The Rest is Silence (Billy Boyle World War II Mystery) (25 page)

“Nice lady,” Big Mike said as we walked downstairs.

“She’s a firecracker,” I said, pointing to her portrait on the staircase. “That’s her.”

“Geez, she was a looker,” Big Mike said.

“She did seem tired, and a touch confused.” Kaz said. “Usually she’s quite energetic and clearheaded.”

“She
is
ninety,” I said. “We all have our bad days.”

We picked up our ham sandwiches and went off on our search for
men who would never see ninety. As we drove out on the gravel drive, I spotted Helen on a path coming out of the woods from the family cemetery. Her head was down and her arms folded tight against her breast, quick steps taking her closer to Ashcroft until she stopped and looked up at the house from the driveway. Her body was rigid except for the convulsions of her shoulders. Sobbing for her dear departed father? Or afraid of the future?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“C
ONSTABLE
T
OM
Q
UICK
,” I said, introducing Big Mike outside the local police station, a small house on the outskirts of North Cornworthy. Tom had been waiting for us, helmet and rifle in hand.

“It must be important,” Tom said. “Inspector Grange sent a bicycle messenger from Dartmouth to tell me to wait for you.”

“It is,” I said. “Have you heard any news?” I wanted to see how far word might have spread.

“Nothing to warrant two jeeps and the biggest sergeant in the US Army,” he said.

“Apparently a ship was torpedoed out in Lyme Bay last night,” I said, sticking as close to the truth as I could. “We have to determine if nine specific officers are alive or among the dead.”

“That’ll be difficult if they’re at the bottom of the Channel,” Quick said. “What’s so special about these blokes?”

“Who knows?” Big Mike said. “Probably all politics. We just follow orders. It was the same thing back in Detroit. I was a sergeant then too, only in blue.” Big Mike pulled out his gold Detroit PD shield, which he carried like a good luck charm, his link to another life.

“Our squadron leader didn’t explain much besides target, altitude, and airspeed, so I know about following orders,” Quick said, inspecting the badge. “All right, so how do we handle it?”

“We’ll split up,” I said, unfolding a map on the hood of the jeep. “Colonel Harding gave us a list of Casualty Clearing Stations.
Morgues, really, but we don’t want to let on how great the loss of life might be.”

“How bad is it?” Quick asked.

“They fear up to a hundred,” Kaz said, shooting me a quick glance. One lie was as good as another.

“There are clearing stations on the coast near Brixham, Stoke Fleming, Slapton Sands, and at the Start Point Lighthouse,” I said, pointing to the arc of coastline in front of Lyme Bay. “Tom, you and Kaz will start with Stoke Fleming and work your way south to Start Point. Big Mike and I are going to get a boat to take us out into the bay. I want to see the operation to recover bodies first hand. If the navy is putting in a major effort, our chances will be better. If not, then I doubt we can account for all nine.”

“What about Brixham?” Kaz asked.

“If Big Mike and I have time after we get back from Lyme Bay, we’ll head up there. We have a list of the men we’re looking for and copies of our orders from General Eisenhower,” I said, handing a file to Quick.

“Ike himself?” Quick said, a look of amazement on his face.

“Yep,” I said. “And this all has to be kept as quiet as possible. Everyone’s nervous enough with the invasion coming up. The general doesn’t want people panicking about German ships right off the coast.”

“Makes sense,” Quick said, nodding as he studied the list. “Odd, though. These aren’t all senior officers. Four lieutenants, two captains, a major, one colonel, and even a sergeant. No offense, Big Mike, but what’s so important about them? I expected a few generals, at least.”

“Ours is not to reason why,” Kaz said. It was the kind of truism instantly recognized by any cop or soldier on the low end of the pecking order, and it did the trick. Quick murmured his agreement while reviewing the list and scanning the rest of the paperwork.

“With orders like these, we could detail a regiment to take care of the search and have a few pints while they get on with it,” Quick said with a grin, to show he was joking. But he was right. We could probably wave these around and walk off with the army payroll before anyone questioned us.

“Tempting,” I said. “And the pints will be on me, if and when we find them. We’ll rendezvous at Greenway House and report to Colonel Harding at nineteen hundred.”

“Seven o’clock, Billy,” Big Mike said. “Speak English, willya?” Civilians in uniform—that accounted for most of us over here, as I’d explained to Lady Pemberton a few days before.

