James Benn - The Rest Is Silence

The other thing was about what was said in the pub. It wasn’t “perhaps the fisherman will cut through the hedges.” Evan had added “as well” at the end. More than one clever man had slipped through that gap in the hedge. What it all meant, I had not a clue.

The sound came from very, very far away. I tried to roll over, hoping it was a dream, but knowing it wasn’t.

“Captain Boyle,” an insistent voice came from the hallway as the hand I assumed to be connected to it rapped again on my door.

“Coming,” I said, stumbling out of bed, noticing the faintest sliver of light showing at the horizon as I glanced out the window. I opened the door to find Williams, in his bathrobe, a look of disapproval on his face and a candle in one hand.

“A Colonel Harding is on the telephone,” Williams said. “He says it is urgent that he speak to you.”

I grabbed a robe and followed Williams. Not so long ago, Harding had told me to take it easy. Now what did he want? Kaz poked his head out from his room and followed along as Williams led us to the telephone in Sir Rupert’s study.

“You can use the telephone in here,” Williams said, switching on a lamp. “I will hang up the receiver downstairs.”

“Thank you,” I said, but the butler had already closed the door behind him.

“Hello?” I said into the mouthpiece. “Colonel Harding?”

“Boyle, I need both of you in Brixham, soon,” Harding said, his voice tight.

“Today, Colonel?”

“This morning, Boyle. Now. You and Lieutenant Kazimierz get in that jeep and don’t stop until you get to Brixham harbor. I’ll be down by the hards along the breakwater. We have a situation. Ships were lost last night in Lyme Bay.”

“Where?” I said, trying to understand what Harding was saying, and what I was supposed to do about it.

“Never mind, just get here, pronto,” Harding snapped. “This is bad news.”

“How will I find you, Colonel?” I said.

“It won’t be hard. Look for LST 289. She’s easy to spot.” With that, he hung up. The line went silent, then a click, and finally a dial tone sounded. It was a short conversation, so it might have been Williams finally getting to the downstairs telephone to hang up. Or a nosy servant.

“Something’s up,” I said to Kaz. “Harding wants us in Brixham, at the hards.”

“The what?” Kaz said.

“The hards,” I said. “It’s what they call the paved roads that lead straight to the embarkation points. Hard, paved surfaces and concrete ramps built by the engineers. They’re made for tanks and trucks, so they can drive right onto the transports. They’re everywhere along the coast.”

“Of course,” Kaz said. “I’ve seen them. I should have known Americans would create a short name for them. Did the colonel give any clue as to what has happened?”

“No, other than to meet him by LST 289. He said it would be hard to miss.” Sitting in Sir Rupert’s chair, I idly scanned his desk, out of habit-or nosiness. Papers were strewn across the top, as if someone had dumped files out and gone through them. I opened a drawer and saw much the same: papers jammed back into cardboard files, a rushed and sloppy search job.

“Billy, we should go,” Kaz said. “I will see if Mrs. Dudley is up and will provide a thermos of coffee.

“Good idea, Kaz,” I said, getting up and switching off the lamp. Part of me wanted to stay and figure out what the desk search had been all about. Especially the part of me that couldn’t face the notion of more early morning hours in the jeep.

“You’ll have to excuse Mr. Williams,” Mrs. Dudley said in the kitchen a little later, pouring coffee into a thermos and wrapping two ham sandwiches for us. “He has little time to himself and holds his sleep very dear. The telephone woke him early.”

“Is that coffee?” said Crawford, coming in the back door and sniffing the air.

“Have a cup with me,” Mrs. Dudley said. “These gentlemen have got to fly off to Brixham for some reason. Don’t know why anyone would want to go there, especially at dawn. What’s the bother, Captain?”

“Something about ships in Lyme Bay,” I said, shoving my arms into my trench coat.

“I should call my cousin in Salcombe,” Crawford said. “He’s with a shore battery crew on the heights above the harbor. They’ve got a clear view across the bay. I’ll not want to go out on the tide this morning if Jerry’s still prowling about.”

“They probably won’t be out in daylight,” I said. “But you never know.”

“Sounds like real trouble,” Crawford said as we made our way out.

“Colonels don’t call for much else,” I said as we left.

Kaz drove, and I checked the map in between bites of smoked ham on brown bread. We took the bridge over the River Dart, invisible as the early morning fog rose off it like white clouds between low, rolling hills. We got on the Brixham road and took it to the coast, finishing the last of our coffee as we wended our way through the town, down the heights to the harbor below. It looked like a decent little seaside town, and I wondered what Mrs. Dudley had against it.

A small inlet marked the beginning of the harbor area, with small craft and fishing boats moored close in. Beyond them were destroyers, patrol boats, and transports of all sizes. The breakwater was farther out, and we followed the newly widened road as it curved alongside the docks. Harding had been right. LST 289 was tough to miss. The ambulances parked close to the ship, and the frenetic activity all around her would have been signal enough. But as we drove down the hard, the damage was plain to see. The entire stern had been blown off, barely enough of the structure left intact to keep the Channel waters from pouring in and swamping the ship. An open gun mount hung precariously over the gaping hole, wisps of smoke escaping into the clear morning air.

The bow ramp was down, and tanks, half-tracks, and jeeps were driving off, passing us as we pulled over. The men on the vehicles looked straight ahead, silent and grim.

“I can’t believe it’s still afloat,” Kaz said, in a half whisper. Ambulances followed the vehicles, none of them in a hurry. No sirens for the dead. As we got out and walked closer, two MPs quickly came toward us, palms out, ordering us to halt. They tried to give us the bum’s rush until I mentioned Harding’s name, and then one of them escorted us aboard.

The deck was covered in hoses and shell casings. The LST had put up a fight with its light twenty- and forty-millimeter armament. The damage-control party had had a hot fire to deal with as well, judging by the blackened and blistered paint. Inside, we descended metal steps and found Harding at a table in a small room that smelled of oil and smoke. Opposite him was a naval officer, and between them were clipboards and stacks of paperwork. The walls were steel bulkheads with one grimy porthole.

“Captain Boyle and Lieutenant Kazimierz reporting as ordered, sir,” I said, almost at attention. I figured Harding would appreciate some military discipline in front of a navy guy.

“Lieutenant Mettler, Captain of the 289,” Harding said, nodding to the officer, who rose and shook our hands. He was short and dark haired, and had soot streaked across his forehead. He looked frantic and exhausted at the same time.

“Good luck, Colonel,” Mettler said as he left the room. “I’ll let you know if we find the body.”

“What body?” I said as he cleared the door. Or hatch, I think they call them in the navy.

“A very special body,” Harding said. “I can’t say any more right now.”

“Is there anything you can tell us, Colonel?” Kaz asked.