by James R Benn
I stumbled, one boot catching on the pavement, and went head over heels, tucking my chin and rolling until I came up again, running. I was bleeding somewhere on my arm, and one knee felt wobbly, but I focused on picking up my feet and kept going, watching the road ahead.
Then I heard shots. Pop pop pop, followed by a rat-tat-tat, then a chorus of mayhem as automatic weapons and rifles spat fire, and I picked up the pace, ignoring the searing pain in my lungs, trying to figure out where the fight was. On the right, by the canal. Small explosions thudded, grenades maybe. I was closer to the fight now, and slowed so I could catch my breath and be ready, watching for movement along the canal. I got off the road, double-timing it across a field and into the trees and shrubs lining the bank of the canal, hoping for cover before I was spotted. I worked my way into a patch of dense brush, and stopped, kneeling as I waited for my breathing to get under control. Gasping for air, I parted the bushes and scanned the canal, both directions. Nothing. Then I saw a head pop up across the bank, about fifty yards upstream. More rifle fire sounded, then a submachine gun, probably a Schmeisser MP40.
What was this? A German raid? The Force men said they’d pushed across the canal, but they had a lot of ground to cover, and maybe the Krauts had infiltrated for prisoners. Or revenge, for all those dead sentries. I took a deep breath, the cool air easing the burning in my lungs, and made my way along the riverbank, carbine at the ready, wishing I had my Thompson and a whole lot more ammo.
I heard splashes behind me, and ducked under cover. Footsteps came up the path and I heard snatches of whispered German. Two figures darted past me, and I recognized the camouflage smocks of the Hermann Goering Division. I stepped out onto the path and squeezed off two shots into the back of one of them, then fired two more at the other guy, but I must’ve missed, because the next thing I saw was a potato-masher grenade sailing through the air in my direction. I ran back down the path, until I heard the explosion behind me, then worked my way into the underbrush and crawled forward. Shouts and cries intermingled with firing, and all I could tell was that up ahead someone was putting up a helluva fight.
I took a chance and crawled out of the underbrush and into the field, running at a crouch along the edge of the farmland, hoping the Germans were too busy with the opposition ahead to worry about where I’d gotten to. I saw the outline of burned-out buildings through the vegetation. The firing was centered on the buildings, and it seemed as if the Germans were trying to flank whoever was inside. I ran faster, closing in on the tree line and the clearing in front of the buildings.
I heard two blasts, and recognized the distinctive booming sound of a shotgun. That had to be Big Mike. Were he and Cosgrove fighting off the Krauts? I scooted forward, staying as low as I could, watching for the familiar helmets and camouflage of Goering’s Luftwaffe troopers.
A single German stood up from the undergrowth not ten yards ahead, ready to throw a grenade at one of the houses. I fired my carbine-three, four shots-wanting to be sure he didn’t make the throw. He spun around and for a second he looked at me, his mouth open wide in surprise. Then he fell backward, the grenade still in his hand. First came the explosion, then the shrieks. There were others with him, probably hurt but still alive.
I dove into the greenery again, as bullets clipped the leaves over my head. I had their attention now, and I expected another grenade at any moment. I wished I had some of my own. How many times had I fired? Seven, eight? I crawled toward the canal this time, stopping to listen for the telltale rustling of leaves and branches as Germans searched for me. I was near the path, and as I drew myself up into a crouch, I heard a voice.
“Willi?”
“ Ja,” I answered in a rough whisper. I was rewarded with a hand thrust through branches, clearing a path. I shot him twice, then fired once more in case there was somebody behind him. I backtracked. Four, maybe five shots left.
