Death's Door

by James R Benn

  “No, it wasn’t, Lieutenant Boyle. You know that. Yeah, maybe someone blabbed, or maybe the Luftwaffe wanted to show us they still can pack a punch. It’s war. People die.” I couldn’t argue with that.

  “He’s right, Billy,” Kaz said. “We can’t change what happened. But we need to be sure that not too many people know about the rest of our route.” He eyed Hamilton, then turned his attention to his tea.

  “Okay, okay,” Hamilton said. “We have to set sail tonight, and make our rendezvous in Pescara, there’s no getting around that.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Tides and minefields. The tides have to be just right to navigate around the minefields. I have two of my men ashore with a radio. They’ll contact us if anything looks suspicious.”

  “Do you trust them?” Kaz asked.

  “One of them has a sister,” Hamilton said. “She’s a Partisan too. The Ustashi captured her last year. Sent her back with her arms cut off. What do you think?”

  “I think we don’t have to worry about him,” I said. “But who are the Ustashi?”

  “Croatian fascists,” Hamilton said. “The Nazis set them up as a puppet government in Croatia. They happily kill Jews, Serbs, Gypsies, anyone who isn’t a Croatian Catholic. They’re so damn bloodthirsty the Germans had to step in and disarm some of their militia units, since they were driving so many of their opponents to join the Partisans.”

  “More violent than the Nazis,” Kaz said. “An uncommon occurrence.”

  “They are enthusiastic about killing in the name of religion,” Hamilton said. “A Franciscan monk is the head guard at the Jasenovac concentration camp. Defrocked, but he still likes to wear his robes. So don’t worry about a little trip through the Italian countryside with good papers and a decent cover story. You could be going to Zagreb, not Pescara.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I get it. What about after Pescara?”

  “The Germans have a garrison there, so we’ll land you outside of town. The plan was to bring you inland to meet up with an OSS team. They were detailed to bring you overland, to a rail yard north of Rome, at Viterbo.”

  “Sounds like a lot of people must be in on that plan,” I said.

  “Yep,” Hamilton admitted. “A dozen, at least. So we’ll do something different. Hide you in plain sight.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  Hamilton leaned across the table, turning his face away from the others in the room. We did the same, foreheads almost touching. “It means we’ll see how good your forged identity papers are. You’re going to buy tickets at the train station in Pescara. You’ll be on your own almost all the way. You speak Italian, right?” Hamilton said to Kaz.

  “Yes, but not well enough to pass as a native.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Your papers say you are a Romanian priest, Baron. And you, Boyle, an Irish man of the cloth. A neutral and a German ally, both on Vatican business, traveling back to Rome.”

  “So we just ride the train straight into Rome? Then call a cab to take us to see the Pope? This sounds risky as all hell,” I said.

  “The good news is that no one else knows this route, until you get to Viterbo. Your papers look good, and there are documents on actual letterhead from the Holy See. You’re inspecting the refugee situation and reporting your findings. I’ll give you the train schedule and the route you should take. Very plausible—they have priests traveling all over Italy now that they can’t leave the country for missionary work.”

  “What happens at the Viterbo rail yard?” Kaz asked.

  “We need a safe method to get you into Vatican City,” Hamilton said. “The closer to Rome and the Vatican, the more checkpoints and roadblocks the Germans have. Once you’re in the Vatican, it’s fairly easy to move around, with the right papers and some luck. But the Nazis are watching the approaches. They’re after Allied agents, Italian partisans, escaped POWs, deserters—you name it. Everybody wants to get to Rome, and everyone on the run wants to get to neutral ground. So we have a safe passage prepared for you.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “The Vatican has its own railroad station. Railcars bring in food and supplies from the north, and they enter through a special gate.”

  “Yes,” Kaz said. “A sliding iron gate that retracts into the wall. I’ve seen it, along the Viale Vaticano.”

  “That’s your way in,” Hamilton said. “We have a trusted agent, a railroad worker, who will seal you in with a load of produce at Viterbo. We only use him for priority missions, and it’s worked every time. When the doors open, you’ll be inside Vatican City.”

  “The Germans don’t search it?”

