"Can't say I've heard much about the IRA around here but we're pretty cut off from the locals. Except for leave and passes off the base, which usually lead straight to a pub, we don't mix much. Not a lot to do around here but drink warm beer," Jack said.
"We know some workers," Sam said. "Carpenters and other trades. Plus manual laborers like Grady. He's a jack-of-all-trades; everyone knows him. Friendly guy, more apt to stop and talk with you than most. But he is a bit off."
"What about the local cops, the Royal Ulster Constabulary?"
"I know the village constable up in Clough. Adrian Simms. Young guy, but the locals like him. We've talked a few fellows out of fights, had some drinks together. That's about it."
"At the Lug o' the Tub Pub?"
"Yeah," said Sam. "You must really be a detective. No wonder Ike sent you."
"Never underestimate an Irishman's ability to find a pub. Have you or Constable Simms heard anything about the BARs? Or the guy who was shot? Mahoney?"
"I heard he was an informer," said Jack.
"Simms told me the pound note in his hand was a sign from the IRA. Death to informers," added Sam.
"Was he from around here?"
"I don't think so," Sam said. "Simms did say he wasn't local. But that could mean he was from Belfast or points south."
"Other than picking me up, has Heck brought your platoon into the investigation?"
"Not at all. Simms asked me the same thing. He was surprised we weren't out searching the countryside the day after it happened."
"What about Heck's CID investigators?"
"They don't do much other than background checks on the locals we hire to work in sensitive security areas."
"Like arms depots."
"Yeah," said Jack. "Maybe one of Heck's boys let an IRA man slip through, and he wants to cover it up."
"Maybe. So who's in charge of the investigation?"
"Major Thomas Thornton, 5th Division executive officer. I've waited for orders, but so far he's been handling it himself, along with some RUC inspector."
"Hugh Carrick?"
"That's him," Jack said. "I met him at HQ a couple of days ago. I asked if we could be of any help, and he said we could, possibly, if we stayed out of his way."
"Sounds like he and I will get along like the Katzenjammer Kids and the Inspector. Now how can I get to 5th Division HQ?"
"What were those orders Heck gave us?" Jack asked.
"Not to leave our post, and not to call for transport," Sam answered.
"We could let you steal a jeep," Jack said, "or you could wait about twenty minutes for the chow wagon to show up. The cooks bring dinner for us and our guests back in the cells. They'll give you a ride into Newcastle. Be a lot less trouble for us."
"Plus, you can grab some Spam and beans before you go," said Sam. "Washed down with our local product, Bushmills Irish whiskey." He pulled open a desk drawer and drew out a three-quarters full bottle.
"God bless the U.S. Army and the Irish," was all I could say.
CHAPTER SIX
Thornton hadn't been on duty when I'd reached 5th Division HQ. Which was just as well, given how much the Spam and beans had needed to be washed down. The cooks had gladly given me a lift, after they'd helped us finish off the bottle. Patterson and Burnham seemed all right. They hadn't tried to pump me for information, and, as they said, they were divisional MPs, with no rear-area investigative duties. I filed them away as possible friends, not because I was certain but because I had so few yet in Ireland.
Headquarters was on the other side of Newcastle, through the seaside town and up a wooded slope beneath Slieve Donard, the highest of the Mourne Mountains. The main building was a long two-story house with a dark gray thatched roof and a covered stone entryway. On either side were rows of Quonset huts, leaving the house a quaint but odd stranger among the invading steel-ribbed prefab huts.
I'd presented my orders to a bored corporal who wasn't at all impressed by the high-ranking names and British military jargon. He had taken one look at me, sniffed, and sensibly told me where I could find the showers, draw new gear, and locate my quarters. I'd managed all three, in the right order, and had even lit a fire in the small stove in my section of the hut. I had gone from lightweight khakis and a small pack to a duffel bag's worth of heavy wool, all courtesy of the division quartermaster who had taken pity on me as I stood shivering at his supply counter, my low ankle-length service shoes drenched and muddy. He had snarled at me when he first saw me, standing there dirtying up his wood floor, but when we both started talking, the Boston accents smoothed things out. He was from Everett, across the Mystic River, not Boston proper, but this far from home, it was like meeting an old neighbor. He'd loaded me down with a tanker jacket, trench coat, plenty of woolen trousers and shirts, mess kit, even a pair of long johns, all the while cursing the constant Irish rain and the major he worked for, saying they were both cold and miserable when they hit the ground in the morning, and that neither was bound to change.
I could vouch for the rain. It came down as a heavy mist, and I was glad of my new boots and thick wool socks as I hunched my shoulders and trotted to the mess tent the next morning. It was crowded with all the usual personnel attached to a headquarters unit. Clerks and typists stood in line with bandsmen and engineers, along with a group of wet and muddy GIs who looked like they'd been out on maneuvers all night. Cooks hustled pots of hot food in from the stoves outside the tent, protected from the rain by smaller open-sided tents.
Lots of guys complain about army food, and when you're eating rations in the field, there's plenty reasons to gripe. But I had to hand it to these cooks, preparing meals for hundreds, sometimes thousands, every day, in the heat or freezing cold. Dozens of loaves of freshly baked bread were set out, trays of hash and scrambled eggs, urns of coffee, all the smells mingling with the damp green earth and lingering scent of cut pine. I saw one of the guys who had brought the chow out last night and waved. We weren't exactly buddies but it felt good to have a few faces to recognize in a strange place.
I loaded my mess plate up with hash and eggs on top of white bread, sugared my black coffee, and found an empty spot on a bench at a table of soaked GIs.
"Night maneuvers?" I asked as I blew on my coffee. Most of them ignored me after a quick glance determined I was a stranger, clean and shaved, and a mere lieutenant to boot. They returned to the hot chow and talk of showers, girls, and beer.
"Up Slieve Donard and down the other side," the guy across from me said, his own lieutenant's bars barely visible through the drying mud on his collar. "Bob Masters, I have the I amp;R Platoon. You a new transfer?"
"No, just here to see Major Thornton. Billy Boyle's the name."
"Welcome to Donard Wood or at least what's left of it, Billy."
"Thanks," I said, raising my cup in salute. "Intelligence and Reconnaissance Platoon? What kind of intelligence are you gathering in the Mountains of Mourne?"
"How not to fall off," one joker said, and laughter rippled along the table.
"It is a narrow path," Masters said, grinning to let me know it was he who took the tumble. "Mostly it's to build endurance and sharpen night infiltration skills. Recognizing each other in the dark, locating the enemy, that sort of thing."
"Who's the enemy up there?"
"We see the occasional shepherd and other locals. There's not much cover so I usually send a couple of the boys to follow anyone we spot and see how long they can track them."
"How do they do?"
"Damn good. Last week, Searles and Blakefield tracked a guy leading four sheep down the mountain through the Donard Bog, then to a farmhouse in a forest along the Annalong River. A few days later we met a sheepherder who accused us of rustling some of his flock. We told him about the guy and the farmhouse, and last night he thanked us and said he got his sheep back."