James Benn - The Rest Is Silence

“With orders like these, we could detail a regiment to take care of the search and have a few pints while they get on with it,” Quick said with a grin, to show he was joking. But he was right. We could probably wave these around and walk off with the army payroll before anyone questioned us.

“Tempting,” I said. “And the pints will be on me, if and when we find them. We’ll rendezvous at Greenway House and report to Colonel Harding at nineteen hundred.”

“Seven o’clock, Billy,” Big Mike said. “Speak English, willya?” Civilians in uniform-that accounted for most of us over here, as I’d explained to Lady Pemberton a few days before.

I asked Big Mike to drive because my leg was stiff and my healing cuts and scrapes itched like crazy. We followed Kaz and Quick until they turned off for Stoke Fleming and then we headed into Dartmouth. As we drew closer to the harbor, the American MPs and British sailors standing guard were a bit thicker on the ground than they’d been before. Ambulances sat parked along the quay, drivers half asleep or smoking, killing time until the brass decided there would be no more survivors brought in from the Channel. Other than that, it could have been any day at war along the English coast: men, grey ships, the smell of oil and salt mingling with seaweed and garbage.

Our orders got us onboard the USS Bayfield pronto. An ensign named Weber escorted us to the captain’s quarters. He looked about fifteen years old. His khakis were pressed and his tie knotted perfectly. The brass on his cap gleamed, and I figured he must be an eager beaver at the ensign business. We passed an array of twenty- and forty-millimeter guns, and I saw bigger five-inch cannon forward and aft. “You’ve got a lot of hardware for a transport,” I said.

“We’re an Attack Transport, Captain,” Ensign Weber said. “Admiral Moon’s flagship, too. We’re going to be in the thick of it, that’s for sure.” He grinned, the foolish smile of a kid who’s eager for something he knows nothing about. As he knocked on the captain’s door, it swung open, and Weber snapped to attention, his back arched and his eyes wide. A stoop-shouldered naval officer stalked past us, and from the flash of gold on his shoulder boards, I figured he must be Admiral Moon. He didn’t seem aware that we were in the gangway, inches from him as he brushed by. The admiral had a strong face, with a nose and chin that looked like they could cut through oceans like a destroyer’s bow. But he looked haggard-even more so than Uncle Ike. I caught a glimpse of where he’d missed shaving that morning, a patch of stubble along his cheek. How much of that was due to the Operation Tiger debacle, and how much from the pressure of carrying an entire army to the far shore?

“Enter,” came a sharp voice from within the captain’s quarters. Ensign Weber held the door and announced us to Captain Victor Spencer, US Coast Guard, commanding. It was all very formal. Spencer didn’t look up from the paperwork on his desk. The wood and brass fixtures all sparkled, a testimony to the navy’s affinity for busywork.

“Tell the kid to beat it,” I said. With men adrift in the Channel, I had no patience for spit and polish.

“Who the hell are you, and what are you doing on my ship?” Spencer said, his words echoing off the steel bulkheads. He had a booming voice, the kind you get when no one except an admiral can tell you what to do, and even he has to be nice, since it’s your ship.

“Captain Boyle,” I said, answering his first question as I handed him my orders. Then, in answer to the second: “And whatever the hell I want.” I watched him read, the fury on his face turning to irritation as his eyes darted back and forth, taking in the name of his Supreme Commander.

“Dismissed, Ensign,” Captain Spencer said, and Weber did an about-face that almost spun him off his feet.

“I need a boat to take us out to Lyme Bay, where the transports went down,” I said. “Ideally with someone who knows the tides and currents.”

“This is a United States Navy vessel, Captain Boyle,” Spencer said, his lips compressed as if holding back an order to bring out the cat-o’-nine-tails. “Manned by Navy and Coast Guard personnel. We have a nodding acquaintance with the sea. And I will get you out there and off the Bayfield as fast as possible.” He bellowed for Weber, who must have been gripping the door handle, he was in so fast. “Ensign Weber, take these men to Lieutenant Raffel.” Then, turning his eyes on me, he said, “Raffel can take you out on the PA 12–88. It’s already in the water, so you can leave as soon as possible.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” I said, and followed Weber. Sometimes I wise off too much, I know. But the senior brass-most of them-rub me the wrong way. When a mere captain has the authority of the Supreme Commander, Allied Expeditionary Force behind him, it’s hard to resist letting the shit roll in the opposite direction once in a while.

“What about this lieutenant?” I asked Weber. “Does he know the local waters?”

“Sure, he has a little sailboat he picked up. Goes out when he has time and zips around the bay. He’s got a good ship and crew. What’s this all about, Captain Boyle?”

“Sorry, kid. Need to know.”

“Yeah, and I don’t need to know,” Weber said. “Same old story.” And here I thought it was our exclusive little joke. He led us down a gangplank running alongside the ship. Bobbing in the water, tied to the Bayfield , was a small craft, sort of a cross between a Higgins boat and a speedboat that had aspirations to grow up and be a PT boat one day. Winches were lowering other landing craft into the water from the decks where they were stored.

“What is that, exactly?” I asked, pointing to the boat riding up and down on the swells, dwarfed by the five-hundred-foot Bayfield .

“Landing Craft Support, Small,” Weber said as he led us onto the vessel. And the accent was on small. “It’s a rocket boat. See those launchers on either side? They can fire twenty-four rockets each.”

“That’s what we saw firing at Slapton Sands,” I said. “Pretty impressive. I didn’t realize the boats were so tiny.”

“They pack a lot of punch for their size,” Weber said proudly as the crew looked us over.

“Lieutenant Keith Raffel,” a guy in rumpled khakis said, holding out his hand. I introduced myself and Big Mike, and Weber gave him the word from Captain Spencer that he was to take us out into Lyme Bay. Raffel was tall and gangly, his face tanned from the days on his sailboat or the open bridge of this odd little craft. “We were just about to head out and shake down our new engine,” he said. “Glad to have you aboard.”

“You heard about the attack on the convoy last night?” I asked.

“Sure, everyone has. We were told mum’s the word.”

“Still is, but I want to see how the rescue operation is going out there,” I said.

“Recovery is more like it,” Raffel said. “But sure, we’ll take you out. Can I ask why?”

“We’re assisting the army investigation,” Big Mike said. “Orders from SHAEF.” Raffel shrugged, not all that interested in why the army was investigating a navy catastrophe. He probably knew he had no need to know.

“Okay, we’re almost ready to shove off,” Raffel said, turning to one of his crew. “Yogi, get these men some lifejackets, willya?”

“Sure, Skipper,” a young seaman said, coming up from belowdecks. “All we got are lifebelts. You guys know how these work?”

“Yogi?” I said, taking the lifebelt from him. He was stocky and dark, with a ready smile and sharp eyes. “What kind of name is that? You look Italian, maybe.”

“I am,” he said. “Gunner’s Mate Lawrence Berra, but they call me Yogi.”