"Yeah," I said. "That was his name. Harry Dickinson. But it can't be the same guy."
Everybody was getting up and it was hard to see faces. There were greetings, and a few "Good luck, chaps!" as we stood there. Captain Mannering made his way toward us as the crowd thinned. It was just Mannering, Harding and me, standing amid the folding chairs. The map on the bulletin board was loose in one corner, and flapped furiously in the wind like an ace of spades in the spokes on a kid's bike. The three of us-and Lieutenant Harry Dickinson, Royal Navy Reserve, who stood there, arm extended and shaking, his finger pointed at me like a knife, his rage mounting.
"You!"
"Lieutenant Dickinson!" Mannering said, gaping in disbelief. He grabbed Harry's arm.
"Harry…" I began.
"Shut up!" Harry yelled, and then turned to Mannering. "Captain, I don't know what this man is doing here, but a few months ago in England he presented forged orders for my boat to take him to Norway. Two good men died getting him there, and when we finally made it back I found out about the phony orders. He could be a German spy!"
"Harry, you know I'm not a German or a spy."
"Then why did you forge those orders? I looked for you and I know you were taken into custody when you got back. You should be in prison, if not hanged!"
Harry was trembling in anger. His face was red and his hands were balled into fists and shaking. I could tell he wasn't in a mood to have things explained to him. Not that I had much of an explanation.
"Is any of this true?" Mannering said, looking at Harding, not me.
Harding held up both of his hands in a calming gesture. "It is true that the orders Lieutenant Boyle presented at the Royal Navy base in Scodand were not officially authorized. It is also true that his mission there was of great assistance to the Allied cause, and that General Eisenhower himself met with Lieutenant Boyle upon his return. I can't tell you any more than that."
"Have you checked their orders out with Headquarters, sir?" Harry asked Mannering. So much for Harding's diplomatic explanation. While not exactly truthful, it would be hard to say it was a lie.
"I shall, and immediately. Major Harding, would you accompany me to the signals tent?"
"Sure," said Harding. "Lead the way."
They left, and Harry followed them out of the tent. I went after him. I don't know what I wanted to say, but I had to let him know what? That it still haunted me? That I felt guilty? Or maybe that if I hadn't come along he would've gone out on a different mission and his whole crew could've bought it? I had gone over all those excuses a million times. What I knew I couldn't say was that I had gotten him involved because of my own personal desire for revenge, my need to catch Daphne's killer at all costs.
"Harry," I said, grabbing him by the shoulder.
He stopped. He looked back at me, then ahead to Mannering and Harding as they walked away toward a large tent with antennas and wires all around it. He turned and all I saw was knuckles coming straight at me. Next thing I knew I was on the ground tasting warm blood, seeing stars and looking up at Harry.
"Touch me again and I'll kill you," he said.
He kicked up little spits of sand that shot toward me as he walked off into the darkness, nursing his righteous anger, shaking his right hand as if he'd hurt it when I hit it with my jaw. Alone on the ground, spitting blood and feeling the ghosts of dead men at the back of my neck, I couldn't figure out why I should bother to get up. We had been at war less than a year and I had been in the Army less than that, and already I was at the end of my rope. Beat and beaten up. Dead tired and almost dead half a dozen times. I couldn't imagine what it would be like next week, and then next month, if I survived.
Why couldn't it be like it was for those MTB guys, all one big family, all in this together and all that crap? Instead, I get knocked on my ass by a guy who was once my friend and now hated me. My other good friend was as likely to blow his brains out as sneeze if he got bored, and it looked like my boss was head over heels with my prime suspect.
I started to laugh. I laughed and laughed, wanting to tell someone how funny it was. I looked around, but there was no one to tell, and that was pretty funny, too, so I laughed some more, pounding the sand with my fist until the laughter was nothing more than a long sigh. I was still alone, the wind blowing sand in my face, listening to the soft, rhythmic sound of waves breaking on the shore. I cupped sand in my hand and let it run out through my fingers, like a kid at the beach. I wanted desperately to see Diana, I longed for her to come and rescue me. I wanted to cry. Maybe I did.
Chapter Twenty
"Orders are orders, and yours are as good as they get, straight from Allied Forces HQ" said Harry. "So I'll take you into Bone and wherever you need to go. Don't expect anything else."
Harry wouldn't even look at me while he spoke. Instead, he glanced over his shoulder at the stern as the crew cast off from the dock and he eased his boat out, advancing the throttle slightly, bringing a deep, throaty rumble from the four diesel engines belowdeck. As he turned the wheel I saw he had a bandage wrapped around the knuckles of his right hand. I felt the bruise on my jaw and figured maybe we'd come out even, except for the part where I ended up flat on the ground.
It was a beautiful morning. The sea was calm and we were heading east, into the sunrise. I tried to cheer up and convince myself that Diana would still be in Bone and that soon I'd find her. I wondered what the day would bring, and fingered the Thompson slung over my shoulder. I was geared up with extra clips, my. 45, a couple of pineapples that hung from suspenders, and an M3 combat knife, in case things got personal. My field pack was stuffed with first aid supplies, cigarettes, socks, and K-Rations. Dressed in warm olive-drab wool, with my Parsons jacket tucked in the back of my web belt, and all that gear, plus the helmet on my head, I figured a life preserver wouldn't do me much good if I went in the drink.
I let the light winds whip around me as the boat gained speed and the shoreline faded into the distance off the starboard side. The air was clean and pure, with the promise of a new day. Salt spray kicked up around us as we sped over the low swells and Harry opened up at full throttle. I breathed in the fresh smell of salt air, and for the first time in a while I felt good, as if things might really turn out okay.
The rest of the squadron was out in front of us, their wakes splitting the sea like arrows pointing the way. I wondered what that would look like from the air. I gazed up, into the deep blue sky, wishing for some cloudy weather to ruin this crystal clear day. Just enough to keep the Luftwaffe from spotting us. Everyone else looked up too, every chance they had. We were running hard now, the only sound besides the engines was a rhythmic thump… thump as we sped over the low rolling swells. Behind the bridge were two turrets with twin mounted. 50 caliber machine guns. They added a soft mechanical whine as the sailors manning them traversed the skies, watching for a glint of sunlight off metal to buy a few second's warning.
"Tea's brewed up, Captain," came a voice from below deck.
"Bring up two cups, Stubbins."
"Aye, sir."
I took that as an opening.
"Thanks, Harry."
"No reason to be uncivil, is there?"
"Then what do you call last night?"
"Here you go, sirs," said Stubbins, coming up behind us and interrupting my attempt at a heart to heart. "I hope you like it dark and sweet the way Captain does, 'cause that's what you got. No coffee here, sorry to say."
Harry ignored me and stared at the sky. Stubbins held out two chipped porcelain mugs with one hand while he climbed the steps to the bridge. He was bald, scrawny, wore a stained apron over his khakis and looked like he'd been born with his sea legs. He didn't spill a drop.