  “They oversee the loading and lock the doors, but they don’t search it before it enters the Vatican,” Hamilton said. “Wait on the platform at Viterbo for trains bound for Florence. There will be less scrutiny there. A worker in a blue coat will approach you and ask for two cigarettes.”

  “Why two?”

  “Because anyone might ask for one. Say no, they are too expensive these days. He will place you in the produce car and seal you in. When you reach Stazione Vaticana, another contact will take you off the train.”

  “An OSS agent in the Vatican?” I said, wondering why we were making the trip.

  “Let’s just say someone who provides favors now and then. Not an actual agent.”

  “So all we need to do is evade the German guards and jump in with a load of rutabagas? I gotta say, you have a way of making the impossible sound downright simple. This isn’t a Hollywood movie, this is the real thing, Sterling.” I said his real name as loud as I could, knowing he wanted to keep it under wraps. His optimism was beginning to bug me.

  “Hey, I’m giving you a choice, buddy,” he said. “You can go either way, but you’re going. You can take the planned route, which means you’ll have to trust the people moving you along it. Or you can take the train and trust your papers. Me, I’d go on my own if I had a cover story as good as yours. Less complicated.”

  “It can’t be that easy to move around in occupied Italy,” I said.

  “I never said it was easy. Sailing back and forth to Yugoslavia isn’t easy either, but we do it all the time. Have some confidence, goddamn it!” He slammed his fist on the table, splattering lukewarm tea on the surface. People turned and stared, then moved away, leaving us to our subdued argument.

  “All right, sorry about the Hollywood wisecrack,” I said. “It seems so tenuous, that’s all.”

  “Tenuous,” Hamilton said, relaxing a bit. “That’s a good word for life these days, and I can tell, you’re not a guy who minds tenuous. I think you can handle tenuous. So why so jumpy about which way you go in?”

  “I want to be sure we get there, that’s all.” Hamilton was sharp, I had to give him that. I looked away, not wanting my eyes to meet his.

  “What brings you here, Boyle? There’s something different about you, something you’re holding back,” he said as he leaned across the table and fixed me in his glare. “Most guys going behind the lines are nervous or busy working hard not to show it. You seem to be somewhere else, like you have your own private war going on. You’re not nervous about the Germans; you’re nervous about not getting into Rome. Who are you, Boyle, and what’s your game?”

  “I’m a man on a mission,” I said. I was sure Hamilton and the rest of the OSS didn’t know about Diana, and I wanted to keep it that way. The fewer people who knew, the fewer there were to stop me. I tried to stare him down, but Hamilton had his own tough-guy face, maybe from the movies, maybe for real.

  “Can you keep a secret?” Kaz asked.

  “Hell, secrets are my business,” Hamilton said.

  “Billy is General Eisenhower’s nephew,” Kaz said. What that had to do with anything, I had no idea, but it did move the conversation away from Hamilton’s questions, and I guess that’s what Kaz intended. “We both work for him.”

  “No shit?” Hamilton.

  “It’s the truth,” I
said. “I was a cop in Boston before the war, and Uncle Ike wanted a trained detective on his staff.” The truth was more complicated than that. I was related to General Eisenhower, on my mother’s side, sure enough. But when the war broke out, Uncle Ike was an unknown general laboring in the bowels of the new Pentagon building in Washington, D.C., not the head of Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force. We were a family of cops, Boston Irish, and proud of both. My dad and uncle were both on the force, and they’d lost their older brother Frank in the First World War. According to them, this was another damn war to protect the British Empire, and not worth another Boyle family sacrifice. Since I wasn’t a fan of either the English oppressors of my ancestors or of dying, I tended to agree. So the family called in some political favors and got me a commission and an assignment to work for Uncle Ike in D.C. and sit out the shooting war as an officer and a gentleman. Worked like a charm, until Uncle Ike got sent to London and decided to take me with him.

  “So that’s why they picked you for this mission, being a detective,” Hamilton said, rubbing his chin and giving me a fresh appraisal.

  “Yeah, and Kaz because he knows a boatload of languages.” I didn’t mention that I owed my detective rank to the fact that my Uncle Dan sat on the promotions board.

