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  "Lieutenant Burnham! Arrest this man," Heck said. He poked his finger at me again, above the sternum, where it hurt. He smiled as he did it.

  "What charges, Captain?"

  "Disrespect directed against a superior officer. Provoking speech. Put him in a cold cell now." Heck hooked a thumb toward a door, still smiling.

  "Sir," Patterson said, "those charges aren't going to make it to court-martial. There are no grounds."

  "You may be right, Sergeant. We'll know in two or three months." His grin widened.

  "Those jump boots are a violation of Article 83," I said as calmly as I could. "Or 84, I can never remember. Which is it?"

  "Both, actually, since those are only issued to paratroop units," Burnham said, his eyes flicking between Heck and me. "If you were a stickler for those things, that is. Wrongful disposition of any military property belonging to the United States: Any soldier who wrongfully disposes of any horse, arms, ammunition, accoutrements, equipment, clothing, or other property issued for use in military service is in violation of the Articles of War."

  "I don't have a fucking horse," Heck said, turning on Burnham. "What are you, some jailhouse lawyer?"

  I could see Burnham hold back an answer, bite his lip, and straighten up.

  "I'm just saying that if Lieutenant Boyle presses the point, we'd be obliged to look into it. Just as we'd have to look into any disrespect charges if you press the point. Sir."

  "You want us to hold him, Captain?" Patterson asked, offering him a way to change his mind. I could tell that Heck and these fellows weren't in cahoots. They looked practiced at calming the captain down and keeping him from being his own worst enemy. Much as I appreciated their efforts, I didn't need a calm Heck. I needed Holy Heck so he would spill the beans.

  "You want provoking speech, Captain? How about this: I'll bet you don't have a single lead yet. I bet you don't have the contacts around here to know what goes on outside your base. I bet you don't know squat."

  "Contacts? How do you think I knew you were landing in Dundrum Bay today? How many people on this island even know you're here, Boyle? Four people, and you're looking at three of them."

  "Don't forget Grady O'Brick."

  "That crazy old coot? He doesn't even know what day it is, and half of what he says is gibberish. Him and a general out in the desert-that's not much backup, Boyle. You better watch yourself. The IRA or the Red Hand boys might put a bullet in your head." I tried to ignore the heavy-handed threat, and wondered what kind of local contacts Heck might really have.

  "So who's the fourth guy?" Silence settled into the space between us as Heck took in two deep breaths, his eyes boring into mine as his frustration rose. He was used to threats and bullying working to his advantage. When they didn't, or when a guy like me was too dumb to be scared by them, he didn't know what to do.

  "Get out of my way," Heck said, shoving me as he strode for the door. He opened it and rain slashed at him, drenching his face. The sky beyond him was dark, heavy with clouds, and he looked pleased. "You two remain here. Do not leave your post, do not call for transport for this man. That is an order."

  The door slammed behind him. Petty, vindictive orders from a superior officer are a lot easier to take when you've talked your way out of an arrest and a cold cell.

  "Looks like I won't be court-martialed," I said, approaching the stove and rubbing my hands to warm up.

  "Yet," amended Burnham.

  "One or two years of law school?"

  "One and a half," he said. "It shows?"

  Patterson laughed. "I think he's memorized half of the Articles of War. Have a seat, Lieutenant." We sat around the fire, the cold ebbing as we drew closer, the tension faded from the room.

  "You guys not fans of Captain Heck?" I offered.

  "He's OK," Burnham said. "Doesn't get in our way too much. This is the 5th Division MP Platoon, not one of his headquarters MP companies. We don't cross paths too often."

  "My dad didn't like MPs much in the last war. Always told me they were too damn busy keeping the doughboys from a drink and some fun with the ladies. But then he'd add, every time he said it, that his division MPs were different. They went into the trenches like everyone else, and when a divisional MP spoke, they listened."

  "Wise man, your daddy," Patterson said. "Question is, did he raise a wise son?"

  "Sometimes I do wonder," I said.

  "You made an enemy out of Heck," Burnham said. "You could have let him chew you out and been done with it."