It grew quiet. Splashes again, but they sounded as if they were heading back across the canal. I went back out into the field, and circled around to the buildings. The first thing I saw was the staff car, then Big Mike on the ground. I froze. Who had been firing? Three dead Germans lay in the clearing, one more at the blown-out door to the ruined home. Shotgun shells were scattered on the ground. I made my way to Big Mike, as silently as I could. His hair was matted with blood, but he hadn’t been shot. Maybe grazed, but he was still breathing. I shook him. No response.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
I heard a noise in the bushes, rose, and aimed my carbine over the hood of the staff car. I expected Germans, and my mind took a second, maybe two, to understand what my eyes were seeing. It was Danny, pulling at a leather strap twisted tight at his neck. Flint was behind him, shoving him forward, grinning so wide I could see his white teeth gleaming against pink gums. Then I realized what the strap was: the sling of Big Mike’s shotgun. The barrel was against Danny’s head. Flint’s victims ran through my head, and I struggled not to cry out as I calculated my chances. And Danny’s. The odds were against both of us, and I felt my stomach drop and my skin go clammy. I aimed at Flint’s head, which was mostly hidden behind Danny’s. I really didn’t know what to do.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Boyle,” Flint said, pushing Danny ahead of him. Danny dug in his heels and grabbed at the strap gouging his throat, getting a finger underneath. “You saved our lives. I guess I owe you something.”
“Let Danny go,” I said. “Then we’ll be even.”
“Even? No, not after all the trouble you’ve caused. What the hell did I ever do to deserve meddling lieutenants, huh? First Landry, now you.”
“Landry just wanted to help you,” I said, knowing that meant nothing to Flint. But I figured he’d kept his grand scheme bottled up so long that he might want to talk. And if he talked, he might make a mistake while he was jabbering.
“Landry was pathetic. Falling for that whore. Can you imagine living with a woman who sold her body to other men? It’s disgusting. I did him a favor, and look what he did to me.”
“You beat up Inzerillo, and Ileana too. He sent you to Galante, on the QT, to keep you out of trouble. It’s my bet Galante wanted to put you in a loony bin, that’s why you killed him.” I kept my eyes fixed on Danny’s, hoping he wouldn’t do anything stupid.
“You’re smart, too smart for your own good. Yeah, Galante wanted to get me into a psychiatric hospital. Made it sound like going to college. We’d work together and learn new things about the human mind, he told me.” Flint’s mouth twisted in disdain for the foolishness of Galante’s efforts. “I didn’t kill him until I had to. He was going to submit paperwork to have me discharged. He shouldn’t have done that. It was his own fault.”
“Sure, it was all his fault,” I said. “Then you cooked up the crazy card scheme to confuse things, right?”
“Crazy? It worked, didn’t it?” We were less than ten feet apart. Danny had stopped struggling, his hand limp where he held the strap. “It would have worked perfectly if it wasn’t for you getting in the way.”
“Like Louie?”
“It was too bad about Louie. I told you that I bought the Walther off him after he shot the Kraut officer. But it was me. I shot Rusty and the Kraut.” He said it proudly, his vanity too strong to resist the impulse to brag. Danny struggled, and Flint twisted the strap tighter. I had to keep Flint talking to me to keep his attention off Danny.
“But why Rusty?”
“He irritated me,” Flint said. He relaxed his grip on Danny, who gulped air. Danny’s eyes widened, as if asking me what I was going to do. I had no idea.
“That’s it? What about Louie? I thought you got along with him.”
“Louie was okay, but I knew a smart-ass like you would start asking questions about the pistol, so he had to go. Too bad, because you were sniffing around him, figuring him for the killer. I liked that. You screwed up, Boyle. If you’d left things alone, Louie would be alive. Or dead. This is war, after all.”
“Cole?”
“The bastard killed himself! What, are you going to blame me for every nutcase who takes a nosedive off a building?” Flint shoved Danny closer, his voice rising, his face red with sudden anger. I needed to calm him down.
“Pretty smart, the way you drove him to it, with the doll, always reminding him about that cellar.”
“You found the doll, huh? I didn’t know your skills extended to rummaging through garbage. Yeah, I had something I wanted and Cole was the guy to find it.”
“So Galante told you about the pearls, and you figured out how to find them?” I tried to keep my voice steady, just another guy in awe of his intellect.
“Galante told me they were hidden in the palace. He was big on museums and Italian history. I think he liked the idea of educating me. He even said I could lead a normal life one day. Normal! Can you imagine that? Being one of you faceless creatures, one of the nameless? Not for me.”
