James Benn - The Rest Is Silence

“Damn straight,” I said. “I saw plenty of boys from the 82nd Airborne in Sicily. They were straggling in for days.”

“What was it like, Captain?” the private asked. “Sicily.” By that he meant combat: death, fear, dismemberment, sweat, blood, and the crystal clarity of the borderline between the living and the dead.

“Hot and dusty,” I said, keeping those thoughts to myself. “Noisy too. Keep your head down and follow your corporal’s lead. He seems to have half a brain.” That got a few laughs. When guys who will soon see the elephant ask what it’s like, it’s best to gloss over the reality. Otherwise, they’ll worry themselves to pieces.

“Do not hesitate,” Kaz said, as we walked back to the jeep. “Kill anything in a German uniform. Leave mercy behind.” It was good advice, but it left a silence as the troopers took in the scar on Kaz’s face and the flat certainty in his voice.

“What about you, Constable?” the corporal asked, trying to lighten the mood. “Any advice from law enforcement?”

“I flew thirty missions in Lancasters, son,” Quick said. “I’ve been to Berlin six times. I’ve killed more Germans on one raid than you ever will with that machine gun, but you do your best when you get over there. They still owe me.”

“Be careful tomorrow,” I said, hustling my all-too-honest friends into the jeep before these boys went off looking for the chaplain. “Dig in deeper than you think you need to.” The corporal waved his entrenching tool as we drove off, hopefully a sign he was about to take my advice. The margin of error when you’re talking about shells fired from a cruiser offshore was pretty damn small.

“At least they’ll be fighting men in uniform, not massacring civilians,” Quick said. We’d made our circuit of the area and stopped midway along Slapton Sands, watching the grey Channel waters break on the shingle. Army engineers were busy stringing rolls of barbed wire above the waterline, working at making the upcoming exercise as realistic as possible.

“It’s the way wars are fought these days,” I said. “It’s not your fault.”

“I know,” Quick said. “I did my job, same as some damn Jerry bombardier did his. That’s the weight of it, all of us doing our bit. Bomb by bomb, until one side gives in. Sad that it takes so many. I don’t understand why the Jerries don’t shatter and break just like their cities.”

“You’ve done your share of fighting,” Kaz said. “Now it is up to those men and others like them. The war will be won on the ground, no matter how many bombs we drop.”

“Thirty missions,” Quick whispered into the wind. “The first and the last, they were the worst.”

“Grange told us about your first mission,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“The odd thing is, I’d hardened myself after a while,” Quick said, still staring out over the water, ignoring my words. “By the twentieth mission, I figured I’d be dead soon, and none of it mattered. Then we kept coming home. It was horrifying to think about surviving. What would I do? There was nothing but death in the air and grief upon the ground.”

We waited as he paused, the wind whipping my trench coat, the salt spray bitter on my lips.

“My pal Freddie Swales kept my spirits up,” Quick went on. “He was our rear turret gunner. Those chaps have an average life expectancy of forty flying hours in a Lancaster. Each night mission took about eight hours, so you can calculate the odds for yourself. By twenty-five missions, Freddie thought he could walk on water. When we took off for our last run, I believed it myself. If Freddie lived through it, there was hope for all of us. Hope for me.”

“What happened?” I asked into the silence.

“We almost made it,” Quick said. “We’d crossed the Dutch coast and were over the North Sea when a swarm of Me-109s hit us. It was near dawn, light enough to see them as they nipped at the formation, trying to score hits and get a straggler to drop out and fall behind. They got one, and formed up for one last attack before they headed home. One bastard came right at us, dead on from the rear. The whole aircraft shook as he peppered the rear turret with machine-gun and cannon fire. I thought we were going down, but we made it to the closest airfield, one engine belching flames and black smoke. There was nothing left of Freddie, nothing that you could call a man. The turret was smashed, nothing but a gaping hole. The ground crew pulled out chunks of Freddie and tossed them into a wheelbarrow. Then they hosed out what was left. And there was poor Freddie, all bits of flesh, blood, and bone, a pink froth settling into the ground. They told me I tried to gather them up, but I don’t remember, thank God.”

“No wonder you think the Germans still owe you,” I said.

“Some debts can only be repaid in blood,” Quick said. He turned away and walked back to the jeep.

“He doesn’t understand they are not debts,” Kaz said to me. “There is no payment for suffering and grief, no recompense for dead family and loved ones.”

“Maybe he hopes he can repay his own debts someday,” I said.

“ ‘He that dies pays all debts,’ ” Kaz said, with a shrug.

“Shakespeare?” I guessed.

“Very good, Billy,” Kaz said. “I forget which play. The Tempest , perhaps. I shall ask Edgar tonight.”

We trudged back to the jeep, and as we left the restricted area, I wondered if Tom Quick had ever seen the play.

Quick was fine on the ride back. If that word can describe a man who feels responsible for the deaths of families like his own and who watched his friend’s remains get hosed out of a rear turret. We Americans were paying our own butcher’s bill in this war, but the English had been at it so much longer, been so victimized by bombs, loss, and sacrifice that their toll of suffering, horror, and deprivation had to be heavier, an ominous presence felt heavily throughout the land.

We left Tom at Constable Carraher’s cottage in North Cornworthy, thinking it best for him to be with a friend, then pressed on to meet up with Colonel Harding. We crossed the River Dart and followed the directions Peter Wiley had given for Greenway House, the headquarters of the US Navy 10th Flotilla. I made a mental note to write my mom and tell her we should name our place in South Boston. It sure was the fashion here.

Greenway House sat on a wooded knoll overlooking the river. The navy knew how to pick its billets. It was north of Dartmouth, not far as the crow flies from North Cornworthy, but a bit of a drive since the first bridge was upriver at Totnes. A small ferry ran across the river at Greenway, but it was only for foot traffic and bicyclists. A stone boathouse stood jutting out over the water, with two navy launches moored alongside. From there it was a short hop to the big vessels docked at Dartmouth harbor.

The house itself was stark white, three stories, in the Georgian style, according to Kaz. Only one story less than my house in Boston, which was in the Southie style: clapboards, front stoop and all, but you could probably fit four of the Boyle homesteads into the Greenway footprint.

Shore patrol swabbies checked our IDs before letting us in. The rooms had all been converted into offices, and we found Harding near the back, in a small room that might have been a pantry back when. We gave him our report, short and sweet.

“The only thing to worry about is some guys from the 101st too close to the bombardment area,” I said. “No sign of civilians anywhere.”

“Okay, that’s about all we can do. It’s up to the navy to get it right tomorrow,” Harding said, pushing himself back from his desk and gathering up folders.