James Benn - A Blind Goddess

“Diana’s meeting? Yes, she told me yesterday. She was quite worried you would be upset. Are you?”

“I don’t know, Kaz. It’s important, what she’s trying to do. What’s a few days in the country compared to that?”

“She must try, but I fear nothing will come of it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because Roger Allen is a notorious anti-Semite. He is more worried about keeping Jews from emigrating to the British Mandate for Palestine than anything else, including what is happening in the death camps.”

“How do you know that?” I said. Kaz shrugged and turned away. Then I remembered. Kaz knows everything.

Uncle Ike gave me his trademark smile as he pinned the silver captain’s bars on my uniform. “Long overdue, William,” he said, as the small group applauded. “I’m proud of you, son,” he said in a whisper, as he gripped my shoulder.

“Thank you, General,” was all I could get out before the well-wishers crowded in. Diana was there, along with Kaz, of course, chatting with Kay Summersby, Uncle Ike’s driver and companion. Kay and I had been pals since North Africa. Back then she’d been afraid she wouldn’t be taken to England when Uncle Ike got the Supreme Commander post, but here she was, right by his side. Mattie Pinette and a few other WAC secretaries gathered around the cake, which was probably more of a draw than the general’s nephew getting a promotion, no matter how long he’d been a lieutenant.

“Well deserved, Boyle,” Colonel Samuel Harding said, extending his hand. Harding worked for Uncle Ike in G-2-that’s what the army calls intelligence-and is my boss if the general doesn’t have anything for me to do. Like now.

“Thanks, Colonel,” I said, giving a wave to Big Mike, who stood in the doorway, taking up most of the space. Staff Sergeant Mike Miecznikowski had been with us since Sicily, and had become Colonel Harding’s right-hand man in the Office of Special Investigations. Everyone called him Big Mike because the army didn’t make uniforms large enough for his wide shoulders and bulging biceps. Big Mike had been a Detroit cop, and still carried his shield in his coat pocket.

“Hey, congratulations, Billy,” Big Mike said. “I mean Captain Boyle.”

“Don’t start with military courtesies now, Big Mike, you’ll only hurt yourself,” Harding said. Big Mike had a way with officers, at least the decent ones. He could have them eating out of his hand in ten minutes and on a first-name basis for life. Big Mike was the kind of guy who could get anything done for you if he liked you, and not much if he didn’t. And who doesn’t want a big, strong, friendly, proficient scrounger and former bluecoat for a pal?

“William, you should be honored that Big Mike remembered your rank at all,” Uncle Ike said.

“General, I’m strictly here for the cake,” Big Mike said. “And to see Estelle, of course.”

“Nice to know where I stand,” Estelle Gordon said, her voice drifting up from somewhere behind Big Mike’s shoulders. Estelle was a WAC sergeant who worked at SHAEF. She and Big Mike were an item, about as head over heels as they were mismatched in size. She handed Big Mike a plate with a massive slab of cake and asked the general if she could get him one. He shook his head and lit up a cigarette.

“I’m glad you’re back in England, William,” Uncle Ike said. “And glad Miss Seaton made it back as well. I talked to her father yesterday and he said you might visit them soon.”

“Sir Richard is in town? That probably explains it.” “Explains what?” Uncle Ike said.

“Diana has to stay in London,” I said. “She has a meeting with someone at the Foreign Office, to talk about the death camps. Sir Richard probably pulled a few strings to get her in.”

“From the reports I’ve seen, there’s much to be concerned about, William. All we can do here is work as hard as we can to end this war as soon as possible. I’ll leave the rest up to the politicians.”

“You mean the guys who got us into this mess?”

“You’re a captain now, William,” Uncle Ike said with a wink. “Time to exercise diplomatic restraint.”

“Then please don’t ever make me a major, Uncle Ike,” I whispered. I didn’t call him that unless we were alone. He laughed, and it felt good to lift his spirits a bit. “How do you like the new headquarters?”

“I like it fine,” he said. “But I think some of the staff think otherwise.”

“It is kind of off the beaten path.” Bushy Park was a royal park west of London. It was the new home to the Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force. Hundreds of officers and a few thousand enlisted men kept the place humming around the clock in rows of camouflaged huts, barracks, underground bunkers, and even tents.

“That is the whole point, William. The center of London had too many distractions. Clubs, dances, shows, and fine restaurants. I want my staff at work full-time, instead of going their separate ways in the evening. They can get to know each other here. We’ve got people from half a dozen nationalities and services, and they have to work together, and work hard.”

“Makes sense, General. But what about me? I’m still posted at Norfolk House in London.”

“Don’t complain too loudly, William. There are officers who would kill to be sleeping at the Dorchester instead of in a tent.”

“All right, General. There is one other thing I’d like to ask you. A favor.”

“I can’t deny my own nephew a favor the day I promote him, so ask away.”

“I visited a friend today, a guy I knew back in Boston. He’s with one of the colored tank destroyer battalions, over by Hungerford.”

“Does he want a transfer to a white outfit?” Uncle Ike lit a cigarette and looked at me with a hint of recrimination. He thought my friend was a white guy looking to get out of duty with a Negro unit.

“No, that’s not the case, not at all. He’s a Negro, and proud to be in a combat unit. They’ve been training outside of Hungerford for some time now, and they’ve gotten to know the locals. The people in town seem to like them too.”

“I know, I’ve heard it often enough. A lot of the English say our Negro troops are the most polite of the lot,” said Uncle Ike, releasing a plume of blue smoke.

“Yes, sir. It’s just that they got word that Hungerford is going to be restricted to white troops on leave only. My friend’s unit won’t be able to go into town at all.”

“William, this seems like a minor affair, are you sure you want me to get involved?”

“General, when we met my friend yesterday, the pubs in town had been raided by white GIs. They smashed every glass in the place so when they went on leave in Hungerford they wouldn’t have to drink from the same glass a Negro had.”

“Damn it,” Uncle Ike said, crushing out his cigarette. “Hungerford, you say? What’s the unit?”

“The Six-Sevententh Tank Destroyer Battalion.”

“Consider it done, William. I have a war to win, and I can’t afford to get distracted by the rights and wrongs of race issues, but some things just aren’t right. Hell’s bells!” He signaled Mattie, who made a quick note and went to a telephone. Sometimes being the nephew of the Supreme Commander was a very useful thing.

Well, “nephew” wasn’t exactly the right word. We were cousins of a sort, related through my mother’s side and Mamie Doud’s family, but I’d hardly known him before the war. It was my mom who had come up with the idea to get me assigned to his staff in Washington, DC. That was back before anyone else had even heard of Dwight David Eisenhower, when he was working in the War Plans Department in the nation’s capital. Just the right assignment for a young Irish-American ex-policeman to sit out the war, or so my mother thought. We’d all thought it was a grand idea, having given up one Boyle in the previous war for the British Empire, as it was viewed in my household. Not to mention a lot of others in South Boston, where the Irish Republican Army and the fight against the British rule in our homeland was the one true faith.