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Drying her hands on her trousers, Dorothy headed out into the promise of daylight after her night shift. Thankfully, the powers that be had banished 18 hours of duty. Twelve at a time, seven days a week—this was manageable.
Doubtless, some man devised the original schedule, and Lieutenant Eilola had allowed it to stand, knowing that soon, nurses would be dropping like flies. When that occurred, she offered the voice of reason.
All around, crews readied the Eleventh for the move to a staging area before proceeding to Italy. Trucks piled high with boxes and wooden crates waited to be loaded onto LSTs. Jeeps and other vehicles bulged with supplies.
In the midst of all this activity, Captain Siemons hailed her. “Hey—what do you think of all this? We’re headed for a place called Bagrano.”
“And they’ll drive all of these onto landing craft, right?”
“Yep. Already waiting in the harbor. Kind of hate to leave Mondello Beach, don’t you?”
“I won’t miss the smell.”
Without dwelling on the stench of decomposing civilian bodies piled high along city streets and throughout the countryside, the Captain nodded. “The streets are as sobering as the operating theater. So many innocent islanders caught between gunfire from both sides.”
“What a spectacle we create for the civilians—the immensity of this operation never ceases to amaze me. Reminds me I’m an Iowa girl. Not what I ever imagined.”
“Me neither. I expect by now you’d be married, with little ones tugging at your apron strings.”
“Maybe. Definitely not camping out. How is your little girl, and your wife?”
“As well as can be expected—working hard. Doing their best.” Something about his demeanor stopped other questions Dorothy might have posed.
“You’ve probably heard things will change once we’re in country?”
“We’re being put up in Italian hotels?”
The Captain laughed out loud. “The Eleventh will be attached to the Fifth Army now. General Patton’s worn the Seventh out and has to stay here. His old friend Ike chastised him for losing control with those shell-shocked soldiers and forced him to apologize.”
“He’s a showman, right? So he managed.”
“Yeah, but after taking the city of Palermo and saving Montgomery’s hide, he even beat the British to the city. After such wild success, this has to be quite the downfall. Where are you headed?”
“I think I’ll go into town to do some shopping. Maybe I’ll get my hair done, but first, I need to wake Millie and get some breakfast.”
“All right if I walk you to your tent? It’s on my way.”
“You’re bringing mail?”
“I wish. I just sent two of my men to figure out what’s holding it up. Maybe something to do with Patton’s goings-on.”
“That could affect the mail?”
Captain Siemons shrugged. “Just about anything can interfere. Things intertwined in ways so complicated, it gives me headaches. We’re at the mercy of weather, commanders, torpedoes, artillery, laziness, stupidity—you name it.”
This officer always seemed to have insider information, and as they walked, he returned to General Patton. “He’s fussing and fuming, but I doubt it’ll do him much good. He went too far this time. The British press got ahold of the story, and no matter that Patton fought under General Pershing against Pancho Villa—even his friendship with Ike couldn’t save him.”
“We really need him, don’t we?”
“Sure do, but I doubt he’ll see action in Italy. Too bad for the overall picture, because when it comes to tactics, he’s head and shoulders above the rest. Did you hear that even one of the guys he slapped says he respects him? Says Old Blood and Guts has been under heavy stress too, and perhaps has battle fatigue himself—no hard feelings.”
“Wow, that’s loyalty!”
“Yeah, toward the commander who forced you on to Messina in spite of how many casualties the Germans inflicted, then threw you across the recovery tent for admitting you had the shakes. Those units went from hill to hill, literally, against two panzer grenadier divisions blowing bridges and laying mines the whole way.
“Too bad the General couldn’t show a little compassion, but he’s a tough guy. For him, it’s all or nothing.”
A seagull swooped to the waters’ edge for scraps as the captain gave something between a sigh and a groan. “The Germans even booby-trapped dead soldiers, did you know that? The guy Patton slapped had seen plenty of his buddies die, I’m betting.”
A shudder took Dorothy. “I don’t know how they do it, do you?”
“There’s only one way. Gut it out. But then they’re left with all those scenes to deal with. That might be the worst part.”
“Sure would’ve liked to be a mouse in the corner to hear the general’s apology.”
“Yeah. That might be the hardest punishment Ike could have given him. Apologizing comes hard enough for folks like you and me, but he’s a big shot. Bet he did a few practice runs with his staff.”
“How did you learn all these details? The GI that got slapped—did you know him from somewhere?”
“Nope, I’ve got short wave.” The captain grinned and pointed to his temples as if claiming superior perception.
“So, how long do your short waves tell you it’ll take to get us to the staging area in Italy?”
