Casualties of War: The Advocate Trilgy

  Casualties of War

  The Advocate Trilogy

  Bill Mesce Jr.

  Table of Contents

  The Advocate

  Officer of the Court

  A Cold And Distant Place

  The Advocate

  Bill Mesce Jr., and Steven G. Szilagyi

  Copyright © Bill Mesce Jr., and Steven G. Szilagyi 2000

  The right of Bill Mesce Jr., and Steven G. Szilagyi to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2000 by Bantam Books.

  This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  To the three brothers,

  Bill Sr.,Tommy, and “Shiekie”

  They served.

  ‘You were right in that remark that you made last summer.

  ‘I was booked to make a mistake.

  ‘I have lived too long in foreign parts.’

  — Henry James, Daisy Miller

  Part One – The Angels

  Chapter One – The Seneschal

  England, 1943

  The old man’s ritual was unchanging. Each morning he brewed his tea from a tin of faded leaves and took a biscuit, fresh-cooked the night before but now crusty, from the bun warmer on the stove. He sat hunched over his tea and biscuit, at the scuffed table he’d built himself back in the days when the lumber he’d cut had seemed as light and limber in his hands as child’s clay.

  The mutt sat eager and panting at his feet in his own morning canon, envious eyes glued to the food in the old man’s hand.

  When there was but one bite left to the biscuit, the old man paused to study the morsel reflectively. This was the dog’s cue to stand, wagging his tail frantically, bright eyes locked on the treat. The old man looked from the dog to the biscuit and back to the dog, as if weighing some great decision. Then, he leaned over, he and his chair creaking together, and held the biscuit over the dog’s head.

  The old man raised one finger, and the dog, knowing his part well, forced himself to sit and be still. They held this frieze until the old man felt the animal had earned his reward. “Oop wi’ ye!” the old man commanded, and the dog launched himself onto his hind legs, balancing in a waltzing step until the man dropped the piece of biscuit into the widespread jaws.

  When the biscuit was gone, the dog looked up at the old man, tail wagging, and smiled with a mouth full of yellow teeth.

  “You are the spoil’dest beast!” the old man said, and smiled back with teeth just as yellow. He ruffled the dogs limp ears, then massaged the top of the animals head with his horny knuckles.

  The old man finished his tea and brushed the crumbs from the table. He left the chipped teacup where it sat. By the time the woman awoke, the leaves would be dry and could be returned to their tin.

  He wiped his hands on his ragged jersey and poked his head through the curtained doorway of the bedroom. The cross mounted on the far wall stood guard over the woman snuggled in the center of the down-filled bed. It looked like a shadow in the gray light from the window facing the Channel.

  The stone walls of the cottage were cool, gathering in the moisture of the clammy morning. A breeze off the sea fluttered the thin curtains. While the dog watched patiently from the doorway, the old man tiptoed clumsily to the window. He tried to close it, but the sash was swollen with the damp and it resisted and groaned. He stopped, not wanting to wake the woman, and pulled the curtains closed. He reached for a handmade quilt atop the neat pile of bedclothes at the foot of the bed and gently drew it across her shoulders.

  He cut some cheese from the brick in the larder, took another biscuit from the warmer, and wrapped both in a damp cloth before tucking them into his haversack along with a small jug of water. He took his crook from where it rested against the wall, and his cap from the hook by the door. He was halfway out the door before he remembered his binoculars on the wireless table.

  Try as she might with her hand-tatted doilies, vases of marigolds, the menagerie of ceramic animals, the woman had been unable to soften the bleak presumptuousness of the transmitter, or the grim black ranks of aircraft silhouettes on the recognition chart tacked to the wall, lined up like cemetery crosses. He slung the glasses round his neck, blew out the lantern hanging over the table, and went outside.

