The Rest is Silence (Billy Boyle World War II Mystery) (17 page)

“It must be hard to get petrol,” Kaz said.

“There’s an allotment for fishermen, and the fish isn’t rationed,” Crawford said. “Helps with the prices. Otherwise, there’d be little incentive for any sane man to venture offshore. I sell what I can in Dartmouth and bring what’s left to Ashcroft. If I work with the tides, I have more than enough fuel. I was lucky to find a spot near town, so I don’t have to motor down Bow Creek from Ashcroft. It’s not far, but it saves on petrol to set off with the tide in the estuary.”

“You fished full-time before the war?” I asked.

“I did. But when I lost my home to the government, along with my mooring, it was a bad time to sell a boat. Not many people wanted to go out into the Channel with the Germans bombing everything that floated, and fuel was hard to come by. Didn’t get much for it. Bought this little one so I could go out on the water, but I have to stay close to shore.”

“Ashcroft seems like a decent place to work,” I said, knowing that Massachusetts men with fishing in their blood would hate the idea of working on dry land, and as a hired hand at that.

“It’s not bad,” Crawford said, in a low voice that summoned up the minimum commitment necessary not to insult the family that employed him.

“But not like being your own boss,” I said.

“No, thanks to your lot,” Crawford said. “Both of you. It was the British army that took my property and the Americans who burned it.” His voice was bitter, his anger seething in a harsh, clipped tone. I didn’t have to see his face to know his jaw was clenched.

“Hey, don’t blame us,” I said. “We’re just two guys giving you a lift.”

“It wasn’t right,” Crawford said, ignoring my protestation. “Especially setting fire to my house. Yanks did that.”

“How do you know?” I asked, downshifting as we climbed a hill. A column of GIs double-timed along the road, packs bouncing on their backs and rifles held high.

“You have to watch things,” Crawford said. “There are ways. I saw what they did. Threw a thermite grenade through a window, playing like they was real soldiers.”

“You snuck into the restricted area to check your house?” I asked.

“Nothing to it, if you’re careful,” Crawford said. “I crawled on my belly through no-man’s-land in the Great War. Now
that
was a challenge. I was a sapper, setting charges to blow barbed wire or laying mines and booby-traps in front of our positions in the black night. A few roadblocks manned by coppers and green Yanks don’t count for much after that. There’s paths through the woods only us locals know about.”

“Where was your house?” I asked.

“Dunstone. A little village inland from Slapton Sands. A nice little place until the American army showed up.”

“I am sorry that happened, Crawford,” Kaz said. “Apparently some soldiers thought the houses were all slated for destruction. I doubt it was willful.”

“Willful or not, it was wrong,” Crawford said. “Stop ahead, that’s the path to the river.” We pulled over and he hoisted his bicycle out of the jeep. “Wrong, I tell you.” With that he pulled his cloth cap tight on his head and pedaled off without throwing a glance or a thanks in our direction.

“Odd chap,” Kaz said as we drove off.

“Lots of people carry grudges,” I said, knowing the burden myself. “I wonder what he was doing in the restricted area.”

“Constable Quick said many people try to get in and check on their property,” Kaz said reasonably.

“Yeah, but I bet not many hide out and watch GIs grenade their house,” I said.

“Do you think he wants revenge?” Kaz asked.

“Maybe he already took it,” I said as we entered Dartmouth, the traffic slowing as we neared the police station. There weren’t as many ships in the harbor as before, a sure sign that the exercises were in full swing.

“Billy, I think you are seeing too many conspiracies. Next you will tell me he murdered an American soldier and dumped his body in the Channel after changing his clothes.”

“Hey, it’s only a theory,” I said. “It
could
have happened that way.”

“Please don’t tell Colonel Harding,” Kaz said. “He’s nervous enough already.”

“Okay,” I said. I didn’t really suspect Crawford. He had good reason to be angry; I’d likely feel the same in his place. But in the absence of absolute proof that the corpse was Sabini’s handiwork, it was hard to stop the ideas from coming. Another occupational hazard. The clothes were a problem, but still, there was a glimmer of a chance Crawford had gone over the edge. He was wound tight enough for it. If he’d been in combat in the trenches during the last war, he was no stranger to violence. I made a mental note to keep my eye on the indispensable Crawford while I relaxed and enjoyed our stay at Ashcroft House. That was the benefit of this excursion, wasn’t it?

We wended our way along the waterfront as huge landing craft cast off, propellers churning the estuary waters into foamy currents as
sirens
whooped
and patrol boats darted across their wakes. Crawford would have to navigate carefully to get his small wooden boat through this scrum of seagoing heavy hardware.

