander single-engine jobs that the Brits used to land agents at night. As we drove on, I tried not to think of one of those leaving Diana in some French hay field.

We got out of the jeep at the weapons range. There were firing pits for rifle practice, with both American and British machine guns set up in front of a long shed. Carlyle showed us a number of German machine guns that had been captured on previous raids. There was even a Norwegian Madsen M/22.

“Everyone goes through the heavy weapons course here,” Carlyle told us. “We might need to use captured weapons if things get dicey over there. Care to fire a few rounds, Lieutenant?” Carlyle tapped a German MG-34.

“No thanks, captain. I don’t plan to get that close to either end of one of those things.”

“Well then, come in here. We have a few subtle tricks that may be more to your liking, the kind of thing I’m sure you haven’t seen before.”

He opened a door to the shed. Inside there were long benches, boxes marked
PLASTIC EXPLOSIVE
, disassembled guns, and all sorts of tools and metal devices. It was like an insane Santa’s workshop.

“What is all this?” asked Daphne, looking around incredulously.

“The SOE special-devices chaps work in here,” Carlyle answered. “They’re wizards at coming up with all sorts of nasty tricks for the Jerries.”

I walked over to a crate filled with what looked like oversized jacks, the kind kids play with when they bounce a rubber ball and try to pick up a bunch. Except these had three-inch sharp-tipped steel prongs.

“Those are caltrops,” said Carlyle. “Any way you throw them, they end up with a sharp point sticking up. We scatter them in the road to inhibit pursuit. They’ll pierce any tire.”

“I’ll bet,” I said as I tested the tip with my finger, almost drawing blood. “Isn’t it dangerous having plastic explosive lying around, especially so close to a firing range?”

“Absolutely not, Lieutenant,” Carlyle said as he led us over to a workbench stacked with blocks of the stuff in different forms. “Plastic explosive is completely malleable and harmless without a detonator. Why, you could even eat the stuff if you had to get rid of it.”

“Yum.” Daphne laughed.

“Here,” he said, handing me a block about six inches by four by two. “This is a clam. With a detonator attached, it would be deadly. Without it, you could jump up and down on it with no effect.”

“What’s it used for?” I asked, handing it back without bothering to test his claim.

“A single clam could bend a piece of railway line, break an axle on a large vehicle, that sort of thing. These larger pieces are limpets, waterproofed and magnetized, to be placed against a ship’s hull. Three or four of these could sink a good-sized ship.”

“Ahhh! A rat!” Daphne, startled, grabbed my arm. She pointed at another bench at the end of the room.

“Not to worry, my dear,” Carlyle said calmly. That’s just one of the chaps’ latest ideas. The explosive rat!” He walked proudly over to it and lifted it up by the tail.

“An authentic black rat, quite dead, its body cavity hollowed out and stuffed with plastic explosive. Fitted with a time-delay fuse, it can be safely left about under a building or just about anywhere. The idea is that no one wants to bother with a big black rat, so there would be ample time for an agent to get away.”