A Blind Goddess (38 page)

I didn’t. He chose the army, of course.

“A
ND HERE WE all are,” Tree said. “I thought my life was over. No college, no future. But we didn’t see this war coming. I’d be in the army anyway by now. This way, I’m a non-com in a combat outfit.
I don’t know if you guys know what that means for a Negro. I’m going to fight for my country, and if I get home, I’m going to fight for myself, and my people.”

“You’re satisfied how it worked out?” Big Mike asked. “You’re not still sore at Billy?”

“I’m not happy I missed Pop’s funeral,” Tree said. “But that was the Deep South for you. Wasn’t Billy’s fault. Billy Boyle is a born snoop, but this time around it worked out for me. I got my gunner back.” He raised his pint to Angry Smith, and we all drank a toast to the 617th Tank Destroyer Battalion.

Later, as we piled into the jeep to drive Tree and Angry back to their bivouac area, Tree asked Angry why he’d had such a hard time thanking me earlier that day. He took a deep breath, and his answer didn’t come right away.

“Because I never thanked a white man before, and meant it. Colored man got to say a lot of things to keep trouble at bay, Captain. Some of those things eat at you, know what I mean? But I can’t say no white man ever did me a kindness, until you come along. I know you did it to even things up with Tree, but still, it put me in your debt. I owe you.”

CHAPTER FORTY

I
MADE THE drive to Saint Albans the next day to see Major Cosgrove. I told Kaz and Big Mike to head back to SHAEF, knowing that Cosgrove wanted to talk to me alone. Saint Albans was a rest home, a hospital for those who held secrets in their heads and sometimes demons as well. It was top secret, staffed by doctors and nurses who had security clearances better than mine.

Saint Albans was reserved mainly for those who had been emotionally damaged but who needed to be patched up, for the greater good, and sent back into the fight. There were SOE agents, commandos, and foreigners from all over Europe. Major Cosgrove of MI5 was important enough to warrant a bed here as well. Or perhaps it was the knowledge he held.

My name was on the list, which got me past the armed guard at the entrance gate. I was taken to the back garden, where I spied Cosgrove seated in a wheelchair, reading a book. He looked up as I approached, and I was surprised at how good he looked, compared to how terrible he had looked the last time I saw him.

“Boyle,” he said, standing and extending his hand. “Good of you to come.” He was dressed in blue pajamas and a quilted robe. The wheelchair was wicker, and looked built for comfort as opposed to transport. There was color in his face, which had been pallid and pasty after his attack. “Please excuse the casual attire; uniform of the day at Saint Albans.”

“Are you supposed to stand, Major?” I asked, pulling a lawn chair closer and taking my seat.

“They have me doing a bit of exercise,” he said. “This thing is for moving about the property easily, not because I need it.” He slammed his palm down as if to reinforce the point. Charles Cosgrove was not the kind of man who wanted to appear helpless, and I could tell being in the chair bothered him. “But the medicos insist, so here I am.”

“You do look pretty good, Major,” I said. “I thought I’d find you in a hospital bed, hooked up to some contraption.”

“I’m not dead yet, Boyle. It was a heart attack, yes. But they said I was also suffering from exhaustion. I didn’t like being taken here, but I must admit the rest has done me wonders. Didn’t really understand how tired I was.”

“Will you be back on duty, or …?” I let the question linger.
Be put out to pasture?

“If I have no relapse, and the doctors concur, I expect I will. Desk duty, most likely. No more running about keeping tabs on you, Boyle! That will be a relief for both of us, I wager.”

“I don’t know, Major. I’ve almost gotten used to you.”

“Well, then I will redouble my efforts to heal from this event. Perhaps you haven’t seen the last of me yet. But tell me, your talk with Masterman, what exactly did he tell you?”

“I’m not sure I’m at liberty to say, sir.” I waited, feeling the warm breeze on my face. I didn’t want to hold out on Cosgrove, but this was beyond top secret, as far as I was concerned.

“Well done. I told Masterman you could be counted upon. Boyle, you must forget what you learned from him. It was necessary to tell you, but it is such a gigantic secret, the most precious of the war so far, I believe.”

“It frightens me, knowing,” I said in a quiet voice.

“Yes,” Cosgrove said. “There are so many things that could go wrong, so many people involved. I think about it nearly every moment of the day. The Millers, they suspect nothing?”

