The First Wave (15 page)
I WAS RIGHT ON time, Johnny-on-the-spot, with a jeep to take Harding and me east, up the coast to the British Motor Torpedo Boat base. He’d drive back by himself. I thought about that return trip, with Harding alone at the wheel, and I felt as empty as the passenger seat beside him. Feelings of loneliness and fear still had me by the throat. I tried to shake off the willies and looked at my watch and the front entrance to the hospital, again. No Harding. I killed the engine and the sudden silence sprang out at me. I jumped a bit, sat back, then took a deep breath, trying to imagine what lay ahead, on the other side of Harding’s solo return trip.
Villard’s destination was known to the commander of the Vichy French supply depot at Bône. I’d be there tomorrow, and I had to hope he was the kind of CO who would stay at his post and not retire when the British Commandos on a couple of destroyers crashed the docks. I also hoped he was the kind of guy who would spill the beans about Villard’s next stop. Of course, the best bet for a snitch wouldn’t be a guy who’d stay at his post when things got hot and heavy. I’d have to get to the depot quickly, ahead of the Commandos, and do some fast talking, courtesy of the French-speaking British officer they were sending in with me.
I looked at my watch again. Harding was late, which wasn’t like him. Was he sneaking in some time with his old girlfriend? Come to think of it, that wasn’t like him either. That was like me. I was becoming irritated. There wasn’t much to count on in this war, but Harding had been a consistent hard-ass West Pointer since I’d first met him in England. Now he was showing signs of being a normal guy, a Buy-you-a-drink-buddy? kinda guy. I didn’t like it. I preferred my bosses predictable, so I could rely on them, one way or the other. It only meant trouble for me if he started acting like he had half a heart.
A corkscrew wind blew up and dust gusted around the jeep. I closed my eyes and felt the fine sand pepper my face and force itself into every fold and crevice of my clothes. It was late afternoon and the sun was low in the western sky, pointing long fingerlike shadows toward the eastern hills. Toward Bône, Villard, Diana, and the Germans. It was getting cold, and I pulled up the collar of my field jacket. My body shivered from bottom to top as I jammed my hands in my pockets, and waited some more.
Harding came trotting out of the main entrance of the hospital and jumped into the passenger’s seat of the jeep. There was a smile on his face and I thought it was almost funny: It was as if we had somehow traded places and he was the happy-go-lucky Yank in love and I was the grim one, sandblasted and focused on my mission, no time for diversions or stories of lost and found love. All of a sudden I had the urge to punch that smile off his face. I started the jeep instead.
“Sorry I’m late, Boyle,” he said as he threw his web belt and gear into the back seat and put his helmet on. I thought about commenting on the fact that I’d never seen him sorry or late before, not to mention both at once, plus smiling. It would have been funny. My kind of trademark smart-ass comment. I didn’t bother.
“No problem, Major,” I said instead, looking straight ahead, easing up on the clutch and heading down the gravel drive to the main road. There was a convoy passing by, deuce and a half trucks and flatbeds with M-3 Stuart light tanks chained down.We waited as the men and armor rolled along, just like a parade. A jeep with a mounted .30 caliber machine gun brought up the rear, the GIs riding in it wearing goggles and covered in dust.
“Hold up for a few minutes, or we’ll be eating dirt like those tail-end Charlies,” Harding said. We sat and watched the convoy move down the road, trucks and tanks disappearing into a dust storm that blew down on us like cinders in city soot. More waiting. I felt helpless, frustrated, about to go crazy. I had to say something, anything.
“Did you get to spend time with Captain Morgan, sir?” That’s it, get Harding to talk about his lady friend.
“A bit. She told me you pulled Doctor Dunbar’s fat out of the fire.”
“Yeah. Lucky I came along.”
“She also told me you were obviously covering up for him.”
“That’s one smart lady. Sir.”
“Tell me about it.”
I didn’t know if he was referring to her or if he wanted to hear more about Dunbar. I went with Dunbar. Going over this again might help me figure something out.
“The good news is we can eliminate Dunbar and the supply clerk as suspects in this smuggling operation. They’re both small-time operators without enough sense to come in out of the rain. Dunbar got rolled trying to freelance half a dozen morphine syrettes Willoughby lifted for him.” I told him about Willoughby and the supply truck and Dunbar at the Kasbah and his gambling debts. It felt good to talk, to take my mind off . . . what? What was bothering me? I couldn’t pin it down, but I knew that Vincent had spooked me.