  “Well, if there’s something else going on and you want to keep it to yourselves, that’s fine with me. Glad to help out a fellow New Englander. I began sailing out of Gloucester, used to go drinking in Boston every now and then. Maybe you rousted me once or twice, eh?”

  “Maybe. I’ve tossed a few drunken sailors in the clink. Guy your size though, I would’ve left him in the street.”

  “Good one, Boyle! Let’s go.” Hamilton pointed to the doorway, where a bearded figure stood, a head taller than anyone in the room. He wore a brown wool cap with a bright red star, along with a well-worn British uniform, a Sten gun slung over his shoulder, and a menacing look on his face. He noticed the Italians, and his eyes narrowed to hard, dark slits. A sneer crept into his mouth, and one hand moved to the revolver at his belt. The Italians froze, fear etched across their brows.

  “Best not to keep Stjepan waiting,” Hamilton said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  STJEPAN WAS AT the wheel by the time we got to the jeep. Hamilton took the passenger seat, and Kaz and I scrambled into the rear as the scowling driver took off.

  “Everything set?” Hamilton asked, one hand holding his cap, the other clutching the windshield as the vehicle accelerated.

  “Set, Hamil-tone,” Stjepan said, speaking deliberately and enunciating each syllable as he turned to glance at us. “Priest clothes will fit. Good enough.”

  “Good man,” Hamilton said, slapping the Partisan on the shoulder. “We’ll cast off as soon as everything’s loaded onboard.”

  “What else are we taking?” I asked.

  “It’s not for you,” Hamilton said. “After we land you at Pescara, we head due east and make a delivery across the Adriatic.”

  “Guns for Partisans,” Stjepan said, turning to look at us again, indifferent to the other traffic on the road. “Kill Germans and Ustashi. You make us wait.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I just found out about this trip myself.”

  “Waste of time,” Stjepan said. “Partisans need guns now. You will die like others. Waste.”

  “What others?” I asked, suddenly more interested in the conversation.

  “S-O-E,” he said, pronouncing the letters slowly. “English talk too much. Like god-damn Italians.”

  “Don’t worry these boys, Stjepan,” Hamilton said. “They’re in our hands now. Ah, there’s the boat.”

  If I was worried about Stjepan’s prediction, I now had something else to worry about.

  “I do not like any boat,” Kaz said. “Especially not that one.” The jeep descended a curved road leading to a line of rotting docks, home to three rusted fishing trawlers and a sailboat that looked like it had been through one too many hurricanes.

  “Good boat!” Stjepan roared, pounding his fist on the steering wheel. For the first time, he smiled. “Damn good boat, eh?”

  “Aye,” Hamilton said, nodding in appreciation. “She’s a twin-masted fifty-foot schooner. Completely rebuilt diesel engine runs like a charm, right Stjepan?”

  “Charm,” Stjepan agreed as he braked enthusiastically, halting the jeep less than a foot from the dock.

  “She’s not much to look at,” I said.

  “Exactly. We prefer not to draw attention to ourselves,” Hamilton said. Where there was paint, it was peeling, showing gray, weathered wood below. Instead of railings, there was a rough framework of boards filled in with smooth stones from the beach. Armor, of a sort. Yugoslavian Partisans were busy loading crates of weapons and supplies, lashing down what didn’t fit below on the exposed deck. “She’s seaworthy, don’t worry about that. We keep her looking sloppy, which is more work than you’d think.”

  “Don’t the Germans stop you?”

  “They haven’t yet. We make our moves by night, and hole up in some small inlet, under camouflage nets all day.” Hamilton led us aboard as the Partisans eyed us suspiciously. They were clad in a variety of uniforms, the only commonality a red star on their caps and a pervasive odor suggesting bathing facilities were hard to come by in the mountains of Yugoslavia. They were also well armed, here on this dock on the Italian coast, far from the front lines. Pistols and knives at their belts, Sten guns and rifles near at hand. These were men—and a few women—who lived on the edge, in that place where sudden violence could erupt at any moment, and you were either prepared for it or fell victim to it.

  “Hamil-tone,” a voice boomed out from belowdecks, stretching out his name the same why Stjepan had. “Have you brought me those fucking excellent cigarettes?”

