James Benn: The Rest Is Silence

“We must be getting close to the assault training area,” I said.

“I assume we will wait until they are done with live-fire exercises,” Kaz said. “Perhaps we can find a spot for a decent luncheon. We passed a pub in that last village. The dead can wait, after all.”

“Let’s find someone alive who can tell us what’s going on first,” I said.

“As long as they are not firing five-inch rockets at us,” Kaz said. I had to agree. Kaz was up to date on the newly configured P-47s because General Eisenhower was coming down next week to watch an amphibious assault at Slapton Sands, which was going to feature a demonstration of the new rocket-carrying Thunderbolts. The general was interested in their capabilities against German tanks, which everyone knew we’d come up against all too soon. The Air Force probably had their pilots practicing every day so they’d look good when the brass was watching.

We came to a roadblock outside of Chillington, a village not rating more than a tiny dot on the roadmap Kaz held folded in his lap. A jeep was parked across the narrow lane, and a sign warning DANGER AHEAD was set up in front of it.

“Restricted area, Captain,” said the military police sergeant, holding up his hand as he crushed a cigarette butt under one heel. His white helmet and white leather belt were spotless. He managed to sound pompous even when addressing two officers. “You’ll have to turn around.”

“Ike says I don’t have to, Sergeant,” I said as I passed him my orders. I couldn’t help myself. Even though I come from a family of cops, I grew up hearing stories from my dad and Uncle Dan about the MPs they ran into during the last war. According to them, the snowdrops-so called because of their white helmets-spent way too much time and trouble keeping the fighting men from liquor and French ladies. Dad and Uncle Dan were both cops themselves. Detectives on the Boston Police Department, where I’d worked in the family business until this war came along.

“I’ve heard of SHAEF,” the sergeant said, handing the papers back. “First time I’ve ever seen anyone from Supreme Headquarters. You’re a long way from London, sir.” He spoke evenly, but the sarcasm about officers from HQ was clear. I was thinking of a way to get even when Kaz spoke up.

“Sergeant,” Kaz said. “Is the way ahead clear? Of bombs and explosions, I mean.”

“You must have heard the P-47s, sir. They’re done for the day. But they are running landing exercises down at the beach. May I ask your business here?” By now, his two companions had gathered around, probably glad of a break in the dull routine. One was an army private, the other an English constable with a rifle slung over his shoulder.

“You heard about a body washing up on Slapton Sands?” I asked, grateful for Kaz’s interruption. This MP might have thought it’d be funny to send a couple of junior officers into a bombardment if I’d rattled his cage enough.

“Yes, I found it,” the constable said. “Wish I hadn’t. Horrible sight.”

“They brought it through our checkpoint,” the sergeant said. “That what you’re here about?” He seemed friendlier now that we were talking about a gruesome corpse.

“It is. SHAEF wants to be sure it wasn’t a Kraut,” I said. “Mind if we borrow the constable? It would be helpful if he could show us exactly where the body was.” The sergeant didn’t mind. The constable’s shift was up in an hour, and we could give him a lift back to Dartmouth. Besides, two guys could stand around and smoke as well as three.

“Tom Quick,” the constable said from the rear of the jeep after we’d introduced ourselves. “Don’t mind a drive to the shore, I’ll tell you.” Constable Quick was dark haired, with deep brown eyes and a confident way about him. He looked to be in his late thirties, maybe on the short side of forty. He wore his dark blue uniform well and handled his rifle like he was used to it. Bobbies had only been armed for the duration of the war, and some of them had never fired a shot in their lives.

“Boring duty?” Kaz asked as we drove off.

“It can be,” Quick said. “But the worst of it is turning people back when all they want’s to check on their homes. That’s why I’m there, to provide a local face for the poor souls from the South Hams. Some try to sneak in, so we have to patrol the whole area. Sad business, really.”

“Are you from the South Hams yourself?” I asked.

“No, I come from Newton Abbot. I’m assigned to the Dartmouth division; we work with the army quite often.”

“What’s the W.R. stand for?” I asked. Quick was wearing a British Tommie helmet with W.R. CONSTABLE painted on the front.

“War Reserve Constable,” Quick said. “I was a regular constable before the war, then I joined the RAF in ’39. Served as a gunner on a Lancaster until I took some shrapnel in my leg. They invalided me out, even though it only gave me a slight limp. The police are undermanned enough to overlook a minor injury, especially if it gets them an experienced officer. Temporary duty only, though, until the end of the war.”

“I was a cop myself, before the war,” I said. “Back in Boston.”

“Thought you might have been,” Quick said.

“Why?” Kaz asked, turning to face Quick.

“Because he asks a lot of questions. A good copper never stops asking questions, does he, Captain Boyle?”

“No,” I admitted. “Once you get the habit, it’s hard to break. So I expect you asked some questions yourself after you found the body.”

“Indeed,” Quick said. “I didn’t think he was a serviceman, and the Yank MPs were quick to agree. They had no reports of anyone missing, and the last thing they wanted was a case they couldn’t solve. Besides, he’d been in the water a long time, probably since before the whole American army descended on the South Hams. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but it’s been a handful, let me tell you.”

“Dr. Verniquet said he’d been in the water a month or more,” I said, confirming his hunch. “And keeping the peace among thousands of GIs while guarding the border around the South Hams sounds like a huge job.”

“It is, and the force is shortstaffed. A lot of the pensioners who came out of retirement at the start of the war have had to leave, and most of the younger lads have joined up. So it’s up to the lame and elderly most of the time, but we manage, even with the black market to add to our woes. Which brings us back to our friend from the Channel.”

“You think he was a criminal?” Kaz asked.

I slowed as we entered Stokenham, one of the villages emptied out by the government. It was a ghost town. Shops and homes along the main road stood with broken windows, open doors, and bits and pieces of furniture on the ground as if the buildings had spewed them out. A curtain fluttered in the breeze, a frayed token of surrender. One house had burned, its roof caved in. At the center of town, dozens of GIs sat around a First World War monument, eating K-Rations. More came out of the Church House Inn by the side of the road, tossing their empty ration packs on the path. The village looked like it had been plundered.

“What’s this?” I asked, shocked at the sight. I knew the residents were gone, but I had never imagined their homes and businesses would be treated like dump sites in their absence.

“Criminal, really,” Quick said. “But the lads who come through here aren’t the only ones to blame. At first we patrolled the area, but there weren’t enough of us. Vandals and thieves had their chance before the army. So when the first troops came ashore, they found the homes wide open. The live-fire rounds they sometimes use for realistic training have only added to the destruction, as you can see. A house full of bullet holes is ripe for desecration. Most of these men probably think the entire area’s slated for destruction.”