“They don’t sound like the throat-slitting types,” Harding agreed. “But that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be court-martialed.”
“I kind of had to promise a few things to get information out of them.” I kept my eyes on tail of the convoy and waited for Harding to blow up. Not that a lieutenant’s promise meant much to a major.
“What information?”
“I got Willoughby to admit it was Dunbar put him up to stealing the morphine, and Dunbar told me that their first supply sergeant went missing when the 21st was back in England. He took off one night after lights out. Captain Morgan was the last one to see him.”
I let that sink in. For the next minute Harding didn’t say a thing.
“What promise?” It took me a minute to get what he was asking.
“I promised not to turn them in.”
“Boyle, according to the Articles of War—”
“Major,” I interrupted, “I know. They shouldn’t get away with it. But why should they sit out the war in a stockade?” He took a second, shifting in his seat, as if he was trying to get used to a new idea.
“What exactly do you mean?”
“Transfers. Willoughby to an infantry outfit at the front, and Dunbar to a Battalion Aid Station, as close to the front as any MD will ever get.”
“Aid stations can be dangerous places,” Harding said, nodding. “They’re usually within enemy artillery range. Should cure the good doctor of his gambling problem. I think I have some paperwork to do when I get back to HQ.”
With that, Harding nodded toward the road and I turned right onto the two-lane highway. We picked up speed, the wind whipping around us and biting through my field jacket. It seemed to blow some of the sand away, and the cold wind made my face feel cleaner. I didn’t want to punch Harding any more, at least, but that uneasy feeling stayed in the pit of my stomach.
I was glad I had switched to a wool shirt, courtesy of Willoughby’s supply stores. He’d also given me lined leather gloves, a scarf, and a wool cap. Kind of a thank you for not having him court-martialed, but I didn’t think I’d be getting any more gifts from him. He’d be too busy trying to stay alive, and hoping no rear-area slob lifted the smokes from
his
rations. It felt good for a minute to think about that, but I couldn’t keep my thoughts together. Everything was a jumble. Kaz, Diana, Harding—everyone was finding or losing somebody. I didn’t like how things were adding up, and I didn’t want to be the one to break it to Harding. I downshifted as the road rose up and snaked over a ridge. The wind from the south blew harder, scattering dust across our path. And, I had to admit, I didn’t want his reaction to screw up my search for Diana.
“It’ll be colder inland,” Harding said, pulling out his own gloves. “If you end up in the hills, get ready for some really cold nights. It’s almost tropical along the coast here, but don’t count on it lasting.”
“You can’t really count on many things lasting, can you, sir?”
“Guess not, Boyle.” Harding looked at me sideways, trying to figure out what I was getting at. I wasn’t much at subtlety, so I didn’t say anything else.
“The one thing I can’t figure out is the link between the smuggling ring and whoever killed Casselli and Jerome,” I said. I switched on my headlights. They were taped over, just a little slit open to let a bit of light out. A precaution against snipers, night fighters and who knows what other dangers up at the front. They illuminated enough of the road to show me what I was just about to run into, but not enough to warn me in time to avoid it. About as logical as the army got. It would protect me against the Luftwaffe spotting me from two thousand feet up, but not against a donkey in the road. I slowed down.
“It might not be the same killer,” offered Harding. “And those two deaths might not be connected.”
“Maybe not,” I said. I thought about Casselli’s slit throat, and how that was probably the work of a man. But Jerome’s overdose, or poisoning, could easily be woman’s work. It was too soon to suggest that to Harding, and anyway the phantom man and woman could have been working together.
“Jerome was involved in a revolt against the government here. There could be a number of people who’d want him dead,” Harding said. “Are you sure there has to be a link?”
“If they were only after morphine, anybody could figure out that a military hospital and medical supply depot would have a lot of morphine on hand. But how many people in French Northwest Africa knew about penicillin before we landed?”
“A few doctors would know about it in theory, but that we can produce large quantities? Nobody.”
“Then how come, a few days after we land, a crooked Vichy officer shows up and steals our entire supply? How did he know about it? How could he have hooked up with anyone fast enough to set it up? How did he obtain an American uniform? It was obvious from the crime scene that Casselli knew and trusted whoever killed him. How could he have become acquainted with an outsider well enough to trust him after just a couple of days?”
