by James R Benn
Gates’s eyes flickered for a second. “Jimmy Cole? Sure. He’s over at CID now, right?”
“Yeah, he’s working this case with me. How about Captain Galante? Did you know him when he was with 3rd Division?”
“Knew of him,” Gates said. He looked away at nothing in particular.
“What did you think of him?”
“I think he’s dead, and I have the living to worry about. Now I have a question for you.”
“Okay.”
“Do you think I killed them?”
“That’s not how it works. If I could-”
“Do you think I killed them?”
I looked at his hard eyes. I looked at his strong arms, and at his weapon close by. He held ready violence like a whip at his side.
“I don’t think so. But I’ve been wrong before.”
“Fair enough,” Gates said. “You want to talk to the other sergeants?”
“Sure,” I said. “But tell me about Cole and Galante first.”
“No need for that. Come on.” Gates rose, and I followed him out of the mess tent. I knew I wasn’t going to get anything more out of him about Cole, but I didn’t know why. Rusty Gates was hiding something, but I didn’t think it was murder. He was a deadly killer, yes. But everything he did was about surviving. He wanted to live, and he wanted his men to live. Landry had been a good platoon leader, and there was no percentage in seeing him dead. But as I told Gates, I’d been wrong. Dead wrong.
The rain was heavier now, and we dashed along the plank boardwalks to a tent in the Easy Company area. Gates held the flap as we entered, and the warmth from a glowing tent stove was welcome. Crates of supplies were stacked to the rear, and next to the stove a table was set up, with three noncoms lounging around it. Two lanterns hung from the ceiling, shedding light on a stack of cash, empty bottles, cigar butts, and other debris from what looked like a long night of poker.
“Game busted up, boys?” Gates asked.
“Yeah. Flint finally cleaned the padre out. He was the big winner all night, and when he caved, the other guys left. Couple of corporals from Baker Company, they shoulda quit hours ago. Who’s this?” A stubby hand gripping a smoldering cigar waved in my direction.
“Lieutenant Boyle. He’s looking for whoever killed Landry and Galante. He wants to talk to you guys.”
“Call me Billy, fellas. Everyone does. Who made the killing?” All three of them looked at me, mouths agape. “I mean, who was the big winner?” I pointed to the pile of scrip.
“That’d be me, Billy. Amos Flint.”
“Flint has Second Squad,” Gates said. “Louie with the stogie there has First Squad, Stump the Third.”
I shook hands with Flint. He had a ready grin, but who wouldn’t, after raking in all that dough? He had startlingly blue eyes, and was neatly attired in a chocolate-brown wool shirt, usually reserved for officers. He had the satisfied calmness of a winner who’d known he’d win all along.
“Louie Walla, from Walla Walla,” the cigar-chomping sergeant said as he extended his callused hand. “Last name is Walla, and I’m from Walla Walla, Washington. How ’bout that?”
“Amazing, Louie,” was all I could say. Louie was short, with black curly hair, a raspy voice, and an easy grin wrapped around his cigar.
“Don’t mind Louie, he gives everyone that speech,” the next sergeant said. “Marty Stumpf. They call me Stump, on account of the Kraut-sounding name.” Stump was sandy-haired, with high cheekbones and eyes that didn’t seem to miss a thing.
“Yeah, if we called him Stumpf up on the line, one of his cousins might answer,” Flint said, and they all laughed at what sounded like a familiar joke. Stump rolled his eyes.
“You guys answer Billy’s questions. I’m going to pull Evans away from his bridge party. Weapons inspection in one hour. Have your men ready.”
“Aw, Rusty, we been up all night,” Louie said.
“Yeah, and look where that got you. One hour,” Gates said as he left.
“He’s right,” Flint said to the others. “We gotta stay on our toes, and show the rookies what’s what.” The other sergeants groaned but did not argue.
“Anybody have an idea about who might want Landry dead?” I asked, watching their eyes for the downward glance, the rapid flicker, anything that would signal hesitation, the censoring of thought into words.
