Blue Madonna (4 page)

Chapter Four

I didn't like
this setup one bit. Harding was holding out on me, Hatch was tossing me in the clink, and Archie Chapman was on my side. My world was upside down.

Two MPs who weren't clued in to the sting strong-armed me into the barbed-wire enclosure at the edge of camp. Guards opened up the double gates and signed some paperwork, and the MPs gave me one last good shove before they left.

“Welcome to Disciplinary Training Center Number Twelve,” said a tech sergeant, flipping through the sheets he'd been handed. “Shut up, do as you're told, and we'll make your stay as pleasant as possible. Which ain't much. You're stuck with us until the provost marshal sends orders to transport you someplace where they got big rocks what need to be made into little rocks.” The other guards, all privates, dutifully laughed, and I resisted the temptation to ask how many times they'd heard that line. But given that the tech sergeant now outranked me—and had a billy club stuck under his arm—I decided to listen to his advice. He looked disappointed as he crooked a thumb in the direction of the wooden barracks. A quick shove moved me up the steps and inside.

Two MPs drinking coffee eyed me as my escort pushed me toward a clerk pecking away at his typewriter. He gave the clerk my name.

“This is the guy everyone's talking about,” the clerk said, glancing at the MPs.

“He doesn't look like much,” one of them replied.

“Cut the gawking,” I said, my anger at the situation Harding had put me in boiling over. Pain shot through my body as the guard behind me rammed his club into my back, a perfectly placed kidney hit. I fell forward, gasping as waves of agony rolled over me.

They all laughed.

“Get up, goddamn it,” said the guard, kicking me so I toppled over. More laughter. “No speaking unless spoken to, and then call the lowest private ‘sir,' understand? You are less than nothing here. You are the shit on my boot heel, get it? I'm talking to you, Boyle.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, struggling to stand. I was willing to say anything to spare my other kidney.

“Toes and nose, Boyle, on that wall,” he said. “I'm going for a smoke.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, wondering what he meant and if I was allowed to ask.

“Stand over there,” the clerk said, still grinning over my walloping. “Toes and nose touching the wall.”

It sounded easy. It was, for the first ten minutes or so. Then the ache in my kidney worked its way up my back, my legs stiffened, and my knees began to buckle. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and I gritted my teeth as laughter rippled behind me. As soon as I thought I couldn't take another second, I felt the poke of the billy club again.

“Let's go, buttercup,” the guard said. “Too bad you missed chow.” Everyone thought that was hilarious.

In back of the barracks—quarters and offices for the staff, not prisoners—a barbed-wire enclosure about twelve feet high surrounded a tent city with an open parade ground in the center and a track around the perimeter. Big enough for two or three hundred guys, depending on how many they stuffed into each tent. Off to one side, a low wooden building served as the kitchen, to judge by the foul smell of rotting garbage wafting on the breeze.

I was deposited at a tent facing the parade ground and told to keep out of trouble. The advice was a bit late, but I kept that to myself. The flaps were open, and I entered my new home. Two bunk beds, a stool, a couple of footlockers, and three prisoners greeted me. The stool was the friendliest of the lot.

“That's your bunk,” one of them said. He was a Private First Class, short and stocky, with wavy black hair trimmed close to the scalp on the sides. The bunk was a top, of course. It also had no blanket. I pointed this out to the PFC.

“I was cold last night,” he said.

A jailhouse challenge. I could let him have the blanket and avoid a fight. It wasn't like I had anything else he'd want. But I was tired of being used and pushed around. I didn't really think about it, but I found myself charging forward, pulling him off the edge of his bunk, and throwing him to the floor.

“This hasn't been a swell day for me, so don't force me to ruin yours as well,” I said, my knee pressed to his chest, my fist pulled back and ready to strike.

“Leave him alone,” shouted a skinny guy, leaping up from the stool. He grabbed for my hand, but it was easy to shake him off. The third GI strolled out of the tent, unconcerned with the drama. Probably the smartest one of the bunch, me included.