  The dog spurted past him in the doorway, trotting to the edge of the cliffs where he paced back and forth near the steep drop. He left his urinary mark of proprietorship on the knots of weeds and shrubs growing twisted in the Channel winds. The gulls circling off the chalk bluffs ignored his perfunctory barks and continued with their breakfast, dropping mussels on the boulders strewn along the pebble beach, then diving to pick at the meat amid the shattered shells. Bored with the dawn and the birds and the surf, the dog trotted off to find the old man by the chicken coop behind the cottage.

  “Damn...”

  The hens were out, buc-buc-bucing in a nagging cluster. A gap had been clawed between two of the floorboards. Bloodied feathers hung on the splintered edges and trailed along the shallow fox tracks that vanished into the thick pasture grass.

  The old man turned an angry, disgusted look on the dog. “Where the bloody ’ell were you?”

  The dog dodged the old man’s attempt to cuff him. He trotted off to a safe distance, then followed the old man toward the tool shanty, his head bowed low and sheepish.

  “Better be sorry,” the old man grumbled. “Be bleedin’ shamed o’ yerself. That’s yer modrern dog for ya. Not like inna olden times. Those were real dogs, dogs a man could count on!”

  The old man laid out a roll of rusting chicken wire, frowning when he saw the scant few feet left. He gauged by eye how much he’d need and cut no more than that. These were not days that tolerated waste or excess.

  “In olden times, a man and his dog went out side by side. Out inna wars together, side by side. Tough ’ey was. Slayin’ infidels.”

  The old man went back to the coop. He nudged the hens out of the way with his boot and started tacking the patch of wire over the hole.

  “Not like ’is easy farm work yer modrern dog’s got. Yuh, slay a few infidels ’n’ yer olden dog wouldna bother wi’ no li’l ol’ fox. ’Neath ’im it was. Not like yer modrern dog, lays about all day, lettin’ the sheep stray halfways to London, does.” The old man turned sharply to the dog. “Buys ’em a rail ticket almost is what ’e does. Yup, that’s yer modrern dog. ’n’ ’en ’e wants yer biscuit, too, don’t ’e?

  The dog grinned in dumb apology.

  The old man leaned over, nose to nose with the dog, and wagged a reprimanding finger. “Old age don’t let you out of nothin’, ya know.”

  The dog whipped his tongue out; it caught the old man in the eye.

  The old man blinked and sighed and rubbed the dog’s muzzle. “Spoil’dest beast I ever seed!”

  He shooed the hens back into the coop with his crook, then headed for the sheep pen. The dog was already there, maintaining an air of diligence as he trotted back and forth beside the rail fence, barking officiously.

  “Oh, e’s onna job now, is ’e?” the old man said dryly as he swung open the gate. He started prodding the animals out, occasionally giving his staff a brisk swing, feinting at the sheep. “Ha, take ’at! Slashin’ away at ’em! Infidels!”

  Heading off the leaders, the dog steered the herd away from the vegetable garden in front of the cottage and guided them toward the grassy hillocks a safe distance from the cliffs. The flow of animals broke up the last licks of morning mist.

  The old man trudged after them. A warming breeze blew over the herd, bringing him the fa
miliar odors of moist soil, dewy grass, and sour wool, and the soft tinkle of collar bells. He could see the dog handily controlling the rambunctious elements beginning to stray from the flock. At the rear, dancing lambs, enjoying their first summer, kicked their heels.

  The old man selected a spot of thick grass atop a low knoll and sat, unmindful of the dampness seeping through his trousers. Wary of the dog, the black, teardrop faces of the sheep peeped up from behind each other’s sooty shanks as he herded them into a small depression below the old man.

  The old man pulled off his jersey and bundled it into a cushion beneath him. The dog left the sheep to the business of grazing and lay beside the old man, panting with a laborer’s pride.

  “Old age don’t let you out of nothin’,” the old man repeated, stroking the dog’s long, shaggy fur. He shifted on the bundled jersey, leaning up against the crook. The breeze, the sounds of surf and birds, were lulling. Under their caress, the old man’s eyes began to close.

  The dog’s bark, sharp and agitated, reminded the old man of bloody feathers, and his eyes snapped open. The sheep were scattered below him in the hollow, gaping at the barking of the dog. No other threat was in sight.

