James Benn: The Rest Is Silence

“Good morning, gentlemen,” I said, approaching a group of fishermen perching on a variety of tubs and crates near a row of a half-dozen fishing craft, keels in the mud of the estuary, lines tied snug to stanchions on the quay. On their laps was a confusion of nets being sewn or mended or whatever fishermen did with them. I got a couple of nods, but most didn’t bother to look up. Yanks were tuppence a dozen along the southwest coast.

“Sorry to interrupt your labors,” Kaz said, handing packs of Luckies around. That got their attention. “But we need your expertise.”

“Those cigarettes would buy you a lot more than that, laddie,” the oldest of the bunch said, with a wide grin that could have used a few more teeth.

“But not from us, eh, Alfie?” This from another grey-haired fisherman. It got a round of laughs.

“I wanted to ask about the tides and currents,” I said. Before I could say more, Alfie beckoned me closer and raised his head, sniffing the air.

“Either you fell in a dung heap,” Alfie said, “or you’ve been to see Doc Verniquet. Which means you’re here about the body.” He pocketed his smokes and grinned. “Ain’t that right?”

“Dead on, Alfie,” I said, which earned me a chuckle. Bringing a bloated, stinking corpse into town must have been hard to keep secret.

As the others lit up, Alfie studied me. “Think he was one of yours?”

“Too soon to tell,” I said. “What I’d like to know is where he might have floated in from. You fellows must know the tides and currents better than anyone.”

“Aye. But why should we help you?” one of the other fishermen said, blowing smoke from one of the twenty reasons. He was younger than Alfie, but not young enough for military service. In his forties maybe, or maybe his weathered skin and thick stubble had just aged him. “Your lot has shut down all the good fishing west of here, not to mention taken homes away from good people.”

“Now hang on, George,” Alfie said. “It was our lot who took over the South Hams, not the Yanks. And between E-boats and the Luftwaffe, the Germans have had as much to do with keeping us clear of those waters.”

“Yeah, but we could still have stayed close to the shore,” George said, “if it wasn’t for the Yanks blowing up our homes.”

“I’m sorry, fellows,” I said. “But I don’t know what you’re talking about. We just got here from London to look into the body they brought in.”

“The government evacuated the whole area. Our government, that is,” Alfie said, with a hard look to George. “Right before Christmas, it was. Hard on everyone, especially the older folks. Some had never been more than one village away from home their whole lives.”

“An old fellow from my village hung himself in his barn,” George said. “He’d never been outside of Blackawton, said he’d die there rather than leave.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “That must have been hard.”

“It was,” Alfie said with a nod. “But most of us feel we had to do our part. If it helps to get your lads ready for the invasion, it’s the least we can do. The government gave us money, after all. It’s not like we were bombed out sudden like. We had a month to pack up and leave, more time than many had after the Luftwaffe come over.”

“More than three thousand people, I understand,” Kaz said. “Nearly two hundred farms spread out over six parishes.”

“Polish, eh?” Alfie said, pointing to Kaz’s shoulder patch. “You know what it’s like to lose everything to the war. Our complaints must seem petty.”

“Loss is loss,” Kaz said, with a sad smile. He looked away, studying the muddy riverbed. Kaz had lost more to this war than most people.

“Sorry,” George said, after another glare from Alfie. “I know lots of folk have it worse. But I can’t help missing it. We lived in Beesands all our lives, the wife and I. Fished out of there and made a good living, too. Plenty of crab and plaice out on the Skerries and beyond.”

“The Skerries?” I said.

“Sand bank out in Start Bay,” Alfie explained. “Off limits now, strictly for the navy.”

“Aye,” George said. “Ours and theirs. Jerry sticks his nose up this way now and then. The E-boats go out at night, looking for transports.”

“They ever attack you?” I asked.

“No,” Alfie said. “We skirt the coast and head west into the wider waters. Jerry likes to stay in the Channel, where he can run back to Cherbourg if things get too hot.”

“You men know these waters,” I said, getting back on track. “Any ideas about where the body could have come from? France maybe?”

“Naw,” George said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The currents don’t carry north or south. East or west, depending on the tide.”

“The Channel’s like a sleeve,” Alfie said. “Water goes in every day, like a man’s arm into his shirt. At the narrow parts, it’s a surge. Less so as the Channel widens, into the Atlantic or the North Sea. Here, it’s strong, as you can see.” He gestured toward their fishing boats stuck in the mud. “Two hours from now the tide’ll come in, and in three we’ll be heading out in deep water.”

“In and out, four times a day,” George said. “The inshore currents run about two or three knots an hour. More if the winds are favorable.”

“Which means a body washed up at Slapton Sands could have gone into the water twenty or so miles in either direction and been stuck in the tidal currents until he washed ashore,” I said. I figured the tides ran six hours apart, and at three or maybe four knots an hour, the currents could have carried him back and forth for quite a while.

“Could be,” Alfie said, glancing at the other fishermen, who nodded their assent. “The winds have kicked up since last week, enough to bring him ashore.”

“You haven’t heard of any fishermen missing? Boats that didn’t come back from the Channel?”

“No. If a man was missing, everyone within miles’d know if it. Of course, a body could have gone in right here, from the embankment,” George said. “The estuary goes on for three miles before it reaches the Channel. He could have floated out with the tide and got caught up in the currents, washing up and down the coast until the wind took pity on him and returned him to dry land.”

“Here, or anywhere up the River Dart to the east,” Alfie said. “We’re not much help, I’m afraid.”

I thanked them for their assistance, such as it was. As we left, I took stock of their clothing. Corduroy or wool, plain browns mostly. A month or so in the drink and they’d look like the shreds Doc Verniquet had taken off the body.

I gunned the jeep as we crossed the low stone bridge that arched the estuary, letting the wind whip the smell from my clothes. Mud flats and tidal pools spread out on either side as the salty aroma of the ocean grew stronger.

“I’d prefer the stink of death to actually dying,” Kaz said, holding on to his cap with one hand and the seat with the other. I let up on the gas and drove sedately through a small village. Whitewashed stone cottages with thatched roofs sat close to the road, stark and bright beneath the slanting rays of the morning sun. A pub, a couple of shops, and then we were back in the midst of green fields. Aircraft roared overhead, descending as they passed us, heading for the coast.

“P-47s, I think,” Kaz said, following their flight with shaded eyes. “Outfitted with the new rockets under each wing.” The P-47 Thunderbolt was easy to spot. It was large for a fighter; long and wide, able to carry a heavy load of armament. We heard distant explosions, then saw the fighters climb gracefully in two groups, engines snarling as they vanished over the horizon.