“Nobody south of the Bernhardt Line,” Flint said, referring to the name the Germans gave to their current main line of defense, stretching across the Italian mountains south of Monte Cassino.
“You got that right,” Stump said. “Landry was one of the best.”
“That’s what everybody says,” I said. “Funny that he got murdered. What do you think, Louie?”
“I think I’d like to get my hands on whoever done it. Now we got ourselves a ninety-day wonder for a platoon leader, like to get us all killed if he ain’t smart enough to let Rusty run things.”
“I think Billy is asking what we think about who might have killed him, Louie,” Flint said. “Not about his replacement.”
“Yeah, sure. Well, no one had a beef with him that I know of. He was real good to us, on the line and off. Kept the MPs off our backs, that sort of thing.”
“He a big gambler?”
“No,” Stump replied, and the others shook their heads in agreement. “No more than the average Joe. Helps to pass the time. But he didn’t owe anyone, I’m pretty sure.”
“You think that’s why the ten of hearts was left on him?” Flint said. “Like a warning not to welsh?”
“No, you don’t kill a guy who owes money, unless it’s to make an example.”
“Hell, if the Lieutenant needed dough, any of us woulda been glad to cough up what we had,” Louie said. “We all looked out for each other. I woulda given the shirt off my back for the guy. Saved my life just a coupla weeks ago. Pulled me outta the way of a Kraut 88. Took the arm off a guy not twenty yards behind us. And Flint, he saved Landry’s life more than once, right?”
“Yep,” Stump said. “He plugged that Kraut officer we thought was dead. He was about to put a slug into Landry’s head. Flint shot him from fifty yards out, square in the back of the head.”
“Nice shooting,” I said.
Flint shrugged. “Lucky. I was just hoping these guys would hit the dirt. The guy only had a Walther.”
“Worked, didn’t it?” Stump said. “I dove into a shell hole filled with mud. I would have shot that sonuvabitch just for getting me wet. Landry gave that Walther to Flint, and he sold it to some headquarters weenie for a load of booze when we got sent here.” He grinned.
“Yeah, there’s no percentage in carrying a Kraut pistol,” Louie said. “You get captured, especially by the SS, and they take exception.”
“Don’t like it much myself,” Flint said. “Finding a Kraut carrying around anything from our boys.” There were murmurs of agreement, and I knew I was in the presence of hard men, men who knew how to survive, to put away mercy until another day. Kinder men than them were buried in graveyards for hundreds of miles behind us.
“You guys have any trouble with the military police?”
“Naw, nothing that you’d call trouble,” Stump said. “We ain’t had time to get into any real trouble. A few twelve-hour passes that got us as far as Acerra, a town about an hour south. It ain’t much, but it’s still in one piece, so it’s the best place to go if you can’t get to Naples.”
“Landry go down there much?”
“A few times, sure,” Flint said. “We saw him having dinner with some other officers at a cafe, that sort of thing. He and I had to go down there the night before he died, as a matter of fact. One of the men in my squad started a fight, broke up a joint pretty bad. We had to square it with the locals.”
“What kind of joint?”
“The kind with booze and broads,” Louie said, grinning as he clamped the cigar in his mouth. “We didn’t want the MPs to declare it off-limits, so we took up a collection, fixed
things with the owner.”
“Landry knew it would be better all around to keep things quiet,” Flint said. “Give the boys a place to blow off steam, and keep a good soldier out of the stockade. All it took was a wad of occupation scrip.”
“No hard feelings with the locals?”
“No,” said Flint. “And even if there were, no civilian could make it in here, never mind get the drop on Landry.” He was right. I’d had a flicker of hope that this could be traced back to a barroom brawl, but it didn’t add up. This killer was in uniform, invisible to everyone around him. A strong, experienced killer.
“You all know Landry a while?”
“Yeah,” Stump said. “He was with battalion staff when I got transferred in, back in Tunisia. Landry brought Louie with him when he got the platoon just before Sicily. Flint’s been around the longest, since Morocco, right?”
“Yep,” Flint said. “Not many of us left from back then.”
“Any other sergeants in the outfit?” I asked. “Assistant squad leaders?”
