“Yeah, but I bet not many hide out and watch GIs grenade their house,” I said.
“Do you think he wants revenge?” Kaz asked.
“Maybe he already took it,” I said as we entered Dartmouth, the traffic slowing as we neared the police station. There weren’t as many ships in the harbor as before, a sure sign that the exercises were in full swing.
“Billy, I think you are seeing too many conspiracies. Next you will tell me he murdered an American soldier and dumped his body in the Channel after changing his clothes.”
“Hey, it’s only a theory,” I said. “It could have happened that way.”
“Please don’t tell Colonel Harding,” Kaz said. “He’s nervous enough already.”
“Okay,” I said. I didn’t really suspect Crawford. He had good reason to be angry; I’d likely feel the same in his place. But in the absence of absolute proof that the corpse was Sabini’s handiwork, it was hard to stop the ideas from coming. Another occupational hazard. The clothes were a problem, but still, there was a glimmer of a chance Crawford had gone over the edge. He was wound tight enough for it. If he’d been in combat in the trenches during the last war, he was no stranger to violence. I made a mental note to keep my eye on the indispensable Crawford while I relaxed and enjoyed our stay at Ashcroft House. That was the benefit of this excursion, wasn’t it?
We wended our way along the waterfront as huge landing craft cast off, propellers churning the estuary waters into foamy currents as sirens whooped and patrol boats darted across their wakes. Crawford would have to navigate carefully to get his small wooden boat through this scrum of seagoing heavy hardware.
Tom Quick was waiting at the station, and in no time we were headed out of town toward the coast and the border of the restricted area. At Stoke Fleming the road curved along the cliffs going down to the water, giving a fine view of warships steaming out into the Channeclass="underline" destroyers, minesweepers, corvettes, and transports, all heading for patrol duties and exercises. One day soon it would be the real thing.
“Inspector Grange said there was another big show planned for tomorrow,” Tom said from the backseat, raising his voice over the wind swooping up over the cliff face. It smelled of salt with a chaser of engine oil.
“Yeah, a live-fire bombardment again,” I said. “We need to check for civilians in the area.”
“Makes sense. Could be a farmer or two out there checking to see if his barn got blown up,” Quick said. “I’d do the same, most likely.”
“Me too,” I said. As we drove, I chatted with Tom about Peter Wiley’s surprise arrival, leaving out the part about Sir Rupert and paternity, of course.
We passed through the roadblock at Strete, where the MPs reported all quiet except for truckloads of paratroopers from the 101st Airborne who had been brought in this morning. The wind whipped the surf as it crashed against the stony shore of Slapton Sands, filling the air with a cold, salty spray. The target-practice hotel stood with its blackened, gaping holes, forlorn against the blue sky.
“Do you know the way to Dunstone from here?” I said to Quick, shouting to be heard above the wind and the ocean. He guided us inland, through Torcross, where neatly hedged farmers’ fields sprouted weeds instead of crops.
Dunstone was barely a bend in the road, with a few farmhouses and cottages, a couple of shops, and a ruined church. Ruined by time, not the American army. It wasn’t hard to spot Crawford’s place, with its caved-in thatched roof and windows blasted with soot.
“What’s special about Dunstone?” Quick asked as we got out of the jeep.
“Have you ever run across Roger Crawford?” I said. “Former fisherman, now manages Ashcroft House for Sir Rupert Sutcliffe.”
“I know of him,” Quick said. “And he was known to go out for more than fish.”
“What do you mean?” Kaz asked.
“Before the war, we suspected him of smuggling booze and cigarettes in from France. You can make a nice profit selling the stuff without the import tax. Small-scale stuff, we thought, until heroin and cocaine began to show up.”
“You never caught him,” I said.
“No, but the water guard chased his boat during a fierce storm, and he ran onto rocks trying to get away. She sank, and Crawford barely made it to shore. No evidence was ever found, so there was nothing to do. He claimed the rudder was jammed and he couldn’t stop her.”
“This was off Start Point?” I asked, realizing that Crawford had told two stories. First he’d said he lost his boat during a storm, and today he told us he’d sold it.
“It was. He blames the water guard for the loss, of course.”
“As he blames the army for the loss of his house,” Kaz said, pointing to the burned-out cottage.
“Crikey,” Quick said, surveying the damage. “Some fellows have nothing but bad luck. But how did you know about this?”
“He told us,” I said. “He snuck in and watched GIs burn the place. It sounded like they were using it for assault practice.”
“I’m not surprised,” Quick said. “He’s devious enough. I wonder if he was searching for loot or wanted something from his place.”
“If he was a smuggler, maybe he left contraband hidden,” I said. “He might have gotten nervous when he heard buildings were being destroyed.”
“We’ll never know,” Quick said, leaning inside the charred doorway. “Nothing but stone walls, soot, and ash here.”
“They used thermite grenades,” Kaz said. “Anything of value would have gone up in smoke.”
“This is a burning war,” Quick said, turning away. He knew what he was talking about.
We continued our patrol of the area, driving through villages that looked like ones I’d seen in Sicily. Walls pockmarked with bullet holes, doors hanging off hinges, the odor of smoke, and the stink of excrement wafting out of the shambles.
“I’m glad I’m not waiting to come home to the South Hams,” Quick said, summing up our feelings.
On the trip back, we began to run into troopers from the 101st. On the road to Slapton Ley, we found a heavy-weapons squad setting up a machine gun behind a stone wall. I pulled the jeep over and Kaz and I got out, returning their salutes as halfheartedly as I could.
“You fellows know there’s a real bombardment planned for the morning?” I asked.
“Sure, Captain,” said a corporal. “They’re going to plaster the beach on the other side of that water. Our lieutenant said we’d be safe here.”
“And where is he?” I asked.
“About a quarter mile back,” the corporal said with a knowing grin. “Which is why we’re digging in deep.”
“Good thinking,” I said. “Have you seen anyone around other than your outfit? Locals, maybe?”
“Naw, we haven’t seen anyone,” another private said. “This whole place gives me the creeps.”
“Wait until France, Private. What’s your part in the exercise?” I asked.
“We’ve been dropped here, and we’re supposed to defend the road to the causeway that links up with the beach,” the corporal said. “Dropped from trucks, that is. A lot easier all around, but not very realistic. They should have scattered us all over Devon instead of leaving units intact.”
“Damn straight,” I said. “I saw plenty of boys from the 82nd Airborne in Sicily. They were straggling in for days.”
“What was it like, Captain?” the private asked. “Sicily.” By that he meant combat: death, fear, dismemberment, sweat, blood, and the crystal clarity of the borderline between the living and the dead.
“Hot and dusty,” I said, keeping those thoughts to myself. “Noisy too. Keep your head down and follow your corporal’s lead. He seems to have half a brain.” That got a few laughs. When guys who will soon see the elephant ask what it’s like, it’s best to gloss over the reality. Otherwise, they’ll worry themselves to pieces.
“Do not hesitate,” Kaz said, as we walked back to the jeep. “Kill anything in a German uniform. Leave mercy behind.” It was good advice, but it left a silence as the troopers took in the scar on Kaz’s face and the flat certainty in his voice.