Billy Boyle Read Online Free PDF Page A

file cabinets. Maps covered any spare wall space, and the paint job was a fresh coat of army green, with some brown trim for flair. I saw Harding standing next to one of the desks, talking with Daphne. He looked up, crooked his thumb in my direction, and without another word walked away in the opposite direction. I threaded my way between desks and a sea of uniforms, American, British, army, navy, all busy moving lots of paperwork around, the walls echoing with a constant murmur of low voices and the shuffling of files. A telephone rang and I had to dodge an RAF officer as he ran to grab it. I put on my best smile as I approached Daphne’s desk.
    “Do you have time to show me around, Second Officer Seaton?” I asked.
    “Please call me Miss Seaton if that’s easier for you; saves time all around.”
    Harding must have said something to her because I actually felt the temperature rise above freezing. I guess he told her that Ike had asked for me, and what he had in mind. I mentally thanked him for the boost and tried to act modest, but it was a new experience for me, especially around a pretty woman.
    “Well, Miss Seaton, the first place I’d like to see is the mess hall, and a pot of coffee, maybe some doughnuts.” Once a cop. …
    She finally smiled, and that did me a world of good. I always felt better when I could get someone to smile, especially when they were inclined otherwise. If someone’s smiling—a genuine smile, not a leer or the phony grin of a two-bit grifter—then you can be pretty sure they’re not going to cause any trouble. And trouble wasn’t what I was after.
    Daphne led me down to the mess hall, which took up most of the basement. There were long trestle tables, three in a row, and a few small round tables, probably reserved for Uncle Ike and the rest of the brass. Steam tables fronted the kitchen area, and the smell of cafeteria cooking, the clanging of pots, and the clacking of stacked plates all somehow made me feel at home. It was familiar. First thing I went for was the coffee urn. I grabbed a heavy mug and topped it off with joe that carried a faint whiff of eggshells. We picked a spot on one of the tables that wasn’t too crowded and sat across from each other. It was about lunchtime, but the place wasn’t exactly packed. Some people were just drinking coffee, or tea if they were Brits, while others ate breakfast or a lunch of sandwiches and some sort of stew. Daphne caught me eyeing the room.
    “People pretty much work around the clock here. You can always find somebody looking for breakfast at the oddest times,” she said.
    “You mean this place doesn’t run regular office hours?” I dropped two sugar cubes in the dark coffee and swirled the spoon around, not taking my eyes off her.
    “Not anymore we don’t, not since General Eisenhower arrived, and thank goodness for that. It used to be a nine-to-five headquarters, with just a skeleton staff on weekends. It was as if the Americans—excuse me, I mean the previous general—didn’t take the war very seriously.”
    “Ike does?” I blew on the coffee, watching her over the rim of the cup. She was animated, excited, explaining how things were to the new kid.
    “Yes! Staff here works seven days a week, and long days are the rule rather than the exception. Every section is staffed twenty-four hours a day. General Eisenhower knows this war can’t be won on bankers’ hours.”
    “How long have you been here?” I drank the coffee, bitter and sweet.
    “I joined the Women’s Royal Naval Service—they call us WRENs—in 1940. My father was in the navy, so it seemed a good choice. I started at Portsmouth Naval Base, went through women’s officer training, and then went back to Portsmouth to do the same thing I had done before I was made second officer. File papers and make tea. I kept asking for assignments with a bit more purpose. I think all I really did was irritate my superior officers.”
    “I knew we had a lot in