“We was the assistant squad leaders,” Louie said. “We got promoted due to sudden vacancies opening up. Ain’t enough noncoms to go around, so no more assistant squad leaders. Just a bunch of green replacements.”
“We’re supposed to have twelve-man squads,” Flint said. “We each have two or three experienced men, but none ready for corporal’s stripes yet. Plus about a half-dozen replacements.”
“Are you getting any of the ASTP replacements coming in?” I asked.
“Them college boys? Be more trouble than they worth,” Louie said, crushing out his cigar.
“Aw, you never know,” Stump said. “Keep an open mind, will ya?”
“My kid brother is in ASTP,” I said, unexpectedly bristling at Louie’s insinuation. “I think he’ll do alright if it comes to that.”
“No offense, Lieutenant,” Louie said. “You know how it is with replacements.”
“Yeah, I know. Tell me, did any of you know Captain Galante?”
“He patched me up once,” Flint said. “Got a piece of shrapnel in the calf, and he took good care of it. Let me lay around the hospital for a couple of days, with all those pretty nurses. He was a decent guy.”
“That’s what I heard too,” Stump said. Louie agreed.
“Any idea who’d want him dead?”
“No,” Stump said, looking at the others, who shook their heads. “He wasn’t like a lot of the other officers. Didn’t drink a lot, kept to himself. Didn’t you tell me, Flint, he had a thing for Italian art?”
“Yeah, right,” Flint said, snapping his fingers. “He told me all about the fancy artwork they have in the churches here. I don’t remember the names of the artists, but he knew them all. He knew all about Italian royalty too. Me, I didn’t even know they had a king over here until he fired Mussolini. King Victor Emmanuel, it was. Galante told me all about them, how the royal family used to have fancy dance balls right here in Caserta, in the palace.”
“A real bookworm,” Louie said.
“Louie, you got no class,” Stump said. “Billy, you got any other questions? We gotta go get our boys ready for inspection. Everybody gets a pass into town once we’re done.”
“Just one. What about Jim Cole?” There was silence, and three sets of eyes looked everywhere but at me. “What’s the big secret?”
“Nothing,” Stump said. “Cole’s a good guy.”
“Yeah, leave him out of this,” Flint said. “Let’s go.”
Louie shrugged, and they all stood.
“Don’t you feel bad taking all that dough from the padre?” Stump said.
“I’m going to give it back, most of it anyway. For some worthy cause,” Flint announced with a grin. “I just wanted to hang onto it for a while, make believe it was mine.”
“Who’s the padre?”
“Father Dare,” Flint said. “Regimental chaplain.”
“Last guy to see Landry alive,” Stump said.
“Not counting the guy what killed him,” corrected Louie Walla from Walla Walla.
T HE RAIN HAD let up, so as the three sergeants went to organize their squads, I walked back to where Landry’s body had been found. Smoke mingled with the fog and dressed everything in a dull, damp gray. I stood in the narrow pathway in the rear of the supply tents, an alleyway bordered by stakes and ropes from the tents on either side. I planted my feet where the killer must have stood to drop Landry’s body, and saw how he must’ve had to drag him by the collar to get him under the guy wires and up against the tent.
Where did you come from? I thought as I looked around. How far did you carry him? Why did you bring him here? I went back to the boardwalk and looked in every direction. More tents, more open space. Was Landry killed in a tent? No, then he could have been left there. I walked in front of the supply tent, and noticed the tire tracks in the mud. Trucks had been bringing in supplies constantly, backing up to the supply tents for easy unloading.
Here, Landry was killed here. In between trucks parked for the night. No, not for the night, just for a while. That’s why the killer had to move the body, if he didn’t want it found right away.
But why did he need the body not to be found? Why hide both bodies in places that only delayed their discovery? To show someone else? To frighten someone-a major, maybe? Or was it simpler than that? Maybe he had to go get a deck of cards. If that was it, then the cards were an afterthought.
So what if they were? That and a nickel would get me a phone call.