  "He already was an enemy," I said. "Otherwise he wouldn't have brought me here. Someone from your division HQ was supposed to meet me, not you guys. I'd bet Heck has someone at headquarters, maybe in the communications section, and they intercepted the message. The real question is, why does Heck give a heck about me?"

  "He doesn't tell us his business, Lieutenant Boyle," said Patterson. "We were just detailed to bring you in and stand by."

  "Call me Billy. I'm not much for the formalities."

  "OK, Billy, I'm Jack, and the law student is Sam Burnham. Now tell us, did Eisenhower really send you all the way up here to look into the BAR heist?"

  "I was invited by some British pals of his, and he agreed. They want to be sure the IRA doesn't stir up too much trouble."

  "Why you? Are you CID?"

  "No. I used to be a cop back in Boston. And I'm Irish. I think a certain British major enjoyed the irony."

  "Can't say I've heard much about the IRA around here but we're pretty cut off from the locals. Except for leave and passes off the base, which usually lead straight to a pub, we don't mix much. Not a lot to do around here but drink warm beer," Jack said.

  "We know some workers," Sam said. "Carpenters and other trades. Plus manual laborers like Grady. He's a jack-of-all-trades; everyone knows him. Friendly guy, more apt to stop and talk with you than most. But he is a bit off."

  "What about the local cops, the Royal Ulster Constabulary?"

  "I know the village constable up in Clough. Adrian Simms. Young guy, but the locals like him. We've talked a few fellows out of fights, had some drinks together. That's about it."

  "At the Lug o' the Tub Pub?"

  "Yeah," said Sam. "You must really be a detective. No wonder Ike sent you."

  "Never underestimate an Irishman's ability to find a pub. Have you or Constable Simms heard anything about the BARs? Or the guy who was shot? Mahoney?"

  "I heard he was an informer," said Jack.

  "Simms told me the pound note in his hand was a sign from the IRA. Death to informers," added Sam.

  "Was he from around here?"

  "I don't think so," Sam said. "Simms did say he wasn't local. But that could mean he was from Belfast or points south."

  "Other than picking me up, has Heck brought your platoon into the investigation?"

  "Not at all. Simms asked me the same thing. He was surprised we weren't out searching the countryside the day after it happened."

  "What about Heck's CID investigators?"

  "They don't do much other than background checks on the locals we hire to work in sensitive security areas."

  "Like arms depots."

  "Yeah," said Jack. "Maybe one of Heck's boys let an IRA man slip through, and he wants to cover it up."

  "Maybe. So who's in charge of the investigation?"

  "Major Thomas Thornton, 5th Division executive officer. I've waited for orders, but so far he's been handling it himself, along with some RUC inspector."

  "Hugh Carrick?"

  "That's him," Jack said. "I met him at HQ a couple of days ago. I asked if we could be of any help, and he said we could, possibly, if we stayed out of his way."

  "Sounds like he and I will get along like the Katzenjammer Kids and the Inspector. Now how can I get to 5th Division HQ?"

  "What were those orders Heck gave us?" Jack asked.

  "Not to leave our post, and not to call for transport," Sam answered.

  "We could let you steal a jeep," Jack said, "or
you could wait about twenty minutes for the chow wagon to show up. The cooks bring dinner for us and our guests back in the cells. They'll give you a ride into Newcastle. Be a lot less trouble for us."

  "Plus, you can grab some Spam and beans before you go," said Sam. "Washed down with our local product, Bushmills Irish whiskey." He pulled open a desk drawer and drew out a three-quarters full bottle.

  "God bless the U.S. Army and the Irish," was all I could say.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Thornton hadn't been on duty when I'd reached 5th Division HQ. Which was just as well, given how much the Spam and beans had needed to be washed down. The cooks had gladly given me a lift, after they'd helped us finish off the bottle. Patterson and Burnham seemed all right. They hadn't tried to pump me for information, and, as they said, they were divisional MPs, with no rear-area investigative duties. I filed them away as possible friends, not because I was certain but because I had so few yet in Ireland.

  Headquarters was on the other side of Newcastle, through the seaside town and up a wooded slope beneath Slieve Donard, the highest of the Mourne Mountains. The main building was a long two-story house with a dark gray thatched roof and a covered stone entryway. On either side were rows of Quonset huts, leaving the house a quaint but odd stranger among the invading steel-ribbed prefab huts.