  The old man saw that the dog was barking toward the cottage. Pulling himself stiffly up by his crook, he saw the lazy curl of smoke from the chimney, the woman out back where she’d been hanging the bedclothes on a line for airing. She was waving and calling to him. She pointed toward the Channel.

  He raised the binoculars and rolled the focus wheel. He scanned the gray stretch of water until he found the barest charcoal-like wisp hanging low over the horizon line.

  A finger of smoke reached down from the wisp, its tip hardening into something silvery, glinting in the dull morning sun. The wisp grew larger as it neared, and soon the old man could pick out the stubby silhouette of a single-engine aeroplane. A fighter, no doubt, and by its coloring, a Yank. It was heading toward the old man, moving fast and low, no more than 150 meters above the water. The smoke he saw came in a steady, thin stream from the bulbous, black-painted nose of the plane.

  Half-tripping, half-shuffling, the old man charged down the slope, trying to avoid the dog, who circled and yipped, tangling himself in leg and crook.

  Wheezing and sweaty, the old man and the dog arrived at the door of the cottage. From inside came a ratcheting grind as the woman cranked the wireless generator.

  “There’s more!” she called to him.

  He raised his glasses again, sweeping until he saw two more of the silvery flecks materializing above the line of the water. They were in staggered formation, perhaps another fifty meters higher than the first plane, closing swiftly with the cripple, sniffing along its fragile trail of smoke.

  The old man drew himself up straight and forced himself to take long, calming breaths before he stepped inside. He did not want the woman to see how winded he was.

  “’E’s ’urt.” The woman said it urgently.

  “I know.” He tossed his crook on the table and crossed to the wireless. She had already flipped the power switch for him. He pulled the kapok-cushioned headphones on, wincing at the hissing and crackling of static in his ears. As he fiddled with the frequency controls, he looked out the window at the approaching aircraft, then to the recognition poster above the generator. He picked up the heavy microphone, cleared his throat self-importantly, and pressed the transmission button.

  “This is Observer Three Baker Three to Three Baker Control. Come in Three Baker Control, over.”

  All three aircraft were still some miles out, but there was no mistaking that silhouette: beer-barrel fuselage; stubby, elliptical wings.

  “Three Baker Three,” came a young, cool, woman’s voice. “This is Three Baker Control. Proceed, over.”

  The old man moved the family Bible aside to consult the direction markers taped to the wireless table. “I have three American P-forty-sevum Thunderbolts heading my position, course two seven zero. One aircraft is trailing smoke.” Then, as the trainer in the village had taught him, he carefully repeated the message.

  “We are alerted, Three Baker Three. Will alert Air/Sea Rescue. Keep us copied. Three Baker Control out.”

  The dog followed the old man and woman outside, to the verge of the cliff. Although the smoke from the lead ship had grown thicker, the faint buzz of the approaching engine remained smooth and steady. The first of the two trailing aircraft had closed to within a mile of its injured mate. The old man nodded approvingly.

  “’E’ll be awright,” he told the woman, noting how her fingers were knotted tensely together. “We seen much worse.”

  He shifted closer to her to block her view down the coast toward the point. After three years, there wasn’t much left of the plane on the rocks below except the tail section; a canted cross wedged upright in the rocks with its metal bleached bare of markings by sun and sea.

  “ ’at’s ’ow ’ey do it, see?” He pointed to the follow plane closing with the smoking leader. “When one of ’em is ‘urt like ’at, ’ey come back wi’ ’im. Escorts. ’Ey look after each other like ’at.”

  The first follow plane was less than a hundred meters behind the cripple, still above it and off to the right of its tail. Then the high plane gently dipped its wing, flashing American stars, and slid into a shallow dive.

