The First wave : Billy Boyle World War II mysteries #2 / James R. Benn.

Select an Action

Title:

Author:

Benn, James R.

ISBN:

9781569474716

Publication Information:

New York : Soho Press, c2007.

Physical Description:

294 p. ; 24 cm.

Series:

Billy Boyle World War II Mysteries #2

Abstract:

Billy Boyle, an Irish-American cop who has become the personal private investigator of General Dwight D. Eisenhower, travels to Algeria in late 1942 to try to solve a series of murders involving French and American soldiers.

Subject Term:

World War, 1939-1945 -- Algeria -- Fiction.

Geographic Term:

France -- Politics and government -- 1940-1945 -- Fiction.

Genre:

Detective and mystery stories.

Historical fiction.

Available:*

Library	Material Type	Item Barcode	Shelf Number	Status
Searching... Avon-Washington Township Public Library	Adult Mystery Fiction Book Hardback	120791001884259	M BEN	Searching... Unknown

Bound With These Titles

On Order

Summary

In this meaty, old-fashioned and thoroughly enjoyable tale of WWII-era murder and espionage (The Seattle Times), Lieutenant Billy Boyle must solve a series of murders while trying to rescue the girl he loves, a captured British spy.

Reviews (6)

Publisher's Weekly Review

In Benn's high-spirited second WWII mystery (after 2006's Billy Boyle), tough, earthy Boston cop turned army lieutenant Boyle hunkers down in a landing craft during the gripping first-wave attack to liberate Algeria in 1942. Once ashore, Boyle sets out on an intelligence mission to sort out the power struggle among Vichy French traitors, free French forces and German occupiers. Boyle is soon taken into custody and catches a glimpse of his ex-girlfriend Diana, a British spy on a similar mission. He returns to friendly territory in time to find that a sergeant's throat has been cut and vital morphine and penicillin supplies stolen. The enormous multinational cast makes it hard to determine a likely suspect, especially once Boyle uncovers a drug-smuggling network, American officers running poker parties and further murders of enlisted men, all somehow tied to a secret coded notebook. Historical figures like Adm. Jean Darlan give this lively story a bit of period flair. (Sept.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

Booklist Review

Like Mark Frost in The Second Objective (2007), Benn builds his Billy Boyle series around little-known snippets of World War II history: Billy Boyle (2006) concerned a proposed Allied invasion of Norway, and this time the focus is on Eisenhower's plan to invade Vichy-held Algeria, anticipating a quick surrender by the French. It doesn't happen quite like that, and along the way, Boyle, a special investigator with Eisenhower's staff, finds himself trying to solve a series of murders connected to black marketeers and working to rescue the captured British spy with whom he fell in love in the first book. The unusual premises are the best part of this series and will be certain to appeal to WWII fiction fans, though Benn continues to struggle with the nuts and bolts of character development and plotting. The identity of the Allied traitor is obvious early on, and the interpersonal relationships still fall prey to the kind of melodrama associated with WWII tearjerkers. Still, Benn is improving from book to book, and as his storytelling skills inch closer to his feel for the historical moment, this series could come into its own.--Ott, Bill Copyright 2007 Booklist

