Billy Boyle (Billy Boyle World War II, #1)

by James R. Benn

I did like asking questions. Asking questions meant that there might be an answer, and that gave me hope. When you ran out of questions, the case was hopeless, and you just plain ran out of everything. “Questions are a dime a dozen, Kaz. Answers are what interest me. What’s so exhilarating for you?” “You. Your approach to things. Very direct. Even more American than any other American I’ve met. You are unafraid to go to the heart of the matter, no matter how, how… inappropriate it may be. Very un-European. I think it puts people off balance.” “Good way to get a reaction.” “If you can tell the difference between shock and guilt, Billy.”

Guilt will out, Dad used to say. Guilt will out, except if you’re dealing with a crazy person. Normal people just couldn’t keep guilt from showing, and all you had to do was know where to look for it. That was the hard part.

“Guilt has its own special look and sound.” “Sound? What do you mean?” “A catch in the voice, an uplift in tone. You can hear it all the time if you listen. It doesn’t even have to do with crime. It can be emotional.”

“Are these the things a Boston detective thinks about on a case? Self-deception, guilt, the knife in the back?” “Cops always look for things that are out of place. Very little things, which sometimes lead to bigger things, like why a knife in the back.” “So how do you look for these little things?” It was like asking how you breathed or woke up in the morning. It was what a cop learned to do first thing, at least in my family. To look, really look, at every little thing. “What do you look for when you walk into a room?” I asked him. “A beautiful woman,” he smiled. “Books on the shelf, artwork… anything else would not be very interesting. Although a bar would attract my attention.” “I like your approach, Kaz; it’s better than most. A cop will check the exits, look to see if anyone is carrying a hidden weapon, and sniff out any tension in the air automatically, just like you would scan the bookshelf for a rare book. Without even thinking about it.”

“Sometimes you can feel something under the surface, something wrong. You can’t be sure what it is. Everything looks normal, but you just get a feeling that something is out of place, that all the little things don’t add up.”

“Why? Are you saying this was no accident?” Harding said in disbelief. “Think about it… sir. Let’s say there was one live round loaded accidentally. It could have been fired off into the air or at any one of those Home Guards or Norwegians running around out there. But it wasn’t. It ended up a few inches from my head. What are the chances of that?” “It had to end up somewhere, Boyle,” Harding answered. “What makes you think you’re so special?” “Because we’re here, looking for a spy.” I lowered my voice, feeling like an actor in a bad melodrama. “And I’ve been asking around about the gold. Either a thief or a traitor or both tried to kill me today.”

“OK. Looks like you’ve stirred things up, Boyle. Good work. But try not to get yourself killed.” He turned and left. Not wanting me to die was the nicest possible thing Harding could’ve said. It fit right in with my plans.

Another hard day at the war. I relaxed and let the steam rise up around me. Was it just this morning that a bullet had slammed into wood inches from my nose? In the safety of the steamy bathroom it all seemed far away. Maybe this army deal was going to work out after all, as long as the bullets didn’t get any closer. I wondered what it was going to be like for the poor GIs landing on the cold shores of Norway. They’d have more than one stray bullet to worry about, and there wouldn’t be a warm bath afterward.

So far, the worst thing about being in England was hangovers and the plumbing. And almost getting killed, of course.

I stood there, trying to remember what my dad and uncles did at a crime scene. They’d always called me in for crowd control when a homicide came up on the board, to show me the ropes. Now I wished I had paid more attention. This is why they did it, so when I made it to the big leagues I’d know what to do. So I’d make the Boyle family proud. It felt like Dad was standing behind me, just shaking his head a little, wondering why he’d wasted all that time teaching me. I had to stop myself from turning to look for him.

I had learned a few choice Norwegian curses based on comments made by the occupants of rooms as I searched them. I didn’t know if they were referring to me, or my mother, but they weren’t happy with either of us.

Even Vidar Skak kept a picture of his mother or grandmother on the mantel. I hoped to God it wasn’t his wife.

It reminded me of what my kid brother, Danny, said after his first few months at college. He took a class in sociology and said a sociologist was someone who would do a year’s worth of research to find out where all the whorehouses in town were, when all you had to do was slip any cabbie a sawbuck.

It’s hard to put the fear of God in someone who’s laughing at you. You’re more than likely to beat the guy like a drum, which may feel satisfying at the moment, but doesn’t get you anywhere.

At some point, when you were in over your head, what became important wasn’t whatever you’d gone after in the first place, but something more indefinable. You couldn’t call it honor, not at this stage, not after you had gotten yourself in this deep. Avoidance of shame, that was more like it.

