“When the invasion comes?”
“Yes, and then for some short time beyond, if we’re successful. We’ll keep Jerry looking in all the wrong places for as long as possible. Then we’ll pick up Herr and Frau Miller and deal with them as they deserve.”
“What about their daughter, Eva? She can hardly be part of this.”
“Likely not. But they are the ones who put her in harm’s way, not us. She may be lucky, if that term applies. If she had stayed in Germany in any one of their cities, she could have been long dead by now. Every night we bomb and burn them, Boyle. It is a terrible business all around.”
We sat for a while, thoughts of burning cities mingling with the visions of crippled men and women all around us, enjoying the sunshine while night reigned supreme in their minds. After a few minutes, I gave him all the details of the investigation, everything that happened after he was taken away. He asked a few questions until once again we lapsed into silence. The quiet and the clear blue skies were deceptively calming.
“Can you tell me anything about Diana?” I finally asked. “Where she was sent?”
“She angered some very powerful people, Boyle. Politics and passion are not a good mix. But rest assured, she was not sent on a suicide mission. She is probably quite bored where she is.”
“Here in England?”
“In Great Britain, yes. A training facility. Sealed tight. A dilapidated country estate surrounded by barbed wire. I hope to find out about getting her back to London soon.”
“Sounds like she’s safer there.”
“Yes, but the Diana Seaton we know would not be satisfied with mere safety, eh Boyle?”
“No, sir. Is there anything you need? Anything I can get you?”
“No, thank you. You’ve done enough by telling me about the Neville case. Justice was served, official secrets kept. Well done.”
“Thank you, Major.”
“And your Negro friend, that case was concluded to your satisfaction?”
“Yes, the real killer was found and Private Smith was released. He’s back with his unit, and they’re ready for action.”
“I wish them well. And you too, Boyle. I hope our paths cross again, but if not …” This time, he was the one to let the sentence hang. He rose and we shook hands. For two guys who started out not liking each other much, it was a helluva goodbye.
“See you in the funny papers, Major.”
Cosgrove laughed and shook his head, settling back down into his wicker wheelchair. It’s always good to leave them laughing.
Driving out of Saint Albans, I wondered why Cosgrove had really sent for me. Was it to hear a first-hand report about the Millers and the murder investigation, or was it something else? Cosgrove was a military man through and through, a pal of Winston Churchill’s from the Boer War. If this was the end of his career, or perhaps his life, maybe he wanted one more taste of the hunt. Couldn’t blame him one bit.
I had nothing to do until I had to report back to SHAEF tomorrow, so I decided to go back to Hungerford for a final visit with Tree. All this talk of the unknown future had gotten to me. And I wanted to see Angry Smith back with his crew, in his element as a gunner. I headed south, navigating my way through heavy traffic, hundreds of trucks, flatbeds, jeeps, and every conceivable vehicle the army owned, it seemed. All heading in the same direction, south. Toward the invasion ports. Someday soon, a huge fleet would set sail. Me, I was probably sitting it out. Not a lot of crime in the middle of an amphibious invasion. But the 617th could be in on it. If not the first to hit the beach, then among the follow-up units once the initial landings were successful.
I hit Hungerford in the late afternoon, and drove out to the Common where they were bivouacked. The roads were choked with vehicles, and as I maneuvered the jeep closer, I saw a dozen or so flatbed trucks, the same kind I’d seen on the road with tanks chained down on them. I was just in time; they were moving out.
I drew closer, and could see that the tents had been struck and that men were drawn up in platoons, some of them already boarding trucks. Officers-all of them white-stood by the flatbeds and directed the men who’d driven the TDs up onto them back to their platoons. The officers were laughing, the enlisted men were quiet. The privilege of rank.
I asked for Tree’s platoon and was directed down the line by a sullen corporal. I spotted him as his crew moved to board their truck.
“Tree,” I yelled, running over to him. “You’re shipping out?”
“Yeah, we’re shipping out,” he said, not meeting my eyes.
“What’s the matter? What happened?” I looked around to get a clue as to what the problem was. It looked like the 617th was joining the long march to the sea, along with everyone else.
“They took our TDs away,” Angry Smith said, his voice a low growl. “They make us drive them up those flatbeds and they’re going to take them away.”
“What? Are you getting tanks? Where are you going?”
“We’re not getting tanks, Billy!” Tree shouted, exploding in a fury I hadn’t seen since we parted in Boston. “They’re giving our TDs to a new battalion, a white battalion! All the officers are going, all of them except the one Negro officer we have.”
“But what’s happening to you?” It didn’t make any sense.
“Plymouth,” Tree said, spitting out the word as if it were foul and rotten. “We’ve been designated a quartermaster battalion. Lots of ships to unload in Plymouth. Supplies for the invasion. So they take a well-trained unit like ours and turn us into stevedores, then give our TDs to white boys who don’t know them. It ain’t right, Billy.” He was up against me, his anguish paralyzing, his agony awful to see.
“Don’t bother, Tree,” Angry said, taking him by the arm. “Don’t give them an excuse.” A squad of white MPs stood at the ready near the knot of white officers. Just in case.
Tree took a breath and calmed himself, turning back into a US Army sergeant. “Okay men, grab your duffles and board the truck. Let’s go!”
“I’m sorry, Tree,” was all I could get out. It was pathetic. He brushed by me, unable to look at me. His hand squeezed my arm, briefly, a sign from the depths of a childhood friendship, and then he was gone, swallowed up by the shaded darkness of the truck.
Angry was the last to board. He leaned over the tailgate, and beckoned me closer.
“What I said last night? It don’t hold no more. I don’t owe you a damn thing.”
The truck lurched forward, dust rising from the road as it followed the rest of the battalion, six hundred strong. They passed by their Tank Destroyers, loaded on the flatbeds. Most looked away. One man saluted.
I stood to attention and returned the salute, keeping my hand to the brim of my cap until the last of the trucks passed.