James Benn - The Rest Is Silence

“It might be helpful for us to split up,” I said. “I know Kaz doesn’t care for boats much, so maybe he and Quick could work the land side while Big Mike and I find a boat to take us into Start Bay.”

“Good idea,” Uncle Ike said. “You can cover more ground that way. Whatever you need, William, feel free to use my name. I’ve had specific orders typed up, directing all parties, English and American, to render whatever assistance you require. An admiral couldn’t deny you a battleship, at least for the next several days. But then, Operation Tiger needs to be forgotten, at least until after the real invasion.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, standing. “We’ll do our best.”

“That’s exactly what we need, William. Good luck.” He rested his palm on my shoulder, and I felt some of his burden transferred to me. The weight was crushing. I’d complained about being left out of the loop on D-Day, and now here I was, with General Eisenhower telling me the future of the war depended on me finding nine dead men.

As we stepped on to the platform, the locomotive blew its whistle and the wheels began to turn slowly, the engine releasing a hiss of steam as it pulled the two heavy armored carriages out of the station. MPs climbed aboard or sprinted to their jeeps, ready to speed through the countryside and guard the next crossing.

“He was waiting just to speak to us,” Kaz said, his voice betraying an awe that he seldom revealed.

“These orders make us gods for the next few days,” I said.

“That’s how important this job is,” Harding said. “I’ve got another jeep for you. I figured the four of you would split up at some point. Good idea to go out into the Channel, Boyle. The USS Bayfield is anchored at Dartmouth. See the captain there, he’s got boats that can take you out.”

“Will do, Colonel. Tell me, is Peter Wiley a BIGOT? Is that why you denied him permission to ship out with Operation Tiger?”

“Yes,” Harding said. “He failed to convince me he needed to be there, although he felt strongly about it. The other BIGOTs all had to be with their units, but Wiley is pretty much a one-man show.”

“What does he do, exactly?” Kaz asked.

“You don’t need to know,” Harding said. It was a joke with us by now.

“We get it, Colonel,” I said. I watched Kaz lift a tarp in the backseat of the new jeep. “What’s that stuff?”

“Well, I figured we could requisition that place you’re holed up in, since Big Mike will need to bunk with you. Or do it the nice way, by bribery. If they’re going to feed him, all this will come in handy.”

No kidding , I thought. Big cans of coffee, green beans, canned tuna fish, several bottles of Scotch, sugar, a carton of Chesterfields, and to prove Harding had a sense of humor, four large cans of peaches, heavy syrup. A nod to a case back in London a few months ago. I thought the incident had been forgotten, but apparently not.

“Think that will keep the folks at Ashcroft House happy, Peaches?” Harding asked, a smile cracking his face. It wasn’t something you saw very often, so I didn’t mind the ribbing.

“Nice to see you remembered, Colonel,” I said. “This ought to make them delirious. One question before you leave. What about Big Mike and the BIGOT list? Can he be put on it? It’s going to be difficult if we can’t tell him everything.”

“Big Mike’s been a BIGOT for over a month now,” Harding said, getting into his jeep and starting it. “He had a need to know.” His grin got even wider, and I swear he actually laughed as he drove off.

“Hey, Billy, Kaz, how you guys doin’?” Staff Sergeant Mike Miecznikowski, aka Big Mike, asked as he stepped off the train, stooping to squeeze his six-foot-plus frame through the open door.

“Glad you’re here, Big Mike,” I said as Kaz shook hands with his Polish compatriot. Big Mike was Detroit Polish, and as different from Kaz as burlesque was from Broadway. That didn’t get in the way of them being good friends. Big Mike was pals with the world, at home anywhere. By rights, he should have stopped to salute both of us, but acknowledging senior officers didn’t come as second nature to him. Even in the rarified atmosphere of SHAEF, Big Mike ignored rank as much as he could, and as a result of his good-hearted nature, the brass often fell over themselves to be seen as one of Big Mike’s buddies. I don’t know how he did it, but he had a way with people that made even the powerful and famous want to be in his orbit. Maybe it was his huge biceps, or the way he could always scrounge up whatever was needed without a lot of paperwork getting in the way.

Me, I thought all this saluting was a load of hooey myself, but I thought that about most of the chickenshit stuff in the army. Uncle Ike liked deflating oversized egos himself. Maybe that’s why he gave Big Mike free reign at headquarters. Some general officers criticized him-behind his back, of course-for talking to GIs with his hands in his pockets. Apparently army trousers were not meant to have hands stuffed inside them, for whatever reason. That was the kind of thing that really ticked Uncle Ike off. So he stuffed his knuckles in his pockets whenever the press was snapping pictures, and the dogfaces loved it. They knew chickenshit, and this was a signal that their Supreme Commander was not a big fan of it himself.

“Sam didn’t tell me much on the telephone,” Big Mike said as he tossed his duffel in the rear of the jeep. “Somethin’ about finding nine guys.”

“Nine dead men,” I said.

“Sounds unpleasant,” Big Mike said. “What’s the deal?”

“It’s even worse than it sounds. Why don’t you drive with Kaz, and he’ll fill you in.”

“We headed to the joint where your RAF pal David lives?” Big Mike asked Kaz.

“Yes. We’ll drop off your gear and all the contraband in the jeep. That’s the bribe for them putting up with you.”

“Geez,” Big Mike said, inspecting the contents. “Ain’t Sam ever gonna forget about those peaches?”

They drove off and I followed, glad for the time alone. Time to think about what had been revealed and what was left unsaid. The time and place of D-Day fit into the latter category, but I didn’t really want to know that much. Not that I might shoot my mouth off after a couple of pints. I didn’t want to see men training for the invasion and know the likely date of their death. I had read a report about expected casualties a week before. It was no secret that airborne divisions would play a key role, but there was talk that Air Vice-Marshal Leigh-Mallory had predicted up to 70 percent casualties for the 82nd Airborne. As for the GIs in the first assault wave, wherever the invasion planners sent them, it would be the same. The Germans had been fortifying the French coastline like mad, planting mines, pouring concrete, laying out fields of fire. The Atlantic Wall, Hitler called it: a long line of fortifications that the tiny Higgins boats would advance upon through churning surf and blazing steel. So, no thanks; I don’t want to know when that’s happening. No wonder Uncle Ike looked so pale, his face lined with worries I couldn’t even imagine.

From Paignton it was a straight shot to the bridge at Totnes, driving through fields of sprouting crops and grazing cows. I cruised by columns of marching GIs carrying heavy packs and counting cadence. There were more in the distance, spread out on maneuvers, darting up gently rolling hills, disappearing into tree lines and appearing again like an undulating swarm of brown ants. Under the English sky, it all looked so simple.

We crossed the river, and even miles inland it was easy to see how low the water was. Small boats sat on the mud bottom waiting for the tide’s return, long ropes securing them to the bank six feet up. Would bodies drift up the waterways, the cost of war washing up against farmers’ fields? I shook off the macabre image and slowed as the country lane leading to North Cornworthy narrowed, green leafy branches arching over our heads as we drove. Picturesque. The perfect thing before an afternoon of sorting through the dead.