"It might do worse to his heart if he's in it. Italy is pretty rough."
"You know for a fact?"
"I've been there," I said, and let the silence fill in the gap between us. Personally, I hoped Private Stan Hayes was peeling potatoes stateside somewhere, where he could grow to be an old man reminiscing about how he'd missed the big show. But I knew it was probably eating at him, and he'd be thinking his life was over, when in fact it had likely been saved.
"In any case," Saul said, glancing through the papers on his desk, "he's gone." He picked up a folder, then put it down. His hands were smooth and clean, his nails filed evenly. He might have been a year or two younger than me but he'd probably look a lot older real quick after dodging bullets and shrapnel.
"Yeah, just what I like to find when I'm investigating a week-old crime. One of the key people whisked out of the country."
"No one thought he had anything to do with it," Saul said.
"Maybe not, but that doesn't mean he didn't know something or that he hadn't noticed something odd before the theft, something he might not even have realized. Now I'll have to go back to Italy or stateside to find him. One is undesirable, the other impossible."
"All I can tell you is that he thought he was being made the scapegoat, being blamed for lax security. You and I know that responsibility goes higher than a lieutenant's rank."
"It doesn't reach too high either, from my experience. I'm sure everyone from the rank of major on up was glad to see him gone."
"You mean Major Thornton?"
"You tell me," I said.
"No, I don't see it that way. Thornton's not that kind of guy."
"You said it was Thornton who transferred you here."
"And promoted me, yeah, but that's not why I said that."
"OK, OK," I said. "No offense meant, just asking questions."
"I guess that's your job. It is, isn't it? Thornton said you were sent by the Allied High Command." Saul sounded impressed, which was good, since I wanted his cooperation.
"Yes. The British especially are nervous about the IRA working with the Germans. This arms theft could mean something is in the works."
"Let me know what I can do to help."
"First tell me if you've heard or seen anything outside the ordinary. Any rumors about who was involved, scuttlebutt of any kind?"
"Of every kind," he said. "That the people who took the BARs were German agents, for one. That two GIs were found shot in Downpatrick and. 30 caliber shell casings were found nearby. That an RUC car was shot up in Banbridge, that a farmer outside of Clough was seen shooting rabbits with a BAR, that a German sub came into the bay and landed commandos. You want more?"
"No. I suppose there's nothing to any of those rumors?"
"Well, I can't say for certain it wasn't German agents who broke in here. As for the rest, I'm pretty sure not."
"OK. Show me around, then I'd like to talk to Sergeant Brennan. I assume he's still here?"
"Pete? Yeah. He's one of our best ordnance guys. He's hasn't been here long, but he's a hard worker. Doesn't mix with the other men much. He does his job and spends a lot of time down on the beach, staring at the waves."
"The base goes all the way to the coast?"
"Yeah. The locals call the beach Tyrella. Nice stretch of sand. Our fences go down to the water but the beach is open to personnel."
"Is that where the German sub was sighted?"
"No, that was in Newcastle Harbor, after a few pints, I think. Come on, I'll show you around and we'll see if we can find Brennan."
"Why is he such a loner, do you suppose?" I asked as I followed Saul out of his office.
"Couldn't say. He does his job, so I don't see any reason to force him to be chummy with the guys."
"Is he fresh from the States or another unit here in Ireland?"
"Neither. He was wounded in Italy, at Salerno. After he recovered, they sent him here."
I followed Saul out of the building, wondering what had happened to Brennan at Salerno, but knowing that the details didn't matter. Salerno had happened. In his fresh-faced world, through no real fault of his own, Saul couldn't make the connection. God bless him for it then. His time would come.
"This was all one big parking area," he said, gesturing at the fence in front of the building. "Any vehicle could drive right up to the depot."
"Was the fence your idea?"
"Yes, and the guards as well. We also locked a side door. Now the only way in is through the office, which is in clear sight of the guards. And we have one guard on the loading dock at all times."
"What about before, when Stan was in charge?" I asked as I followed Saul to the other end of the building, about thirty yards.
"Hey, it wasn't Stan's fault! No one gave it a second thought; the depot is right in the middle of a military base, for crying out loud. We have most of the 11th Regiment here, we're surrounded by GIs."
"OK, I get the point. Just tell me what the procedures were."
"No fence, no guards. Pretty much anyone could enter the building, although any locals would have been stopped. To draw any supplies, you'd need a signed requisition. We have men on duty around the clock, in the arms storage areas and ordnance repair shop."
We entered through the loading dock, which opened into a wide area for temporary storage of items coming in and out of the building. Behind it, through a narrow hallway, was the ordnance repair shop. Workbenches ran along each wall, and every type of small arms imaginable was stacked everywhere, in various stages of disassembly. Rifles, machine guns, and mortars, along with pistols hung from their trigger guards from hooks on the wall. Two GIs in oil-stained coveralls greeted the lieutenant and went back to their work.
"Brennan around?" he asked.
"Said he was goin' to the beach coupla hours ago," one of them said. "He got that MG42 workin' 'fore he took off."
"Why do you have a German machine gun?" I asked.
"Familiarization," Saul answered. "Another one of Thornton's ideas. We have some British weapons as well, and we run everyone through a familiarization course, so they can recognize the sound of each weapon, and understand basic operation."
"Believe me, you don't need a course to recognize one of these," I said, laying my hand on the smooth black metal, so dark it almost absorbed the light around it. It felt cold, as cold as a corpse. "It fires so fast you can't even hear the individual shots. It sounds like ripping cloth, one long, long piece of fabric being torn. Or a chain saw, some people say. The Germans call it the Bonesaw, with good reason."
I closed my eyes and heard it, and jerked my hand away as if the gun barrel were smoking hot. I saw Saul and the two GIs staring at me, and I couldn't escape the sensation of a spray of blood against my face. I knew it wasn't happening. But it had happened, the last time I heard the Bonesaw at work.
"Come on," I said to Saul, sorry that they'd caught a glimpse of things to come, and desperately trying not to rub the blood from my face. I took some deep breaths and walked away from the MG42.
Saul led me into the cellar. Boxes of ammunition were stacked chest-high around us, and crates of M1 carbines stood along the walls. A bright red sign proclaimed NO SMOKING next to a poster cautioning that careless talk costs lives. Or BARs. Another, more faded poster looked like a leftover from the last war. John Bull, his big belly tucked into a union jack vest, standing in front of a line of British soldiers, asking, WHO'S ABSENT, IS IT YOU?
"They came down these steps, right to where the BARs were," Saul said.
"How do you know that?" I asked.
"It had been raining all day. Stan told me there were muddy boot prints from the loading dock, straight to the cellar and right to the crated BARs. Besides the ammo, they didn't take anything else."