The Rest is Silence (Billy Boyle World War II Mystery) (7 page)

It was my mother who came up with the idea of getting in touch with Uncle Ike. He was from her side of the family, and at that time was working at the War Plans Department in DC. A perfect place to sit out the shooting war. Favors were called in, and soon I found myself a second lieutenant ready to join the staff of General Dwight David Eisenhower, duties unspecified. What we didn’t count on was Uncle Ike rocketing to the top and taking me along for the ride.

What a ride it had been. From England in the early days to North Africa, Sicily, Northern Ireland, and Italy, then back to England. I was a captain now, and I saw things entirely differently than when I first arrived. I kind of missed the old me. He was much more certain—on the basis of knowing a whole lot less. I envied him.

“Good, it’s settled then,” David said. My thoughts had taken me out of the conversation, but I saw that Kaz was pleased to stay on. David looked relieved, and I wondered what he wanted besides renewing a youthful friendship. Occupational hazard for a cop. After chasing crooks and killers for a living, you begin to focus on the dark side of human nature and expect the worst of people. Maybe all David wanted was an old pal to keep him company at Ashcroft, where the residents weren’t exactly warm and chummy.

Helen and David: the ideal couple, as long as she only saw him in profile, from the left.

Edgar and Meredith. A boozer without a job and his wife, who didn’t speak to her father. Why were they here, unless it was to seek a favor from Sir Rupert?

Great Aunt Sylvia and her barbs directed at Sir Rupert. Or was that crack about invitations to live at Ashcroft directed at Meredith?

Sir Rupert himself was pleasant, but there was obviously something brewing between him and Meredith. And why the disapproval of Edgar? He was following in his father-in-law’s footsteps, after all. That should be a plus for the old boy.

“Captain Boyle?” Sir Rupert said, with a look that said he’d had to repeat himself.

“Sorry, what was that?” I said.

“Can you tell us anything more about what brings you to Devon? If it’s not too hush-hush, that is.”

“It’s really nothing much,” I said. But all eyes were on me, and this wasn’t exactly a top-secret operation. I decided to expand on what I’d told Edgar. “A body washed up on the beach at Slapton Sands. It’s a restricted area, and that made my boss nervous. The corpse wasn’t in uniform, and no one local has been reported missing, so we were sent here to determine his identity.”

“A German spy, perhaps?” Sir Rupert said, obviously keen on the idea.

“Any reports of parachutists recently?” I asked, not answering his question. Best to let them imagine we were tracking down a dangerous nest of enemy agents. It was the least we could do in exchange for this fine food.

“The Home Guard did bring in a German bomber crew,” Helen said. “They crash-landed in a field outside of Stoke Fleming, but that was two years ago.”

“Do you suspect that this person was local?” Meredith asked.

“It’s hard to say. We spoke to some fishermen who said the tides and currents could have carried him in from some distance.”

“Talk to Crawford,” Sir Rupert offered. “As I said, he fished the Channel waters. He might have an idea or two.”

“Good idea,” I said. And then the bread-and-butter pudding was served, and once again my attention was momentarily diverted. There was more talk of the indispensable Crawford, and how he kept the household in milk, butter, and eggs from the few cows and chickens on the estate. Given that the current weekly ration allowed two ounces of butter and one egg per person, Crawford was practically worth his weight in dairy products.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“I’
M STILL NOT
sure what to make of that bunch,” I said to Kaz too damn early the next morning. We’d left before dawn for the Dartmouth police station. I’d thought about packing my bags and staying in town, but that would have put Kaz in a bad spot.

“David will fill me in, once we have a chance to talk,” Kaz said, buttoning the top collar of his trench coat. It was a crisp morning, the sun a distant promise of warmth as it began to crest the horizon. “I am sure your own family might appear strange at first to an outsider.”

“Doesn’t everyone have an uncle in the IRA?” I said, taking his point. There was little traffic at this hour, and in no time we pulled up in front of the police headquarters, where Tom Quick was waiting.

“Didn’t expect to see you fellows again quite so soon,” he said.

“Sorry for the early hour,” I said as he squeezed into the rear seat next to the radio equipment.

“No mind, I’m not much for sleep,” he said. “What’s this all about then?” We filled him in on Harding’s orders and the little we knew about the upcoming maneuvers.