“Pearls,” I said, desperate to keep him talking. “The pearls were for you, right?”
“Bingo! They’d been stolen, Galante said, and hidden in the palace. No one ever found them. I gave Cole all the dope I got from Galante as he figured things out, based on what that old Italian broad told him. Cole and I were going to split the take if he found the pearls.”
“He did,” I said, doubting he would have lived to collect. “He gave them to me right before he jumped.”
“That crooked bastard! He held out on me. Goes to show, you can’t trust anyone.” He shrugged, as if it made no difference.
“Don’t you want the pearls? I could get them for you.”
“The pearls! I don’t want the goddamn pearls anymore, they’re no good to me.”
“What, were they for your girl back home, and she dumped you?”
“Drop the rifle, Boyle. Your sidearm too. Then let’s go inside, I have a surprise for you.”
“Your mother,” I said, remembering the letter. “They were for your mother. Then she died, and spoiled all your plans. You were going to bring them home to mother, weren’t you?”
Flint’s face contorted into a twisted, teeth-crunching snarl. His cheeks went red and he began to tremble. I prayed I hadn’t gone too far and was about to speak when I saw movement in the bushes they had just come out of. A flash of camouflage, and then I made out a German, limping on one bloody leg, making for the canal. He turned, Schmeisser in hand, and I fired once, and missed; again, and hit him. He staggered, but he was still up. Then a third shot to the head, and he went down, firing into the ground as his finger involuntarily twitched on the trigger.
I swung the carbine back to Flint, and his face was calm, as if the previous exchange had never happened. How many bullets did I have left? Two? None?
“Thank you again,” Flint said, his politeness a knife in my gut.
“Why go through all this, Flint? What’s the point, in the middle of a war, for Christ’s sake! Why?” I wasn’t stalling now, I wanted to know. If he killed Danny, I needed to know.
“Why? Because I can. Because I’m not one of the sheep,” Flint said, the last word hissing out between his teeth. “I’m not a man who depends on what’s sewn on his sleeve to tell him who he is and what he can do. Or who needs a uniform to run his own world. Your rules, your ranks, your salutes, they mean nothing to me. A street sweeper is the same as a bishop or a general to me. You all play roles and kiss the ass of the player above you, and thank him for the privilege. Why? Because you all make me sick. I’d kill the whole fucking world if I could.”
“You’re a powerful man, Flint, I can see that,” I struggled to keep my words even, to not react to Flint’s venom. “So how about a favor, for a kid who doesn’t even know what his role is yet? Let Danny go.”
“I don’t think so. Now, let’s go inside, like gentlemen,” he said. “I have a card to play.” Flint herded us into the house, me first, Danny between us, the shotgun at Danny’s head. I held onto the carbine, not sure how many rounds were left. The first thing I saw was a chair. Communications wire lay on floor, some of it still tied to the armrests. Cosgrove. He’d had Cosgrove tied up in here, but he’d gotten away. Blood stained one of the armrests. Not much, but enough to tell me Cosgrove was hurt.
“Big surprise,” I said. Explosions erupted outside, sending a blast of dirt and smoke into the ruined house. We each instinctively went into a crouch, Flint still pressing the shotgun against Danny. “Mortars.”
“Just the Krauts covering their retreat,” Flint said. “No heavy stuff.”
“Let me go, Sarge,” Danny managed to croak. Another series of explosions hit, closer to the canal.
“No can do, kid. As a matter of fact, if your brother doesn’t find that old Limey general and drag him back in here, I’m gonna redecorate the place with your brains.” He looked at me with a smile and raised his eyebrows, daring me to call his bluff. I had my carbine, but there was no chance to get a shot off, and he knew it.
More explosions hit the far end of the house, shaking dust and grit loose from the ceiling and showering us all. We covered our heads, the instinct of the battlefield taking over. A flash of movement caught my eye, and I saw Cosgrove, moving faster than I thought possible, a tire iron in his grasp, which he brought down on the kneeling Flint, smashing into his wrist and breaking his grip on the shotgun, not to mention bones. Flint howled, but kept a firm grip on Danny with his other hand, pulling him up and out of the house, the shotgun wrapped around his neck but hanging free. Another mortar round hit the house square above us, sending timbers crashing down around Cosgrove and me. Cosgrove’s face was gray with dust and streaked with bright red, but I could see he was more angry than injured.