“Find Villard and ask him,” Harding said, as if all I had to do was look him up in the phone book.
“I’ll do that,” I said, thinking that as long as Villard was the key to finding Diana, I’d damn well find him, and soon. “Meanwhile, can you get to Bessette again and really question him?”
“Not right now. Negotiations with Darlan are still very delicate. We can’t grab one of his aides without seeming to implicate Darlan himself. Orders are to keep hands off.”
“Orders from who?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.
“Somebody’s Uncle.”
THE REST OF THE ride was silent, except for the sound of wind-driven sand pelting the side of the jeep whenever a big gust kicked up. It peppered my helmet as I squinted to make out the bit of illuminated road in front of me. We stopped once at a crossroads to check the map. Harding clicked on his flashlight, cupping his hands over it to keep the light from leaking out into the darkness surrounding us. He hand-signaled left and killed the light. I spun the wheel and headed down toward the coast to the MTB base. The wind was at our back now, beginning to lessen as the landscape sloped down, away from the rolling brown hills and rock outcroppings inland. It was late evening, the only light coming from a half-moon drifting up from the horizon. The stars were splashed across the sky like diamonds on a jeweler’s black velvet cloth in a Washington Street shop. It was beautiful, and I didn’t care.
My head was filled with a jumble of thoughts that wouldn’t quit, my heart was pumping like a six-inch hose at a four-alarmer, and my gut ached like I had swallowed a bone. There was just too much going on, too many things changing when I needed them to stay the same. I knew myself well enough to know that I worked best on familiar ground.When I knew where I was, and the people around me. I liked things nice and steady, even though I didn’t always let on. I always gave officers, whether they were cops or U.S. Army, a hard time when I could get away with it. Someone with more brains than me might ask why I’d gone into law enforcement in the first place. Sure, it was sort of expected in my family, but I could’ve done something else. Pumped gas, worked down at the docks, any job that didn’t have a guy wearing brass telling me what to do. Truth was, I didn’t mind it that much. I liked to smart-mouth back once in a while; it really suited me. Everybody, including me, knew what was expected of them. It was like that in the army, too. Except now. Kaz was close to cracking up, I couldn’t trust Harding with my latest suspicion, Diana was who-knows-where, and now Uncle Ike was getting in the way of this investigation, which was my only ticket to finding Diana. Plus, I had no idea how the whole thing hung together. I couldn’t make it add up. And I liked things to add up at the end of the day. Maybe that’s really why I liked being on the cops. It gave me a chance to set things right. Right, the way they ought to be, but never really were. I looked up at the stars and wondered, not for the first time, why did God in heaven leave things so screwed up down here? My Mom would’ve whacked me good if she ever heard me say it, but God disappointed me more often than He should.
I stopped thinking and started watching the road, which was just as difficult. It had narrowed down to one good lane and I could catch a whiff of salt air. Soon I could make out a white gate in the distance, and a small light glowing in a guard shack. I slowed down as Harding pulled a set of folded orders out of his field jacket, shaking the sand loose as he opened them.
A British Marine, flashlight in one hand, the other resting on the grip of his holstered revolver, stood in front of the gate. Two others stood casually by on either side, holding Lee-Enfield rifles instead of flashlights. Harding showed the Marine the orders, and he read them like it was his great-aunt’s last will and testament. He seemed sorry everything was in order and reluctantly had the gate pulled up. Must’ve been a slow night. I drove down a gravel driveway, tires crunching on the loose stone, as the smell from the sea grew stronger. Salt and diesel fuel were in the air, mixing with woodsmoke and the faint odor of cabbage. The scent of war.
“Pull in here,” Harding said as we came upon a long, narrow two-story building that seemed to be the only intact structure around. The stucco was worn off and the exposed brickwork was crumbling. Weather-beaten wooden doors and shutters hung loose on their hinges. Light leaked out from the rooms around blackout curtains as figures went in and out of the main doorway. There were tents everywhere else, arranged around other buildings that had long since collapsed or lost their roofs. I could make out the docks and pier about fifty feet away, clear enough in the faintly reflected moonlight which danced on waves as they lapped the shore. Low, still, dark forms blotted out the light, six of them, high speed Motor Torpedo Boats. Even at rest, they looked like sleek, impatient killers. They bobbed slightly as the waves rolled under them, as if they were uneasy, straining to be let loose. I already knew something about MTBs, more than I wanted to know, or remember.
