CHAPTER NINETEEN
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about your orders, Lieutenant,” said Captain Gilmore.
The bad mood fit him like a glove. Yesterday I had thought it was just due to the confusion of handing out all that winter gear. Today I found him sitting at his clean desk, drinking coffee, chewing on a cigar, and looking for someone to scowl at. The pile of reports that Sergeant Slater had been working on the day before were all neatly stacked up in his out basket, signed and ready to go up the line. He should’ve been happy, but that probably didn’t come easy for him.
“But they’re from ETO Headquarters, sir…”
“All I get from HQ are headaches, sonny. If they want to send someone who outranks me up here, I’ll salute and give them anything they want. But I’m not giving a vehicle to some Louie who drove in here in a sports car, I’ll tell you that.”
“But sir-”
“Enough!”
It came out as a growl, wrapped around a wet stogie. I was wondering what to do next when Slater appeared out of nowhere and walked over to the captain’s desk. He pointedly ignored me again and spoke directly to Gilmore.
“Begging your pardon, captain, but this might be a good opportunity to fix that little problem we were talking about.”
Gilmore looked at Slater like he was another fly the captain was going to swat. Then I could almost see the lightbulb go off over his head as he dropped the scowl and nodded his head in agreement.
“Yes, very good, Top. Show the lieutenant to the Brit motor pool while I make the call.”
Since they were talking about me as if I weren’t there, I didn’t see any percentage in asking what was going on. My chances had improved since Slater came into the room, so I picked up my kit and followed him out of the exec’s office. Gilmore was almost cackling with glee as he dialed the phone. At least it made him happy.
“Thanks, Top, I think. What’s this all about?”
“Well, we got two motor pools here, one Brit and one U.S., so we can take care of both types of transport. The motor-pool guys have taken to tinkering with a few vehicles and having races. The latest thing is motorcycles. You ever ride?”
“Sure. My cousin is a motorcycle cop in Boston, where I used to work. I’ve ridden his Harley.”
“That’s what we got here. We being the Yanks. The Brits have a BMW-a sweet thing from before the war, I have to admit. We have a race scheduled for tomorrow. Thing is, our guy crashed the Harley yesterday and they can’t get the spare parts to fix it until after the weekend.”
“And you forfeit the race if you don’t show?”
“That’s the rule.”
“Fair bit of money bet on this one?”
For the first time, he actually looked at me, giving me a practiced once-over to decide if I was a by-the-book or a let-things-slide kind of lieutenant.
“Now, Lieutenant, you know that would be against army regulations.”
The faintest smile passed over his blunt face, then he quickly looked away-no need to waste words on a very junior lieutenant.
“In other words, a bundle.”
“I don’t intend on losing my next paycheck on a no-show. I was waiting for the captain to think of this, but it didn’t look like he was going to, so I jumped in.”
The top kick opened the door and held it for me as we stepped outside. The air smelled damp and clean, a fresh sea breeze drying the dew from the grass as the sun struggled to come out from behind a low cloud layer. Not the worst day for a motorcycle ride.
“Whatever would the army do without sergeants?”
“I ask myself that question every morning, Lieutenant.”
He led the way to the British motor pool. All the walkways were laid out with those whitewashed rocks that seemed to crop up at every army base I’d ever seen. I wondered what they did in Alaska or Greenland.
“Am I going to ruin your racing plans if I don’t bring the BMW back?”
“Oh, you’ll bring it back. It’s British army property, and a couple of hundred commandos, all trained to kill silently, will be looking for you if you don’t. Lieutenant,” he added, as if it was an afterthought.
He led me into a wide garage, not much more than corrugated sheet metal nailed on to a wooden frame. The floor was hard-packed dirt, and the smell of oil and damp soil was oddly pleasing. Several British army vehicles were in various stages of disassembly and repair, and we walked past those to the darkened rear of the building. In a corner next to a workbench neatly stacked with gleaming tools, on a drop cloth and under a hanging light, was a BMW motorcycle, painted British army brown, polished to a high gloss and clean as a whistle. Three men, also in British army brown but not all that clean, stood with their arms folded in front of us.
“Now what’s all this about taking our motorcycle? Just because yours-”
“Hold on, Malcolm,” Slater said. “You know ours is still being worked on. This officer needs transportation and the BMW is the only vehicle not signed out.”
“Neither of us ever signs out these machines!”
I knew I had entered some special part of the military world, where noncoms ruled and officers were just an irritation, an insistent itch that demanded once in a while to be scratched. They gave me a glance, read me like a field manual, and decided I wasn’t going to give them any trouble, except for taking their bike. They ignored me, rightfully understanding this was a matter between guys with stripes, not bars.
“It’s just for a day or so. We’ll have the race when he gets back, no problem,” Slater said.
“Aye, if I’m dumb enough to believe you. Very convenient to come up with this story just after that corporal of yours runs your Harley-Davidson into a ditch,” Malcolm said. The others laughed, and he joined them, enjoying the position he was in.
“Malcolm, take a look at these orders of his. Signed not only by Ike’s office, but by some guy from your own Imperial Staff!”
Slater held the orders in front of Malcolm, who wiped his hand on a greasy rag and took them by the edges. He looked at each page and then over at me, then back again, as if he couldn’t believe they were for the guy he was gazing at. He shook his head in disgust and handed them back to Slater.
“All right, but you’ll have to sign a few forms, Lieutenant.”
“Thanks, Malcolm,” Slater said as he turned to leave, “and good luck, Lieutenant. Make sure you bring her back in one piece.”
That earned me even blacker glares from the Brit mechanics, so I dug into my kit and came up with three packs of Lucky Strikes. I handed them out along with my apologies and promises to return the motorcycle in a couple of days. I must’ve sounded convincing, because although I didn’t really give a hoot about their motorcycle race, and they didn’t care a bit about what I needed, pretty soon we were all smoking and trading war stories about bikes and cars. After chewing the fat for a while, they left me with one mechanic, a Scottish corporal, who was giving the BMW a final check over.
Corporal Roddy Ross was of indeterminate age, the skin of his hands and even his face covered in a sheen of grease and oil. He was rail thin, but his forearms were muscular, and he had a certain grace as he moved around the machine, tightening connections and wiping her down with a cloth as he went. He had a Lucky stuck in the corner of his mouth and smoked as he talked, blowing out smoke with each phrase and squinting his right eye against the blue smoke curling up from the tip of the cigarette.
“Now, laddie, are ye shur ye kin find yer way? Greenchurch is but one of a dozen wee small villages yonder.” He pointed with his thumb toward the northeast as he rested his other hand protectively on the handlebar of the BMW. I had to concentrate on listening to him to understand his thick Scottish brogue.
“I’ve studied the map, Corporal, and copied down my route. If I get lost, I can always stop and ask for directions.” This brought a chuckle.
“Oh, yeah, as if the English wouldn’t mistake a Yank for a Jerry and blow yer young head off with a shotgun! That far inland, there’s been hardly a single Yank yet.”