“No,” I said. “I visited them this morning, to give them a
report on what we determined about Neville’s death. They were relieved.”

“You betrayed nothing? Your voice, how you looked at them?”

“Major, I’ve been a cop long enough to know how to lie with a poker face.”

“Very good, Boyle,” he said. “I
am
overanxious about this, I know. We’ve been carrying on this charade for so long it has become a part of me. I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

“When the invasion comes?”

“Yes, and then for some short time beyond, if we’re successful. We’ll keep Jerry looking in all the wrong places for as long as possible. Then we’ll pick up Herr and Frau Miller and deal with them as they deserve.”

“What about their daughter, Eva? She can hardly be part of this.”

“Likely not. But they are the ones who put her in harm’s way, not us. She may be lucky, if that term applies. If she had stayed in Germany in any one of their cities, she could have been long dead by now. Every night we bomb and burn them, Boyle. It is a terrible business all around.”

We sat for a while, thoughts of burning cities mingling with the visions of crippled men and women all around us, enjoying the sunshine while night reigned supreme in their minds. After a few minutes, I gave him all the details of the investigation, everything that happened after he was taken away. He asked a few questions until once again we lapsed into silence. The quiet and the clear blue skies were deceptively calming.

“Can you tell me anything about Diana?” I finally asked. “Where she was sent?”

“She angered some very powerful people, Boyle. Politics and passion are not a good mix. But rest assured, she was not sent on a suicide mission. She is probably quite bored where she is.”

“Here in England?”

“In Great Britain, yes. A training facility. Sealed tight. A dilapidated country estate surrounded by barbed wire. I hope to find out about getting her back to London soon.”

“Sounds like she’s safer there.”

“Yes, but the Diana Seaton we know would not be satisfied with mere safety, eh Boyle?”

“No, sir. Is there anything you need? Anything I can get you?”

“No, thank you. You’ve done enough by telling me about the Neville case. Justice was served, official secrets kept. Well done.”

“Thank you, Major.”

“And your Negro friend, that case was concluded to your satisfaction?”

“Yes, the real killer was found and Private Smith was released. He’s back with his unit, and they’re ready for action.”

“I wish them well. And you too, Boyle. I hope our paths cross again, but if not …” This time, he was the one to let the sentence hang. He rose and we shook hands. For two guys who started out not liking each other much, it was a helluva goodbye.

“See you in the funny papers, Major.”

Cosgrove laughed and shook his head, settling back down into his wicker wheelchair. It’s always good to leave them laughing.

D
RIVING OUT OF Saint Albans, I wondered why Cosgrove had really sent for me. Was it to hear a first-hand report about the Millers and the murder investigation, or was it something else? Cosgrove was a military man through and through, a pal of Winston Churchill’s from the Boer War. If this was the end of his career, or perhaps his life, maybe he wanted one more taste of the hunt. Couldn’t blame him one bit.

I had nothing to do until I had to report back to SHAEF tomorrow, so I decided to go back to Hungerford for a final visit with Tree. All this talk of the unknown future had gotten to me. And I wanted to see Angry Smith back with his crew, in his element as a gunner. I headed south, navigating my way through heavy traffic, hundreds of trucks, flatbeds, jeeps, and every conceivable vehicle the army owned, it seemed. All heading in the same direction, south. Toward the invasion ports. Someday soon, a huge fleet would set
sail. Me, I was probably sitting it out. Not a lot of crime in the middle of an amphibious invasion. But the 617th could be in on it. If not the first to hit the beach, then among the follow-up units once the initial landings were successful.

I hit Hungerford in the late afternoon, and drove out to the Common where they were bivouacked. The roads were choked with vehicles, and as I maneuvered the jeep closer, I saw a dozen or so flatbed trucks, the same kind I’d seen on the road with tanks chained down on them. I was just in time; they were moving out.

I drew closer, and could see that the tents had been struck and that men were drawn up in platoons, some of them already boarding trucks. Officers—all of them white—stood by the flatbeds and directed the men who’d driven the TDs up onto them back to their platoons. The officers were laughing, the enlisted men were quiet. The privilege of rank.

I asked for Tree’s platoon and was directed down the line by a sullen corporal. I spotted him as his crew moved to board their truck.