“It’s near Naples, and the Fifth is already having its challenges there. Unfortunately, while the Seventh focused on Messina, we let over 100,000 enemy troops evacuate from here, and they headed straight for Italy. Once Mussolini fell, they took Rome, and their fortifications around Salerno are what’s killing us as we speak. Pardon the pun.
“General Clark’s getting his comeuppance. His men are trapped in peach and apple orchards or tobacco fields, with incoming fire from German positions on the high ground.”
“So that’s it! I thought I smelled peaches!”
“On the wounded?”
“I swear it—I’ve been baffled. But now I know why.”
Captain Siemons shook his head. “I’m glad they found something left to eat—the Germans usually destroy everything edible. At least the Eighty-second succeeded in claiming the Chiunzi Pass—now they can guide our naval guns to enemy supply lines. We’ll get them, but it’s going to take longer than most people thought.”
“Where have I heard that before?” At the nurses’ area, Dorothy stopped. “You’re a walking encyclopedia. But you still didn’t answer my question—how long will it be until we load up?”
The captain lifted his palms to vast blue sky. “No guessing allowed when the US Army’s involved.”
###
BIT BY BIT, THIS MORNING’S heavy mist gave way to sunlight. As Rupert proceeded past Kelly’s Pie and Mash Shop, the best spot to eat mash, meat pies, and stewed eels, the rich aroma of baking pies enticed him. A bit further, a spectacle appeared. Half a block away, a collision of sunshine and mist created an ethereal aura over the street.
He slowed his pace to study the effect and then hurried to stand at that exact location, between two lampposts and in front of a butcher’s shop. Inside the ray, he turned, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Baffled, he hurried back to where he’d first spied the radiance.
It was still there, an intersection of mist and sunlight, but the radiance could be viewed only from afar. Interesting. You might be standing in the midst of something glorious without realizing it.
A few blocks along, someone hailed him in a familiar, determined female voice. He squinted into the sun. Ah, Mrs. Evans.
“I’d hoped to find you along here, off’cer.” She shifted her youngest child to her other arm and continued. “I’d just come out of the infirmary, and down the street a ways, Avery Ritter stood right across the street, sure as I live and breathe, and he was talking with somebody.
“I hid in a doorway, to be sure it was him. You know his crooked stance, almost as if his body shows the state of his mind, wouldn’t you say, Off’cer?”
“I never thought of it that way, but that makes sense.” Rupert called on his patience, for Mrs. Evans never took the direct route to a story’s end. “Did you recognize the bloke speaking with him?”
“Looked som’at like Mrs. Perkins’ cousin from Cardiff—she’s our neighbor, you know. But not enough to be him.”
“Tall or short?”
“Shorter than you, but taller than me. Dark hair and a short beard.”
“They spoke at length, then?”
“They did.” She brushed a downfall from her eyes. “Probably all of five minutes, sir. And—”
Rupert jumped back in. “Quite valuable information, Mrs. Evans. Could you please describe the gentleman for me?”
“He was flustered-looking, as though he might have just had a domestic.”
“Did he wear a hat, carry a walking stick or have any distinguishing features?”
“He had a beret. Brown, I believe, and he sported a tweed jacket. Had a walking stick, rather fancy at that, and everything else he wore was dark. Eyes, hair, even ’is skin. Maybe an Italian—maybe one of them prisoners.” Her eyes grew large at the possibility.
“Excellent work, ma’am. Did this man and Ritter exchange anything?”
“They did indeed. Oh—did I say Ritter had a small leather case that he opened and the stranger drew near to look inside? When Ritter shut it up again, the stranger nodded and said something.
“Then he waited while Ritter passed through a door into a building. ‘Twas painted green, a double affair like as if you might pull the two sides apart at the middle to drive a lorry through. The paint looked awful bad, though. Yes, Avery Ritter went in there while the man waited outside, and came out with two packages, one about the size of my husband’s duffel bag, and the other—”
“Did he give them to this man and receive money in exchange?”
“I warrant he did. Couldn’t see exactly, but something spilled on the sidewalk, and jingled as though he’d dropped a half crown and some farthings. Rather nerve-wracking, but I couldn’t say for sure, as a lorry rolled up about that time, and—”
“A lorry? Did the driver park in front of the two men?”
“Why, how could you know? Truth be told, he did. After that, there was nothing more to be seen of those two. I might’ve stayed longer, but my work at home called me. I left my middle child in charge, and ‘e’s trustworthy, but things can happen—”
“Mrs. Evans, thank you so very much. Now, as to this building. It is situated down from the infirmary, between here and there, am I correct?”
“Exactly. Not half a minute’s walk from the doors.”
“Had it a sign above the door?”
