“What’s that?” I said.
“Shepton Mallet,” he said. “I saw mention of it in a report from the Judge Advocate General’s office on the legal background to the Visiting Forces Act.”
“Yeah, I must have missed that one. What did it say?”
“Shepton Mallet is an old, disused British prison that has been turned over to the American government as a military prison and place of execution for servicemen convicted of capital offenses. Five soldiers to date have been hanged at Shepton Mallet.”
“Makes sense that there’d be a few bad apples among the thousands of GIs in England,” I said.
“Yes, but I found it odd that of those five, three were Negro. Are there more Negro bad apples than Caucasian bad apples?”
“All depends on who you ask,” Tree said, rising to face me. “I remember one Boston cop who was sure of it. Heard he came to a bad end, Billy.”
“Basher,” I said, before I could stop myself. “But let’s stick with Angry Smith. Okay, I’ll ask around, see what I can do.”
“That’s it? Ask around?”
“Listen, Tree, I started leave today. I have plans, but I will look into it. The case is only three days old, they’re not going to hang him anytime soon.”
“You’re on leave, that’s perfect. It’ll give you time to talk to folks around here,” he said. For a guy who didn’t like me much, he sure wanted me to stick around. Angry Smith must be one damn good gunner.
“I have to be back in London for tomorrow morning. I’ll talk to people there and see what I can find out. I promise.”
“Got a girl, Billy? A hot date?”
“I’m getting promoted. General Eisenhower is pinning my captain’s bars on me.”
“The general himself!” Tree said. “I heard he’s your uncle. That true?”
“True enough,” I said. I had a girl, too, but I didn’t want to get into that right now.
“Nice,” Tree said. “Always good to have a relation looking out for you.” He looked away, his lips tight in resentment. This was an old argument with us.
“Listen, Tree,” I said, barely keeping my voice steady. “I’ve already been in the shooting war, so don’t think I’m some desk warrior hitting the clubs in London every night. And as far as relations go, you couldn’t even make it to your own father’s funeral, so don’t lecture me on the subject.” We were nose to nose now, fists clenched, years of unresolved rage aching to get out.
“There’s two reasons I wasn’t there,” Tree said, showing more restraint than I had by stepping back and addressing Kaz. “When I got the message my father had died, I was at Fort Polk, Louisiana. The army gave me compassionate leave, and I was on a train in a matter of hours. Only problem was, the Southern Railways route took me dead across the Deep South. You know what that means, Lieutenant Kazimierz?”
“Yes. The part of the United States that held slaves.”
“Right,” Tree said. “And some down there wish things never changed. I had to change trains in Birmingham, and by the time I got my duffle hoisted aboard and found a seat, I’d misplaced my ticket. In the confusion I must’ve forgotten where I was, because when the conductor came through and I couldn’t find it, I said something like, hold on buddy, it’s here somewhere. Big mistake. He pulled a revolver out of his jacket and placed the barrel right between my eyes. Said if I spoke another word, he’d put a bullet in my brain and toss me off the moving train. This was in the colored car, in front of fifty witnesses. You could have heard a pin drop. One white man with a gun in Alabama, that’s all it took. Threw me off the train at the next stop, left me at some two-bit whistle stop where the colored waiting room was behind the outhouse. Not a train going in my direction for ten hours. By the time I made it back, I was a day late. That’s why I missed my father’s funeral.” Tree’s eyes were damp, but he locked onto mine. I should have known he hadn’t missed it on purpose. I couldn’t bear his gaze and looked away.
“You mentioned two reasons,” Kaz said.
“The other one is right here,” he said, pointing at me, his finger trembling and his voice choked with anger. “If it weren’t for Billy, I never would have been in the army in the first place.”
“You could have been in jail, Tree,” I said.
“Maybe not. Would have been my choice, though,” he said. I took a lesson from him and stepped away. It was an old argument, no reason to start it up again. I watched the traffic, what there was of it. A couple of horse carts, the occasional truck, and a number of shoppers at a bakery across the street. Hungerford was a lively town, a river cutting through it, spanned by a graceful bridge. Cottages close to the road were well kept, like the shops that dotted the roadway. A constable rode his bicycle across the bridge, his blue uniform bright in the sunny March air, his helmet bobbing along on the cobblestone street. I wondered if he was a pal of the dead cop as I watched him pass by.
“Sorry I wanted to help,” I said. I knew I sounded like a sarcastic schoolboy, but I couldn’t help myself.
“What you don’t understand, Billy, is that a Negro down South might as well be in jail. Nobody was on our side. Not the army, not the law. They could do anything they wanted to us, and no one backed us up. You know we had to step off the sidewalk in some towns whenever a white passed by? Me, wearing the uniform of the United States Army, with sergeant’s stripes on my sleeve, I had to stand in the gutter for no-account white trash. That’s prison, my friend.”
Somehow we’d come head to head again. Kaz stepped between us.
“It is interesting, you know,” Kaz said, in a casual conversational tone. “The Germans have the same rule in Poland. Poles have to step aside when any German walks by, upon pain of death.”
“Yeah, but there’s one big difference,” Tree said. “I’m going over there to kill those goddamn Nazis who make you step off the sidewalk. But when I go home, white men will still want me in the gutter.”
CHAPTER THREE
We had two hours before the next train to London, so I asked Tree to show us where the constable had been killed.
“But take us from your bivouac,” I said. “I want to get a sense of distance and time.”
“Okay, let’s go,” Tree said. “Jeep’s around the corner.”
“You off duty? I don’t want you to get in trouble with your commanding officer,” I said as we followed him to the vehicle.
“Don’t worry, Billy. The captain doesn’t pay much attention to who’s around, unless it’s a drill or maneuvers. As for my platoon lieutenant, well, in my experience lieutenants are pretty easy to fool. Hope you’re an exception, both of you.” Tree laughed as he pulled away from the curb, and I hung on to my hat.
“Are your officers Negroes?” Kaz asked, raising his voice from the back seat.
“Only one, a lieutenant on the battalion staff. The rest are white. Some hate being in a colored outfit, and pull every string they can to get out. A few are okay. All the non-coms stick together though. We’ll have no trouble getting on or off base, long as we don’t run into any MPs.”
“White MPs?” Kaz asked. We were crossing the arched brickwork span, water flowing languidly beneath us. Tree waved to an older couple walking along the road, and got a cheery greeting. A marker on the bridge said this was the Kennet and Avon Canal. A pathway graced one bank, and it looked like a pleasant spot for a summer stroll. But this was March in England: bleak, wet, and cold in spite of the clear sky.
“MPs are MPs,” Tree said. “Negro MPs are as glad to crack your skull as the white ones. More so, maybe, since they can only go after other colored troops. White MPs can spread their batons around, know what I mean?”
The jeep rumbled over train tracks and through a more bustling part of town. We passed the town hall with its tall clock tower, and once again Tree waved a greeting to a small knot of men gathered beneath it. He got nods and smiles back.