“Big Mike’s been a BIGOT for over a month now,” Harding said, getting into his jeep and starting it. “He had a need to know.” His grin got even wider, and I swear he actually laughed as he drove off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Hey, Billy, Kaz, how you guys doin’?” Staff Sergeant Mike Miecznikowski, aka Big Mike, asked as he stepped off the train, stooping to squeeze his six-foot-plus frame through the open door.
“Glad you’re here, Big Mike,” I said as Kaz shook hands with his Polish compatriot. Big Mike was Detroit Polish, and as different from Kaz as burlesque was from Broadway. That didn’t get in the way of them being good friends. Big Mike was pals with the world, at home anywhere. By rights, he should have stopped to salute both of us, but acknowledging senior officers didn’t come as second nature to him. Even in the rarified atmosphere of SHAEF, Big Mike ignored rank as much as he could, and as a result of his good-hearted nature, the brass often fell over themselves to be seen as one of Big Mike’s buddies. I don’t know how he did it, but he had a way with people that made even the powerful and famous want to be in his orbit. Maybe it was his huge biceps, or the way he could always scrounge up whatever was needed without a lot of paperwork getting in the way.
Me, I thought all this saluting was a load of hooey myself, but I thought that about most of the chickenshit stuff in the army. Uncle Ike liked deflating oversized egos himself. Maybe that’s why he gave Big Mike free reign at headquarters. Some general officers criticized him-behind his back, of course-for talking to GIs with his hands in his pockets. Apparently army trousers were not meant to have hands stuffed inside them, for whatever reason. That was the kind of thing that really ticked Uncle Ike off. So he stuffed his knuckles in his pockets whenever the press was snapping pictures, and the dogfaces loved it. They knew chickenshit, and this was a signal that their Supreme Commander was not a big fan of it himself.
“Sam didn’t tell me much on the telephone,” Big Mike said as he tossed his duffel in the rear of the jeep. “Somethin’ about finding nine guys.”
“Nine dead men,” I said.
“Sounds unpleasant,” Big Mike said. “What’s the deal?”
“It’s even worse than it sounds. Why don’t you drive with Kaz, and he’ll fill you in.”
“We headed to the joint where your RAF pal David lives?” Big Mike asked Kaz.
“Yes. We’ll drop off your gear and all the contraband in the jeep. That’s the bribe for them putting up with you.”
“Geez,” Big Mike said, inspecting the contents. “Ain’t Sam ever gonna forget about those peaches?”
They drove off and I followed, glad for the time alone. Time to think about what had been revealed and what was left unsaid. The time and place of D-Day fit into the latter category, but I didn’t really want to know that much. Not that I might shoot my mouth off after a couple of pints. I didn’t want to see men training for the invasion and know the likely date of their death. I had read a report about expected casualties a week before. It was no secret that airborne divisions would play a key role, but there was talk that Air Vice-Marshal Leigh-Mallory had predicted up to 70 percent casualties for the 82nd Airborne. As for the GIs in the first assault wave, wherever the invasion planners sent them, it would be the same. The Germans had been fortifying the French coastline like mad, planting mines, pouring concrete, laying out fields of fire. The Atlantic Wall, Hitler called it: a long line of fortifications that the tiny Higgins boats would advance upon through churning surf and blazing steel. So, no thanks; I don’t want to know when that’s happening. No wonder Uncle Ike looked so pale, his face lined with worries I couldn’t even imagine.
From Paignton it was a straight shot to the bridge at Totnes, driving through fields of sprouting crops and grazing cows. I cruised by columns of marching GIs carrying heavy packs and counting cadence. There were more in the distance, spread out on maneuvers, darting up gently rolling hills, disappearing into tree lines and appearing again like an undulating swarm of brown ants. Under the English sky, it all looked so simple.
We crossed the river, and even miles inland it was easy to see how low the water was. Small boats sat on the mud bottom waiting for the tide’s return, long ropes securing them to the bank six feet up. Would bodies drift up the waterways, the cost of war washing up against farmers’ fields? I shook off the macabre image and slowed as the country lane leading to North Cornworthy narrowed, green leafy branches arching over our heads as we drove. Picturesque. The perfect thing before an afternoon of sorting through the dead.
We pulled to a stop in front of Ashcroft House. Big Mike whistled in amazement as he got out of the other jeep.
“This is where you guys have been shacking up? Not bad,” he said.
“Wait until you meet the family,” I said, stretching after the jeep ride. “How should we handle this?” I asked Kaz.
“Meredith, first,” Kaz said. “She seems to be in charge now. Then a courtesy call upon Lady Pemberton.” I was about to ask Kaz to brief Big Mike on how to act around Great Aunt Sylvia when voices rose from around the side of the house. Angry voices.
“Who’s that?” I said.
“David, perhaps,” Kaz said. It was two men, arguing. David and Edgar? I doubted Edgar would get that worked up over anything. “Wait here,” Kaz said, obviously worried about his friend, but not wanting to embarrass him with a whole posse. As soon as Kaz turned the corner, the voices dropped off. In a minute, he was back with David and Crawford, who sported a dark scowl.
“Crawford will deliver the supplies to the kitchen,” David said to Kaz, studiously avoiding speaking to or looking at Crawford, who bent to the task and left with an armload. Kaz introduced him to Big Mike, who gave David a casual, “How ya doin’? Nice place.” If I hadn’t been watching for it, I would have missed Big Mike’s eyes lingering on the burned face, studying the taut, shiny skin.
“Not mine, I’m afraid. Not really sure who holds the title, not yet anyway. Come inside, we’ll find Meredith. Helen will defer to her in any case; she always does. I am sure we’ll be happy to have another guest, these delicacies notwithstanding.”
Helen was nowhere to be seen, but we found Meredith in Sir Rupert’s study. Or his former study. She was in the classic bill payer’s pose, a mass of envelopes and invoices on the desk next to an open checkbook.
“Sorry to interrupt, Meredith,” David said. “It seems we’re being asked to do our bit for the war effort and house a colleague of the baron’s for a few days. This is Sergeant … er, how do you pronounce that name again?” David gave Big Mike an apologetic look.
“Staff Sergeant Mike Miecznikowski, ma’am,” Big Mike said, stepping forward and offering his huge hand. “People call me Big Mike, though.”
“I can see why,” Meredith said, tossing down her pen and accepting the shake, her delicate hand disappearing into Big Mike’s grip. “What exactly can we do for you?”
“It’s got something to do with that ship being sunk,” David said. Kaz and I exchanged a quick glance. Had news traveled that fast? “The sergeant works with Billy and the baron, and they all need to stay on a few more days.”
“Of course, we shall be glad to help in our small way,” Meredith said, smiling as she rose from her chair. “Welcome to Ashcroft House, Sergeant. David, could you show our guest to his room? Will you all be staying for luncheon?”
“No, we need to get going,” I said. “Thanks very much. I hope this is not an imposition, considering all you’ve been through.” For a dame who was on the outs with her father when he died, Meredith fit into the role of Ashcroft’s head honcho easily enough.
“Not at all, Captain,” she said. “I for one am glad of the distraction. We can’t seem to get a straight answer from father’s solicitor about the estate, and meanwhile, we have creditors whose patience seems to be running out. I’m sending each a small amount from our funds and a note explaining the situation.” She shook her head, as if clearing away cobwebs. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be boring you with our troubles, should I? I’ll ask Mrs. Dudley to make some sandwiches for you to take.”