“Doesn’t take much to make the high and mighty nervous,” Quick said after we’d finished. It was hard to disagree. As we neared the coast, a thick fog rolled in, the breeze pushing the salt-scented air in from the Channel.

“Please don’t drive us into a ditch,” Kaz said from the passenger’s seat. “I can barely see the road.”

“Up ahead,” Quick said. “Lights.” I slowed and pulled over, glad to have found the roadblock without crashing into it. MPs stood at the closed gate. Ambulances, tow trucks, and other heavy vehicles were parked off the roadway, GIs nodding off in the cabs, waiting for the fun to begin. It looked like the army planned on something going wrong, which was sensible, since it always did.

“We have orders to check the beach after the bombardment,” I said, showing my papers to the MP sergeant. “Still on for zero six hundred?”

“You got me, Captain,” he said, handing the orders back. “They don’t tell us much. It’s supposed to end at zero six thirty, then the beachmaster goes forward to inspect. That’s all I know.”

“Is the beachmaster here?” I asked, buttoning up my M-43 field jacket. No field scarf or low-quarter shoes today. Combat boots and a wool shirt and sweater did the trick for this damp, chilly English spring morning.

“No, sir, he’s inland with some troopers from the 101st. I can let you through at zero six thirty, but you might want to take it slow. You never know with the navy. Meanwhile, they got a field kitchen set up on the other side of those trucks. Help yourself.”

We did. Coffee and bacon sandwiches made the early morning fog bearable. As we finished up, a sea breeze wafted through the fields, thinning out the greyness, but not by much.

“It’s five past six,” Quick said, checking his watch as we settled back in the jeep. “Or am I fast?”

“I have six after,” I said. “We should be hearing the bombardment by now.”

“Would the fog delay it?” Kaz asked.

“Not likely,” I said. “Everything is strictly timed. The troops are coming ashore at zero seven thirty. Besides, the cruiser has radar; they could hit the beach in the dark of night.” We waited another five minutes. The silence was broken only by the distant crashing of surf.

“We should radio Colonel Harding,” Kaz said. I agreed, put on the headset and fiddled with the radio until I got the right frequency
and gave our call sign. I got an ensign aboard the
Hawkins
who sent a message to Harding.

“Did he know anything?” Kaz asked when I’d signed off.

“Only that the rocket attack by the fighters has been called off due to fog,” I said. “He said he’d track Harding down but that the brass was all in a tizzy. Ike decided to go back to Dartmouth when he heard the air attack was cancelled.” It looked like the old hotel on Slapton Sands had had a reprieve. But if fog grounded aircraft for the real invasion, the reprieve would be for the Germans. Not an auspicious start.

There was nothing to do but have another cup of joe. As we drank, zero seven thirty rolled by. Still nothing.

“Can you radio the beachmaster?” I asked the MP sergeant.

“Don’t have a radio, Captain. Don’t even know what frequency he’s on. Like I said—”

“Yeah, I know. They don’t tell you anything. I know the feeling.”

There was nothing to do but wait, which was typical of the army. Hurry up and get somewhere before dawn, then wait for hours for something to actually happen. When zero eight hundred came around, the MPs shrugged, opened the gate, and let us through. “Guess the bombardment was called off,” the sergeant said. “The landing craft should be on their way to the beach by now, so it ought to be safe.” He waved us forward.

“We’re the only ones daft enough to drive in here,” Quick said, hanging on to his seat in the rear as the jeep negotiated the ruts in the road.

“No reason for them to,” I said. “Those are emergency vehicles.”

“Then shouldn’t they be closer to a possible emergency?” Kaz asked.

“It’s the army, Kaz,” I said. “No one moves unless they’re ordered to. Don’t worry.” I hadn’t been worried myself until Tom brought up everyone else staying behind. All of a sudden, it felt damn lonely to be driving through a deserted landscape in a restricted area, heading for the site of a canceled bombardment from a heavy cruiser.

We drove through Strete, past untended fields and cottages, and watched a herd of deer bolt for the woods as we disturbed their morning feed. The road curved along the coast, hugging a rise a few hundred
feet high. I pulled over, the heights a ringside seat to watch the landings once the fog cleared. The Channel was dotted with LCVPs—Landing Craft, Vehicle, Personnel—or “Higgins boats” as the flat-bottomed tubs were commonly known. Each one carried thirty-six combat infantrymen, and there were dozens and dozens crashing through the surf, coming closer to the shingle at Slapton Sands.