“Hey now,” the PFC said, his hands palms up in surrender. “Don't get your knickers in a twist, buddy. You can have your blanket. We're all in the same boat here. Now, Frankie, back off before you get yourself hurt.”

Frankie did, and I followed suit, helping to hoist the PFC up. “Sorry,” I said. “It's been a bad day. Court-martialed, and then they kept my toes and nose to the wall long enough to miss chow.”

“Standard operating procedure around here,” he said. “I'm Marty Hammer, and this is Herb Franklin, but we call him Frankie. The quiet guy who left is John Murphy. He don't talk much.”

“Billy Boyle,” I said, realizing that Harding must have set up my tent mates. “Recently Captain Boyle. I see you two still have your stripes.”

“Have a seat, Boyle,” Hammer said, pulling the stool closer. He tossed the blanket up on my bunk as Frankie rummaged around in the footlocker. He came up with a package of crackers and a chocolate bar. “It ain't much, but you're welcome to it.”

“I didn't know we had PX privileges,” I said. “Thanks.”

“Good one,” Frankie said. He was all skin and bones, with thinning hair brushed back from a high forehead. “We got our own PX right here.”

“Shut up, Frankie,” Hammer said. Odd for a PFC to talk to a noncom that way, but this was an odd situation. Frankie looked hurt. I ate the crackers. “We heard about you, Boyle. The whole camp's been buzzing.”

“You guys must not have much excitement here,” I said, brushing crumbs from the corner of my mouth. “I'm just a hard-working officer who got railroaded.”

“Yeah, the fall guy, right?” Frankie said with a smile. “Somebody's patsy?”

“What's it to you? I appreciate the food and all, but that's my business, and I intend to take care of it.”

“No harm meant,” Hammer said, lighting up a cigarette. “We don't have much to do here but chew the fat. After dinner, that is. The rest of the time we got KP, calisthenics, close-order drill, all that crap.”

“Yeah, they're trying to rehabilitate us as soldiers,” Frankie said with a harsh laugh. “There's guys like us, threw a few punches in a pub, that sort of thing. Then there's guys like Murphy, waiting for their court-martial.”

“What'd he do?”

“Stabbed a Brit. Husband of the gal he was shacked up with. Guy came home after a tour on a sub and found the two of them goin' at it. Murphy claims self-defense, but no one believes him,” Frankie said.

“Why?”

“He done it before,” Hammer said. “Knifed a husband who came home early from work, but it weren't serious, and the guy didn't want to be embarrassed, so Murphy walked. No charges. Still, he bragged about it, so there you go.”

“Then there's guys like you,” Frankie said. I broke off a piece of chocolate and ate it. “Guys headed for hard labor. You'll be here a few days, no more.”

“I'm not planning on it. I'll be out of here two days, max, and no hard labor.”

“I hear you got some pull,” Hammer said. “But how's that gonna work? I mean, if you really had any juice, why'd you get court-martialed?”

“And found guilty?” Frankie said. They were both giving me the hard stare. They smelled a rat, maybe. Or wanted to know my secret. It was time to make a move, the kind of move a crooked captain with pull would make.

“I don't need the third degree,” I said, tossing the rest of the chocolate bar on the wood-plank floor. “And I don't want any more of your chow. It's not worth listening to you flap your goddamn gums.”

“Hey!” Hammer said, grabbing the chocolate. “You crazy? That stuff is gold in here.”

“Yeah,” I said, standing and kicking the stool away. “So why give it to me? You after a piece of my action, is that it?”

“Action?” Hammer said, his eyebrows shooting up. “What action? You got nothing but breakin' rocks in your future.”

“Whatever you say, Hammer. Stick to your penny-ante PX operation, and I'll be out of your hair in two days, tops. Until then, stay out of my way.” I climbed up onto the top bunk, feeling the pangs of hunger overwhelming the dry crackers in my gut. It had gone dark, the only light coming from a single bare bulb hanging from the center pole.

“Touchy guy,” Frankie said to the empty air. Hammer shook his head, disappointment etched in his frown as he field-stripped his cigarette butt. From my perch, I watched as Murphy returned and climbed silently up into his bunk.