New York Review of Books Review

IN his first novel about Billy Boyle, James R. Benn labored a bit too strenuously to draw a picture of a young soldier-sleuth who epitomized everything decent and admirable about World War II America. Benn's hero is still wide-eyed and bushy-tailed in THE FIRST WAVE (Soho, $24), but his character has deepened, as have his thoughts. Now he earns respect for the good he does, rather than what he stands for. "War sure is educational," marvels this Irish cop from South Boston, who thought he was getting a cushy patronage job when Uncle Ike (a distant relative better known as the commander of United States forces in Europe) claimed the "rosy-cheeked youth" as his personal private investigator. Instead, the kid saw plenty of action on the European front and learned enough about undercover police work to pass what even his uncle had to admit was a tough initiation. "The First Wave" finds Boyle coming ashore in the 1942 Allied landing in French North Africa He's on a dangerous, if vague, mission to rally support from officers in the Vichy government forces in Algiers and to free a group of French resistance fighters, his English girlfriend among them. A better cop than secret agent, Boyle also gets wind of a smuggling ring that's depriving soldiers of the new miracle drug, penicillin, and during the course of his investigation discovers that even in the middle of a war a combat hospital offers no refuge from noncombat crimes like drug trafficking, high-stakes gambling, rape and murder. In granting Boyle a measure of maturity, Benn takes care not to put a muzzle on him. The brash kid from Southie is still open, direct and fearless in his manner (and in his wonderfully loose-jointed use of the English language) and in no danger of losing his cover as a "happy-go-lucky Yank." But even amid the excitement of the spirited wartime storytelling, Benn allows Boyle's experiences to change him in ways both subtle and dramatic. Becoming sensitized to the status of female officers - paid half the salary of men, unable to issue an order to the lowliest private and denied the dignity of a salute - is one of those subtle ways. Seeing himself from the perspective of a people whose country his own has invaded is a more striking leap for Boyle, as is his new willingness to judge foreigners by their own standards. In one painful moment of introspection, he even questions his family's rigid beliefs. Where he comes from, that's real bravery. The elderly Britons in Robert Goddard's slow-burning murder mystery NEVER GO BACK (Delta, paper, $12) haven't thought about their military service in half a century. Actually, "service" isn't precisely le mot juste, since the Royal Air Force disciplined 15 of these bad boys by sending them to Kilveen Castle, an R.A.F. outstation in Scotland, as part of Operation Tabula Rasa, an experiment to determine whether academic subjects could, under certain conditions, be drilled into brains as dull and lazy as theirs. The experiment was a failure, in that none of the flyboys manifested a sudden, unquenchable passion for learning. But when two of them re-enter Harry Barnett's life with news that a 50th reunion at Kilveen Castle has been booked and paid for, he goes off with them on the chance that his old pal Barry Chipchase might also show up. Reunions are always such fun in mystery stories, once the participants start getting themselves murdered, and Goddard is a master of the leisurely, deliberate build from wonder to doubt to suspicion, then on to fear and panic. Resisting the panic part, Harry and Barry put their heads together to find out what really happened to them at the castle, and while we wouldn't wish it on a lab rat, it makes perfect, horrible sense. Kathy Reichs denies nothing in the way of hightech lab facilities to Temperance Brennan, a forensic anthropologist whose hectic schedule has her rotating between demanding jobs in Charlotte, N.C., and Montreal. But just as the blunt and brilliant Tempe favors her own home-cooking methods for cleaning cadaver bones, in this scrupulously tended series Reichs relies on old-fashioned elements of romance as her storytelling hook. For all its gruesome plot details about predatory men who trick adolescent girls into sexual bondage and ruthlessly discard them when the girls wise up, BONES TO ASHES (Scribner, $25.95) is all heart. Even as it observes the procedures of cutting-edge forensic scienee, the story is filtered through Tempe-s childhood recollections of golden summers on Pawleys Island that ended when her best friend, Évangéline, returned north to "the belly of L'Acadie" and disappeared. A deft hand at balanting the emotional light w'tn tne dark, Reichs links the enchanting Évangéline and her Acadian heritage to the unsolved cases of dead and missing girls that have stumped the police for years. And even now, 10 books into the series, Tempe's strung-out affair with Detective-Lieutenant Andrew Ryan still hangs on the tensions that confound lovers in an atmosphere of violent death. Short stories can be little goodies you nibble on while trying to decide which novel to read next. Or as in the case of DEAD BOYS (Little, Brown, $21.99), a first collection by Richard Lange, they can be as filling as a banquet. All 12 of these are set in a gloomy and inhospitable, if not downright hostile, Los Angeles, and each is narrated by some loser guy - a salesman, a drifter, a house painter, a bank robber - yearning for something or someone either just beyond his reach or so unattainable he might as well simply lie down and die. The writing is so fine throughout that it's almost a crime to single out "Everything Beautiful Is Far Away" as a perfect specimen. A shockingly tender study of a stalker, the narrative gently probes the claustrophobic world of a newsstand clerk pining for a trashy girl who dumped him. "Everybody has the right to something nice," he says, explaining why he borrows a ladder and paints an ocean scene on the wall across the alley from the only window in his room. Unlike most of the stories, this one has a definitive ending. It's violent, it's truthful and it's devastating. James R. Benn Benn's soldier-sleuth acts as a personal investigator for his 'Uncle Ike' Dwight D. Eisenhower.