“I can’t see the cruiser,” Kaz said, scanning the horizon with binoculars.

“It’s too far out,” Quick said. “Those big naval guns can lob shells for miles.” Large LCTs and LCIs stood offshore, with smaller landing craft circling as they formed up for the run in.

As the Higgins boats drew closer, they were overtaken by half a dozen fast patrol boats—odd-looking craft, shorter than any PT boat I’d ever seen, about ten or twelve yards long at most. Three hundred yards from the beach, they stopped, and in seconds a terrific volley of rockets launched from each boat, bright flames coursing above the waves and slamming into the barbed-wire entanglements we’d seen put up yesterday. Most of the rounds hit, blowing gaps in the wire, leaving openings for the GIs about to land. The craft turned and made smoke as they headed back into the Channel.

“That’s something new,” Kaz said. “Very effective, but of course no one was shooting back at them.”

“You can’t have everything,” I said, and started the jeep. “Let’s head closer.”

“Perhaps they canceled the naval bombardment in favor of those rocket boats,” Kaz suggested.

“Impressive, but they’re not quite the same thing,” Quick said. “It’ll take Jerry by surprise, but concrete isn’t the same as strands of barbed wire.”

Closer to the beach, we came upon the paratroopers we saw yesterday, sitting outside their entrenchment, smoking cigarettes. They waved, looking happy about the absence of 7.5-inch shells raining down near their position. We halted at the end of the shingle, watching the landing craft drop their ramps and men storm the stony shore.

“Kaz, would you contact Colonel Harding? We should let him know we’re here.”

“All right, Billy,” Kaz said, getting out of the jeep. Quick and I joined him, stretching our legs and watching as hundreds of GIs poured out of the LCVPs and sloshed their way to the beach. Some made for the gaps in the barbed wire while other men with wire cutters worked their way through it. The rest bunched up behind them, milling about, waiting.

“That’s not good,” I said. “Their noncoms should be pushing them forward, getting them off the beach.”

“Pity no one takes training exercises seriously,” Quick said. “Whenever we practiced getting out of a Lancaster while it was on the ground, we’d end up laughing at how silly it all was. Especially Freddie.” He smiled at the memory, and I had to admit he was right. Training was a game for most guys, even if what they were training for was anything but. I gave a sympathetic laugh and was about to ask who Freddie was when Kaz put on the headset and broadcast our call sign. I heard a faint screeching sound echoing out over the water and looked up, wondering if there were high-speed fighters overhead. But the sound wasn’t right. It took a split second to register.

The cruiser
Hawkins
was shelling the beach.

The screeching grew in intensity, drawing everyone’s attention, like a magician’s distraction, masking a deadly trick. I could see the wire cutters stop their work as the GIs making their way off the beach turned and stared, everyone wondering what was going on, wasting precious seconds in bewilderment.

“Get down!” I hollered, hands cupped around my mouth. They were too far away to notice or understand. I could hear Kaz telling whoever was at the other end of the radio to stop the shelling, that the beach was crowded with men.

The first shells overshot the strand, hitting the Slapton Ley beyond it, sending plumes of water skyward. I could see a few men digging in, scraping at the stony beach with their helmets, but most scurried around, confused and unsure which way to go and whether this was part of the exercise.

The whistling threat came again, earsplitting and terrifying.

This time they had the range. Seven shell bursts struck the beach,
sending bodies flying and men rushing in all directions, some swimming for the Higgins boats, which had already backed off the shore and were heading into the Channel.

“Stop the shelling!” Kaz roared into the microphone. “You are killing men on the beach!”

“Is that Harding?” I asked. He shook his head no. Tom Quick ran toward the beach, calling to the men to come to him and the safety of the road leading off the beach. Safe for now, anyway. A group sprinted in his direction, others running for the ruined hotel and seeking cover there. Another round of shells shrieked in, hitting right at the waterline, killing those who had sought refuge there.

“No, you idiot!” Kaz screamed into the radio. “There are men on the beach!”

“What’s happening?” I hollered as Kaz handed off the microphone and earpiece.