James Benn - Billy Boyle

“Sorry, sir.”

Sufficiently chastened, I shut up for a bit and let the captain chat with Daphne. I thought about that pathetic attempt at security. With practically anyone able to get on base and hundreds of GIs descending on the local villages and drinking themselves silly, word about the upcoming invasion of Norway was bound to spread. These guys would probably be talking about their new winter gear after their second pint. Our German spy wouldn’t even need to get on base to hear about it, he could just sit at a bar and drink. I looked up at the sky and imagined the Luftwaffe sending bombers across the North Sea and blasting this place and these elite troops into oblivion, just on the basis of what their secret agents would hear in Southwold pubs this weekend.

I felt a pang of fear for Diana, and hoped to hell that the SOE had better security than whoever was running this operation. Then Carlyle mentioned lunch and we followed him into the officers’ mess. Nothing fancy, just a long, narrow rectangle of a building, so new that piles of sawdust still showed on the ground outside, little sprinkles of dirty yellow in straight lines where boards had been cut. Inside, the usual smell of coffee, grease, and cigarettes hit my nostrils and reminded me of break time on the beat in Boston, of unbuttoning my blue coat and sipping a cup of good diner coffee, my biggest decision whether to have apple or cherry pie. On the house, of course.

It didn’t smell like a diner, though; it was too new for that. The smell of sawdust hung in the air inside, too, almost palpable above the cooking odors. The wood was rough cut and unpainted, the windows not yet framed in, as if they had thrown this place together in a couple of days, and didn’t care if it lasted more than a couple of months.

I was still worried about Diana and confused about most everything, but that never had an effect on my appetite. The kitchen had hot green pea-soup and ham-and-cheese sandwiches stacked up a foot high. Daphne cut her sandwich up into sections and ate them in delicate little bites. It was cute. I ate mine holding it in one hand and slurping up soup with a spoon in the other. Daphne sort of rolled her eyes so I put the sandwich down and finished my soup, trying not to make any loud noises. If I was going to hang around the Seaton sisters, I would have to brush up on my manners.

“So, Captain, do you know Lieutenant Rolf Kayser?” I asked, once I had polished off the soup.

“Quite well, in fact. Kayser is one of our finest junior officers. He’s a born leader, very rugged, and his men are totally loyal to him. He looks after them better than any lieutenant I know. But tell me, why is U.S. Army headquarters staff interested in a Norwegian serving with the British commandos?”

“He may be a witness to a matter we are investigating for General Eisenhower. I can’t say more than that. Got to keep a tight lip on it, sir.” Carlyle didn’t seem to notice I was giving his own line back to him, but Daphne did. She jumped in to avoid any unpleasantness.

“Captain,” she said, “what does Rolf do, exactly, that makes his men so loyal?”

“Well, I suppose it has something to do with all of them being Norwegian. In exile together, fighting to free their country: I think that forges a bond between them that we English can’t fully understand. Thank God. But Kayser also makes a point never to leave a man behind, not even the dead. He’s had me put his entire troop through medical orderly training, so they can stabilize a wounded man in the field and try to get him back alive.”

“That must make a big difference,” I offered.

“It does, for a seriously wounded man. Treating him quickly for blood loss and shock can keep him alive until he can get regular medical treatment. Any member of Kayser’s troop could act as a competent medical orderly. He’s learned quite a lot of battleground medicine himself by watching me and asking questions. He’s not in any trouble, is he?”

“We need to talk with him, before he goes off on another mission. Have you been with him in the field?”

“Yes, several times.”

“On missions to the Norwegian coast, to destroy fishing vessels and processing plants?”

“That would be classified information, Lieutenant.”

“Sure. I wonder what it must be like to have to destroy your own country’s livelihood. It must be tough.”

“War is hell, Lieutenant. Isn’t that what one of your generals said?”

“Yes,” I answered. “General Sherman during the Civil War, commenting on the burning of Confederate cities. He was from Ohio. I always wondered if he would’ve sung a different tune if it had been Columbus going up in flames.”

“Interesting viewpoint, Lieutenant. You sound like a cynic.”

“No, just a cop, but maybe that’s the same thing. We tend to see the underside of society most days. Kind of makes you view things differently.”

“Not unlike our commando chaps. They live with death and killing every day. It seems to make the question of property destruction somewhat inconsequential. You were with the police before the war?”

“Boston Police Department. Now I’m just a lowly staffer picking up loose ends for Ike. Are you familiar with Knut Birkeland and his fishing fleet in Norway?”

“One doesn’t have to go on a raid to know that name. He left behind a rather large fishing fleet in northern waters when he came to England with the king.”

“Would it be safe to assume that his ships would be among those destroyed in commando raids?” I could see Carlyle giving that one some thought.

“Yes. One could safely assume that if such raids were carried out, Mr. Birkeland’s boats would be amongst those destroyed. If only by the law of averages. He probably owns a third of the fleet in those waters.”

Daphne and I exchanged glances. At least now we knew that Birkeland was telling the truth. He indeed had supported a policy that was ruining him financially.

“Did Rolf ever mention a gold coin to you?” I asked.

“Do you mean his lucky coin?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, lots of the boys have their superstitions and lucky charms. Rolf was beside himself over a month or so ago when his gold coin went missing. He claims it must have been stolen. He said it was his souvenir from when he helped Birkeland get the Norwegian gold out of the country.”

“Had you ever seen it?”

“No, he didn’t mention it until it went missing. He wasn’t supposed to have it in the first place, so that’s understandable. Is he in trouble?”

“No, he fessed up to King Haakon. All was forgiven.”

“Good. We’d best be going if I’m going to give you a tour of the base. There are a few interesting things to see. We’ll need to finish by 1600 hours. I have to make my rounds.”

We left the officers’ mess and got into Captain Carlyle’s jeep. He drove us around the base, showing us barracks for American paratroopers, rangers, and the British and Norwegian commandos. Same basic spindly wood-frame construction, with metal Quonset huts scattered between them, looking even more temporary and uninviting. Next to those were an exercise field and an obstacle course. I didn’t like them much in basic training and wasn’t impressed with them here either. He drove along the beach, pointing out a dock with several landing craft and small boats tied up to it. There was also an airstrip with cargo planes and a couple of those small Lysander single-engine jobs that the Brits used to land agents at night. As we drove on, I tried not to think of one of those leaving Diana in some French hay field.

We got out of the jeep at the weapons range. There were firing pits for rifle practice, with both American and British machine guns set up in front of a long shed. Carlyle showed us a number of German machine guns that had been captured on previous raids. There was even a Norwegian Madsen M/22.