“So far, he’s got the most to gain from Birkeland’s death. Nothing else makes sense, but that always does. My dad always says when you’re stuck, go back to the guy who benefits the most.”

Harding sat down again, gave out a little sharp laugh, and reached for a pack of Luckies. Lucky Strike Green, “Lucky Strike Green has gone to war.” Just like me. Shake one out whenever you need it, use it up, grind it under your heel.

“Let me share a little professional secret with you, Major.” I sat on the corner of his desk and leaned forward. “It’s something my dad taught me about investigations. He’s a cop too, better than I’ll ever be. Last year I was banging my head against a wall, trying to find out the truth about a killing. Know what he told me?” “What?” Harding sounded interested, and maybe a little worried. “Never go after the truth; that’s a waste of time. Chase the lie, and let it lead you to the truth. And I know where the lie is here.”

“Pack your bags, kids, we’re blowing this joint.” I found Daphne and Kaz working their way through breakfast in the mess. I grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down with them. They both looked at me quizzically. “I understand that we are leaving, Billy, but what are we blowing up?” Kaz asked, as if he were totally ready to set off explosives at my request. “No, wait, we heard Humphrey Bogart say that in a film!” Daphne said excitedly, turning to Kaz and grasping his hand. “Remember, dear? This house is a joint, and we’re leaving quickly, blowing out!” Her brown eyes gleamed with excitement at deciphering American slang. I was glad she liked it, since my supply of ten-dollar words was pretty short.

We were in the main hallway, sitting on a hard wooden bench, our bags on the floor beside us. Kaz had one leg draped over the other, the cut of his trousers making him look casually elegant, like Ronald Colman in a tux. I looked at my pants. Baggy, wrinkled. My wool socks were itchy, and my feet hurt in their standard-issue size nine cordovan service shoes. Kaz’s black shoes sparkled like he had just gotten a spit shine, and his socks didn’t look like army issue. He looked at home in this grand house, as if he owned the place. I felt like the house dick at the Copley Plaza Hotel, the kind of guy whose job it was to hang around and try to fit in, but who knew he never would.

“Try me. We’ve got time to kill.” “Murdering time. I must file that one away, Billy. I like it, especially in light of our investigation. A race against time to find a killer and perhaps a spy, and here we are killing time. Ironic, yes?”

My most romantic experiences usually took place after three or four Guinnesses wore down the resistance of whatever girl would go out with me.

“Nice work, Daphne. Let’s hit the road.” Kaz took Daphne’s bag and grabbed his own. As I headed out the door I heard him ask Daphne, “Explain to me, why must we hit the road? Has it been unruly?”

OK, I thought, as I dug down into my memory of gang talk from South Boston, you asked for it. “Look, I may be tooting the wrong wringer, but if we don’t take a powder quick and tighten the screws on this jasper, it’ll be a trip for biscuits.”

“Is Diana still cursing like a trooper?” “Yes, she is. A terrible affliction in an otherwise wonderful daughter.

I didn’t bother waving as I drove off. She was already in another world—a world of quiet, carefully tended gardens with an adored husband by her side. I looked back as I turned a corner and saw her sitting just as I had seen her yesterday, as certain a victim of this war as Richard and all the other boys who had come crashing down out of the sky.

Every time I saw a house I’d wonder if there was a grieving wife or mother inside, and if she was as devastated as Victoria Brey. I began to think that the cost of this war was going to be far higher than anyone had expected, or at least higher than I had anticipated. I tried not to think about a certain house in Boston and my mom getting that telegram: “The secretary of war desires me to express his deep regret…”

“OK, forget it. I’m sure you know your job. I’m a little nervous.” “Nervous? Why, Lieutenant Boyle, whatever for? We’re just about to leave on a six-hundred-mile trip through enemy-infested waters, with a big, fat low-pressure system just sitting over us, dumping buckets of rain and churning up waves taller than houses, in order to land you alone in Nazi-occupied Norway, just south of the Arctic Circle, and leave you there. Why should you be nervous?” “Houses? Waves taller than houses?” “Rather large houses.”

I was getting beat up pretty badly below deck as the boat rolled, smashed headlong into waves, and dropped ten feet all at the same time. I grabbed some rain gear and headed up, trying to stay upright but not doing too well. I slammed against the ceiling, the wall, and then the deck, all within five seconds. I figured at least up top there’d be no ceiling to hit my head on, so I grabbed the handrail and pulled myself up the stairs as fast as I could. The topdeck was open unprotected from the wind, rain, and waves. Harry was at the wheel, soaked and grinning insanely. “Welcome to the North Sea, Billy. How do you like it so far?” He had to yell above the noise of the sea and our motors. He never moved his eyes, which were watching each wave as it broke across the bow. The boat crested a wave and slammed down as if it had been hit with a sledgehammer. The piece of deck I was standing on came up and struck me in the face. I fell back, sliding on the wet planks and spitting blood from a cut lip. It took my mind off being seasick, for a minute.