  “Goddamn right I did, Randic,” Hamilton shouted. “Come up and meet our guests.”

  The door to the companionway slammed open and a short, thickset man burst through. He embraced Hamilton and let loose with a volley of what I guessed was Serbian. He had long brown hair, sticking out at all angles from under his wool cap with the standard-issue red star. His mustache was broad and nicotine-stained, but it did little to hide his devilish grin.

  “Hell with guests, where are my god-damn Lucky Strikes, you American bugger?”

  “Right here,” Hamilton said, pulling two cartons from his pack. “Randic, this is Lieutenant Piotr Kazimierz and Lieutenant Billy Boyle.”

  “Our freight, yes? Come, below,” Randic beckoned. We followed him down the narrow steps as Randic tore open one of the cartons of smokes. The main cabin was filled with stacked supplies: blankets, crates of ammo and Spam, brown greatcoats and medical supplies. Randic slid in on a bench and gestured for us to take a seat around a wooden table marked by cigarette burns and carved initials as he lit up.

  “Randic is the commander of this detachment,” Hamilton said as he grabbed a bottle of wine and four glasses that could have used a scrubbing. He poured, and I figured the grimy glassware was all part of the boat’s disguise.

  “God-damn all, Hamil-tone, I am,” Randic said. “But it is your boat and your supplies, so we must take these men north for you. Ziveli.”

  “Ziveli,” Hamilton said, answering the toast. “Let us live long.”

  “Funny, eh?” Randic said after he’d drained his glass. “How many dead men have made that toast?”

  “Faol saol agat, gob fliuch, agus bás in Éirinn,” I said, raising my glass.

  “What bloody god-damn language is that, my friend?” Randic said.

  “Gaelic. It means ‘Long life to you, a wet mouth, and death in Ireland.’”

  “I like it, you god-damn bugger. Life, wet mouth, death in your homeland. What else is there to drink to? You Irish from America?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you,” Randic said, pointing at Kaz. “Are you a son-of-a-bitch Romanian?”

  “No, I am a son-of-a-bitch Pole, but I speak the language. Why?”<
br />
  “Good,” Randic said, pushing his glass toward the wine bottle. Hamilton poured. “Your papers are excellent, but this one—Boyle—he looks too well fed, even for a god-damn priest. You, Pole, you are good. Skinny. Not much food in Rome, even for the Pope.”

  “Did you get the clothes?” Hamilton asked, finishing off his second glass. He and Randic were puffing on Luckies and downing red wine as if they were in a drunkards’ race.

  “Yes, yes, cassocks, shoes, everything you asked for, even underwear, all Italian.”

  “Fellas, we need you to strip down and leave everything behind,” Hamilton said. “You’ll be outfitted as two priests traveling on church business would be. No weapons, nothing out of the ordinary. We have two small suitcases and some food for you to take along. Boyle, we didn’t change your name, to make it easier for you. Lieutenant Kazimierz, your Romanian name is Petru Dalakis.”

  “Everything real,” Randic said. “God-damn Italian priests are freezing asses off now, eh?”

  “You didn’t rob a couple of priests, did you?” I asked.

  “Why? You holy boy? Kiss the Pope’s ass?”

  “If two priests report their clothes were stolen, the Germans might be on the lookout for imposters. But what’s your beef with priests? And Italians for that matter? They’re on our side now, if you haven’t heard.”

  “Beef?” Randic gave Hamilton a quizzical glance.

  “He means what is your problem,” Hamilton said.

  “Ah. Beef. God-damn funny language you have. First thing, no priests will make report,” Randic said, raising an eyebrow in Hamilton’s direction. Maybe he was kidding, maybe not. “Second thing, there is no now, where Italians are friends. There is only what has happened. It will always be that way. For you, perhaps, there is now. For us, never.” He rapped his fingers on the tabletop, grimy nails tapping out an insistent rhythm.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Hamil-tone, do these boys know nothing?” Randic struck a match and lit an oil lamp, the wick catching, inky black smoke floating to the ceiling until the flame held. The sun hadn’t set, but the cabin was dark with shadows, smoke, and surliness.