“Out of uniform,” Sobel yelled at one man, who seemed dressed exactly like the others. “Confined to quarters.” His voice was squeaky and grating at the same time. He walked with his hands clenched behind his back, swaggering between the rows of GIs as his sergeant followed along, writing on his clipboard. Sobel was tall and dark-haired. He had a face that reminded me of a half-moon: a high forehead, long nose, and receding chin.
“What’s this? Dirty ears?” I was amazed to see him actually bend a man’s ears back like a mother checking a little boy. “You want to get dirty, soldier? Then start digging.” The GI dropped out and headed to the rear, picking up a shovel and a yardstick. He began measuring an area the same size as the hole Charlie was digging, and started in on it. There was a ready supply of shovels, and as I looked past Charlie, I could see the ground had been dug up and tamped down repeatedly. The inspection went on, Sobel continuing to find fault with most of the enlisted men, doling out punishments ranging from KP duty to loss of a weekend pass. Finally the company was dismissed, and I never saw men scatter so fast.
“Captain Sobel?” I said as I approached him.
“Yes, Captain, what can I do for you?” Sobel came close, his arms akimbo. He looked down at me, using his height to dominate the conversation.
“Captain Boyle,” I said, holding out my hand. He didn’t take the offered shake. “I’m investigating the murder of a local police officer. One of our men was arrested, and now there’s some doubt as to his guilt.”
“Our men? What unit are you from, Captain?”
“SHAEF. General Eisenhower is interested in seeing that justice is done.” It was then that Sobel took notice of my shoulder patch with the Supreme Headquarters flaming sword badge, but if he was impressed he kept it to himself.
“Is anyone under my command a suspect?” Sobel asked.
“No, I just have a few questions-”
“Sergeant Evans,” Sobel said, turning away from me and addressing his non-com, “assist this officer and then report to me once he is off the base.”
“Yes, sir!” Evans said as Sobel walked away.
“Your commanding officer is a strange one, Sergeant,” I said, watching Sobel’s back.
“Nothing strange about doing a job right, Captain. How can I help you?” Evans had a southern drawl and the look of a long-haul non-com.
“First tell me about the holes. Why are those men digging them?”
“Captain Sobel trains the men to follow orders, and he does a damn good job. If they don’t, they get extra duty digging a hole six by six by six.”
“Six feet deep?” I couldn’t believe my ears.
“Yes sir. And then they fill it in again. The captain says it’s good training for digging in when we’re in combat.”
“That GI has to dig a hole that size for having dirty ears?”
“Captain Sobel likes his men to look sharp. If they don’t, they reflect poorly on the unit. That man will probably wash his ears first thing every day after this.”
“What about this man?” I said, pointing to Charlie.
“Out of uniform,” Evans said. “He was missing a button. Now tell me what I can do for you, Captain. We’re running a jump school here and we have thirty new field artillery observers to train.”
I wasn’t taking to Sergeant Evans any more than I had to Captain Sobel, but I bit my tongue and gave him the basics about the murder, the graveyard, and the track going through the jump school to the back of the cemetery. I needed a helpful non-com, not an uncooperative one. We walked away from the hole diggers and I pointed out the track I’d mentioned.
“What I need to know is if anyone here noticed a person who wasn’t supposed to be on this post. A local, or maybe a colored GI.”
“That’s who they got for this, right?” Evans asked. “One of those tank destroyer guys.”
“That’s who CID arrested,” I said. “They may have been wrong.”
“Well, anyone can drive up here,” Evans said. “Or walk in. We’re not a secure area, although a colored boy coming through here would cause some comment. Not the usual thing, if you know what I mean. That path leads past the barns and the older civilian buildings we don’t use. Too broken down. You could ask Crowley, he might remember something.”
“Is he the Englishman?”
“Yeah, local caretaker. Came with the place, far as I know. I think the family who owns the property left him here to look after the horses. He’s always around, so maybe he can help. If he’s not in the barn check the mess tent. He doesn’t have a place to cook, so we let him eat our chow. I’ll take you there.”
“I can find it, Sergeant,” I said, eager to get rid of the disagreeable Evans.
“I’ll take you,” he said. “Captain Sobel doesn’t like people wandering around.”
“You said you weren’t a secure area,” I said, walking alongside Evans. “What’s the concern?”
“We may not be top secret, but we are responsible for packing the parachutes for the entire division. That, plus the personnel we train, is enough to keep any CO on top of who comes through here.”
“But you’re saying no one noticed a Negro from a tank destroyer unit carrying a dead body?”
“I didn’t, but I wasn’t on the lookout for one neither.” We came to the barn, and Evans pushed the wide doors open. It smelled of fresh hay and stale horse. Three stalls on each side, two of them empty. “Crowley takes the horses out for exercise every afternoon. Down that track you’re so interested in.”
“Where does he stay?” I asked.
“He’s got a room off the barn, through that door,” Evans said, pointing at the far end. “Not a real sociable guy, but he does his job. I doubt he’s there this time of day but we can check.” We walked the length of the barn, horses neighing after us, eager for attention and fresh air. Evans knocked, then opened the door. The room was as long as the barn, but only about ten feet wide. A coal stove stood in the corner next to a worn armchair. A narrow bed was shoved against the wall, blankets with US ARMY stenciled on them tossed over it. A small table littered with tools, a rickety desk, an old bureau, and shelves with a few tins of food completed the scene. It looked like temporary lodgings for a farmhand, not a caretaker’s home. The only personal touch was a framed photograph on the wall by the bed. An unsmiling young man with dark eyes stared out of the frame, dressed in a stiff collar and black jacket, maybe from the turn of the century, judging by the hairstyle and cravat.
“What are you doing in my room?” We both jumped as Crowley spoke, standing not five feet behind us.
“Looking for you,” Evans said. “This officer wants to ask you some questions.”
“How long does it take you to figure out I ain’t in there?” Crowley asked. “No place to hide, is there? May not be much, but it’s my place, Yanks or not. You don’t own the bleedin’ place, not yet anyway.” Crowley was stoop-shouldered, his body beaten down from manual labor. He had several days’ worth of stubble on his face and his worn and dirty clothes looked like they hadn’t been washed since the last time he was caught out in the rain. If Sobel ever inspected him, he’d be digging a hole to China.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m Captain Boyle and I need a few minutes of your time.”
“I’m called Angus Crowley, and you can ask what you want, but I’ve got to get the horses in. Feels like rain, it does.” We went outside, where Crowley had tethered the two horses. Evans retreated for a smoke, and I glanced at the sky. No sign of clouds.