Evil for Evil: A Billy Boyle World War II Mystery Read online

  The road to Ballykinler took me back through the town of Newcastle, past the railroad station at the edge of town, as its brick clock tower chimed eleven. I turned inland, skirting the bay where I'd landed in the seaplane, then headed through the small village of Clough, where I saw the Lug o' the Tub Pub, the joint where Grady O'Brick spent most evenings, and where I hoped to have a chat with the old man tonight. From Clough, the land rose up, a small plateau with views of the Mourne Mountains across the bay to the south and the Irish Sea to the east. The U.S. Army depot was at the highest point, a flat, windswept stretch of land enclosed in barbed wire. Thornton's pass got me in without a question, and I followed signs for the Ordnance Depot, navigating through muddy lanes between rows of long barracks buildings. GIs were everywhere, doing calisthenics and close order drill, whitewashing rocks to serve as path markers, all the usual chickenshit routine of army life.

  The Ordnance Depot was at the center of the camp, surrounded by its own barbed wire fence. Two guards stood at this gate; they scrutinized my papers much more carefully than the guards at the main gate had. I looked at the fence; the wood posts were new, fresh cut. The earth was still turned over where the postholes had been dug. Somebody had learned something from all this.

  "Go on in, sir," a corporal said after he checked my ID against my face. "The lieutenant is expecting you."

  "Is he?" I said, and drove to a small parking area at the end of a long wooden building. It was sturdier than the others, built on a stone foundation, and twice as wide. At the far end was a loading dock and room for trucks to back up. Easy access, or at least it had been.

  "Lieutenant Boyle?" The voice came from the doorway, where a tall, thin fellow wearing the silver bars of a first lieutenant stood, slightly stooped to fit within the door frame.

  "That's me," I said as I got out of the jeep. "I heard you were expecting me."

  "Major Thornton is eager to have this mess cleared up," he said as he held the door open for me.

  "I know. He wants his BARs back, Lieutenant . . . ?"

  "Jacobson, Saul Jacobson. Come on in."

  I followed him into his office through a room of small desks, big filing cabinets, and four clerks running between them, beating on typewriters and stacking forms. He shut the door behind me, not that the plywood divider would do much for privacy. His desk was a table stacked with papers, bearing in and out baskets and two telephones. Half a dozen clipboards, marked with dates, hung on the wall behind him.

  "How long have you been in charge here, Lieutenant Jacobson?"

  "Call me Saul, OK? We're just a couple of lieutenants here, aren't we?"

  "Sure. I'm Billy. You're a first lieutenant, though. I didn't know if you were a stickler for the formalities of rank." He didn't seem to be. His face was friendly and open, his dark eyes darting at the documents on his desk, then to me, giving me his attention while still drawn to his tasks.

  "Hardly. These are brand-new," he said, tapping his silver bars with his long fingers. "Got promoted when Thornton transferred me here. I was a lowly second louie like you, personnel officer for the regiment. Then they lifted the BARs, and suddenly there was an opening here."

  "Where's the previous officer in charge?"

  "Beats me. Busted to private, shipped out. Italy, some say. Others say back to the States. Hard to say which is worse."

  "It is? Why?" I asked.

  "Stan Hayes was a good man. Is a good man, I should say. It would break his heart to have come this far and not get into the fight."

  "It might do worse to his heart if he's in it. Italy is pretty rough."

  "You know for a fact?"

  "I've been there," I said, and let the silence fill in the gap between us. Personally, I hoped Private Stan Hayes was peeling potatoes stateside somewhere, where he could grow to be an old man reminiscing about how he'd missed the big show. But I knew it was probably eating at him, and he'd be thinking his life was over, when in fact it had likely been saved.

  "In any case," Saul said, glancing through the papers on his desk, "he's gone." He picked up a folder, then put it down. His hands were smooth and clean, his nails filed evenly. He might have been a year or two younger than me but he'd probably look a lot older real quick after dodging bullets and shrapnel.