“No sign that I recall, but a dist... one of those marks. A big black smudge ran all the way across on the low side, like as if somebody backed a lorry there regular and cared nothing about the consequences. Near scraped the wood in two. I would imagine that door might not be so sturdy as it once—”
Rupert pulled out his watch. “The afternoon wanes and you must get back to your children. I simply cannot thank you enough for your fine investigative work. We may have to take you onto the force.”
A chuckle lighted Mrs. Evans’ eyes and she blew at a wayward swatch of hair. “Like as I would assist the Prime Minister, eh?”
“Or I. Thank you again.”
Thoughts churned in Rupert’s head. This required immediate action. Better inform the Chief. As he neared the station, he outlined his report. But crossing the noisy main entryway where officers booked criminals and citizens made inquiries, second thoughts troubled him. Had he jumped to conclusions?
Given Ritter’s previous crimes, he doubted that. Best get straight to the Chief’s office, trusting he would surmise the necessary action. As an officer, his own task was to accept that determination. Through the window in the Chief’s door, Rupert noted his superior at his desk, hard at work.
His bowed head evidenced a great loss of hair. Rupert touched his own topknot. With all the responsibility the Chief Constable carried, reasons for balding were legion. And first on the list, the tube station tragedy. Still unthinkable.
At his knock, the Chief looked up. “Do come in, Laudner. What have you for me?”
Rupert summarized his interpretation of Mrs. Evans’ report.
“You believe something might be afoot presently?”
“I do, sir.”
The Chief rubbed his finger over his forehead, creating an ink stain. “What say you check the premises straightaway and send me news by the phone box? Hopefully we can bring his dealings to a sudden end.”
Invigorated, Rupert hurried on his way. Half an hour later, after scouting about the alley in question, he formulated his case. From what he could see through a painted over but badly chipped window, the place held a large amount of goods, all in boxes or crates stacked nearly to the rafters.
His height often proved a hindrance with London’s low doorways and ceilings—difficult to race about a structure with small rooms in pursuit of a man half your size. But in this case, his height provided a definite advantage. Minus six inches, how would he have gained a view through a rather large chip towards the top of a window?
Forced to take off his helmet, the top of his head compacted against the eave works. But the reward was noting pile after pile of articles—merchandise, most likely—carefully boxed and stored inside. No doubt, a variety of supplies that might be provisioning British troops in dire straits all around this weary world.
Heavy iron locks on both doors hinted at the high value someone placed on this building’s contents. Put together, the entire scene smelled of black market.
And that deep scrape gouged all along the wooden doors portended numerous backings-into. In addition, the pavement bore black tire marks coming and going both left and right. Back and forth, back and forth. Perhaps this locale supplied scurrilous exchanges all over the East End—or over London at large.
Viable rubber tires revealed someone with access to ready cash. These days, hardly any commodity was more prized than rubber. Scientists had been researching synthetic substitutes for shipbuilding and other manufacturing.
Balancing these facts with the money exchange left little doubt about how this owner acquired the funds for upkeep on his truck. Not for a moment did Rupert think Avery Ritter owned the vehicle. No, he performed the dirty work at the low end, the heavy lifting that provided a truck—and who knew what else—for someone higher on the ladder.
In her own way, Mrs. Evans had pinpointed Ritter’s standing, but something besides his gait captured Rupert’s attention.
Mum used to say, “Your father told me how a shifty eye helped him read people’s intentions, and that nine times out of ten, this characteristic foretold trouble. He often declared he’d rather not shave a customer with a shifty eye.”
His father never admitted to a secret longing to officially uphold the law. But the offer to join the police force, brought forth the very day after Rupert’s return from the war, made him wonder if his father hadn’t played a role. Mr. Laudner, Senior knew many influential men, such as the local magistrate. These public figures trusted him to hold a razor to their throats.
By the time a troop ship belched Rupert out on the docks after his time in the trenches, the elder Laudner had passed from this world. En route home, he visited the grave. Then his mother informed him of his inheritance. She fed him and he begged for an early bedtime. But the next noon, a courier from the precinct called.
Rupert followed the messenger to the police station and was ushered into an office, where the Chief at the time offered him a detective position. Quite the unexpected shock, yet he could think of no reason to say anything but “yes.”
That evening, his Mum went tight-lipped when he inquired about the offer. That increased his theory’s reliability, for when had he known her to lack an insight? He let it go at that, since the offer set well and he was too exhausted to investigate further. But it wouldn’t surprise him to discover that Da heard about an opening and lobbied on his behalf.
Since the Chief asked him to call in, Rupert strapped his helmet under his chin and veered toward the closest police telephone box, a distance of two blocks. What would he suggest if asked his opinion?
