James Benn - The Rest Is Silence

“See, you’re better already,” I said, smiling at her quick recovery.

“Perhaps I needed that sleep,” she admitted. “What time is it?”

“Almost eight,” I said. “I’ll fetch Alice to help you clean up.”

“It’s odd: I have always risen early, but now I can’t seem to stay awake once daylight comes,” she said, a distracted look in her eyes. “Nice girl, Alice. There was something I wanted to talk to you about, Billy, but for the life of me I cannot recall what it was. No matter, it will come to me.” She rubbed her eyes, the strain of whatever was bothering her evident, no matter how chipper she tried to sound.

“We’ll try to be back for dinner,” I said. “I hope you’ll feel better by then.”

“I’m sure I will,” she said. “Off you go now, Billy. It was kind of you to come and see me. I haven’t had company all morning, except for Meredith bringing my tray. She’s trying awfully hard, don’t you think?”

“She’s trying, that’s for sure,” I said, and left Great Aunt Sylvia chuckling. She seemed better this morning, if still a bit woozy. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, she was in her nineties, and that was bound to make anyone tired and confused. Me, I hadn’t hit the quarter century mark, and I was bushed from everything that had happened over the past few days. I found Alice and asked her to tend to Lady Pemberton. Alice called her a “poor dear” and agreed she seemed more tired than ever.

I picked up Tom Quick a short time later. He sat in the jeep with his helmet firmly strapped under his chin, his rifle held between his knees. His knuckles were white, and he didn’t say a word.

“Tom, I could drop you off in Dartmouth if you’d rather not come along,” I said.

“Rather not? Who does what they’d rather do these days, Billy?”

We drove toward Brixham, planning to start with the Casualty Clearing Station and work our way south until we met up with Kaz and Big Mike-with our list of names all checked off, I hoped. Outside of Stoke Gabriel there were columns of British Tommies on the road, marching four abreast at a pace that would have been tiring without the heavy packs and Lee-Enfield rifles. They stretched as far as I could see, so we backed up and Constable Quick navigated the back roads, taking us along the coast, skirting the main road and the traffic heading into Brixham.

“Looks like good farming country,” I said. Cows were grazing in the green pastures. The aroma of spring manure spread on the fields filled the air, mingling with the tangy aroma of salt water from the Channel not far off. A promise of summer-and plenty, in its own way.

“They say Devon cream is the best in England,” Quick said, his voice flat and his eyes scanning the fields and enclosures as if he had little interest in cream, cows, or anything in bloom. I was trying to think of what to say when a man jumped out into the lane, waving his arms. I hit the brakes, swerving in the rutty dirt to miss him.

“Down there! They’re down there!” he shouted. A farmer, by the look of his work clothes. His face was flushed from exertion, his eyes wide at what he’d seen.

“Who?” Quick asked.

“Some of your lot,” he said, pointing to me. “Eight, maybe ten, washed up on the beach. Dead.”

“Show us,” I said, turning to tell Tom to stay with the jeep. But he was already out. This was his turf, and he showed no hesitation.

“Down this path,” the farmer said. “My dog Sally was barking her fool head off this morning. I thought maybe some of the sheep had got out and wandered down this way. I wish it had been the sheep, I tell you.”

He took us down a path winding between small rises of pasture, sheep gathering along the wire fence as we passed. We descended to a small beach, a patch of sand and round, smooth boulders-a peaceful, secluded spot, except for the drowned bodies. Sally paced the waterline, barking into the salt air, knowing something was terribly wrong with these men. The waves nudged each corpse, every roller lifting an arm or a leg a few inches, then retreating, the lifeless limbs falling back into the wet sand as they departed. GIs, their life belts all worn the wrong way. Some had helmets strapped on, a few had M1 rifles slung over their backs, tangled in the full field packs they were burdened with. Their uniforms were sodden, laced with seaweed, their faces and hands a dull grey, matched only by their opaque lifeless eyes.

“Seven men,” Quick said in a low voice. “Witnesses always exaggerate, although with good reason in this case. It must have been a shock.”

“Not an easy thing to see,” I said. “Let’s get his name and get to the clearing station. They’ll send a truck out.” Quick got out his notebook and took down the information. Sally leaned against the farmer’s leg, her tail brushing the sand as he absently scratched her ear.

“You’re not going to leave them like this, are you?” he asked, after giving Tom the details.

“Of course not, no,” I said. “Let’s pull them up and out of the water, Constable.” We dragged each GI by his shoulders up from the water’s edge and onto the dry sand. I took the three M1s and hoisted them over my shoulder. Quick checked the dogtags. There were no BIGOTs among them.

“We’ll get a vehicle here as soon as possible,” Quick said as we began to walk back to the road. “Can you stay with the bodies?”

“No disrespect intended,” the farmer said, “but I’ve got cows to milk. I’ve no help now that the young men are all off serving, or dead. The wife helps, but it’s more than she can handle. So no, I cannot stand watch over these poor lads. But it looks like Sally knows her duty.”

He pointed to the beach. Sally had settled in next to the bodies, her chin resting on her paws, her eyes on the row of corpses. A cross between a baby’s cry and an old lady’s moan rose from her throat as she lifted her head to the sky. She turned once to look at her master, who gave an approving nod, then returned to her vigil.

“I feel bad for the dog,” Tom said as we drove away. “She doesn’t understand, only knows that something very bad has come into her world. And no one can ever explain it to her.”

“I wish someone would explain it to me,” I said. “How could this happen? Radio frequencies mixed up, not enough escort to protect the convoy, no instructions on how to use life belts, orders not to go back to pick up survivors. Things are very bad everywhere, Tom, and no one explains any of it.” I envied the dog her oblivion.

We drove in silence to Brixham. The Casualty Clearing Station was located outside of town at the site of an old stone fort on the cliffs above the Channel. There were still a few ancient cannon from the last century jutting out of the embrasures, but they hadn’t been ready for action since the Napoleonic Wars. A good location for secret work. The ramparts cut off the view, and there was only one road in, manned by MPs and a couple of constables for good measure. Tom gave the Brixham coppers the farmer’s name, and they knew the spot. Knew Sally as well. One MP jogged off to give the report, and the other waved us in.

The old fort hadn’t seen this much activity since Admiral Nelson sailed the seas. Inside was a long, flat parade ground, marred only by the ruins of a massive stone building. This army used canvas, not stone, and there was plenty of it. Two long tents were marked with the red cross, others with NO ADMITTANCE on hand-painted signs. The former was for the living, the latter was for us. We headed for the first of them, but two MPs intercepted us. One held his carbine at port arms while the other guy, sporting second lieutenant’s bars, stood behind him.

“May I ask your business, sir?” the second louie said, in a tone that said hit the road, bub .