I asked Big Mike to drive because my leg was stiff and my healing cuts and scrapes itched like crazy. We followed Kaz and Quick until they turned off for Stoke Fleming and then we headed into Dartmouth. As we drew closer to the harbor, the American MPs and British sailors standing guard were a bit thicker on the ground than they’d been before. Ambulances sat parked along the quay, drivers half asleep or smoking, killing time until the brass decided there would be no more survivors brought in from the Channel. Other than that, it could have been any day at war along the English coast: men, grey ships, the smell of oil and salt mingling with seaweed and garbage.

Our orders got us onboard the
USS Bayfield
pronto. An ensign named Weber escorted us to the captain’s quarters. He looked about fifteen years old. His khakis were pressed and his tie knotted perfectly. The brass on his cap gleamed, and I figured he must be an eager beaver at the ensign business. We passed an array of twenty- and forty-millimeter guns, and I saw bigger five-inch cannon forward and aft. “You’ve got a lot of hardware for a transport,” I said.

“We’re an Attack Transport, Captain,” Ensign Weber said. “Admiral Moon’s flagship, too. We’re going to be in the thick of it, that’s for sure.” He grinned, the foolish smile of a kid who’s eager for something he knows nothing about. As he knocked on the captain’s door, it swung open, and Weber snapped to attention, his back arched and his eyes wide. A stoop-shouldered naval officer stalked past us, and from the flash of gold on his shoulder boards, I figured he must be Admiral Moon. He didn’t seem aware that we were in the gangway, inches from him as he brushed by. The admiral had a strong face, with a nose and chin that looked like they could cut through oceans like a destroyer’s bow. But he looked haggard—even more so than Uncle Ike. I caught a glimpse of where he’d missed shaving that morning, a patch of
stubble along his cheek. How much of that was due to the Operation Tiger debacle, and how much from the pressure of carrying an entire army to the far shore?

“Enter,” came a sharp voice from within the captain’s quarters. Ensign Weber held the door and announced us to Captain Victor Spencer, US Coast Guard, commanding. It was all very formal. Spencer didn’t look up from the paperwork on his desk. The wood and brass fixtures all sparkled, a testimony to the navy’s affinity for busywork.

“Tell the kid to beat it,” I said. With men adrift in the Channel, I had no patience for spit and polish.

“Who the hell are you, and what are you doing on my ship?” Spencer said, his words echoing off the steel bulkheads. He had a booming voice, the kind you get when no one except an admiral can tell you what to do, and even he has to be nice, since it’s your ship.

“Captain Boyle,” I said, answering his first question as I handed him my orders. Then, in answer to the second: “And whatever the hell I want.” I watched him read, the fury on his face turning to irritation as his eyes darted back and forth, taking in the name of his Supreme Commander.

“Dismissed, Ensign,” Captain Spencer said, and Weber did an about-face that almost spun him off his feet.

“I need a boat to take us out to Lyme Bay, where the transports went down,” I said. “Ideally with someone who knows the tides and currents.”

“This is a United States Navy vessel, Captain Boyle,” Spencer said, his lips compressed as if holding back an order to bring out the cat-o’-nine-tails. “Manned by Navy and Coast Guard personnel. We have a nodding acquaintance with the sea. And I will get you out there and off the
Bayfield
as fast as possible.” He bellowed for Weber, who must have been gripping the door handle, he was in so fast. “Ensign Weber, take these men to Lieutenant Raffel.” Then, turning his eyes on me, he said, “Raffel can take you out on the PA 12-88. It’s already in the water, so you can leave as soon as possible.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” I said, and followed Weber. Sometimes I wise off too much, I know. But the senior brass—most of them—rub me the wrong way. When a mere captain has the authority of the Supreme
Commander, Allied Expeditionary Force behind him, it’s hard to resist letting the shit roll in the opposite direction once in a while.

“What about this lieutenant?” I asked Weber. “Does he know the local waters?”

“Sure, he has a little sailboat he picked up. Goes out when he has time and zips around the bay. He’s got a good ship and crew. What’s this all about, Captain Boyle?”

“Sorry, kid. Need to know.”

“Yeah, and I don’t need to know,” Weber said. “Same old story.” And here I thought it was our exclusive little joke. He led us down a gangplank running alongside the ship. Bobbing in the water, tied to the
Bayfield
, was a small craft, sort of a cross between a Higgins boat and a speedboat that had aspirations to grow up and be a PT boat one day. Winches were lowering other landing craft into the water from the decks where they were stored.