Tom Quick was waiting at the station, and in no time we were headed out of town toward the coast and the border of the restricted area. At Stoke Fleming the road curved along the cliffs going down to the water, giving a fine view of warships steaming out into the Channel: destroyers, minesweepers, corvettes, and transports, all heading for patrol duties and exercises. One day soon it would be the real thing.

“Inspector Grange said there was another big show planned for tomorrow,” Tom said from the backseat, raising his voice over the wind swooping up over the cliff face. It smelled of salt with a chaser of engine oil.

“Yeah, a live-fire bombardment again,” I said. “We need to check for civilians in the area.”

“Makes sense. Could be a farmer or two out there checking to see if his barn got blown up,” Quick said. “I’d do the same, most likely.”

“Me too,” I said. As we drove, I chatted with Tom about Peter Wiley’s surprise arrival, leaving out the part about Sir Rupert and paternity, of course.

We passed through the roadblock at Strete, where the MPs reported all quiet except for truckloads of paratroopers from the 101st Airborne who had been brought in this morning. The wind whipped the surf as it crashed against the stony shore of Slapton Sands, filling the air with a cold, salty spray. The target-practice hotel stood with its blackened, gaping holes, forlorn against the blue sky.

“Do you know the way to Dunstone from here?” I said to Quick, shouting to be heard above the wind and the ocean. He guided us inland, through Torcross, where neatly hedged farmers’ fields sprouted weeds instead of crops.

Dunstone was barely a bend in the road, with a few farmhouses and cottages, a couple of shops, and a ruined church. Ruined by time, not the American army. It wasn’t hard to spot Crawford’s place, with its caved-in thatched roof and windows blasted with soot.

“What’s special about Dunstone?” Quick asked as we got out of the jeep.

“Have you ever run across Roger Crawford?” I said. “Former fisherman, now manages Ashcroft House for Sir Rupert Sutcliffe.”

“I know of him,” Quick said. “And he was known to go out for more than fish.”

“What do you mean?” Kaz asked.

“Before the war, we suspected him of smuggling booze and cigarettes in from France. You can make a nice profit selling the stuff without the import tax. Small-scale stuff, we thought, until heroin and cocaine began to show up.”

“You never caught him,” I said.

“No, but the water guard chased his boat during a fierce storm, and he ran onto rocks trying to get away. She sank, and Crawford barely made it to shore. No evidence was ever found, so there was nothing to do. He claimed the rudder was jammed and he couldn’t stop her.”

“This was off Start Point?” I asked, realizing that Crawford had told two stories. First he’d said he lost his boat during a storm, and today he told us he’d sold it.

“It was. He blames the water guard for the loss, of course.”

“As he blames the army for the loss of his house,” Kaz said, pointing to the burned-out cottage.

“Crikey,” Quick said, surveying the damage. “Some fellows have nothing but bad luck. But how did you know about this?”

“He told us,” I said. “He snuck in and watched GIs burn the place. It sounded like they were using it for assault practice.”

“I’m not surprised,” Quick said. “He’s devious enough. I wonder if he was searching for loot or wanted something from his place.”

“If he was a smuggler, maybe he left contraband hidden,” I said. “He might have gotten nervous when he heard buildings were being destroyed.”

“We’ll never know,” Quick said, leaning inside the charred doorway. “Nothing but stone walls, soot, and ash here.”

“They used thermite grenades,” Kaz said. “Anything of value would have gone up in smoke.”

“This is a burning war,” Quick said, turning away. He knew what he was talking about.

We continued our patrol of the area, driving through villages that looked like ones I’d seen in Sicily. Walls pockmarked with bullet holes, doors hanging off hinges, the odor of smoke, and the stink of excrement wafting out of the shambles.

“I’m glad I’m not waiting to come home to the South Hams,” Quick said, summing up our feelings.

On the trip back, we began to run into troopers from the 101st. On the road to Slapton Ley, we found a heavy-weapons squad setting up a machine gun behind a stone wall. I pulled the jeep over and Kaz and I got out, returning their salutes as halfheartedly as I could.

“You fellows know there’s a real bombardment planned for the morning?” I asked.

“Sure, Captain,” said a corporal. “They’re going to plaster the beach on the other side of that water. Our lieutenant said we’d be safe here.”

“And where is he?” I asked.

“About a quarter mile back,” the corporal said with a knowing grin. “Which is why we’re digging in deep.”