Station two or three other officers here and catch him red-handed, for skivs might upend their networks and vanish of a night. But he was not the Chief. That honor would fall to Chief Derby’s son, slated to rejoin the force when he returned from the front. A chipper fellow, his experience as an infantry officer would serve him well and he would step into his father’s shoes naturally.
Approaching the blue box, formerly fashioned of teak but now of sturdier concrete except for the door, Rupert organized his thoughts. This box stood like a monument, about as tall as him. The electric light atop was blinking—perhaps the Chief had tried to reach him.
Reaching inside to retrieve the receiver, he felt something squishy. The day’s fading sunshine fought against his search. Nothing left but to pull out whatever had been thrust in.
“Blimey!” Rupert tossed a putrid mound of raw turnips to the pavement and surveyed the area. The citizenry showed respect for these devices installed by the Metropolitan Police about 12 years after he joined the force. The authorities realized how instrumental they had been in squelching crime in other areas.
Local citizens also might call to report an emergency, and during this war, had often done so. Imagine a distraught mother calling to report a burglary and coming up with this mush!
No bombed out building languished nearby to shelter young toughs or provide a playground for small boys’ soldier games. He had passed just such a building, though, in the next block, and determined to check the premises.
Lifting the receiver, he glanced around once more. He had taken the usual precautions, but one could not be too careful. No shadows flitted from corner to corner when he turned, but Ritter might still have observed him from a doorway or a second or third story.
“Chief Constable, please.” As he waited, something seemed amiss. He wished the administration had upgraded these calling boxes to tiny offices where an officer might shut the door and make notes at a small desk. As it was, Rupert stood and waited as the phone rang.
“Is that you, Laudner?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your findings?”
“I believe an evening raid would be called for.” He detailed the evidence, and could hear the chief tapping something on his desk.
“I shall draw up the needed papers. Tonight?”
“The sooner, the better.”
“There might be no time to lose, if we are to catch them.” Scribbling sounds emanated from the receiver, so Rupert held it away from his ear.
“Knowing your heavy schedule, I hesitate to ask, but would you be able to supervise the raid? We’ve fallen dreadfully short of men.”
“I shall be there. Nine o’clock?”
“Good—full dark. The others have far less experience.”
“Righto. To be honest, I would hate to miss out on this, sir.”
“Fine. Report to me in the morning. I shall expect you.”
Hanging up, Rupert’s sigh reverberated. He had no reason to believe the Chief might not take his word, but even so, ‘twas good to know. He hoped with all his heart that Ritter would show up with enough evidence to be arrested. He’d like to have this thing done with and get on to other pressing matters.
So much to sort these days. Yes, like the continuing wreckage and deaths from those blighted V-2 Rockets.
Recalling that bombed out house en route, he decided to check the rubble-filled basement, and found only boys playing in its vacant lot. Chatting with them for a while, he observed no rotten vegetable essence or stained hands, and they ran off, shouting, “Let’s play Leap Frog.”
“Everyone form a queue.” The first boy squatted, the next jumped over him and squatted, too. The third did the same, and so on until the last lad had to leap over a line of six. He and his chums once played the same game without incident.
If grown men tried this, someone would surely break the fifth squatter’s neck, or fall headlong into the pavement. But boys suffered only scuffed shoes, bloody knees and hands.
The shelled-out house contained telltale signs of the boys’ game of war. Makeshift guns from sections of old broomsticks or small branches broken over a knee, were scattered here and there. Did boys of all cultures, even those that never made war, play this game?
In a corner, a tight-cinched cotton bag held marbles, Rupert surmised, and leaning down to pick it up, noticed a mother’s careful stitching. One shake revealed the contents—glass scraping on glass. One of the boys must have dropped this when the lookout spied him coming and yelled, “Copper!”
Ah, well. He’d been called worse, especially on his first posting to Wembley.
Shoving aside the debris of a fallen stairway with his boot, what had occurred here became obvious. He’d bet his whistle the bomb had left the banister intact, so these boys had ‘ridden the rail,’ and their weight had crashed the structure into oblivion.
Yes, even the gritty cement dust still riding the air smelled of a recent origin. Thank heavens the wall had not come down on them—more broken bodies to pull from rubble.
Farther on, a few dark brown conkers had rolled to one side of a second brick wall still standing. The sight of those horse chestnuts set Rupert’s heart aflame. Such a simple thing, millions of them all ‘round in the parks or wherever the trees grew, but these particular ones transported him straight back to 1916.
Though tempted to collapse against the wall, he gathered himself. Much remained to be accomplished. With ample time, he might address those young fellows and serve them a warning. But instead, he hurried across the front yard and made his way toward home.