School Library Journal Review

Adult/High School-This sequel to Billy Boyle (Soho, 2006) is as full of action, murder, espionage, and romance as the first book. Young Billy is an engaging Irish-American cop from Boston who somehow manages to hold his own against seemingly insurmountable odds. Last time he was in England helping Uncle Ike (known to others as General Eisenhower) solve some thorny spy and murder business, and now he is with the first wave of Allied forces sent to liberate Algeria. The landing on the beach goes well, but then things get mysterious in a hurry. Murders occur, the Vichy commanders act in inexplicable ways, and the world's first field supply of a top-secret new miracle drug called penicillin goes missing. Billy had little more than basic training as a police detective before the war started, but once again he is called upon to untangle a web fraught with danger in every direction. Often winging it, and relying heavily on the two or three others he can trust, as well as a full helping of good luck, Billy manages to live up to the expectations of Uncle Ike. Some readers may find the love angle and the humble heroism a bit too melodramatic, and the identity of the evildoers too predicable, but Benn does manage to build the suspense and manipulate the historical detail with impressive skill. The story moves quickly, is easy to follow, and offers lots of intriguing information about the war in Algeria. Most importantly, though, the main characters have enough depth and complexity to hold readers' interest and concern.-Robert Saunderson, Berkeley Public Library, CA (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Kirkus Review

WWII soldier Billy Boyle turns sleuth again to solve a string of murders in north Africa. As American forces prepare to liberate Algeria in late 1942, jaunty narrator Boyle, now a lieutenant, is working as an aide to gruff Major Samuel Harding. The murky political allegiances of the Vichy government make the duo temporary prisoners of the Germans. In his previous adventure (Billy Boyle, 2006), Boyle, fresh from walking a beat as a Beantown cop, threw a series of incomplete passes at British officer Daphne Seaton, who was later killed. Now his significant other is Daphne's sister Diana, a British spy he sees in Algeria for just an instant. Ebullient Polish native Piotr Augustus Kazimierz, aka Kaz, makes a brash return as a sidekick who's gravely injured by Boyle's daring escape plan. The game changes radically when French lieutenant Georges Dupree's kid brother Jerome is murdered. The prime suspect is Vichy Captain Villard, who earlier impugned the elder Dupree's loyalty and integrity. Boyle is tasked with solving the murder. His probe combines conventional sleuthing and crackerjack adventure as the body count rises--the American Sergeant Joe Casselli, for starters--and the clock runs down on Boyle's apparently imprisoned ladylove Diana. Benn's wide-eyed hero retains his appealing earnestness and infectious spirit, and his escapade is refreshingly free of camp. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Library Journal Review

Take a young Irish cop. Turn him into a lieutenant on Eisenhower's personal staff-one charged with being "Ike's investigator." Set him ashore on the coast of French North Africa along with the first wave of invading American troops. And watch the mayhem, mystery, and murder that are bound to follow. Corrupt Vichy French officers steal a shipment of American penicillin, killing a supply sergeant in the process. Benn follows up his first World War II mystery (Billy Boyle) with another danger-filled episode and delivers a cross-genre tale that is at once spy story, soldier story, and hard-Boyled detective. Bullets, babes, and bombs give Billy Boyle a bad time before he solves the case, but you'll have a good time reading about it. Highly recommended for all mystery collections.-Ken St. Andre, Phoenix P.L. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Excerpts

