James Benn - Evil for evil

"No. I thought you knew that he's got himself a transfer out of here."

"I wanted to stop by and wish him luck. Where is he?"

"I don't know. He finished up a few things here this morning and asked if he could take care of some personal business. He's shipping out tomorrow, so I figured, what's the harm?"

"What kind of personal business?"

"No idea. It seemed that giving him a free afternoon was the least I could do before he heads back to the shooting war. He isn't in any kind of trouble, is he? I thought that was all cleared up."

"He's not in trouble with me. When did he leave?"

"About 1100 hours. He signed out a jeep."

"Damn, sorry I missed him. You don't look too busy. Pretty quiet around here?"

"Every unit has been ordered to get its gear together, weapons cleaned and ready. No one's on the rifle range, and they canceled maneuvers, so there's not much for us to do. Rumor is the division might be shipping out."

"Where to, and when?"

"Some say back to Iceland, others think it's to England. Maybe Italy. Looks like something's up, though. Hey, did you hear about Thornton?"

"No, what?"

"Heck had him hauled away. The MPs handcuffed him and took him to Belfast. They say he'll be court-martialed for taking bribes."

"Well, well," I said, trying to sound surprised.

"You have anything to do with that?"

"No, I'm looking for BARs, remember?"

"If you find them, you can give them to the next guy who inherits this place," he said, gesturing with his hands to encompass the splendor of his plywood-enclosed office.

"OK, Saul. Good luck if I don't see you again. Keep your head down." We shook hands, and I left, glad to have imparted that bit of military wisdom to someone. I hadn't known how low I could stay until I'd felt the air vibrate from machine-gun bullets flying inches above my head. I could feel the thrumming again as I sat in the jeep, as if hornets were buzzing my neck. I watched the comings and goings, GIs on errands, marching, loafing, standing guard. How long before they felt it, and found out what the Bonesaw could do to infantry out in the open? Stay low, boys, I wanted to tell each and every one of them. They'd been told, I knew, a hundred times, but it wasn't the same as feeling it, knowing in your gut that nothing was as important as hugging the ground, digging deep, staying off the ridgeline, keeping your eyes open, not bunching up, using every fold of ground for cover.

…

I gasped, realizing I'd forgotten to breathe. I'd felt the hot Sicilian sun on me for that moment. The ground had been brown and broken, not green and smooth. I clutched the steering wheel, relaxing my white-knuckled hands. Never mind, I told myself. They'll have to find out for themselves. In their place I wouldn't have listened to anyone else either. I hadn't, and I knew how Brennan felt, seeing all these faces and knowing so many would die, stunned at the rapid violence of combat, unfired rifles in their hands, calling out for their mothers, as they always did. Mama, mutti, madre.

I started the engine and gazed straight ahead, driving through the base, avoiding looking at each face I passed along the way.

At 5:00 A.M.-OR 0500, as I was informed-someone thumped at the door to my Quonset hut with a message. Too early for me. I'd stopped at the the Lug o' the Tub and stayed longer than I should have, watching GIs drink their beer while trying to sound manly and brave in the face of the unknown. I'd listened to Grady tell stories of the Anglo-Irish War without mentioning the Lewis gun. In turn I had told him about Diana but never mentioned Jerusalem. We each kept our wounds hidden.

The message had been from Hugh Carrick: Come to Clough immediately. I retraced my route of not so long ago, watching for some sign of the RUC. Clough wasn't so big that I was likely to miss anything. As the early morning mist rose from the ground, it looked like each stone wall corralled a field of fog. The top row of stones stood above the thick grayness, like grave markers all in a line. The sun came up over Dundrum Bay to the east as the sound of sheep bells echoed from hill to hill. Farmers and police, early risers both, tending their respective flocks.

I knew which way to turn even before the pub came into view. Not far down the narrow road to Grady O'Brick's dirt-floored cottage and Julia Simms's proper Presbyterian home, a gaggle of police cars and a military police jeep were parked. Not to mention a gray Austin four-door sedan, license plate FZG 129. The car Red Jack Taggart had been in, slewed to the side of the road, the front caught up in brambles along a stone wall. When I saw the Austin, I knew there would be a body inside. It had been driven off the road at the same spot where Mahoney had been left.

District Inspector Hugh Carrick stood in the middle of the roadway, dispatching constables to search the fields on either side. Adrian Simms stood, with Sergeant Jack Patterson, next to the Austin.

"Lieutenant Boyle, good morning," Carrick said. "I thought you'd want to be here."

"Who's inside?" I asked, hoping I was wrong.

"Your Sergeant Brennan. In the trunk. Local man who makes the milk deliveries saw the car and stopped by Constable Simms's home to report it. When he gave Simms the license-plate number, Simms called it in straightaway."

Pete's name hit me like a two-by-four. Why him? It made no sense. He was free and clear, set to ship out today.

"Are you sure?" I couldn't take it in. I'd been imagining Pete boarding a ship in Belfast Harbor.

Carrick beckoned me to follow him to the car. Patterson vaguely stood to attention and gave me a quick salute. I touched my hand to my forehead and froze as Simms opened the trunk. It was Pete Brennan, expert ordnanceman, veteran of Salerno, last survivor of his squad. He was on his side, his back to us, knees drawn up to his chest. Two black-and-rust-colored holes punctured the back of his skull.

"Small-caliber weapon," I offered, although I was sure that had been apparent to Carrick. No exit wounds.

"Execution," Carrick said.

"Aye," Simms said. "Typical IRA job."

"Who owns the car?" I asked in a low voice.

"A Catholic businessman in Londonderry. He reported it stolen four days ago. He appears to have no connection to this business."

"Why would the IRA kill Pete?" I said out loud, but I was speaking to myself.

"Maybe a falling-out over the BAR theft?" Simms suggested.

"He had nothing to do with that. He was shipping out today to Italy. Why kill him?"

"That is what we are going to find out, Boyle," Carrick said.

I barely heard him. I leaned into the trunk, careful not to touch anything. I studied Pete's head, ignoring the face with its contorted puffiness from the gunshots. I smelled his uniform.

"What are you doing, Boyle?" Carrick demanded.

"It rained yesterday," I said. "His hair is dry, and so is his uniform. If he'd been thrown in here wet, it would smell damp."

"There is an army trench coat in the backseat, a trifle damp to the touch," Carrick said.

"He left Ballykinler yesterday morning, probably before it started raining. He was out in it for a bit, but not enough to get himself soaked. I'd say he was shot after it stopped, which was about four o'clock. Then dumped here, after the pub shut its doors."

"Aye, Tom said the road was clear when he closed up, not long after you yourself departed," Simms said.

Was there a question left hanging? Did Simms wonder where I'd gone after I left the pub? Did he envision me firing a gun twice into Pete's skull?

"Did you see Brennan at all yesterday?" Carrick asked me.

"No, I tried to find him in the afternoon, to say goodbye, but I'd missed him. His lieutenant had let him off to take care of some personal business."