Crowley and shooting, just as Tree stood in the doorway and fired his.45. The room was filled with sharp thunder, muzzles’ flashes, and the hot-metal smell of gunfire. I fumbled for my revolver, rising up on one knee as a final blast rocked the room, the twin booms of both barrels going off as Crowley fell against the wall, his dead hand gripping the shotgun.
“Jesus,” Tree said, although it sounded like he was very far away. My ears were ringing, and the room was hazy with smoke. Payne got to his feet, then fell back into his chair. His shoulder was bloody where he’d caught some of the bird shot. Between him and Tree there was a hole in the wall where the shot had hit.
“Jesus,” Tree said again, and as I focused on him, I saw he’d caught some as well; his right sleeve was ripped and smoky where the bird shot had hit. Blood dripped down his arm.
“Sit down,” I said, taking him by his good arm and leaning him against the desk, away from the sight of Crowley’s corpse. “Everyone else okay?” I knew I was yelling, but I wanted to hear myself.
“Everyone but Mr. Crowley,” Kaz said, holstering his Webley.
“Mr. Wycks,” Tree said. “We ought to at least call him that.”
“It will be on his tombstone,” Kaz said.
CHAPTER THIRTY — EIGHT
Four days, two bandages, three depositions, one pauper’s funeral, one near knockdown fistfight with the original CID investigating agent, and a visit to Sophia at the Avington School for Girls later, Tree and I were in a jeep heading west to the US Army military prison at Shepton Mallet. We had a thermos of coffee, signed release papers for Private Abraham Smith, a full set of clothes from his footlocker, and sore arms from our respective wounds. I drove.
“I still feel like I got bird shot in my arm,” Tree said, rubbing his biceps.
“There were four little pieces of shot in there,” I said. “Doc got them out with tweezers.”
“What did he call that room we were in?” Tree asked.
“His surgery.”
“Well, there you go. I had surgery. You had a little scratch on your arm. You want some more coffee?”
“Sure, if you can manage it.” Tree poured, wincing and groaning as he did. We laughed. I sipped the hot java, one hand draped over the steering wheel, the sun behind us and a clear road ahead. I was having fun. The last few days, as we put together the pieces of the case against Angus Crowley, Tree and I had managed to set aside the anger that had been between us the past few years, and get back to the boyhood camaraderie that had bound us together back in Boston. Tree had medical leave for a week, and I’d gotten permission from Colonel Harding to see the Angry Smith case to its conclusion.
We’d gone to London with depositions from the Berkshire Constabulary detailing what we’d discovered about Crowley, and what witnesses had heard him confess to. The Criminal Investigations Division didn’t like hearing it, and we’d been kicked upstairs to a captain who took offense at Tree’s race, my Boston accent, and the very idea of letting Smith go free. The argument became heated, and our meeting ended with Tree pulling me out the office, one hand still clinging to the guy’s lapel. We found a lawyer from the Judge Advocate General’s office who wasn’t a complete idiot, and he pushed the release through. Tree sent a letter to the prison, letting Angry know we’d be there soon. We had no idea if it got to him, but we had orders to spring him and a letter from General Eisenhower himself in case we needed an ace in the hole.
“Do you think Angry will really settle here after the war?” I asked Tree as we hummed along the roadway.
“He’s serious all right,” Tree said. “I think he would even if Rosemary weren’t in the picture. He doesn’t want to go back to the way he was treated in the States.”
“Was it that bad for him?” Tree had had his share of hard times because of his skin color, but I didn’t have the sense he was ready to call it quits on his country.
“I’ll tell you a story, then you decide,” Tree said. “We were doing field exercises outside of Fort Polk-that’s in Louisiana. The company exec sent Angry and a corporal into town with a requisition for supplies. They take the jeep into this little cracker town, and Angry goes into the general store while Corporal Jefferson waits outside in the jeep. Before he knows it, there’s a crowd of whites around the jeep. Angry starts to go outside, but the storekeeper warns him off and tells him to keep quiet if he values his life. The white boys start beating up on Jefferson, and before long they’re dragging him behind the jeep, up and down the street, until he’s dead.”
“What did Angry do?”
“Went out the back door, ran ten miles back to our bivouac. Reported to our commanding officer, who went into town to retrieve the jeep.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all, Billy. The army let one of their own be murdered in broad daylight, and didn’t lift a finger. They were afraid white folk across the South would turn against the army if they weren’t allowed to murder a Negro soldier now and then. All Angry wants to do is get in combat and prove himself, then be left alone to build a life. Too many people back home don’t want either thing to happen. So England looks pretty damn good.”
“Can’t say I blame him,” I managed. Some days I was real clear about why we were fighting this war. Some days I wondered why we weren’t fighting other wars. We drove in silence for a while.
“Turn here,” Tree said, consulting the map on his lap. We soon came to a sign for the US Military Prison Shepton Mallet. The prison was in the center of town, surrounded by a high grey stone wall. We turned down Goal Street, and I recalled Kaz telling me this place had been a prison since the 1600s. The town had grown up with it, streets and lanes curving around the massive walls like a stream flowing against a rock outcropping. We found the entrance, showed our papers, and were directed to the administrative section. We parked, got out of the jeep, and stared at the gate closing behind us.
It was a sea of stone and barbed wire. The same monotonous grey both underfoot and rising up in every direction. There were interior fences separating the buildings and sentries in the towers that dotted the walls.
“I hope it’s as easy getting out as it was getting in,” Tree said. He hefted the bag with Angry’s Class A uniform, forgetting to complain about his arm. A serious prison drives all trivial thoughts from a man’s mind.
They knew we were coming. We presented the papers authorizing the release of Private Abraham Smith, and waited as the warden reviewed them. Ink flowed, rubber stamps were pounded on paper, and soon we were led into the prison proper by a stern-faced MP sergeant. He didn’t make small talk.
“What’s that?” I asked as we entered a large courtyard. Attached to one of the walls was a two-story brick structure, about as narrow as a row house. Its reddish hue and bright newness were at odds with the weathered grey stone of the prison.
“Execution house,” he said. “That’s where the hangings are done. The old gallows was falling apart, so we built that to replace it.” We didn’t talk much after that. I wondered what it was like spending the war guarding your own men and overseeing executions. Most in here probably deserved it, but it would be a helluva thing to explain to your kids when they asked, “What did you do in the war, Daddy?”
The courtyard was empty. From above, faces looked out of barred windows, watching our progress. There were no shouts or insults, no taunts of the guard, Tree, or me. That meant they ran a tight ship here. Respect, fear, or some combination of the two created an eerie silence as our boots echoed on the grey stone beneath our feet.
We followed the MP into one of the buildings. Up two flights, and down a narrow hallway, lit by bare bulbs every ten feet or so. It was damp and cold. The walls were the same greyish stone, and each door was solid wood with iron fastenings. Eyes watched us from thin slits as we passed by. The sergeant finally stopped, took a ring of keys from his belt, searched for the right one, unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped back two paces.
“Prisoner Smith, step out!” he shouted. Angry Smith came into the hallway, blinking his eyes against the harsh light. He took one step from the door and stood at attention. He was a big guy, shoulders straining against his denim shirt. Quiet, too. He nodded at Tree as if he’d expected him.
“This is your lucky day, boy,” the sergeant said. “Captain Boyle is here to take you back to your unit. You’ll make the quartermaster corps proud, now, won’t you?”