  "Yeah, just what I like to find when I'm investigating a week-old crime. One of the key people whisked out of the country."

  "No one thought he had anything to do with it," Saul said.

  "Maybe not, but that doesn't mean he didn't know something or that he hadn't noticed something odd before the theft, something he might not even have realized. Now I'll have to go back to Italy or stateside to find him. One is undesirable, the other impossible."

  "All I can tell you is that he thought he was being made the scapegoat, being blamed for lax security. You and I know that responsibility goes higher than a lieutenant's rank."

  "It doesn't reach too high either, from my experience. I'm sure everyone from the rank of major on up was glad to see him gone."

  "You mean Major Thornton?"

  "You tell me," I said.

  "No, I don't see it that way. Thornton's not that kind of guy."

  "You said it was Thornton who transferred you here."

  "And promoted me, yeah, but that's not why I said that."

  "OK, OK," I said. "No offense meant, just asking questions."

  "I guess that's your job. It is, isn't it? Thornton said you were sent by the Allied High Command." Saul sounded impressed, which was good, since I wanted his cooperation.

  "Yes. The British especially are nervous about the IRA working with the Germans. This arms theft could mean something is in the works."

  "Let me know what I can do to help."

  "First tell me if you've heard or seen anything outside the ordinary. Any rumors about who was involved, scuttlebutt of any kind?"

  "Of every kind," he said. "That the people who took the BARs were German agents, for one. That two GIs were found shot in Downpatrick and .30 caliber shell casings were found nearby. That an RUC car was shot up in Banbridge, that a farmer outside of Clough was seen shooting rabbits with a BAR, that a German sub came into the bay and landed commandos. You want more?"

  "No. I suppose there's nothing to any of those rumors?"

  "Well, I can't say for certain it wasn't German agents who broke in here. As for the rest, I'm pretty sure not."

  "OK. Show me around, then I'd like to talk to Sergeant Brennan. I assume he's still here?"

  "Pete? Yeah. He's one of our best ordnance guys. He's hasn't been here long, but he's a hard worker. Doesn't mix with the other men much. He does his job and spends a lot of time down on the beach, staring at the waves."

  "The base goes all the way to the coast?"

  "Yeah. The locals call the beach Tyrella. Nice stretch of sand. Our fences go down to the water but the beach is open to personnel."

  "Is that where the German sub was sighted?"

  "No, that was in Newcastle Harbor, after a few pints, I think. Come on, I'll show you around and we'll see if we can find Brennan."

  "Why is he such a loner, do you suppose?" I asked as I followed Saul out of his office.

  "Couldn't say. He does his job, so I don't see any reason to force him to be chummy with the guys."

  "Is he fresh from the States or another unit here in Ireland?"

  "Neither. He was wounded in Italy, at Salerno. After he recovered, they sent him here."

  I followed Saul out of the building, wondering what had happened to Brennan at Salerno, but knowing that the details didn't matter. Salerno had happened. In his fresh-faced world, through no real fault of his own, Saul couldn't make the connection. God bless him for it then. His time would come.

  "This was all one big parking area," he said, gesturing at the fence in front of the building. "Any vehicle could drive right up to the depot."

  "Was the fence your idea?"

  "Yes, and the guards as well. We also locked a side door. Now th
e only way in is through the office, which is in clear sight of the guards. And we have one guard on the loading dock at all times."

  "What about before, when Stan was in charge?" I asked as I followed Saul to the other end of the building, about thirty yards.

  "Hey, it wasn't Stan's fault! No one gave it a second thought; the depot is right in the middle of a military base, for crying out loud. We have most of the 11th Regiment here, we're surrounded by GIs."

  "OK, I get the point. Just tell me what the procedures were."

  "No fence, no guards. Pretty much anyone could enter the building, although any locals would have been stopped. To draw any supplies, you'd need a signed requisition. We have men on duty around the clock, in the arms storage areas and ordnance repair shop."