“Good thinking,” I said. “Have you seen anyone around other than your outfit? Locals, maybe?”

“Naw, we haven’t seen anyone,” another private said. “This whole place gives me the creeps.”

“Wait until France, Private. What’s your part in the exercise?” I asked.

“We’ve been dropped here, and we’re supposed to defend the road to the causeway that links up with the beach,” the corporal said. “Dropped from trucks, that is. A lot easier all around, but not very realistic. They should have scattered us all over Devon instead of leaving units intact.”

“Damn straight,” I said. “I saw plenty of boys from the 82nd Airborne in Sicily. They were straggling in for days.”

“What was it like, Captain?” the private asked. “Sicily.” By that he meant combat: death, fear, dismemberment, sweat, blood, and the crystal clarity of the borderline between the living and the dead.

“Hot and dusty,” I said, keeping those thoughts to myself. “Noisy too. Keep your head down and follow your corporal’s lead. He seems to have half a brain.” That got a few laughs. When guys who will soon see the elephant ask what it’s like, it’s best to gloss over the reality. Otherwise, they’ll worry themselves to pieces.

“Do not hesitate,” Kaz said, as we walked back to the jeep. “Kill anything in a German uniform. Leave mercy behind.” It was good advice, but it left a silence as the troopers took in the scar on Kaz’s face and the flat certainty in his voice.

“What about you, Constable?” the corporal asked, trying to lighten the mood. “Any advice from law enforcement?”

“I flew thirty missions in Lancasters, son,” Quick said. “I’ve been to Berlin six times. I’ve killed more Germans on one raid than you ever will with that machine gun, but you do your best when you get over there. They still owe me.”

“Be careful tomorrow,” I said, hustling my all-too-honest friends into the jeep before these boys went off looking for the chaplain. “Dig in deeper than you think you need to.” The corporal waved his entrenching tool as we drove off, hopefully a sign he was about to take my advice. The margin of error when you’re talking about shells fired from a cruiser offshore was pretty damn small.

“At least they’ll be fighting men in uniform, not massacring civilians,” Quick said. We’d made our circuit of the area and stopped midway along Slapton Sands, watching the grey Channel waters break on the shingle. Army engineers were busy stringing rolls of barbed wire above the waterline, working at making the upcoming exercise as realistic as possible.

“It’s the way wars are fought these days,” I said. “It’s not your fault.”

“I know,” Quick said. “I did my job, same as some damn Jerry bombardier did his. That’s the weight of it, all of us doing our bit. Bomb by bomb, until one side gives in. Sad that it takes so many. I don’t understand why the Jerries don’t shatter and break just like their cities.”

“You’ve done your share of fighting,” Kaz said. “Now it is up to those men and others like them. The war will be won on the ground, no matter how many bombs we drop.”

“Thirty missions,” Quick whispered into the wind. “The first and the last, they were the worst.”

“Grange told us about your first mission,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“The odd thing is, I’d hardened myself after a while,” Quick said, still staring out over the water, ignoring my words. “By the twentieth mission, I figured I’d be dead soon, and none of it mattered. Then we kept coming home. It was horrifying to think about surviving. What would I do? There was nothing but death in the air and grief upon the ground.”

We waited as he paused, the wind whipping my trench coat, the salt spray bitter on my lips.

“My pal Freddie Swales kept my spirits up,” Quick went on. “He was our rear turret gunner. Those chaps have an average life expectancy of forty flying hours in a Lancaster. Each night mission took about eight hours, so you can calculate the odds for yourself. By twenty-five missions, Freddie thought he could walk on water. When we took off for our last run, I believed it myself. If Freddie lived through it, there was hope for all of us. Hope for me.”

“What happened?” I asked into the silence.

“We almost made it,” Quick said. “We’d crossed the Dutch coast and were over the North Sea when a swarm of Me-109s hit us. It was near dawn, light enough to see them as they nipped at the formation, trying to score hits and get a straggler to drop out and fall behind. They got one, and formed up for one last attack before they headed home. One bastard came right at us, dead on from the rear. The whole aircraft shook as he peppered the rear turret with machine-gun and cannon fire. I thought we were going down, but we made it to the closest airfield, one engine belching flames and black smoke. There was nothing left of Freddie, nothing that you could call a man. The turret was smashed, nothing but a gaping hole. The ground crew pulled out chunks of Freddie and tossed them into a wheelbarrow. Then they hosed out what was left. And there was poor Freddie, all bits of flesh, blood, and bone, a pink froth settling into the ground. They told me I tried to gather them up, but I don’t remember, thank God.”