I shivered, mostly from the chill creeping up my boots, but also from the presence of murder. Here, on this meaningless patch of dirt, a man’s life ended. The air was different here, choked with mist, as if the specter of violence oozed from the ground. I looked around, feeling I was being watched, trying to pick out a pair of eyes focused on me and this patch of dirt. Nothing but GIs hurrying back and forth, killing time while waiting to be killed.
Maybe Landry would have been dead anyway in a week, maybe two, when they went back to the line. But that made those two stolen weeks all the more precious. Some bastard had taken that from him, and I was going to make sure he paid for his sins.
Before he added to them, I prayed.
CHAPTER TEN
“I was wondering when you’d pay me a visit,” Father Dare said as he invited me into his tent. He had his gear laid out on his cot, and was stuffing his field pack with thick wool socks. A communion kit lay open, the brass chalice gleaming from a fresh polish. Rosary beads lay curled on the wool blanket. “Have a seat, Lieutenant Boyle.”
“How’d you know I was here, Father?”
“Word travels fast, especially about the dead,” he said, as he sat opposite me in a folding camp chair, surrounded by stacks of hymnals. He sighed, leaned forward, and looked straight into my eyes. “How can I help you, son?”
Father Dare was maybe thirty or so, hardly old enough to call me son, but with the silver cross on his collar and the paraphernalia of the church all around him, I let it slide. He was a tall guy, with dark hair and thick eyebrows that almost met when he furrowed his brow. His eyes were bloodshot, likely from the night of poker and cigar smoke.
“No one else has been much help,” I said, unsure of exactly what I hoped to learn here. “It’s pretty much the same story everywhere. Lieutenant Landry was a good man, an officer the men could count on. Well liked. Captain Galante didn’t get along with Colonel Schleck and got himself kicked upstairs to the hospital at Caserta. He kept to himself, didn’t seem to bother anyone other than Schleck. What can you add to that?”
“That about sums it up. Landry was solid. Galante was a good doctor, I saw him in action many times. Are you Catholic, by any chance?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I thought you had the look of the altar boy about you. Am I right?”
“Yes, sir. Back in Boston. How can you tell?”
“Oh,” he shrugged. “I’m not really sure. Something in the eyes. A great disappointment at the wa
ys of men and God. It comes from youthful adoration dashed on the rocks of death and despair. I see it in you, son. It’s clear the war has marked you. Have you been to confession recently?”
“Thanks, I’ll pass for now.” Not that I thought a chaplain could be a suspect, but until I figured out who was who, I preferred to keep my deepest and darkest to myself. “The war has marked everyone, don’t you think?”
“Yes. Some more than others. The sensitive ones, the ones who had ideals, they have it the worst.”
“Who does best?” I asked.
“The boys who had nothing, who were used to tough times. Not that sudden death and dismemberment are easy to take, but anyone who’s been hardened by life has a thicker skin, if you know what I mean. But sooner or later, it gets to everyone. It’s just a matter of time.”
“Is that what Captain Galante thought?”
“That every man has his breaking point? Yes, he did. That’s what didn’t sit well with Colonel Schleck. He didn’t like the idea that all the men under his command would break in time. I think it made him feel too responsible. It was easier for him to insist that some men are cowards, and the rest have to be led by example.”
“Just as long as I’m not the one to lead them.”
“No one likes being responsible for other men’s lives. I’d bet you have been, and the experience didn’t sit well with you.”
“Really, Padre, I’m okay. I don’t need to tell it to the chaplain.”
“Well, I’m here if you need me. For a while, anyway.”
“Pulling out soon?”
“The signs are all there. Plenty of supplies, extra socks, and ammo. Good food, replacements coming in. Not hard to figure. It pays to be ready.”
“From what the noncoms tell me, things have been pretty rough for your outfit.”
“Yes,” Dare said, looking right through me for a fleeting moment, as memories danced just out of his field of vision. “Rough. There seemed to be no end to the minefields, machine guns, and mortars.” He kept looking into that middle distance, the place where the mind’s eye sees everything it wants to forget. Finally he rubbed his eyes and sighed. He stayed quiet, and I wondered if he were praying.
