James Benn - The First Wave

"Billy, this is marked Receipts, Orders!" The envelope was about three inches thick and bulging at the seams. Kaz emptied the contents onto the floor with his good arm and started pawing through them. I came over and lent a hand. There were receipts for movement orders, receipts for orders detailing the distribution of tents, receipts for orders of cooking supplies to Company kitchens, all sorts of acknowledgments of orders to send or receive supplies, none in any discernable order. There was even a receipt for an order of receipt forms. We were more than halfway through the pile when Kaz yelled out.

"Billy! Here it is! An order to the 21st General Hospital, Colonel

M. Walton Commanding. For the receipt of a shipment of penicillin, to be delivered tomorrow! It's dated 9 November." He turned it over, looking for the signature on the back of the form indicating receipt by the proper command. It was a carbon copy, so the signature wasn't exactly clear. But it was still unmistakable.

Sgt. J. Casselli.

"Joe signed this on the 9th and was dead the next day," I said.

"Is it normal procedure for a sergeant to sign such a receipt?" asked Kaz.

"Sure, when he's the supply sergeant, like Joe was. Only thing is, normal procedure is to give it to your CO after signing for it. Walton would have gotten the original. Walton had to know about the shipment."

"So he lied to us?"

I thought about that question. Could Casselli have kept the receipt from Walton? Why would he? I sat there with the sweat running down my face, dripping onto the plywood floor, evaporating in a second. I watched as the little drops hit the floor and then disappeared. Now you see it, now you don't, just like the missing orders. I thought about that phone in Walton's office, and how quickly that shooter had had us in his sights. I thought about gambling, and wondered what other vices Walton dabbled in. I thought about Blackpool, and how he was CO of a hospital in a city where the organized crime boss was related to a crooked French soldier in Algiers. I thought about letters, and codes, and disappearing supply sergeants. Now they're here, now they're gone. Drip, splash. Vanishing orders, evaporating in an instant. First here, then gone, now back again. I looked down at the piece of paper in my hand. Joe Casselli had scribbled his own death warrant, never knowing what that hasty scrawl had meant. I wondered what had happened. Had he taken the order to Walton, only to be told to keep it on the QT? Had he refused? Walton would yell and scream, Casselli would stand his ground. Walton would seem to give in… and then contact Mathenet, who would arrange to eliminate Casselli, the guy who wasn't crooked enough for their plans.

"Billy?"

"Yeah, he lied. Let's go."

"Because everything fits, that's why!" I gunned the jeep up the sloping roadway, away from the stinking docks, forcing Kaz to hang on, and hopefully to shut up.

"But there is no real evidence…" Kaz said, as he was slammed back in his seat. He alternated using his good arm to hold onto the brim of his service cap and to clutch the frame of the jeep. As usual, nothing stopped him from talking.

"Whaddya mean, no evidence? Walton had to have known about the second supply shipment. If Casselli never gave him the receipt, why did he end up with his throat slit? They must've argued, and Walton decided he had to be silenced. He had access to the only telephone within miles, and he came here from the same city in England where the Bessette family ran the local rackets. Plus, he gambles. He may have gotten in too deep in Blackpool and this is his payback."

I took the next corner hard, glad I had the steering wheel and gearshift to hang onto. Kaz braced himself with his feet and clung to his hat.

"Circumstantial evidence," Kaz said, shifting upright in his seat as I came out of the turn.

"Nothing wrong with circumstantial evidence if there's a ton of it."

"No, no, I mean the film, Circumstantial Evidence. We saw it one evening in London, at Headquarters."

Ike loved movies, and nearly every night there was something showing at HQ.

"What about it?" I asked, slowing down in the crowded streets of the business district.

"An American journalist wishes to demonstrate that circumstantial evidence should not be enough to convict someone. So, he arranges evidence that shows he killed a man, and has the so-called victim go into hiding, to reappear after he is convicted."

"Sounds a little farfetched, even for a reporter."

"It would be a scoop, correct?"

"Yeah, I guess. What happened?"

"The alleged victim does not show up, and the reporter is almost executed. Finally, he arrives and saves him." "So?"

"Well, if that reporter could be convicted only by circumstantial evidence, and it was all false…"

"Kaz, no one made this stuff up. People are really dead." We stopped at an intersection. A French cop, directing traffic, held up a white-gloved hand.

"Yes, they are," he said. "And Diana was very badly hurt. Which may cause you to not think quite clearly."

The cop waved us through. I didn't say anything. It's hard to argue with a movie. We drove up a narrow, winding street that finally opened into a thoroughfare that led to the residential area and then out of the city. A stone wall about five feet high ran along one block, enclosing some Frenchman's mansion. A message was painted on it, the whitewash still wet and dripping from the bottom of the letters.

"Darlan a la guillotine!" Kaz read.

"Darlan to the guillotine?" I asked.

"Exactly. The Admiral does not appear too popular here."

"Not my favorite guy either, or the bums he has working for him."

"Your opinion is shared by many, especially in London and amongst the members of the press. Do you know that he has made the SOL legal again? They were outlawed right after the landings, and Darlan has already canceled that."

"Ike must've loved that."

"Yes, I learned some new curses from him… 'Jesus Christ on the mountain!"

Kaz gave that in a passable imitation of Ike's flat Kansas accent, and we both laughed. Just two pals out for a ride, making fun of the boss. It felt like old times, until I thought about Diana and those marks on her body. I understood why'd she contemplated raising that gun to her head, and why Kaz didn't care much for living now that Daphne was gone. Everything fell into place, the perfect misery of it all, the cycle of brutality, death, and guilt and the ruin it brought to those left behind. I had to find a way to stop that wheel from turning, just for a minute, so we could get off without breaking our necks. I knew nothing would ever be the same again, but I also knew that it didn't have to get any worse, not if I had anything to do about it. Darlan a la guillotine. Villard a la guillotine.

We left the thoroughfare and crossed railroad tracks on our way to the coast road and the hospital. The tracks paralleled the road and up ahead we could see a long train, unmoving. There must've been thirty or so cars, so many that I could barely make out the steam from the locomotive up front. Kaz swiveled his head around, looking for something as he cupped his hand to his ear.

"Do you hear that, Billy?"

I heard it the moment he asked. A steady droning sound, coming from where? I checked the train, thinking it was some sort of machinery working on the tracks. I slowed, craning my neck as the droning became a high-pitched scream. The sky behind us was swarming with aircraft, the six lead planes beginning their steep dive, straight at us.

I downshifted and slammed on the gas, not wanting to hang around and offer the Jerries a stationary target. The road sloped off on either side into two deep ditches. There was nowhere to go but straight ahead. We were alongside the train now, about fifty yards separating the roadbed and the tracks. The train whistle blew and I could see the cars jolting forward as the locomotive driver got the same idea I had, except you can't floor it when you're dragging thirty loaded boxcars.