James Benn - A Blind Goddess

“Here,” Kaz said. A well-worn path led between rows of gooseberry bushes, flowers beginning to show between thorns. The path continued through a meadow, and along a fence marking a boundary between plowed fields.

“A shortcut to Kintbury,” I said. From a slight rise, we could see the path descending through the fields, to the low-lying ground along the river. It petered out as it met with houses and shops along the main road. “It probably ends at High Street, down there.” I pointed to a bright yellow and red sign. I couldn’t make it out, but I remembered there had been a sign like that over Hedley’s Sweet Shop.

“Should we continue?” Kaz asked.

“No. We can check it from the High Street end later. I doubt there will be any clues left after all this time.”

“It is a well-used route,” Kaz said. “The girls must use it as well as others from the village. It probably cuts through the school property. There are many such right-of-way paths in these English towns.” He was right about that. The grass was trampled and the ground was hard-packed. Margaret could have met up with any number of people on this route. This was another thing to ask Inspector Payne or Constable Cook. The local police would certainly know about this pathway and have checked it out. We decided to head to the maneuvers, like all the other gawkers.

It looked like every constable for miles around was on duty, forming a cordon along the stretch of roadway open to the public. A switchback wound its way up a slope above the Common, which was on the lower ground along the canal. In the grassy area between the switchback, townspeople had laid out blankets and were sharing thermoses of tea and sandwiches from their picnic baskets. The scene reminded me of pictures from a book I’d read about the Civil War, all the civilians coming out in their carriages to watch the Battle of Bull Run. I hoped these maneuvers wouldn’t end as badly.

We had no trouble driving the jeep onto the Common; the constables weren’t there to keep US Army personnel out. We had a clear view across the canal and up the opposite slope. Pinpoints of smoke blossomed and were followed by the rolling sounds of the explosions from smoke rounds traveling across the valley. We sat in the jeep, watching swarms of GIs heading down to the canal, accompanied by Sherman tanks; the opposing force. From a wooded glen to our right came a roar of twin diesel engines, the unmistakable sound of the M-10 Tank Destroyer.

Four of them came out of the woods, trees cracking and snapping beneath their treads. As they cleared the foliage they accelerated, probably hitting thirty as they raced parallel to the road. In unison, they turned hard right, treads chewing at the ground and spitting it out until their gun barrels faced the opposite slope. The crowd cheered like they were the home team at a football game. It was a well-planned move, probably put on to impress the locals. Looking around I spotted Ernest Bone with his pony cart, set up to sell his sweets. Children gathered around the pony while parents took their precious ration coupons and handed them over for a rare treat on this festive occasion. Laurianne Ross led some of her charges to the cart as well, and I saw Bone wave off the offer of coupons. The girls squealed with joy. Was the candy bag found at the pillbox on the house as well? People say “it was like stealing candy from a baby,” but giving candy to a child can be just as sinister. I decided to look into Ernest Bone’s background a little deeper. He claimed to have served in the last war. What had he been doing since them? He’d only purchased the sweet shop in town recently.

I pointed out Angus Crowley to Kaz. He loitered at the edge of the gathering, watching the maneuvers closely, but moving a step or two away whenever someone came close. His eyes flitted about the crowd as if he were looking for someone, or perhaps avoiding them. Michael Flowers and Nigel Morris sauntered along the lane, chatting idly like old friends. I figured their appearance meant the Miller family was in attendance as well, but I couldn’t find them in the sea of faces.

Further down the Common, other platoons of TDs took up position, opposing the force crossing the canal. One group fired smoke shells in their direction. Grey smoke wreathed the low-lying ground, cover for the other TDs, which crept closer, taking advantage of the terrain to keep their silhouettes low. A distant whistling heralded the overhead trajectory of artillery shells, causing the civilians to draw back, children clutching their mothers’ skirts. But the explosions were far away, across the canal, hitting open land that the opposing forces had already traversed. It was live ammunition, but far from us or any troops. Still, the shriek of incoming shells and the geysers of good farmland being blown sky-high lent a realistic air to the exercise. It’s one thing to watch fireworks; it’s another to feel them striking near enough to pepper your helmet with falling debris and shrapnel.

An M8 six-wheeled armored car roared to a quick halt beside us, Lieutenant Binghamton in the turret, a broad grin on his face as he saluted. “Come to watch the show, Captain?”

“We did,” I said, and introduced Kaz. I asked where Tree was and he pointed to the lead TD in the nearby platoon. He switched on his radio and a few seconds later Tree popped up from the open turret, waving me over.

“Thanks for coming out, Billy,” Tree said as I clambered up the side. “I mean Captain Boyle,” he added, with a glance at his men and a salute for me.

“Tree, first thing to learn in combat is not to salute. Unless you don’t like your officers. It only points them out to snipers.” That got a laugh from the other four crewmen.

“Fellas, this is the guy I told you about. He’s working on getting Angry free.” We were interrupted by another radio call, and the driver began to work his gears.

“I have a lead,” I said, before jumping off. “I’ll find you after the maneuver and tell you about it.” Tree’s response was lost in the sound of the four TDs moving off in unison, widening the space between them. I saw observers and umpires ahead, speeding around in jeeps, their armbands marking them as non-combatants. The Common quickly became a smoky confusion of fast vehicles, TDs, armored cars, and jeeps weaving between each other, darting from cover when they could, seeking out the folds in the land to settle into and fire simulated rounds directly at the foe, umpires barking into their radios.

Two TDs were flagged down by the umpires and declared destroyed, red smoke grenades marking their demise. In the woods by the canal, yellow smoke rose up from several spots, marking the enemy casualties, each one raising a cheer from the crowd. I returned to the jeep with Kaz, who was watching the progress through binoculars.

“Tree’s platoon is still intact,” he said, pointing to a small grove of pine trees where the TDs had hidden as much as they could. A dispatch rider on a motorcycle sped onto the scene, handing papers to Lieutenant Binghamton in his armored car.

“That’s an Indian Scout,” I said to Kaz, pointing at the motorcycle. “The model I bought as a kid.” This was a new one, decked out in olive drab with leather saddlebags. I watched as the motorcycle raced from unit to unit, delivering orders. It looked like the driver was enjoying himself. We were so focused on the ebb and flow of the battle that we were both startled when a constable came up to us. “Inspector Payne would like a word, sir.”

We left the jeep and followed him back to the roadway. I caught sight of Flowers, standing next to George Miller, like the best of friends. Bone was closing up his cart, sold out of humbugs and the like, I figured. Crowley was nowhere to be seen, but Razor Fraser raised a hand in a friendly greeting, or at least a reasonable imitation of one. Payne’s car was on the side of the road, turned away from the crowd. The constable opened the door and we climbed in back. Payne was in the driver’s seat and his passenger was watching the maneuvers intently.