“Still a bit of a way to go. Keep your knees flexed and try to roll with the boat.” I made my way to the railing and flexed my knees, which was an excellent position in which to throw up breakfast. I let the water whip my face for a while and then staggered back to Harry. “Feel better?” he asked. “Actually, yes. This is almost fun.”

I DIDN’T THINK I had slept at all until I awoke from a dream. It was about Daphne. She was sitting at a table quietly, while Kaz and I talked. She watched us serenely, as if she knew some sweet secret that was beyond us. Kaz and I fell silent. Then I asked her, “Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” Her face lost all expression. I felt a deep pit of sadness open up in my stomach and the dream ended abruptly.

“Should we wait for nightfall?” Harry shook his head. “Nowhere to wait. When the fog clears, the Germans will send out everything they have. They’ll want to make up for lost time. We could go a hundred miles and chances are they’d spot us. We’ve got to get you ashore now.” “But what happens to you after you drop me off? When the weather clears?” “We take our chances, old boy. Just like you.” For the first time it occurred to me that my little unauthorized jaunt could cost others their lives. I didn’t want that and hadn’t planned on it. Everything was supposed to work out as Jens and I thought it would. The weather was supposed to cooperate, damn it! This was supposed to be a milk run, just another day on the job for these guys.

When the brass felt bad they sat back in their big leather chairs, lit up a cigar, and cursed at junior officers. It was like my dad always said: a rich guy can have the same problem we do, but he can smoke a dollar cigar in a nice big house while he worries about it.

“It’s time. Sorry to dump you off like this, Billy, but things often don’t go as planned.” “No, they don’t,” I said sadly. “I’m sorry about all this.” “What do you have to be sorry about, Billy? This isn’t on your head. Someone in a cozy office in London thought this up, and now we’re here to pick up the pieces as best we can. That’s the nature of war.” “Or is it the nature of man?” Or my nature, I wondered. To pursue Rolf Kayser no matter what the cost to others, because he had offended me by killing my friend? “If I had time for philosophy, Billy, I’d give that some thought. But right now I just drive the boat.” He grinned, wearily this time. “Yeah, and I just jump off the boat.” I shook hands with Harry and then did that very thing.

“Billy, people are being killed every day. Innocent or not. By accident or design. Bombs fall from the sky on cities all across Europe. Ships sink. Soldiers are shot, blown apart, maimed. Think how meaningless those two deaths are in the midst of all this killing.” “They’re not meaningless to me. I knew Daphne. I know what she wanted out of life. What she’ll never have. What Kaz has lost. I don’t know all those other people. There’s nothing I can do about that. That’s war.”

“There’s a balance in life, Billy. There’s the law, and then there’s what people do every day, the rules that they live by. The two aren’t always the same, but they can’t run head-on into each other, or else everything falls apart. We enforce the law, and do a good job at it. We also do what we have to do to take care of our families and each other. In this world, son, no one else will. Basher didn’t understand that. He wanted everything, more than he needed. But he couldn’t do it alone. He needed others, and he was working his way through the force, looking for the right kind of partners. It was too much, Billy, it was pulling everything out of balance.”

Now that I really had joined in this war, much of the time joy and fear, life and death, decision and responsibility were jumbled together. Things were intense, awful, terrible, and then sort of majestic when it was all over and you forgot the dirt, smoke, and stink, and were grateful you were alive. I had never thought about being grateful for life before: it was just there, like air and water. Now, it felt like I owed it to the dead, even to those who had yet to die in this war, to be grateful for the simple grace of drawing breath.

Operation Jupiter was, in fact, an Allied deception campaign aimed at convincing the Germans that Norway was a likely invasion target. Eisenhower exploited Operation Jupiter fully, even to the extent of issuing winter-weather gear to troops in England who were actually about to depart for the invasion of North Africa. His desire to make Norway into one big prisoner-of-war camp was fulfilled. When the Germans invaded Norway in 1940, they did so with five divisions. In 1941, they had a total of thirteen divisions on occupation duty in Norway. That increased to sixteen and a half in 1943, including armored forces. Over 375,000 German soldiers, sailors, and airmen sat idle in Norway by the end of World War II.