“You're not going to cause trouble, are you?” Murphy asked, staring at the sloping canvas about a foot from his face. Which was a strange question coming from a guy who caused a fair bit of turmoil himself.

“Not planning on it,” I said. “Won't be here long enough.”

“Trouble doesn't take long,” Murphy said. Then the light went out, and I heard him roll over and punch his pillow. It was lights out for the entire camp. Through the half-open tent flap I saw nothing but darkness. A profound quiet settled in around us. In the midst of a few hundred men hitting the hay at nine o'clock, the only sounds were the rustling of blankets and bodies tossing back and forth. There must have been a prohibition against talking, with a punishment worthy of silencing this bunch of fighters, thieves, and killers. I tried to sleep, but hunger and anger kept my mind roiling.

How was I going to get Hammer to tell me about the safe house? It was interesting that he seemed to call the shots, a PFC bossing around a buck sergeant. Maybe the Morgan Gang had its own ranks, and Hammer was a top man.

Why weren't Kaz and Big Mike in on this? I'd been so swept up in Harding's explanations that I hadn't thought to ask. Not undercover like me, but at least nearby in case of trouble.

And what was the rest of the story Harding hadn't told me? He'd said there was more to come after this. For now I didn't plan on losing sleep over things I didn't know. I had enough to keep me up as it was.

Reveille over a
loudspeaker was a lousy way to wake up. Especially when it was barely light. Everybody moved quickly, so I joined in, lacing up my shoes and following at a trot to the parade ground. We lined up in rows and were counted. Twice. Then jumping jacks, push-ups, deep knee bends, all under the watchful eyes of guards walking the perimeter, slapping billy clubs into their palms. Charles Atlas had nothing on their motivational methods. Half the prisoners were sent to run the track, while the other half marched up and down the parade ground. Then we switched. Not a single prisoner said a word.

Finally the chow line formed for breakfast. It inched forward into a long, narrow wooden building attached to the guards' barracks. Low grey clouds had been threatening rain all morning, and now it began, a soft mist at first, then a pattering of raindrops, soon a downpour. A grumble rolled through the line, followed quickly by a guard in a rain poncho warning against speaking. Heads down, we shuffled inside.

Chest-high double tables ran down the center of the room. No seats. Food was served from the kitchen at one end, and prisoners ate as they moved down the line, pushing their trays forward. A bowl of porridge and a spoon. A slice of bread with jam. A cup of black coffee.

“Eat everything,” Murphy whispered from behind me. I nodded, glancing ahead to see a guard check each tray. I was hungry enough that I didn't need prodding. The coffee was lukewarm, so getting it all down was easy. Not good, but easy. My tray was inspected twice, once at the end of the line to be sure I'd eaten, and again when I placed it on a clearing table, probably to be sure I hadn't swiped the spoon.

“We have thirty minutes,” Murphy said as we left the building. “It's okay to talk. Best not to look at the guards; it only gives them an excuse.”

“Thanks,” I said, hunching my shoulders against the rain. “I appreciate the advice. Hammer and Frankie weren't all that helpful.”

“That's funny,” he said. “After they went through all that trouble to get you assigned to our tent, I thought you were a pal of theirs.”

“No, not exactly pals,” I said, trying to sound like I was in the know. “Just something I fixed up. They're operators, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. They got some deal with the clerk in the barracks office. I saw them talking a few times. Not something you usually see in here. You working an angle?”

“Yeah, I got something going. How about you?”

“I plan on telling the court-martial board they ought to put me in a combat outfit. No women and plenty of Krauts to kill. That'll keep me out of trouble.”

“There's a crazy logic to that, Murphy.” Might get him killed, too, but so might his romances. His knifework hadn't been fatal yet, but there was always next time.

We ran for the tent, making our way through the flap and shaking off the rain. Frankie and Hammer were changing into dry shirts and gave a half-hearted nod in my direction. Maybe they bought my tough-guy act. Now all I had to do was figure out what they wanted from me.

