mean? I don’t like it much, but we probably won’t be here long anyway. It is strange, though. Most of the IRA activity these days goes on up here or along the border. After hearing so many stories, it’s odd to see it really happening. I mean, back home, who cares if you’re Catholic or Protestant? Here it could get you killed if the other fellow has his blood up.”
“Tell me, has anyone from the IRA ever approached you? Appealing to you as a patriotic Irishman?”
“I’m not sure. There was one time—it was in a pub in Ardglass—a guy asked me what church I attended. I thought it was a strange way to strike up a conversation, but it turned out to be common around here. Lets you know right away if you’re drinking with the right kind or not. He said he went to Saint Mary’s, which meant he was Catholic. Once I told him I went to Saint Brigid’s back home, he started talking about how we all have to stick together, even those who’d left Ireland for America. It could’ve been nothing but talk except that he asked a lot of questions about what type of guns we had, almost as if he knew I was assigned to the arms depot.”
“Did you ever see him again?”
“Once, over in Clough. It’s a lot closer than Ardglass, and I wondered if he was looking for me. I waved and he nodded back but that was it. He was deep in conversation with another guy, some GI, and I didn’t want to butt in.”
“What did he look like?”
“Pretty average looking, except for his red hair. Bright red, like a carrot. The other fellow was tall, forty or so, balding.”
“Do you remember his name, the guy you’d talked to before?”
“Yeah, it was Eamonn, he said. A Gaelic name. He talked about how it used to be illegal for an Irishman to even say his name in Gaelic. Can you believe that?”
“Yes, I can.” “Eamonn” was “Edward” in English. Eddie Mahoney had bright red hair, and this was the second time he’d come up. Or the third, if you counted the time someone had shot him in the head.
CHAPTER • TEN
I SAT ALONE in the mess hall, drinking coffee and trying to figure out what do next. So far, all I knew was that Eddie Mahoney had been sighted in two area pubs, once arguing with someone, and once chatting with a GI. Not evidence of anything, not even a clue. I knew that Major Thornton hadn’t bothered to tell me Inspector Carrick had asked for Brennan’s file. Again, nothing really suspicious; worth asking about but I doubted it meant anything. Brennan was in the know about the IRA, and sympathetic, but so was I, and likely hundreds of other GIs in Northern Ireland. I needed to check out Andrew Jenkins to see if he was brazen enough to have used his own delivery truck in the heist. Something about Mahoney and how he was found bothered me. It seemed as if there was a missing piece to this puzzle but I couldn’t see it.
Also, I had been warned by old Grady O’Brick as soon as I landed, warned to watch my step. He’d nodded in the direction of the MP waiting for me but was that what he’d meant? Or was he gesturing toward the land itself? I didn’t know, which pretty much summed up where I was in this investigation. No answers.
I watched the men in the mess hall, eating chow, laughing and talking, doing everyday things, as much as that was possible in the army. Some of these guys had been on garrison duty in Iceland; others were fresh from the States. A few, like Brennan, were transfers from outfits that had been in combat. Maybe the army wanted to add experienced men to the unit but it never made much sense to me. Until men went through combat and saw for themselves, veterans like Brennan would be viewed as oddballs, paranoid and superstitious, strangers in their midst. Brennan himself, his pals all dead, stood apart, doing his job, but unwilling or unable to form the bonds of friendship with men who might get chopped up beside him on the next invasion beach. Instead, his only buddy was a carved
“Tell me, has anyone from the IRA ever approached you? Appealing to you as a patriotic Irishman?”
“I’m not sure. There was one time—it was in a pub in Ardglass—a guy asked me what church I attended. I thought it was a strange way to strike up a conversation, but it turned out to be common around here. Lets you know right away if you’re drinking with the right kind or not. He said he went to Saint Mary’s, which meant he was Catholic. Once I told him I went to Saint Brigid’s back home, he started talking about how we all have to stick together, even those who’d left Ireland for America. It could’ve been nothing but talk except that he asked a lot of questions about what type of guns we had, almost as if he knew I was assigned to the arms depot.”
“Did you ever see him again?”
“Once, over in Clough. It’s a lot closer than Ardglass, and I wondered if he was looking for me. I waved and he nodded back but that was it. He was deep in conversation with another guy, some GI, and I didn’t want to butt in.”
“What did he look like?”
“Pretty average looking, except for his red hair. Bright red, like a carrot. The other fellow was tall, forty or so, balding.”
“Do you remember his name, the guy you’d talked to before?”
“Yeah, it was Eamonn, he said. A Gaelic name. He talked about how it used to be illegal for an Irishman to even say his name in Gaelic. Can you believe that?”
“Yes, I can.” “Eamonn” was “Edward” in English. Eddie Mahoney had bright red hair, and this was the second time he’d come up. Or the third, if you counted the time someone had shot him in the head.
CHAPTER • TEN
I SAT ALONE in the mess hall, drinking coffee and trying to figure out what do next. So far, all I knew was that Eddie Mahoney had been sighted in two area pubs, once arguing with someone, and once chatting with a GI. Not evidence of anything, not even a clue. I knew that Major Thornton hadn’t bothered to tell me Inspector Carrick had asked for Brennan’s file. Again, nothing really suspicious; worth asking about but I doubted it meant anything. Brennan was in the know about the IRA, and sympathetic, but so was I, and likely hundreds of other GIs in Northern Ireland. I needed to check out Andrew Jenkins to see if he was brazen enough to have used his own delivery truck in the heist. Something about Mahoney and how he was found bothered me. It seemed as if there was a missing piece to this puzzle but I couldn’t see it.
Also, I had been warned by old Grady O’Brick as soon as I landed, warned to watch my step. He’d nodded in the direction of the MP waiting for me but was that what he’d meant? Or was he gesturing toward the land itself? I didn’t know, which pretty much summed up where I was in this investigation. No answers.
I watched the men in the mess hall, eating chow, laughing and talking, doing everyday things, as much as that was possible in the army. Some of these guys had been on garrison duty in Iceland; others were fresh from the States. A few, like Brennan, were transfers from outfits that had been in combat. Maybe the army wanted to add experienced men to the unit but it never made much sense to me. Until men went through combat and saw for themselves, veterans like Brennan would be viewed as oddballs, paranoid and superstitious, strangers in their midst. Brennan himself, his pals all dead, stood apart, doing his job, but unwilling or unable to form the bonds of friendship with men who might get chopped up beside him on the next invasion beach. Instead, his only buddy was a carved
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