  We entered through the loading dock, which opened into a wide area for temporary storage of items coming in and out of the building. Behind it, through a narrow hallway, was the ordnance repair shop. Workbenches ran along each wall, and every type of small arms imaginable was stacked everywhere, in various stages of disassembly. Rifles, machine guns, and mortars, along with pistols hung from their trigger guards from hooks on the wall. Two GIs in oil-stained coveralls greeted the lieutenant and went back to their work.

  "Brennan around?" he asked.

  "Said he was goin' to the beach coupla hours ago," one of them said. "He got that MG42 workin' 'fore he took off."

  "Why do you have a German machine gun?" I asked.

  "Familiarization," Saul answered. "Another one of Thornton's ideas. We have some British weapons as well, and we run everyone through a familiarization course, so they can recognize the sound of each weapon, and understand basic operation."

  "Believe me, you don't need a course to recognize one of these," I said, laying my hand on the smooth black metal, so dark it almost absorbed the light around it. It felt cold, as cold as a corpse. "It fires so fast you can't even hear the individual shots. It sounds like ripping cloth, one long, long piece of fabric being torn. Or a chain saw, some people say. The Germans call it the Bonesaw, with good reason."

  I closed my eyes and heard it, and jerked my hand away as if the gun barrel were smoking hot. I saw Saul and the two GIs staring at me, and I couldn't escape the sensation of a spray of blood against my face. I knew it wasn't happening. But it had happened, the last time I heard the Bonesaw at work.

  "Come on," I said to Saul, sorry that they'd caught a glimpse of things to come, and desperately trying not to rub the blood from my face. I took some deep breaths and walked away from the MG42.

  Saul led me into the cellar. Boxes of ammunition were stacked chest-high around us, and crates of M1 carbines stood along the walls. A bright red sign proclaimed NO SMOKING next to a poster cautioning that careless talk costs lives. Or BARs. Another, more faded poster looked like a leftover from the last war. John Bull, his big belly tucked into a union jack vest, standing in front of a line of British soldiers, asking, WHO'S ABSENT, IS IT YOU?

  "They came down these steps, right to where the BARs were," Saul said.

  "How do you know that?" I asked.

  "It had been raining all day. Stan told me there were muddy boot prints from the loading dock, straight to the cellar and right to the crated BARs. Besides the ammo, they didn't take anything else."

  "It must have been tempting but they had to get out fast and hide the stuff," I said, half to myself. "How long do you think it took them?"

  "Assuming no more than two or three guys, I'd say twenty minutes. Half hour tops."

  "Who was on duty?"

  "Sergeant Brennan. He was in the office, said he never heard a thing."

  "Is that likely? He wouldn't notice a truck pulling up?"

  "Probably not. Remember, there was no fence, no gate around the place, and it was dark. They must have come in from the opposite direction, backed up to the loading dock, and broken in."

  "How'd they do it? I assume the door was locked."

  "It was. They popped the hinges. It wasn't hard; this building wasn't designed as a bank."

  "And Brennan heard nothing?"

  "It was raining to beat the band, Billy. It was windy too. I can believe it. And night duty didn't mean anything other than being ready if a call came in for something. No one ever thought we needed guards in the middle of the camp."

  "Do you know if anyone checked the boot prints?"

  "For what?"

  "Never mind." Maybe Carrick had. Saul didn't have a suspicious nature, that much was clear. The first thing I would have done was see if any of the boot prints had a GI tread.

  I scanned the room in back of the stairway. Another faded, yellowing poster was nailed to the side of a shelf. BRITISHERS, ENLIST TODAY!

  "Obviously this was an English base in the last war," I said.

  "Yeah, I think a lot of the local units went through here. They have some sort of militia or something."

  "The Ulster Volunteer Force," I said, remembering Uncle Dan talking about the Covenant, the document many Protestants signed in their own blood, vowing to resist Home Rule for Ireland if it was granted. The UVF was formed to be ready to fight to keep Ulster British, but they didn't have to. UVF units signed up to fight in France, and this would have been where they would have been trained and turned into real soldiers.