And if I could give it to them. Quid pro quo.

Chapter Five

“Listen, Boyle,” Hammer
said, sitting on the edge of his bunk. “We got off on the wrong foot yesterday. I'm sorry.”

“Yeah,” Frankie chimed in. “For us, being in here is no big deal. We'll be out soon as they decide we learned our lesson, and we keep our stripes. Gotta be hard for you, losing your captain's bars and all, and gettin' sent up the river. Even Murphy here has a hope of getting out, but you're done for.”

“Yeah, that was so tactless of you,” I said. “I feel much better now.” I took off my shirt and gave a go at wringing it out, squeezing a few drops from the damp wool. The air was cold, and shivers shot through my body.

“Here,” Hammer said, tossing me a towel. “Have a seat. We got a proposition for you.”

“Give a listen, Boyle, okay?” Frankie said, pulling up the stool and resting his elbows on his knees.

“I got nothing else to do for now,” I said, settling in next to Hammer and drying off. “What happens next?”

“You mean, in here?” Hammer asked. “More drill, running the track with a full pack, whatever those bastards think up. But we're interested in what happens next with you.”

“I told you. I'll be a free man soon.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hammer said. “But what if that don't work out? Wouldn't you want a little nest egg waiting for you when your three months is done?”

“I know I would,” Frankie said. “How you gonna get by on a private's pay? Fifty bucks a month is chump change, pal.”

“You'll get no argument from me, boys,” I said. “But I've got nothing to offer. Wish I had.”

“You got something we want,” Hammer said. “Contacts. And we'll pay for the introduction.”

“You mean contacts with the criminal underworld,” I said. “The kind of contacts I don't have because I'm innocent. I've been railroaded, remember?” Any crook worth his salt protested his innocence to any and all who'd listen. I needed to play that role. Plus, a smart crook would suspect every stranger of being a snitch. “Anyway, I'm getting out of here. So thanks for the offer, but no, thanks.”

Hard to get, that's me.

“Hey, we'll talk some more tonight,” Hammer said. “Keep an open mind, will ya?”

I shrugged. Not a worry in the world. Whistles sounded, and I threw on my shirt and Ike jacket before dashing outside after the others. I'd say one thing for this place, it taught guys how to move fast.

The rain had stopped, so at least I wasn't getting any wetter. We formed up, had roll call again, and stood around until the numbers came out right. Some of the men were taken away to clean the barracks and kitchens, while others were given packs loaded with rocks and ordered to run the track around the perimeter in formation. The rest of us did close-order drill. Quick time, double time, half step, side step, back step, flank march, all the chickenshit stuff I'd learned in basic and hoped never to have to do again. Fortunately, it all came back to me. Others not so proficient were pulled out of line and made to do push-ups as guards screamed abuse at them.

Then it was our turn to run with the packs. It wasn't that the weight was tough, it was that the straps digging into my shoulders hurt. With every step—in unison, column of fours—the rocks jolted against my back. I tried to lose myself in the rhythm of the run, thinking about my days on the track team back in Boston. Catholic school, of course. My mother counted on the nuns to keep me in line and on Dad to serve as backup. When a ruler across the knuckles didn't get the message across, Dad's belt was ready to grace my backside. I learned fast.

Which was the idea here, far as I could tell. Some guys were incorrigible; they'd be shipped home to Leavenworth. Others were redeemable and would be ready to do their part when the army needed them. With D-Day on the horizon, there would be a demand for infantry replacements. A big demand, even if they were small-time crooks.

More whistles, and we dropped our packs and fell in again. Another count, and we were dismissed for chow. Reminders to keep moving, no talking, and eat everything came from guards who were waiting for anyone to disobey, eager for a break in the routine. A good thrashing made the time go faster.

Lunch was shit on a shingle. Two pieces of toast with chipped beef in what the army called “creamy white sauce.” They were right about the color. I was hungry enough to eat it all without being prompted. There was a thirty-minute break after the midday meal, and I looked forward to sunning myself under the clearing skies.