“Tree,” I yelled, running over to him. “You’re shipping out?”

“Yeah, we’re shipping out,” he said, not meeting my eyes.

“What’s the matter? What happened?” I looked around to get a clue as to what the problem was. It looked like the 617th was joining the long march to the sea, along with everyone else.

“They took our TDs away,” Angry Smith said, his voice a low growl. “They make us drive them up those flatbeds and they’re going to take them away.”

“What? Are you getting tanks? Where are you going?”

“We’re not getting tanks, Billy!” Tree shouted, exploding in a fury I hadn’t seen since we parted in Boston. “They’re giving our TDs to a new battalion, a
white
battalion! All the officers are going, all of them except the one Negro officer we have.”

“But what’s happening to you?” It didn’t make any sense.

“Plymouth,” Tree said, spitting out the word as if it were foul and rotten. “We’ve been designated a quartermaster battalion. Lots of ships to unload in Plymouth. Supplies for the invasion. So they take a well-trained unit like ours and turn us into stevedores, then
give our TDs to white boys who don’t know them. It ain’t right, Billy.” He was up against me, his anguish paralyzing, his agony awful to see.

“Don’t bother, Tree,” Angry said, taking him by the arm. “Don’t give them an excuse.” A squad of white MPs stood at the ready near the knot of white officers. Just in case.

Tree took a breath and calmed himself, turning back into a US Army sergeant. “Okay men, grab your duffles and board the truck. Let’s go!”

“I’m sorry, Tree,” was all I could get out. It was pathetic. He brushed by me, unable to look at me. His hand squeezed my arm, briefly, a sign from the depths of a childhood friendship, and then he was gone, swallowed up by the shaded darkness of the truck.

Angry was the last to board. He leaned over the tailgate, and beckoned me closer.

“What I said last night? It don’t hold no more. I don’t owe you a damn thing.”

The truck lurched forward, dust rising from the road as it followed the rest of the battalion, six hundred strong. They passed by their Tank Destroyers, loaded on the flatbeds. Most looked away. One man saluted.

I stood to attention and returned the salute, keeping my hand to the brim of my cap until the last of the trucks passed.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

T
HE SEGREGATION OF American armed forces during the Second World War was not only morally wrong, it was an inexcusable misuse of manpower and scarce resources. The government and military could have chosen this national emergency to signal a change in race relations on the basis of wartime necessity. Instead, segregation resulted in wasteful duplication by creating separate and unequal facilities so the races would be kept apart. Shipping, transportation, post exchanges, and every aspect of military life had to be provided independently for white and black usage. Perhaps racist attitudes were too ingrained to change when America entered the war in 1941, but in doing research for this book I was struck by the extent to which the separation of the races hampered the war effort and gave the enemy a gift of propaganda, pointing out the dichotomy between the American war aims and the treatment of minorities.

Each incident of racial conflict and violence described in this work actually occurred; from the smashing of glassware in pubs frequented by black soldiers to the dragging to death of a black GI in the Deep South. These encounters are true, if fictionalized for the purpose of this narrative. The sign on the Three Crowns Pub in Hungerford stating “This place is for the exclusive use of Englishmen and American Negro soldiers” was observed by George Orwell and reported in the
London Tribune
in 1943.

Black soldiers training in camps in the southern US were subject to harsh treatment by civilian authorities when they ventured off base. In 1941, a black soldier named Felix Hall was found lynched in the woods outside Fort Benning, Georgia. Even though his hands were tied behind his back, the army listed the official cause of death as suicide, eliminating the necessity of an investigation that would have involved local white authorities.

Similar bias existed within American bases in England as well. At the US Army prison in Shepton Mallet, eighteen military executions were carried out. Of those, ten were black soldiers, even though blacks accounted for only eight percent of Army personnel. One black GI did escape the death penalty thanks to the outrage expressed by the British public. Leroy Henry was sentenced to death for raping a white woman in the village of Combe Down. Local residents were aware that Leroy Henry had been engaged in an ongoing relationship with the woman and tended to believe his story that she accused him of rape after an argument over the price of her services. The British public were also appalled at how he had been beaten by the military police during questioning. As the result of newspaper publicity, over 33,000 people signed a petition calling for Leroy Henry to be reprieved. It was sent to General Eisenhower, who agreed to grant the soldier his freedom.