CHAPTER ONE Off the coast of French North Africa 8 November 1942 It was dark, and I was at sea, hunkered down in a flat-bottomed landing craft, slamming through four-foot swells and chugging noisily toward shore, leaving the relative safety of our troop transport behind. One hard mile out, me and twenty other guys, all sweating, scared, and slipping on the wet deck every time the landing craft crested another wave, rode on air for a split second, and then fell from under us. Each time it felt like hitting concrete from two stories up and each time I prayed it wouldn't happen again. No one was listening. The diesel fumes from the engine mixed with the smell of vomit and salt water and fear, giving off a new odor that wrapped itself around me, hooked into my nostrils, and wouldn't let go. The guy next to me grabbed my arm. His eyes were wide as they darted back and forth, searching for something that wasn't there, like a really good place to hide. His face was drained of color and I could barely hear him above the sound of the engine and the smashing waves. "Are we almost there, Lieutenant?" "We'll know when they start shooting at us," I said. He looked disappointed at my answer, but I had no idea how close we were and I wasn't about to stick my head up to look. I didn't know if the Vichy French were going to put up a fight when we landed or kiss us on both cheeks. Either way, I planned to keep a low profile. The next wave wasn't as bad as the others, and I guessed that meant we were getting nearer the shore. Our landing area was designated Beer Green, sixteen miles west of Algiers, capital of Algeria, the French colony garrisoned by the Vichy French. I thought it was funny that after being in this war almost a year, the first time we invade somebody it's the French. Not the Nazis, not Mussolini and his Fascists, but the so-called Vichy French. After the Germans steam-rollered into Paris, they took all the good parts of France for themselves and let some tame Frenchmen work out of a little town in the south, governing a sliver of France and most of her colonies. Vichy, famous for not much more than bottled water before, now stood for a divided France. Our brass hoped that the French soldiers in Algeria would see us as their American buddies come to help them liberate France from the Germans. But there was a distinct possibility that since we were secretly landing on their turf in the middle of the night, loaded for bear and backed up by a naval armada, they might think we were liberating Algeria from them. Which was sort of the truth, since they were between us and the Germans in North Africa, and sooner or later we were going to have to mix it up with Rommel and his Afrika Korps. "Boyle! Are the motorcycles still secure?" the voice of Major Samuel Harding barked in my ear. "Yes sir!" I was standing next to two U.S. Army Harley-Davidson motorcycles, lashed to the deck. They were for Harding and me. Not only did we have to survive the landing, we had to get these beasts up over the beach and then take them for a joy ride, smack in the middle of the invasion. The guys in the landing craft were from the 168th Combat Team, and their job was to help us get the bikes and ourselves safely ashore, then wave goodbye as we took off into the night on a pre-dawn secret mission. So after landing in North Africa, with the first wave of the first invasion of the war, if I survived, I'd be celebrating my twenty-fourth birthday on a motorcycle ride from hell. Not for the first time, I wondered how a nice Irish kid from Boston like me had gotten himself into this situation. "Okay, men, listen up!" Harding bellowed over the sounds of the engine and the surf. Bellowing was Harding's normal tone of voice. He was regular Army, in for the long haul. I was . . . well, I wasn't. "I know you've been wondering why you're baby-sitting a couple of staff officers. We're about to hit the beach so now I can tell you." Harding paused and looked at the men. He stood straight, somehow immune to the rocking of the craft, displaying no sign of a normal sense of self-preservation. The rest of us were hunched over, to present less of a target. Harding seemed like he didn't give a damn. A couple of guys straightened up and looked around nervously. When no one got his head blown off, a few more did the same. I made believe I was checking the bikes and stayed low. "We're landing near Cape Sidi Ferruch," he went on. "The French have a fortified battery at the tip of the cape, directly overlooking our landing beaches. Big 155mm artillery pieces, with new infrared thermal detectors and range