“Boyle,” Murphy called from across the parade ground, “they want you at the guards' office.” So much for relaxing.

I approached the door to the barracks hesitantly. I didn't want another kidney whack for breaking a rule I didn't know about. But the door opened, and a massive GI pulled me inside.

Big Mike.

“Move it,” he yelled in my ear. “See the clerk and get back here pronto!” He pointed with his billy club, a snarl curling his lips.

Okay, I get it. We don't know each other.
I hustled over to the clerk and stood at attention.

“Boyle, this is your stuff. Fatigue outfit, boots, the works. Your Uncle Sam takes care of you. Now get out and get cleaned up. You stink.” He pointed to a pile of clothes and a small box with a razor, soap, toothbrush, all the usual necessities. I grabbed everything, fumbling at the door with my hands full. Big Mike came along, cursing and yelling about what a low-life scum I was, and opened the door. He followed me into the courtyard, shoving me along with the billy club.

“How's it going, Billy?” This came in a sideways whisper.

“Got 'em right where I want 'em,” I said. “Or they have me, I'm not sure. Hammer arranged for me to bunk with them. They want my black market contacts.”

“Then Sam's plan worked,” he said. “They bought the package. You ought to be able to parlay that.”

“Tonight, I hope. Tomorrow you spring me. Now do me a favor,” I said, stopping to face him. “Hit me. Knock me down.”

“Aw, Billy, no.”

“Come on, a good shove. Send me flying. We got a good audience.”

We were on the parade ground, with dozens of guys hanging around, waiting for the next round. I was about to insult Big Mike to get him really mad, but I didn't need to. He stepped into me, billy club jabbing at my chest, calling me all sorts of names, some of them in Polish. Big Mike had been a Detroit cop before the war, and he knew his way around a billy club. Next thing I knew, I was on my back and he was strolling around me, twirling that club like a pro.

“Next time I tell you to hustle, you listen, you worthless piece of shit!”

He walked away, and I dusted myself off, glad that the biggest sergeant in the US Army was watching out for me.

“New guy?” Frankie asked as I approached the tent.

“How would I know?” I said. “Another goon as far as I'm concerned.”

“You got that stuff just in time,” Hammer said. “Today's wash day. Come on.”

I followed my tent mates to the rear of the camp where a series of tubs and faucets were arrayed in the open air. A hut contained showers, with the mess hall approach:
Don't stop moving.
In one end dirty, out the other clean. No talking, no horseplay.
Dirty clothes were hand-washed in the sinks and taken back to the tents to dry over the guy wires. Every prisoner had two sets of fatigues, one to change into and one to clean. They weren't keeping me long enough for two outfits, although I'd need a new set of Class As when all this was over. The chocolate-brown wool shirt was dirty and torn, my shoes scuffed and scraped, and my tailor-made Eisenhower jacket was in need of mending. If I'd known I was headed for a prison camp, I would have dressed for the occasion.

After washing clothes, we grabbed buckets and mops to clean the plank flooring in our tents. Guards swarmed around us, yelling at men to move at double time, then yelling again if even a drop of water was spilled. This wasn't about cleanliness; it was about obedience. Which was a good thing to learn if any of these guys were going to be in a rifle squad anytime soon. Lives would depend on it.

But not every guard understood the reasoning. Some plain enjoyed it. If I ever had anything to say about it—which was doubtful—I'd suggest putting them all in a platoon and sending them up against the Krauts once we hit the beach. Some of those tough guys would be whimpering hulks in no time.

After the buckets and mops were returned, we had another calisthenics session. The army did love jumping jacks. Some fancy close-order drill, then another roll call, and then back to our tents to take down the laundry, dry or not. Standing outside at attention, we waited for guards to inspect each tent for cleanliness.

Big Mike stomped into our tent, followed by another guard. I heard the latch on the footlocker open.

“Leave that be,” the other guard said.

“Why?” Big Mike asked, sounding merely puzzled.

“Those guys are okay,” the other guard said, nodding toward Frankie and Hammer. “No need to roust their stuff. They're only in for a week or so over a pub fight. Nothing to worry about.”