  The old man saw twinkling spots of light on the wings of the diving plane, and the shell casings showering from under the aircraft. A moment later, muted by the heavy air, the stuttering of the guns reached him. The black cowling of the crippled Thunderbolt blew free with a dull crump. Licks of flame spat back from the engine, sweeping along the fuselage with thick, oily smoke, the stream pierced by the glittering shards of Plexiglas as the canopy shattered.

  The crippled plane dropped toward the water and, in another easy motion, the attacker pulled smoothly out of his dive and began to climb and bank. The sun glinted on the aluminum skin, whiting out the stars on the wings.

  The old man could see the outline of a figure in the cockpit, sun burning in the lenses of the goggles pushed back on the leather-clad head. The shining glass eyes turned toward the old man, and the Thunderbolt slid into another dive.

  He had watched it all, but it had not registered. Suddenly, he understood.

  “Run,” he croaked to the woman.

  “I — ”

  “Run!”

  They reached the doorway as the Thunderbolt opened fire. The old man shoved her through and to the right while he dove left. He hugged the stone wall hard enough to take the skin off his cheek. He squeezed his eyes closed as the stones at his back shuddered under the pounding of the heavy bullets.

  The Thunderbolt picked up its nose and the front windows of the cottage imploded. The room flew apart. Dishes, cookware, furniture — all rose up and disintegrated, the air hazing with powdered wood and crockery. The plane nosed up another degree; the roof erupted in shredded thatch work and splinters of beam.

  The guns were drowned out as the roaring engine of the Thunderbolt reached down and washed over the small cottage, over the old man, grabbing them both by their ancient foundations, threatening to tear them stone from stone, bone from bone.

  The old man’s arms curled round his head and his knees came up to his chest. He squirmed against the cold stone of the wall and waited to die.

  Chapter Two – The Justiciar

  After he was gone, I clipclopped my way back to the Annex. Don’t know why. Scene of the crime and all that, I suppose. I was feeling a bit mournful just then. Oh, not for poor old Harry. I’d hardly known him, really, though I’d known him well enough to know that that pile of respectable granite walls and marbled halls, the stained glass transoms and slate roofs of the Annex, had been a sad sort of pinnacle for him.

  I stood across the lane where I could see past the gate to the court beyond. I looked to a high corner of the yard, to the brace of tall, dusty windows that marked his quarters, and then to the other side of the yard to the single, narrow window
that signaled his office. Find the tallest staircase, the farthest end of the hall, the least attractive view, the tightest quarters and longest walk to the loo: There you’d find poor old Harry Voss.

  Poor old Harry. The deep, frowning furrows of his forehead, the few strands of hair trying vainly to breach the freckled bare pate, and that plow-horse trudge of his were guaranteed to pluck your pity strings, even at a first glance. He’d already looked worn and worried when he landed in England, no doubt over the security of his threadbare law practice, his household, and the well-being of the two warm-eyed brats and the pear-shaped woman he’d left three thousand miles behind.

  The white-helmeted Military Policemen at the Annex court gate flicked me one of those steely-eyed glares that I think they’d borrowed from the busby-topped guards at Buckingham Palace. I gave them a little smile, just a polite acknowledgment of their attention because I knew that despite my having stood in the same spot for half the week they’d failed to recognize me. So, I smiled, they glared, and I looked up at poor old Harry’s window and shook my head.

  Poor, poor old Harry.

  *

  Having seen Harry’s clerk — as I’d seen most of the other players in this drama — across the cobbles of the court, I could imagine poor old Harry’s pain and sorrow when he discovered young Corporal Nagel each morning dutifully waiting at his station in the outer office; this despite Harry’s fervent prayers the night before that one of Fat Hermann’s 250-kg. high-explosive delights might go astray and find the young Idahoan in his bed. Resigned to another unanswered prayer, Harry would grunt a perfunctory good morning to Nagel, usher the corporal off on his morning toddle to the Annex canteen, then settle in his tiny office. He would neatly hang his khaki jacket on a hanger hooked to the back of the door, loosen his tie in a way that provided the least wrinkling, roll his sleeves with equal attention above his hairy forearms, careful to keep the folds straight and even.