  "Something like that. I think Inspector Carrick said he'd been in the first war. Maybe he'd been through Ballykinler back then."

  "Maybe," I said. "Maybe he knows the place very well." Had he signed the Covenant in his own blood? For the first time I thought about the assumption that the IRA had been behind the theft. It was fair enough, since an IRA man had been found dead nearby, but that raised the issue of who had killed him. The IRA, because he was an informer? Or the Red Hand, to confuse things?

  "I'm going to the beach," I said, hoping the salt air would clear my head of the swirling suspicions and mistrust that seemed to spring from the soil of Northern Ireland.

  CHAPTER * NINE

  TUFTS OF GRASS bent away from the sea as the breeze freshened and blew gray sand against my boots. I pulled my garrison cap down tighter and trudged across the wide dunes, watching the clouds that covered the peaks of the Mountains of Mourne in the distance. A single aircraft droned out over the Irish Sea, but other than that faint noise and the rhythmic crashing of waves, it was quiet. I moved out of the dunes and onto the beach, looking both ways for a sign of Brennan. In the distance, to my right, I saw a figure seated on a driftwood log and figured that had to be him. As I walked in his direction, I noticed how peaceful this place was, how far from the camp filled with marching men, how calming the water was with the sound of smooth stones being pulled back in the surf, and realized that I hadn't thought of beaches that way in a long time. They had become beachheads, bristling with machine guns, blood-soaked obstacles to be overcome, no longer places for solitary meditation. What did Brennan think about out here? The Germans at Salerno? The next beach the 5th Division would hit, maybe the big invasion everyone was talking about? Or did he think about where those BARs had gone to?

  As I drew close, I started to call out, but stopped when I heard him speak. He was holding something in his hand, and it seemed like he was talking to it. There was no one else around. I took a few more quiet steps, and stopped.

  "Now, Pig, you know that the one who gets me gets you. So you do your part, and I'll do mine. OK, Pig? That last one wasn't for either of us, and the next one won't be either. OK?" He held a small carved wooden pig in one hand and rubbed its belly with the thumb of the other. He stared at it, as if waiting for an answer.

  "That sounds like one lucky pig, Sergeant Brennan."

  He rolled off the log, falling behind it and reaching for a .45 automatic in a shoulder holster. His eyes were wide in panic.

  "Hold on, hold on!" I hollered, my hands outstretched. I had my own .45 by my side and I didn't want him getting the wrong idea. He grunted, an exasperated, somewhat embarrassed look on his face.

  "Jesus Christ
, why'd you go and sneak up on me like that?" Brennan said. He let out a breath and gulped air into his lungs. His hand moved away from the pistol as he glanced at my lieutenant's bars. "Sir."

  "I didn't sneak, I walked up. And you were deep in conversation."

  "It's not a conversation. Pig doesn't talk back to me, I'm not crazy." He got back up on the log, and I joined him. He unclenched his fist, and there sat Pig, his belly smooth where Brennan had been rubbing it.

  "Pig?"

  "I got him onboard a troop transport from a gob who carved all sorts of animals. We have pigs at home and I like them, so I bought him."

  "How'd he get so lucky?"

  "You pulling my leg, sir?"

  "No, I'm not. I've seen plenty of guys with good luck charms. Once you find one, you keep it. I knew a guy who had a book of matches in his pocket when the truck he was in hit a mine. He was the only one in the truck who lived, and he was convinced those matches did it. He never went anywhere without them after that. He even gave up cigarettes so he wouldn't be tempted to use them."

  "Where was this guy?"

  "North Africa."

  "You been in combat, Lieutenant?"

  "Some. How about you?" He didn't answer right away. He blew sand from a few spots where it had stuck to Pig, rubbed the animal some more, and put it in his shirt pocket, over his heart. We watched the waves curl and crash onto the shore as he pulled a pack of Luckies from his jacket. He offered me one and I declined. He flicked a battered Zippo and shielded the flame with his hand. When he lit up, he cupped the cigarette in his hand, like you would at night, in your foxhole.