“Sure,” Big Mike said as they exited, ignoring us. “What about the other two?”

“Headed for hard time,” came the answer. “Forget about them.”

“See?” Hammer whispered, following me to the chow line. “We got things sewed up here. We can do you a world of good, Boyle.”

“I bet,” I said out of the corner of my mouth. I didn't doubt it. Hammer knew what he was doing. The guards left his footlocker alone, the clerk was his pal, and he had all the food and smokes he wanted. Only a PFC, he bossed around Frankie, who didn't seem to mind. Tonight I'd make a deal with him, one too good to pass up.

Chow was hamburger with watery mashed potatoes and limp string beans. I ate everything and could have gone for seconds, lousy as it was. I was ready to be a free man any time now.

“Hey, Murph, take a stroll, will ya?” Hammer said, back in the tent. He tossed him a four-pack of Chesterfields, the kind GIs expect to find in their K-ration meals at the front. Murphy grunted his acceptance and strolled out, indifferent to our plans and conspiracies.

“So you give our offer any thought?” Frankie asked, stretched out on his bunk, head propped up on one hand. I put my foot up on his blanket and leaned in.

“Yeah,” I said. “We can make a deal.”

Hammer moved closer, sitting at Frankie's feet. “You give us the names of your London contacts,” Hammer said. “Whoever you wholesale stuff to. We give you twenty-five pounds. Then another hundred when it pans out.”

“And if it doesn't?” I asked.

“Then we're out a C-note,” Hammer said, converting the currency to dollars with shrug. “But if there's trouble, like cop trouble, then we pay somebody on the inside to put a shiv in your ribs. Sound fair?”

“That's reasonable insurance,” I said. “You got that much of an organization? Or are you two it?”

“Organization we got,” Frankie said. “Plenty.”

“How do I get my money?”

“You get the down payment right now,” Hammer said. He reached into his pocket and thumbed White Fivers off a thick roll. “Twenty-five English pounds. The other one hundred when you get out, assuming you ain't dead.”

“Tell me why I should trust you,” I said.

“Listen,” Hammer said. “We got two ways of doin' business. One is with kid gloves. The other is with brass knuckles. Our boss doesn't flinch at the brass-knuckle approach, believe me. But he prefers the kid gloves. Money, information, you scratchin' my back while I scratch yours. Everybody comes up a winner, he says.”

“You can't make money off a corpse, he says,” Frankie threw in. “I like that one.”

“I'll take the down payment.” I gave them Archie's name and where to find him. Deep underground in a Shoreditch air-raid shelter. Archie continued to sleep down there in case the
Luftwaffe
started up the Blitz again. And because it was easy to see who was coming. “Tell him Peaches sent you. That'll clinch it.”

“Good,” Hammer said, handing over the bills. We shook hands.

“Now
I
have a deal for
you
,” I said. “I wasn't just flapping my gums about getting out of this. Tomorrow they're going to ask for volunteers. Volunteers for a dangerous combat assignment.”

“You're going get yourself killed, Boyle,” Frankie said. “Take the three months and the bankroll.”

“I'm not getting killed. I accept, and after I get out of here, I disappear. This pin money is nice, but I've got more stashed away. I'm going to need identity papers and a safe place to lay low for a few days. How about you keep the hundred pounds in exchange? You've got to have the pull to make that happen.”

“Maybe,” Hammer said, quickly glancing at Frankie, who shrugged. “And then we can keep an eye on you, make sure this limey Chapman checks out.”

“We could do some business,” I said. “I know plenty of guys. All that stuff I sold, remember? Maybe your organization has an opening.”

“One thing at a time,” Hammer said. “A place to hide out is not a problem. Papers are easy. We got ration books, clothing coupons, anything you need. We can get you discharge papers, medical forms, Brit identity cards, driver's license, you name it.”

“I like the way you fellows work,” I said. “You think big.”

“You got to, you wanna make a few bucks these days,” Hammer said. “Uncle Sam thinks big. Why shouldn't we?”