“No disrespect intended,” the farmer said, “but I’ve got cows to milk. I’ve no help now that the young men are all off serving, or dead. The wife helps, but it’s more than she can handle. So no, I cannot stand watch over these poor lads. But it looks like Sally knows her duty.”
He pointed to the beach. Sally had settled in next to the bodies, her chin resting on her paws, her eyes on the row of corpses. A cross between a baby’s cry and an old lady’s moan rose from her throat as she lifted her head to the sky. She turned once to look at her master, who gave an approving nod, then returned to her vigil.
“I feel bad for the dog,” Tom said as we drove away. “She doesn’t understand, only knows that something very bad has come into her world. And no one can ever explain it to her.”
“I wish someone would explain it to me,” I said. “How could this happen? Radio frequencies mixed up, not enough escort to protect the convoy, no instructions on how to use life belts, orders not to go back to pick up survivors. Things are very bad everywhere, Tom, and no one explains any of it.” I envied the dog her oblivion.
We drove in silence to Brixham. The Casualty Clearing Station was located outside of town at the site of an old stone fort on the cliffs above the Channel. There were still a few ancient cannon from the last century jutting out of the embrasures, but they hadn’t been ready for action since the Napoleonic Wars. A good location for secret work. The ramparts cut off the view, and there was only one road in, manned by MPs and a couple of constables for good measure. Tom gave the Brixham coppers the farmer’s name, and they knew the spot. Knew Sally as well. One MP jogged off to give the report, and the other waved us in.
The old fort hadn’t seen this much activity since Admiral Nelson sailed the seas. Inside was a long, flat parade ground, marred only by the ruins of a massive stone building. This army used canvas, not stone, and there was plenty of it. Two long tents were marked with the red cross, others with NO ADMITTANCE on hand-painted signs. The former was for the living, the latter was for us. We headed for the first of them, but two MPs intercepted us. One held his carbine at port arms while the other guy, sporting second lieutenant’s bars, stood behind him.
“May I ask your business, sir?” the second louie said, in a tone that said hit the road, bub.
“Yeah, Lieutenant,” I replied. “None of yours.” I flashed my orders at him and watched him gulp as he read through them.
“No one is supposed to go in there, Captain,” he said. “But this trumps whatever I’ve been told.”
“We’re looking to confirm the deaths of several officers. We’ll check the dead. Is this everyone who’s been brought in?” I waved at the tents.
“Yes, sir. We’ve been told to keep all the bodies here. They’re going to start getting ripe pretty soon.”
“Get used to the smell, Lieutenant. How many wounded do you have here?”
“About a hundred,” he said. “We’re supposed to keep them all here, too, even the serious cases. They even ordered us not to talk to them. One of the doctors said he was told to treat them as if he were a veterinarian. Meaning patch ’em up, but don’t get friendly.”
“Who gave those orders?” I asked.
“Dunno, sir. It was a bunch of officers come through here yesterday. They wore coats with no shoulder patches, but all of our brass gave them a wide berth.”
“Smart of them,” I said. “Now do the same, okay?” He did.
I untied the flap of the first tent. The odor of death was new-on the edge of truly putrid, but not there yet. The cold salt water might have slowed the process of decay, but there was no stopping it. I thanked my lucky stars they hadn’t been put inside mattress covers yet. This made it easier to spot the ranks we were looking for.
“One colonel, two captains, and four lieutenants,” I said to Quick. He had the list of names and descriptions out. The bodies were laid out in rows, close together. Helmets had been removed and packs piled up at their feet. No one had bothered to separate by rank. No officer’s quarters for these men. We found a colonel, but he wasn’t a match. Ditto for the lieutenants. As we walked between the rows, milky, glazed eyes stared at us. Their faces were clean, washed by the Channel waters; features calm, even serene-because the muscles relaxed at the time of death, not because their deaths had been peaceful. The most wide-eyed, horror-stricken grimace fades as the brain loses all control over nerve and muscle.
“They look peaceful,” Quick said, noticing the look on their faces but not understanding it.
“Yeah,” I said, seeing no reason to educate him in such matters. A country constable didn’t see much death, not compared to a Boston cop. And all his killing had been done from twenty thousand feet, so how would he know? Better to let him think all the people he’d bombed had ended up with this tranquil appearance amidst the rubble he’d created. “Nothing here.”
The next tent was different. It looked as if they’d put all the dismembered and torn bodies together. No one looked serene. A tangle of severed legs and arms was piled on one side, three heads sitting on top, helmets still on. Apparently no one had had the stomach to loosen the chin straps.
The bodies themselves were burned or torn apart by explosions or propeller screws. Packs and belts had been left on. They were probably the only things holding the flesh and bone together. I glanced at Tom, not wanting him to think I didn’t trust him to handle it. He was pale, but he stood ramrod straight. As a matter of fact, he looked better than I felt. I tamped down my queasiness and started the search. I knelt and checked dog tags, skipping the enlisted men when I could find a sign of rank. Fortunately, even the headless bodies still had the chains tucked under their shirts.
“Lieutenant Winslow,” I said. “Lieutenant Chapman.” Tom shook his head no. “Here’s a Lieutenant Smith. We have one of those, right?” Tom read the serial number. Wrong Smith. We worked our way through the maimed corpses, finally finding one match. Lieutenant Patrick Sullivan. The serial number was a match, which helped since his blond hair had been burned with the rest of him.
“Thank God we found one,” Tom said as soon as we’d closed the flap behind us. “I’d hate to have gone through that for nothing.”
The next two tents were better, if any pile of sodden dead men can be better than another. But no BIGOTs.
“That’s it,” I said. “Let’s head down to the next station.”
“Perhaps we should walk through the hospital tents,” Tom suggested. “A badly injured man might have been rushed in before they started listing the names of the wounded.”
“Might as well,” I said. A long shot, but we were on the scene, so why not? We entered the first tent, and a white-smocked doctor tried to wave us off. I showed him our orders, which he didn’t like one bit.
“We’ve been ordered to keep these men quarantined,” he said, loosening his smock to better show off his major’s gold oak-leaf insignia. “And I outrank you, Captain Boyle.”
“General Eisenhower outranks everyone,” I said. “Take it up with him, Major …?”
“Major Clayton Dawes, surgeon with the Thirteenth Field Hospital. Look, I’m not interested in a pissing match, Captain. If these orders are legit, go right ahead. Please be quiet and don’t upset anyone, okay?”
“Just how bad are the injuries here?”
“Everything from a broken arm to severe internal injuries and third-degree burns,” he said, back on more comfortable territory. “I got pulled in because I was available. I normally do chest and heart surgeries, and there’s nothing much in that line here. We’re basically operating as an evacuation hospital. The walking wounded should be released as soon as possible, and the others sent on to the field hospital in Exeter.”
“When’s that going to happen?” I asked.
“Good question,” the major said. “I think the brass is more worried about keeping this whole thing quiet and these boys in the dark than about medical necessity.”