“Go,” he said, working at a section of roof that had pinned one leg.
Mortar rounds churned the water in the canal, but Flint was headed straight for it, Danny in tow. He was ahead of Danny, keeping him as a shield. In seconds they were in the canal, Flint making his way through the waist-deep water. I heard a German machine gun open up, close by. There were still plenty of them out there. Then, a burst stitched across the water, driving me back. Flint and Danny were up on the other bank now, Danny fighting, punching at Flint with one hand and trying to get a grip on the shotgun with the other. Flint had only one good hand, and he needed it to hold onto Danny, to keep him between us. He kicked Danny twice, and that put an end to his fight.
Rifle fire picked up. Something was happening, but I couldn’t focus on it. Flint stood with Danny on the opposite bank, his good arm around his neck. He yelled something, but with more mortar rounds dropping all over, it was lost. I knelt, and braced my arm on my knee, aiming at Flint. I could see his white teeth, his mouth wide, speaking to Danny, his eyes on me all the time. I watched Danny, wondering if Flint would take him, or find a way to kill him. And if Danny got away, how long until a bullet or a bomb caught up to him? How long until he’d be a corpse or a combat fatigue case, unable to control the shakes, his dreams and waking nightmares, his life? I didn’t want him serving beefsteak to the brass and diving for cover every time a plate dropped. I didn’t want Danny to become one of the faceless crowd of casualties in this war.
I tried to count the number of shots I’d fired. Flint was too far away for the pistol, so it had to be the carbine. Gunfire echoed up and down the canal, louder now, and more explosions hit behind me, the Germans working their mortars overtime. I steadied myself, let out a breath, lined up the target in the sights.
Flint shouted one last time, then pushed Danny down the bank. He stood alone for a moment, silhouetted against the sky. Danny faced away from me, trying to free the shotgun, its strap still twisted around his neck. I had my target. I fired.
And shot my brother.
I WAITED, WATCHING for Flint, but he was gone. So was the machine-gun fire. I tossed the carbine away and ran to Danny, my legs heavy in the brackish water. His right shoulder was bloody, and his eyes dazed. He blinked, as if he thought I might not be real.
“What happened?” He clutched at my arm, w
incing in pain. It tore me apart, and I held back the tears I knew would give me away.
“You’ve been hit. Take it easy, I got you.” I took the shotgun from around his neck and hung it from my shoulder. I picked up Danny like I’d done so many times, carrying him in from the backseat of the car, sound asleep, cradled in my arms. His weight was nothing as he rested his head on my chest, grabbing at my shirt with his good arm, his face contorted in pain.
“Am I going to make it, Billy?”
“Don’t talk stupid, Danny. You caught some shrapnel in your shoulder, that’s all. You’ll be fine.” I sloshed through the water, watching Cosgrove turn over Big Mike, wadding his jacket under his head for a pillow.
“Flint?” Danny said.
“Yeah,” I said. “He got away.”
“Why didn’t you shoot?”
“I did. I only had one round left, and I missed. What did he say to you?” I laid Danny down, leaning him against the fender of the car, next to Big Mike.
“He said the joker would be waiting for you, downriver.”
“That’s all?”
“Yeah. He told me that he was granting you a favor, like you asked. Since I hadn’t disappointed him.”
“You have any idea what that meant?” I pulled open his uniform, sprinkling sulfa on the wound, and applied a compress from the first-aid pack that Cosgrove had retrieved from the car.
“No. I have no idea what anything means.” Danny gritted his teeth, grimacing with pain. The bullet was still in there, nestled in a mix of shattered bone and muscle. He needed a hospital, and so did Big Mike.
“How is he?” I asked Cosgrove, who was trying to clean Big Mike’s wound with water from a canteen.
“Breathing, is all I can say.”
“Thanks for getting the drop on Flint. That was just in time.”
