Bushmills Irish whiskey.' He pulled open a desk drawer and drew out a three-quarters full bottle.
'God bless the U.S. Army and the Irish,' was all I could say.
CHAPTER SIX
Thornton hadn't been on duty when I'd reached 5th Division HQ. Which was just as well, given how much the Spam and beans had needed to be washed down. The cooks had gladly given me a lift, after they'd helped us finish off the bottle. Patterson and Burnham seemed all right. They hadn't tried to pump me for information, and, as they said, they were divisional MPs, with no rear-area investigative duties. I filed them away as possible friends, not because I was certain but because I had so few yet in Ireland.
Headquarters was on the other side of Newcastle, through the seaside town and up a wooded slope beneath Slieve Donard, the highest of the Mourne Mountains. The main building was a long two-story house with a dark gray thatched roof and a covered stone entryway. On either side were rows of Quonset huts, leaving the house a quaint but odd stranger among the invading steel-ribbed prefab huts.
I'd presented my orders to a bored corporal who wasn't at all impressed by the high-ranking names and British military jargon. He had taken one look at me, sniffed, and sensibly told me where I could find the showers, draw new gear, and locate my quarters. I'd managed all three, in the right order, and had even lit a fire in the small stove in my section of the hut. I had gone from lightweight khakis and a small pack to a duffel bag's worth of heavy wool, all courtesy of the division quartermaster who had taken pity on me as I stood shivering at his supply counter, my low ankle-length service shoes drenched and muddy. He had snarled at me when he first saw me, standing there dirtying up his wood floor, but when we both started talking, the Boston accents smoothed things out. He was from Everett, across the Mystic River, not Boston proper, but this far from home, it was like meeting an old neighbor. He'd loaded me down with a tanker jacket, trench coat, plenty of woolen trousers and shirts, mess kit, even a pair of long johns, all the while cursing the constant Irish rain and the major he worked for, saying they were both cold and miserable when they hit the ground in the morning, and that neither was bound to change.
I could vouch for the rain. It came down as a heavy mist, and I was glad of my new boots and thick wool socks as I hunched my shoulders and trotted to the mess tent the next morning. It was crowded with all the usual personnel attached to a headquarters unit. Clerks and typists stood in line with bandsmen and engineers, along with a group of wet and muddy GIs who looked like they'd been out on maneuvers all night. Cooks hustled pots of hot food in from the stoves outside the tent, protected from the rain by smaller open-sided tents.
Lots of guys complain about army food, and when you're eating rations in the field, there's plenty reasons to gripe. But I had to hand it to these cooks, preparing meals for hundreds, sometimes thousands, every day, in the heat or freezing cold. Dozens of loaves of freshly baked bread were set out, trays of hash and scrambled eggs, urns of coffee, all the smells mingling with the damp green earth and lingering scent of cut pine. I saw one of the guys who had brought the chow out last night and waved. We weren't exactly buddies but it felt good to have a few faces to recognize in a strange place.
I loaded my mess plate up with hash and eggs on top of white bread, sugared my black coffee, and found an empty spot on a bench at a table of soaked GIs.
'Night maneuvers?' I asked as I blew on my coffee. Most of them ignored me after a quick glance determined I was a stranger, clean and shaved, and a mere lieutenant to boot. They returned to the hot chow and talk of showers, girls, and beer.
'Up Slieve Donard and down the other side,' the guy across from me said, his own lieutenant's bars barely visible through the drying mud on his collar. 'Bob Masters, I have the I amp;R Platoon. You a new transfer?'
'No, just here to see Major Thornton. Billy Boyle's the name.'
'Welcome to Donard Wood or at least what's left of it, Billy.'
'Thanks,' I said, raising my cup in salute. 'Intelligence and Reconnaissance Platoon? What kind of intelligence are you gathering in the Mountains of Mourne?'
'How not to fall off,' one joker said, and laughter rippled along the table.
'It is a narrow path,' Masters said, grinning to let me know it was he who took the tumble. 'Mostly it's to build endurance and sharpen night infiltration skills. Recognizing each other in the dark, locating the enemy, that sort of thing.'
'Who's the enemy up there?'
'We see the occasional shepherd and other locals. There's not much cover so I usually send a couple of the boys to follow anyone we spot and see how long they can track them.'
'How do they do?'
'Damn good. Last week, Searles and Blakefield tracked a guy leading four sheep down the mountain through the Donard Bog, then to a farmhouse in a forest along the Annalong River. A few days later we met a sheepherder who accused us of rustling some of his flock. We told him about the guy and the farmhouse, and last night he thanked us and said he got his sheep back.'
'Making the world safe for lamb chops,' the wise guy at the end of the table said.
'When we finally get into action, you guys will thank me,' Masters said, wagging his fork at them.
'I heard someone lifted a load of BARs from one of your depots. What's the scuttlebutt on that?'
'German agents, the IRA, black marketeers, the Red Hand, you name it, I've heard it. I don't think anyone has a clue. All I know is we were supposed to get one of those BARs.'
'Are you short one?'
'No,' Masters said. 'Thornton had worked the supply system to get an additional complement of Brownings. He wanted the heavy weapons companies to have more firepower. There were a few extra, and one was for us.'
'How is Thornton as an exec?'
'Chomping at the bit for a promotion. His only problem is he's too good at staff work.'
'Is he investigating the theft?'
'Thornton? I guess so. Why are you so interested? Are you one of Heck's boys?' The air had been full of chatter, friendly ribbing and cursing, but at the mention of Heck's name the sounds faded as all eyes narrowed and turned on me.
'No, I'm not. As a matter of fact, he tried to throw me in jail yesterday.' Laughter rose along the benches, and the GI next to me clapped me on the back, saying I must be all right, even for an officer, if Heck couldn't arrest me.
'Heck doesn't have a lot of friends around here,' Masters said. 'Probably not anywhere, for that matter.'
'Why is that, do you think?'
'He wants to get ahead in the army. The only way he knows how is to kiss up to anyone above him and kick down.'
'Glad Thornton isn't one of those. I couldn't stand two in a row.'
'If you're not with Heck, why are you asking questions about the BARs?'
'I see not much escapes the I amp;R Platoon.'
'Intelligence is our first name,' Masters said, tapping his head.
'I am here to look into the theft. At the request of a command higher than Heck. The Brits are nervous about the IRA working with the Germans.'
'No wonder Heck tried to toss you in the slammer. You might make him look bad.'
'What did you say your name was, Lieutenant?' asked the GI next to me.
'Boyle.'
'Mine's Callahan. Funny you didn't say anything about the Brits being nervous about the Red Hand. With a name like Boyle, I mean.'
'The thought has occurred to me, Callahan. But the Red Hand isn't likely to be in league with the Germans.'
'No, they don't need the Nazis. They have the English.'
'OK, Callahan, can it,' Masters said. 'Remember the lecture. We're guests in this country. Guests don't