  I'd presented my orders to a bored corporal who wasn't at all impressed by the high-ranking names and British military jargon. He had taken one look at me, sniffed, and sensibly told me where I could find the showers, draw new gear, and locate my quarters. I'd managed all three, in the right order, and had even lit a fire in the small stove in my section of the hut. I had gone from lightweight khakis and a small pack to a duffel bag's worth of heavy wool, all courtesy of the division quartermaster who had taken pity on me as I stood shivering at his supply counter, my low ankle-length service shoes drenched and muddy. He had snarled at me when he first saw me, standing there dirtying up his wood floor, but when we both started talking, the Boston accents smoothed things out. He was from Everett, across the Mystic River, not Boston proper, but this far from home, it was like meeting an old neighbor. He'd loaded me down with a tanker jacket, trench coat, plenty of woolen trousers and shirts, mess kit, even a pair of long johns, all the while cursing the constant Irish rain and the major he worked for, saying they were both cold and miserable when they hit the ground in the morning, and that neither was bound to change.

  I could vouch for the rain. It came down as a heavy mist, and I was glad of my new boots and thick wool socks as I hunched my shoulders and trotted to the mess tent the next morning. It was crowded with all the usual personnel attached to a headquarters unit. Clerks and typists stood in line with bandsmen and engineers, along with a group of wet and muddy GIs who looked like they'd been out on maneuvers all night. Cooks hustled pots of hot food in from the stoves outside the tent, protected from the rain by smaller open-sided tents.

  Lots of guys complain about army food, and when you're eating rations in the field, there's plenty reasons to gripe. But I had to hand it to these cooks, preparing meals for hundreds, sometimes thousands, every day, in the heat or freezing cold. Dozens of loaves of freshly baked bread were set out, trays of hash and scrambled eggs, urns of coffee, all the smells mingling with the damp green earth and lingering scent of cut pine. I saw one of the guys who had brought the chow out last night and waved. We weren't exactly buddies but it felt good to have a few faces to recognize in a strange place.

  I loaded my mess plate up with hash and eggs on top of white bread, sugared my black coffee, and found an empty spot on a bench at a table of soaked GIs.

  "Night maneuvers?" I asked as I blew on my coffee. Most of them ignored me after a quick glance determined I was a stranger, clean and shaved, and a mere lieutenant to boot. They returned to the hot chow and talk of showers, girls, and beer.

  "Up Slieve Donard and down the other side," the guy across from me said, his own lieutenant's bars barely visible through the drying mud on his collar. "Bob Masters, I have the I amp;R Platoon. You a new transfer?"

  "No, just here to see Major Thornton. Billy Boyle's the name."

  "Welcome to Donard Wood or at least what's left of it, Billy."

  "Thanks," I said, raising my cup in salute. "Intelligence and Reconnaissance Platoon? What kind of intelligence are you gathering in the Mountains of Mourne?"

  "How not to fall off," one joker said, and laughter rippled along the table.

  "It is a narrow path," Masters said, grinning to let me know it was he who took the tumble. "Mostly it's to build endurance and sharpen night infiltration skills. Recognizing each other in the dark, locating the enemy, that sort of thing."

  "Who's the enemy up there?"

  "We see the occasional shepherd and other locals. There's not much cover so I usually send a couple of the boys to follow anyone we spot and see how long they can track them."

  "How do they do?"

  "Damn good. Last week, Searles and Blakefield tracked a guy leading four sheep down the mountain through the Donard Bog, then to a farmhouse in a forest along the Annalong River. A few days later we met a sheepherder who accused us of rustling some of his flock. We told him about the guy and the farmhouse, and last night he thanked us and said he got his sheep back."

  "Making the world safe for lamb chops," the wise guy at the end of the table said.

  "When we finally get into action, you guys will thank me," Masters said, wagging his fork at them.

  "I heard someone lifted a load of BARs from one of your depots. What's the scuttlebutt on that?"

  "German agents, the IRA, black marketeers, the Red Hand, you name it, I've heard it. I don't think anyone has a clue. All I know is we were supposed to get one of those BARs."

  "Are you short one?"