I pulled the jeep up in front of the building, killed the engine, set the brake, and let out a long sigh. It just never ended. Things that I thought I would never have to think about came around again and again. They were never gone. It was warmer here right on the coast, but I still shivered. I couldn’t shake the cold, just like the last time, out in the North Sea.
“Let’s go, Boyle,” said Harding. He got out and jumped up and down a bit, trying to shake the sand out of his clothes and gear. He seemed to be about to order me to get a move on, when he came around to my side of the jeep and put a hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t worry. It won’t be like before. This is just a short hop down the coast,” he said. He patted my shoulder like a coach after a pep talk and bounded up the steps to the door. Jesus H. Christ.
I did my own sand dance and followed him in.
We found the exec and gave him my orders. He told me where to find a tent with a spare bunk in which to stash my gear and that we had thirty minutes to grab some chow before the briefing. Of course he was English so it all sounded a lot nicer than that. Unfortunately, the food was also English, so after a plate of boiled beef, stewed tomatoes, cabbage, and Brussels sprouts, we happily left the field kitchen behind for the briefing tent.
The sentry standing guard at the tent lifted the canvas flap for us. The red band around his cap marking him as a Royal Marine made me think about redcoats and that made me think about how my Uncle Dan would curse me out for consorting with the British. Colors were important to Uncle Dan. Green, of course, was good; orange was bad. I remember Uncle Dan, when I was maybe seven or eight years old, explaining why I must never wear orange. That was the color of the Orangemen, he said, and they were even worse than the English, since they were Irish-born. It wasn’t until later I that I understood they were Protestant Irish. In my child’s heart orange was still the color of the devil. My world was divided up into many colors: black and white, green and orange, khaki and blood red, police blue and every other hue. Uncle Dan was a good Irishman, a great cop, and a loyal American, roughly in that order. I had always looked up to him, but in a different way than I looked up to my father. It wasn’t merely because he was my uncle, it was because of who he was: a fighter, a rebel, a man who stood his ground. Now he seemed almost quaint, like an old man telling stories of fairies and the little people. This war made everything else fade into the past, losing value as the hard, grinding realities of combat, death, and destruction sunk in.
A gale blew up and the sides of the tent flapped, pulling at the rope lines, straining to rise up and blow away. Pieces of paper flew into the air and half a dozen khaki arms rose up to catch them as they floated around inside the tent. About twenty folding chairs were set up with a narrow aisle in the middle. Up front was a bulletin board with a long map of the coastline tacked on it. We grabbed two seats in the back row and watched the last few stragglers come in. They were a seedy bunch, dressed in a variety of wrinkled and faded khaki or corduroy pants with sweaters and field jackets in various combinations. They wore crumpled white naval caps, various styles of beards, and looked more like pirates than officers in His Majesty’s Navy. Of course, these were MTB guys, like our PT boat crews in the Pacific.Which according to the newsreels were all part buccaneer, by way of Ivy League schools and yachting clubs. Rich kids who knew how to sail and handle small boats, and who were used to giving orders. Probably no different in England.
The oldest guy in the room, almost forty, walked over to the map. He pulled out a pipe and lit up, watching the group as he did so. The chatter subsided and he nodded approvingly. “All right, chaps, listen up. For the benefit of our American visitors, I am Captain Charles Mannering, Royal Navy Reserve. Welcome to Motor Torpedo Squadron 18. Glad to have you along for this little show!”
Mannering smiled and lifted an eyebrow at his audience. “You Yanks will have to excuse appearances here. I’m sure we look like ragamuffins, but the supply ship with our cold weather gear didn’t make it.Rather disappointing. So here we are, still kitted out for a nice cruise to Crete or the sunny Aegean. Not that we mind a change of scenery, right boys?”
This was greeted by a chorus of boos, jeers, and laughter. Mannering joined in with the rest of them. He had an easy way with his men, and I could tell they liked him. He pointed at one guy in the audience, raised both eyebrows, and the room rippled with laughter again. A private joke, no words needed, the shared bond of silent understanding. Then he casually raised his hand, a smile still playing on his face. The room fell silent. All eyes were on him. He stood quietly, looking at his men. Something seemed to pass between them, something out of my grasp, perhaps born out of long days under the sun, longer cold nights riding out rough water, and the occasional sudden explosion of water, flame, and steel. Pride and sadness, perhaps, I don’t know. Maybe this is what it’s like after fighting a war for three years, for those left alive, anyway.