finders. If the French government issues orders to resist us, we have to neutralize their artillery before they blow our ships out of the water. Lieutenant Boyle and I will make contact with friendly French officers to ensure that these guns are not used against us. Your job is to get us and the motorcycles off the beach and up to the main road. Do that and we'll do the rest. Understood?" Pinpoints of light arced up from the beach and then exploded brightly above us, just like fireworks. Night turned to day as parachute flares floated lazily downward, light dancing on the waves and bathing us in a white, ghostly illumination. Before anyone could say a thing, there was a sound like distant thunder. Then bright flashes, reflected off the low, dark clouds. Something told me it wasn't weather. The major reacted first. "Incoming!" Harding yelled, and then he wasn't standing so straight. We ducked as a shrieking sound split the sky and exploded to our right, sending up a column of water that drenched us on its way down. I wiped seawater off my face and looked toward the shore. Half a dozen spotlights were playing over the water, picking up landing craft as they slowly made their way to Beer Green. Flashes lit the early morning darkness from beyond the searchlights, and more shells whistled toward us. I tried to make myself small and squeezed my eyes shut, as if that might make everything go away. There were explosions all around us. Men screamed, fear making their voices unrecognizable. We rode through near misses that spewed so much seawater into the craft I wondered if we'd sink before we hit land. Harding tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to our rear, a broad smile on his face. He was calm, really enjoying all this, like a kid at a carnival. I turned and looked back. Two destroyers were slicing across our wakes, their five-inch guns opening up on those searchlights. The noise didn't seem so bad when it was our guys dishing it out. When the first searchlight was hit and went dark, GIs, who had been screaming seconds earlier, cheered. The artillery fire from shore lessened as the destroyers kept up their barrage, and within minutes the searchlights were gone. Everyone was whooping and yelling, trying to forget the rush of fear that had gripped them moments earlier. "Was that the big guns you were talking about, Major?" The white-faced GI who had wanted to know if we were there yet ignored me this time and went direct to Harding with his question. Smart guy. "No, Private," Harding answered. "Those were just French 75s. Good field pieces, but popguns compared to their emplaced 155mm guns. Nothing to worry about." "Yessir," the private said, some color returning to his face. I felt sorry for him, so I didn't point out that a 75mm shell exploding in our landing craft would indeed be something to worry about. No sense upsetting the help. "Get ready!" Harding yelled. I untied the straps that held the motorcycles in place. As instructed, four GIs grabbed each bike, two on a side. I looked up. We were almost there. I could see the surf breaking on the beach. Other landing craft had already made it to shore. A few isolated shots were fired up and down the beach, sporadically, as if someone was target shooting. Everything seemed to slow down, and I could hear my heart pounding in my chest. My legs felt wobbly. I didn't know if I could make it out of the craft. I knew I didn't want to be here. I just wanted to be back in Boston, on the police force with my Dad and uncles, enjoying my promotion to detective. It had become effective December 1, 1941. I was in clover for a week, then the goddamn Japs had to go and bomb Pearl Harbor. Everything changed, and eleven months later, here I was in the middle of the night with a gung-ho major, playing secret agent, hoping some Frenchie didn't put a bullet in my skull before I gave the Germans and Italians their chance. You've got no one to blame but yourself, Billy Boyle, I thought as the landing craft hit the shore with a jolting crunch. The ramp dropped and we were greeted by the sight of white churning foam on a gravel beach, and complete darkness beyond. "We're here," I said to the talkative private. "Gee, thanks, Lieutenant," he said as he pushed one of the Harleys into the surf. I followed him onto the shore of the African continent, an unwilling, wet, and shivering soldier in the vanguard of an invading army, longing for home and for Diana. Wondering where she was, and if she were alive or dead. Excerpted from The First Wave by James R. Benn All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.