  "No," Masters said. "Thornton had worked the supply system to get an additional complement of Brownings. He wanted the heavy weapons companies to have more firepower. There were a few extra, and one was for us."

  "How is Thornton as an exec?"

  "Chomping at the bit for a promotion. His only problem is he's too good at staff work."

  "Is he investigating the theft?"

  "Thornton? I guess so. Why are you so interested? Are you one of Heck's boys?" The air had been full of chatter, friendly ribbing and cursing, but at the mention of Heck's name the sounds faded as all eyes narrowed and turned on me.

  "No, I'm not. As a matter of fact, he tried to throw me in jail yesterday." Laughter rose along the benches, and the GI next to me clapped me on the back, saying I must be all right, even for an officer, if Heck couldn't arrest me.

  "Heck doesn't have a lot of friends around here," Masters said. "Probably not anywhere, for that matter."

  "Why is that, do you think?"

  "He wants to get ahead in the army. The only way he knows how is to kiss up to anyone above him and kick down."

  "Glad Thornton isn't one of those. I couldn't stand two in a row."

  "If you're not with Heck, why are you asking questions about the BARs?"

  "I see not much escapes the I amp;R Platoon."

  "Intelligence is our first name," Masters said, tapping his head.

  "I am here to look into the theft. At the request of a command higher than Heck. The Brits are nervous about the IRA working with the Germans."

  "No wonder Heck tried to toss you in the slammer. You might make him look bad."

  "What did you say your name was, Lieutenant?" asked the GI next to me.

  "Boyle."

  "Mine's Callahan. Funny you didn't say anything about the Brits being nervous about the Red Hand. With a name like Boyle, I mean."

  "The thought has occurred to me, Callahan. But the Red Hand isn't likely to be in league with the Germans."

  "No, they don't need the Nazis. They have the English."

  "OK, Callahan, can it," Masters said. "Remember the lecture. We're guests in this country. Guests don't discuss religion or politics."

  "Kind
a leaves us speechless around these parts, Lieutenant."

  " Erin go bragh," I stage-whispered to Callahan as I got up.

  "Go get our BARs, Billy," Masters said. "Good luck."

  "I'll do my best," I said as I waved to the group and left to clean out my mess kit.

  I liked Masters and his easy way with his men, and how he pushed them beyond regular training to prepare them. An I amp;R platoon was likely to be sticking its neck out far into enemy territory, and I could see how even one more BAR could make a difference in giving covering fire when they needed to skedaddle. What I didn't like was Callahan reminding me of everything I thought was wrong with this assignment. I wondered if I would still be sitting in a Jerusalem hotel arguing with Diana if it had been clear that it was the Red Hand who had stolen the Brownings. Would MI-5 be as worried if those weapons were aimed at the Catholic minority in Northern Ireland? Especially if they might be used against the IRA active in Ulster?

  Erin go bragh, I thought as I wiped down my kit. Ireland forever. Except it wasn't true. How could it be, with six of the Ulster counties still ruled by England? What would it be like if the English had held on to New England at the end of the Revolutionary War? Would we have accepted that, said it was enough, and abandoned six states to be ruled by our former masters?

  Liam O'Baoighill had left this island with a note pinned to his coat, charging his descendents with revenge upon the English for what they had done to his family. O'Baoighill was the Gaelic spelling of O'Boyle. We'd dropped the O along the way and become Boyles, making our way in the new world while forgetting the worst of the old and remembering the best as if it were everything that had ever happened. Now I was back.

  It was a helluva war.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "At ease, Boyle."

  Major Thomas Thornton had been at a desk too long. He had soft, pudgy cheeks and red-rimmed eyes with dark bags beneath them. He wore a mustache, which suited him, and had his black hair slicked back with too much Brylcreem, which didn't. His ashtray was already half full of ground-out butts, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair as he read through my orders, spitting a bit of stray tobacco onto his desk, where it landed, a tiny brown speck lost amid a pile of requisitions, files, manuals, and all the tools of a division's executive officer. In the corner behind him, three cases of Jameson Irish whiskey were neatly stacked. Liquor was also a tool of the trade, bartering and smoothing the way for whatever your commanding officer needed.