skirts. But the explosions were far away, across the canal, hitting open land that the opposing forces had already traversed. It was live ammunition, but far from us or any troops. Still, the shriek of incoming shells and the geysers of good farmland being blown sky-high lent a realistic air to the exercise. It’s one thing to watch fireworks; it’s another to feel them striking near enough to pepper your helmet with falling debris and shrapnel.
An M8 six-wheeled armored car roared to a quick halt beside us, Lieutenant Binghamton in the turret, a broad grin on his face as he saluted. “Come to watch the show, Captain?”
“We did,” I said, and introduced Kaz. I asked where Tree was and he pointed to the lead TD in the nearby platoon. He switched on his radio and a few seconds later Tree popped up from the open turret, waving me over.
“Thanks for coming out, Billy,” Tree said as I clambered up the side. “I mean Captain Boyle,” he added, with a glance at his men and a salute for me.
“Tree, first thing to learn in combat is not to salute. Unless you don’t like your officers. It only points them out to snipers.” That got a laugh from the other four crewmen.
“Fellas, this is the guy I told you about. He’s working on getting Angry free.” We were interrupted by another radio call, and the driver began to work his gears.
“I have a lead,” I said, before jumping off. “I’ll find you after the maneuver and tell you about it.” Tree’s response was lost in the sound of the four TDs moving off in unison, widening the space between them. I saw observers and umpires ahead, speeding around in jeeps, their armbands marking them as non-combatants. The Common quickly became a smoky confusion of fast vehicles, TDs, armored cars, and jeeps weaving between each other, darting from cover when they could, seeking out the folds in the land to settle into and fire simulated rounds directly at the foe, umpires barking into their radios.
Two TDs were flagged down by the umpires and declared destroyed, red smoke grenades marking their demise. In the woods by the canal, yellow smoke rose up from several spots, marking the enemy casualties, each one raising a cheer from the crowd. I returned to the jeep with Kaz, who was watching the progress through binoculars.
“Tree’s platoon is still intact,” he said, pointing to a small grove of pine trees where the TDs had hidden as much as they could. A dispatch rider on a motorcycle sped onto the scene, handing papers to Lieutenant Binghamton in his armored car.
“That’s an Indian Scout,” I said to Kaz, pointing at the motorcycle. “The model I bought as a kid.” This was a new one, decked out in olive drab with leather saddlebags. I watched as the motorcycle raced from unit to unit, delivering orders. It looked like the driver was enjoying himself. We were so focused on the ebb and flow of the battle that we were both startled when a constable came up to us. “Inspector Payne would like a word, sir.”
We left the jeep and followed him back to the roadway. I caught sight of Flowers, standing next to George Miller, like the best of friends. Bone was closing up his cart, sold out of humbugs and the like, I figured. Crowley was nowhere to be seen, but Razor Fraser raised a hand in a friendly greeting, or at least a reasonable imitation of one. Payne’s car was on the side of the road, turned away from the crowd. The constable opened the door and we climbed in back. Payne was in the driver’s seat and his passenger was watching the maneuvers intently.
“Gentlemen,” Payne began, “let me introduce Blackie Crane. Constable Cook said you’d like a word.”
“Thought I ought to see what’s holding up traffic on the canal,” Blackie said, without taking his eyes from the maneuvers. “Not a bad view, is it?” I could see where Blackie got his name. Coal dust coated his hands, clothes, and hair. From what I could see of his face, his pores were clogged with the stuff.
“I found him with his barge, tied up by the Hog’s Head Pub,” Payne said, turning in his seat to face us. “I thought it best to bring him along before opening time, otherwise we might not get much out of him.”
“Not much else to do, Inspector, with the Yanks closing down the canal, now is there?” Blackie kept his eyes glued on the Common as vehicles raced about, churning up soil as they spun their treads. “Bloody good show, though.” He interrupted his viewing long enough to light a cigarette, striking a wooden match with his thumbnail. I was relieved when we all didn’t go up in an explosion of coal dust.
“Mr. Crane,” Kaz said. “We understand you are one of the few canal men who run at night.”
“Cor! What have we here, a foreigner? Not enough to have Yanks all about, is it?” Crane addressed this remark to the air, and I wondered if he’d started his drinking early.
“Polish, Mr. Crane. And unused to your damp climate, I must add. So I have enjoyed being warmed by your excellent coal at the Hog’s Head.”
“You have, have you?” Crane turned in his seat, giving Kaz his full attention. Everyone likes to be flattered. “Old Jack Monk buys from me. We used to pass each other on the canal, back when he was on the water. Now he likes to have a good supply on hand. Folks drink more when they don’t have a chill going through their bones.”
“Perhaps we will have a drink there when we are done here. You have worked the route from Pewsey to Reading a number of years,” Kaz said, holding out the promise of free booze. “You must know the water well.”
“Indeed I do. When I sell the last of my load, I turn back and try to make it home in one run. Nighttime is tricky with the blackout and all, but you’ve got the canal to yourself. Give me a bit of moonlight and I can be back in Pewsey in no time.” He grinned, and the creases on his face showed in lines of coal dust.
“Did Inspector Payne tell you what we wanted to ask you?” I said. Blackie was the talkative type, too talkative. He was the kind of guy that might lead in whatever direction he thought you wanted to go, especially with the promise of a drink at the other end. Kaz was smart appealing to Blackie’s vanity, but dangling that pint out in front of him was dangerous.
“No, only the night in question. I recall it well, perfect half-moon, brilliant light to guide me home. I’d made my last delivery and came through Newbury a bit after midnight. I remember hearing the churchbell toll from a ways out.”
“Not many people out that time of night, I’d guess,” I said. Outside the car, a few people were drifting by, the action having moved farther away.
“No, not many. So why don’t we adjourn to the Hog’s Head?” Blackie said. “So I can get underway when the canal’s opened.”
“Not many, you said. Does that mean no one?”
“Listen, Yank, if I meant no one I’d of said no one. You should have manners like your Polish friend here.”
“Steady on, Blackie,” Payne said. “He’s got his job to do, just like you do.”
“Was the water high that night?” Kaz asked, jumping in to keep Blackie calm.
“Aye, it was. There’d been a hard rain, and the river that feeds into the canal was at a rage, it was. But the canal is smooth, no matter how much water she carries.”
“Do you remember who you saw out in Newbury that night?” Kaz asked. “Along the embankment.”
“No, not really. I mean that I did see two men, not far from the Hog’s Head, downstream. They were arguing, I could tell since one of them was pointing his finger hard at the other fellow’s chest. But I didn’t know them, by sight or by name.”
“But would you recognize either one of them?” I asked.
“Oh sure, since one of them cursed me.”
“Why?” Kaz asked.
“Oh, the water. Like I said, it was high, and I had a full head of steam up. Probably going faster than I should of, especially with an empty boat and it being the middle of town. But it was late, and I wanted to get home.”
“What do you mean, the water?” I asked. I didn’t want to give Blackie the answer, I wanted to hear it from him.
“The wake, man, are you daft or simple? The wake kicked up onto the embankment, right where they were standing. Gave their trousers a good soaking I did. Might have laughed at the sight of them, caught up in their argument and then splashed by old Blackie! One of them shook his fist and cursed at me, and the other walked off, none too happy himself.”
“So you’d recognize one of them?” I asked.
“The one who raised his fist to me, sure I would. He had his collar up and wore a cloth cap, but I got a good look at his face. Walked a bit stooped over, as well. The other fellow, maybe not. He didn’t look at me for very
