Read Online Evil for Evil by James R. Benn - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James R. Benn
Tags: Historical, Mystery
Ads: Link
those circles, Major. I just go where they tell me.”
“Sit down, sit down,” Thornton said, as if that was something I should have taken for granted. He waved his hand toward a chair and I pulled it up to his desk. “I want my goddamn BARs back, Boyle.”
“Yes, sir. Can you fill me in on what you’ve come up with? I have the police report from the RUC and an initial report from the provost marshal but nothing from this command.”
“Listen, Boyle, do you have any idea what kind of workload an XO has? I don’t have time for reports in triplicate. I’m spending every wak- ing moment getting this division ready for combat. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out we’re positioned for the invasion, whenever and wherever that comes.”
“Probably right, sir. All the divisions that were here in ’42 ended up in Operation Torch.”
“Goddamn right. While they were invading North Africa we were pulling occupation duty in Iceland. Iceland, Boyle! You know why they call it Iceland?”
“Because it’s cold?”
“Cold and dark, and too much damned ice. Except in the summer, when it’s light twenty-four hours a day so you can’t sleep. I was sent there in 1941 with the first units of this division. I’ve been pushing paper and freezing my ass for two years, and I don’t intend to keep it up for the rest of the war. Iceland makes Ireland look like Miami Beach.”
“The BARs, sir?”
“OK, OK. Sorry to unload on you. The project to build up our weapons companies was all mine, and now these fucking Irish have gone and screwed it up. Goddamn it!” He threw down his pencil like a knife; the lead broke and left a piece stuck in a stack of papers. His face was red and a vein pulsed in his forehead.
“You know, sir, I saw plenty of division staff in North Africa. They were all pretty close to the front. It won’t be like you’re missing out on anything if you stay in this job,” I said, trying to ease Thornton’s frustration. He seemed to be banking on his ideas about added firepower to get him out from behind his desk.
“Thanks, Boyle.” He brushed the piece of lead from the papers and then neatened up the stack, glanced at it, and put it away in a desk drawer. He seemed to lose track of the conversation and looked at me quizzically.
“The investigation?”
“OK, OK. Between butting heads with Heck and everything else I have to do, I haven’t had much time for playing detective. You know about Jenkins, right?”
“Andrew Jenkins, head of the local Red Hands, and he supplies the base with produce, right?”
“Right. He buys stuff from all the farmers in the area and sells it to the army. Potatoes, whatever the hell they grow around here. Whiskey, ham, fresh eggs, all sorts of stuff for the officers’ messes.”
“Besides his truck being used, do you have any evidence of his involvement?”
“Evidence? No. Except that I know he’d do anything to hit the IRA. I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I can tell,” Thornton said, as he tapped the broken pencil on his desk. “I can tell when a man wants something, something larger than himself. Something grand. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes, I do. I’ve seen it,” I said, knowing what he meant. Combat, glory, promotion. “It’s not grand at all. But you won’t believe me until you’ve seen it yourself.”
“Why?” For the first time in our conversation, Thornton seemed to relax and actually listen, genuinely curious about what I had to say.
“Because I wouldn’t have.”
“Yeah, that’s the hell of it, isn’t it?”
“Sure is.”
Thornton looked at the broken pencil for a while, then sighed and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. He drummed his fingers on his desk, his frustrated energy keeping his body moving even while seated. I sat, the visions of that thing, the unknowable, the unimaginable, flowing through my mind. It wasn’t grand at all, I had told the truth about that. It was
“Sit down, sit down,” Thornton said, as if that was something I should have taken for granted. He waved his hand toward a chair and I pulled it up to his desk. “I want my goddamn BARs back, Boyle.”
“Yes, sir. Can you fill me in on what you’ve come up with? I have the police report from the RUC and an initial report from the provost marshal but nothing from this command.”
“Listen, Boyle, do you have any idea what kind of workload an XO has? I don’t have time for reports in triplicate. I’m spending every wak- ing moment getting this division ready for combat. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out we’re positioned for the invasion, whenever and wherever that comes.”
“Probably right, sir. All the divisions that were here in ’42 ended up in Operation Torch.”
“Goddamn right. While they were invading North Africa we were pulling occupation duty in Iceland. Iceland, Boyle! You know why they call it Iceland?”
“Because it’s cold?”
“Cold and dark, and too much damned ice. Except in the summer, when it’s light twenty-four hours a day so you can’t sleep. I was sent there in 1941 with the first units of this division. I’ve been pushing paper and freezing my ass for two years, and I don’t intend to keep it up for the rest of the war. Iceland makes Ireland look like Miami Beach.”
“The BARs, sir?”
“OK, OK. Sorry to unload on you. The project to build up our weapons companies was all mine, and now these fucking Irish have gone and screwed it up. Goddamn it!” He threw down his pencil like a knife; the lead broke and left a piece stuck in a stack of papers. His face was red and a vein pulsed in his forehead.
“You know, sir, I saw plenty of division staff in North Africa. They were all pretty close to the front. It won’t be like you’re missing out on anything if you stay in this job,” I said, trying to ease Thornton’s frustration. He seemed to be banking on his ideas about added firepower to get him out from behind his desk.
“Thanks, Boyle.” He brushed the piece of lead from the papers and then neatened up the stack, glanced at it, and put it away in a desk drawer. He seemed to lose track of the conversation and looked at me quizzically.
“The investigation?”
“OK, OK. Between butting heads with Heck and everything else I have to do, I haven’t had much time for playing detective. You know about Jenkins, right?”
“Andrew Jenkins, head of the local Red Hands, and he supplies the base with produce, right?”
“Right. He buys stuff from all the farmers in the area and sells it to the army. Potatoes, whatever the hell they grow around here. Whiskey, ham, fresh eggs, all sorts of stuff for the officers’ messes.”
“Besides his truck being used, do you have any evidence of his involvement?”
“Evidence? No. Except that I know he’d do anything to hit the IRA. I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I can tell,” Thornton said, as he tapped the broken pencil on his desk. “I can tell when a man wants something, something larger than himself. Something grand. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes, I do. I’ve seen it,” I said, knowing what he meant. Combat, glory, promotion. “It’s not grand at all. But you won’t believe me until you’ve seen it yourself.”
“Why?” For the first time in our conversation, Thornton seemed to relax and actually listen, genuinely curious about what I had to say.
“Because I wouldn’t have.”
“Yeah, that’s the hell of it, isn’t it?”
“Sure is.”
Thornton looked at the broken pencil for a while, then sighed and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. He drummed his fingers on his desk, his frustrated energy keeping his body moving even while seated. I sat, the visions of that thing, the unknowable, the unimaginable, flowing through my mind. It wasn’t grand at all, I had told the truth about that. It was
Similar Books