“What is that, exactly?” I asked, pointing to the boat riding up and down on the swells, dwarfed by the five-hundred-foot
Bayfield
.

“Landing Craft Support, Small,” Weber said as he led us onto the vessel. And the accent was on small. “It’s a rocket boat. See those launchers on either side? They can fire twenty-four rockets each.”

“That’s what we saw firing at Slapton Sands,” I said. “Pretty impressive. I didn’t realize the boats were so tiny.”

“They pack a lot of punch for their size,” Weber said proudly as the crew looked us over.

“Lieutenant Keith Raffel,” a guy in rumpled khakis said, holding out his hand. I introduced myself and Big Mike, and Weber gave him the word from Captain Spencer that he was to take us out into Lyme Bay. Raffel was tall and gangly, his face tanned from the days on his sailboat or the open bridge of this odd little craft. “We were just about to head out and shake down our new engine,” he said. “Glad to have you aboard.”

“You heard about the attack on the convoy last night?” I asked.

“Sure, everyone has. We were told mum’s the word.”

“Still is, but I want to see how the rescue operation is going out there,” I said.

“Recovery is more like it,” Raffel said. “But sure, we’ll take you out. Can I ask why?”

“We’re assisting the army investigation,” Big Mike said. “Orders from SHAEF.” Raffel shrugged, not all that interested in why the army was investigating a navy catastrophe. He probably knew he had no need to know.

“Okay, we’re almost ready to shove off,” Raffel said, turning to one of his crew. “Yogi, get these men some lifejackets, willya?”

“Sure, Skipper,” a young seaman said, coming up from belowdecks. “All we got are lifebelts. You guys know how these work?”

“Yogi?” I said, taking the lifebelt from him. He was stocky and dark, with a ready smile and sharp eyes. “What kind of name is that? You look Italian, maybe.”

“I am,” he said. “Gunner’s Mate Lawrence Berra, but they call me Yogi.”

“Why?” Big Mike asked, taking his lifebelt and trying to cinch it around his waist.

“No, no, that ain’t right,” Yogi said. “Not around the waist. You put it around your chest, right up under your armpits. Then if you gotta go in the water, you inflate it with these CO2 cartridges, here. See? If you wear this around your waist, you end up head over heels in the water, which don’t work so good as far as breathing goes.”

“Okay, got it,” I said as I tightened the belt as high as I could. Big Mike managed to get his on, extending it as far as it would stretch. “But what’s with the name?”

“I played some baseball with the Norfolk Tars in the Piedmont league right before I was drafted,” he said. “I used to sit on the field cross-legged, you know? Like those guys in India? So they started calling me Yogi. A guy from the league was in boot camp with me, so the name followed me into the navy.”

“Okay, Yogi,” I said. “You been on this rocket boat long?”

“Hang on,” Yogi said, as the skipper eased her away from the
Bayfield
and gave her some throttle. “Yeah, I volunteered back in basic. They asked if any guys wanted to get into the rocket boats, and I was readin’ a Buck Rogers comic book at the time. I guess I
thought it was going to be something like that, you know? But here we are, on dry ground, except it’s water. I was kinda disappointed, but I don’t mind. The future just ain’t what it used to be, you know?”

“But …” Big Mike began, and then shook his head, thinking better of it.

“So how do these work, Yogi?” I asked, patting the rocket-launcher tubes as we cleared the harbor.

“Well, you don’t have to worry, they ain’t loaded,” Yogi said. “But when they are, we got twenty-four rockets on each side. All forty-eight go off at once when we get three hundred yards from the beach. They set off mines, blow barbed wire, and generally scare the hell out of the Krauts. Then we got twin fifty-caliber machine guns and two thirty-millimeter cannon, to hit machine-gun nests, or whatever. We go in before the infantry lands, right up front.”

“That’s why the boat is armored,” Big Mike said. The sloping front of the bridge was covered in steel plate, with thin vision slits.

“Yep,” Yogi said. “Gettin’ killed would make our job a lot harder.” There was no arguing with that.

The skipper picked up speed as we got out into the Channel. There wasn’t much room aboard with the crew of seven. The boat was maybe thirty feet long, and with the rocket launchers and all that armament, there wasn’t much space for sightseers. Big Mike and I hung on to the gunwale as we began to bounce over the chop in the grey waters, leaving the shore behind us. The crew manned their weapons, keeping eyes peeled for the Luftwaffe. The wind whipped us, salt spray feeling like sand against our faces.