Another little smile and a nod, as if they had all been praying, and the spell was broken.
“We’ve been over this before, but one more time, if you please,” said Mannering.
He picked up a pointer and whacked the map. “Bône. This is the objective.Two destroyers will land 6 Commando at the docks and they will deploy to the town. Bône has intact docking facilities and a key railhead which must be taken. It is our job to cover the landing and insure that no vessel—German, Italian, or French—interferes with 6 Commando getting ashore.”
He then went over details of rendezvous points, patrol areas, departure times for each boat, and a lot of other stuff that I didn’t pay much attention to. I must’ve rested my eyes a bit because the next thing I knew Harding nudged me with his elbow.
“. . . and that brings us to our American friend,” Mannering was saying. “76 Boat will make for the piers at the west end of town, near the warehouses and the French Army supply depot. Lieutenant Dickinson and one crewman will escort him ashore and return to the boat as soon as practical. I’m sure it’s all very hush-hush, but good luck to you Yanks. Dismissed.”
With the mention of the name Dickinson I scanned the room. Could it be? Last time I’d seen Harry it was off the coast of Norway. Could he be in North Africa? Harding looked at me, his eyebrows knitted in a question that didn’t need asking.
“Yeah,” I said. “That was his name. Harry Dickinson. But it can’t be the same guy.”
Everybody was getting up and it was hard to see faces. There were greetings, and a few “Good luck, chaps!” as we stood there. Captain Mannering made his way toward us as the crowd thinned. It was just Mannering, Harding and me, standing amid the folding chairs. The map on the bulletin board was loose in one corner, and flapped furiously in the wind like an ace of spades in the spokes on a kid’s bike. The three of us—and Lieutenant Harry Dickinson, Royal Navy Reserve, who stood there, arm extended and shaking, his finger pointed at me like a knife, his rage mounting.
“You!”
“Lieutenant Dickinson!” Mannering said, gaping in disbelief. He grabbed Harry’s arm.
“Harry . . .” I began.
“Shut up!” Harry yelled, and then turned to Mannering. “Captain, I don’t know what this man is doing here, but a few months ago in England he presented forged orders for my boat to take him to Norway. Two good men died getting him there, and when we finally made it back I found out about the phony orders. He could be a German spy!”
“Harry, you know I’m not a German or a spy.”
“Then why did you forge those orders? I looked for you and I know you were taken into custody when you got back. You should be in prison, if not hanged!”
Harry was trembling in anger. His face was red and his hands were balled into fists and shaking. I could tell he wasn’t in a mood to have things explained to him. Not that I had much of an explanation.
“Is any of this true?” Mannering said, looking at Harding, not me.
Harding held up both of his hands in a calming gesture. “It is true that the orders Lieutenant Boyle presented at the Royal Navy base in Scotland were not officially authorized. It is also true that his mission there was of great assistance to the Allied cause, and that General Eisenhower himself met with Lieutenant Boyle upon his return. I can’t tell you any more than that.”
“Have you checked their orders out with Headquarters, sir?” Harry asked Mannering. So much for Harding’s diplomatic explanation. While not exactly truthful, it would be hard to say it was a lie.
“I shall, and immediately. Major Harding, would you accompany me to the signals tent?”
“Sure,” said Harding. “Lead the way.”
They left, and Harry followed them out of the tent. I went after him. I don’t know what I wanted to say, but I had to let him know . . . what? That it still haunted me? That I felt guilty? Or maybe that if I hadn’t come along he would’ve gone out on a different mission and his whole crew could’ve bought it? I had gone over all those excuses a million times. What I knew I couldn’t say was that I had gotten him involved because of my own personal desire for revenge, my need to catch Daphne’s killer at all costs.
“Harry,” I said, grabbing him by the shoulder.
He stopped. He looked back at me, then ahead to Mannering and Harding as they walked away toward a large tent with antennas and wires all around it. He turned and all I saw was knuckles coming straight at me. Next thing I knew I was on the ground tasting warm blood, seeing stars and looking up at Harry.
“Touch me again and I’ll kill you,” he said.
