"Making the world safe for lamb chops," the wise guy at the end of the table said.
"When we finally get into action, you guys will thank me," Masters said, wagging his fork at them.
"I heard someone lifted a load of BARs from one of your depots. What's the scuttlebutt on that?"
"German agents, the IRA, black marketeers, the Red Hand, you name it, I've heard it. I don't think anyone has a clue. All I know is we were supposed to get one of those BARs."
"Are you short one?"
"No," Masters said. "Thornton had worked the supply system to get an additional complement of Brownings. He wanted the heavy weapons companies to have more firepower. There were a few extra, and one was for us."
"How is Thornton as an exec?"
"Chomping at the bit for a promotion. His only problem is he's too good at staff work."
"Is he investigating the theft?"
"Thornton? I guess so. Why are you so interested? Are you one of Heck's boys?" The air had been full of chatter, friendly ribbing and cursing, but at the mention of Heck's name the sounds faded as all eyes narrowed and turned on me.
"No, I'm not. As a matter of fact, he tried to throw me in jail yesterday." Laughter rose along the benches, and the GI next to me clapped me on the back, saying I must be all right, even for an officer, if Heck couldn't arrest me.
"Heck doesn't have a lot of friends around here," Masters said. "Probably not anywhere, for that matter."
"Why is that, do you think?"
"He wants to get ahead in the army. The only way he knows how is to kiss up to anyone above him and kick down."
"Glad Thornton isn't one of those. I couldn't stand two in a row."
"If you're not with Heck, why are you asking questions about the BARs?"
"I see not much escapes the I amp;R Platoon."
"Intelligence is our first name," Masters said, tapping his head.
"I am here to look into the theft. At the request of a command higher than Heck. The Brits are nervous about the IRA working with the Germans."
"No wonder Heck tried to toss you in the slammer. You might make him look bad."
"What did you say your name was, Lieutenant?" asked the GI next to me.
"Boyle."
"Mine's Callahan. Funny you didn't say anything about the Brits being nervous about the Red Hand. With a name like Boyle, I mean."
"The thought has occurred to me, Callahan. But the Red Hand isn't likely to be in league with the Germans."
"No, they don't need the Nazis. They have the English."
"OK, Callahan, can it," Masters said. "Remember the lecture. We're guests in this country. Guests don't discuss religion or politics."
"Kinda leaves us speechless around these parts, Lieutenant."
" Erin go bragh," I stage-whispered to Callahan as I got up.
"Go get our BARs, Billy," Masters said. "Good luck."
"I'll do my best," I said as I waved to the group and left to clean out my mess kit.
I liked Masters and his easy way with his men, and how he pushed them beyond regular training to prepare them. An I amp;R platoon was likely to be sticking its neck out far into enemy territory, and I could see how even one more BAR could make a difference in giving covering fire when they needed to skedaddle. What I didn't like was Callahan reminding me of everything I thought was wrong with this assignment. I wondered if I would still be sitting in a Jerusalem hotel arguing with Diana if it had been clear that it was the Red Hand who had stolen the Brownings. Would MI-5 be as worried if those weapons were aimed at the Catholic minority in Northern Ireland? Especially if they might be used against the IRA active in Ulster?
Erin go bragh, I thought as I wiped down my kit. Ireland forever. Except it wasn't true. How could it be, with six of the Ulster counties still ruled by England? What would it be like if the English had held on to New England at the end of the Revolutionary War? Would we have accepted that, said it was enough, and abandoned six states to be ruled by our former masters?
Liam O'Baoighill had left this island with a note pinned to his coat, charging his descendents with revenge upon the English for what they had done to his family. O'Baoighill was the Gaelic spelling of O'Boyle. We'd dropped the O along the way and become Boyles, making our way in the new world while forgetting the worst of the old and remembering the best as if it were everything that had ever happened. Now I was back.
It was a helluva war.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"At ease, Boyle."
Major Thomas Thornton had been at a desk too long. He had soft, pudgy cheeks and red-rimmed eyes with dark bags beneath them. He wore a mustache, which suited him, and had his black hair slicked back with too much Brylcreem, which didn't. His ashtray was already half full of ground-out butts, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair as he read through my orders, spitting a bit of stray tobacco onto his desk, where it landed, a tiny brown speck lost amid a pile of requisitions, files, manuals, and all the tools of a division's executive officer. In the corner behind him, three cases of Jameson Irish whiskey were neatly stacked. Liquor was also a tool of the trade, bartering and smoothing the way for whatever your commanding officer needed.
"Ike and the British chief of staff? Jesus Christ, Boyle, you move in exalted circles. Are you any good? Can you find my BARs?"
"I don't exactly move in those circles, Major. I just go where they tell me."
"Sit down, sit down," Thornton said, as if that was something I should have taken for granted. He waved his hand toward a chair and I pulled it up to his desk. "I want my goddamn BARs back, Boyle."
"Yes, sir. Can you fill me in on what you've come up with? I have the police report from the RUC and an initial report from the provost marshal but nothing from this command."
"Listen, Boyle, do you have any idea what kind of workload an XO has? I don't have time for reports in triplicate. I'm spending every wak- ing moment getting this division ready for combat. It doesn't take a genius to figure out we're positioned for the invasion, whenever and wherever that comes."
"Probably right, sir. All the divisions that were here in '42 ended up in Operation Torch."
"Goddamn right. While they were invading North Africa we were pulling occupation duty in Iceland. Iceland, Boyle! You know why they call it Iceland?"
"Because it's cold?"
"Cold and dark, and too much damned ice. Except in the summer, when it's light twenty-four hours a day so you can't sleep. I was sent there in 1941 with the first units of this division. I've been pushing paper and freezing my ass for two years, and I don't intend to keep it up for the rest of the war. Iceland makes Ireland look like Miami Beach."
"The BARs, sir?"
"OK, OK. Sorry to unload on you. The project to build up our weapons companies was all mine, and now these fucking Irish have gone and screwed it up. Goddamn it!" He threw down his pencil like a knife; the lead broke and left a piece stuck in a stack of papers. His face was red and a vein pulsed in his forehead.
"You know, sir, I saw plenty of division staff in North Africa. They were all pretty close to the front. It won't be like you're missing out on anything if you stay in this job," I said, trying to ease Thornton's frustration. He seemed to be banking on his ideas about added firepower to get him out from behind his desk.
"Thanks, Boyle." He brushed the piece of lead from the papers and then neatened up the stack, glanced at it, and put it away in a desk drawer. He seemed to lose track of the conversation and looked at me quizzically.
"The investigation?"
"OK, OK. Between butting heads with Heck and everything else I have to do, I haven't had much time for playing detective. You know about Jenkins, right?"