by James R Benn
“Is that why they’re here, to rest and refit?”
“Who knows? Maybe the brass is fattening them up for the kill. Me, I don’t know how the infantry does it. It’s one thing to fight the Germans in this terrain. It’s another thing to live up in those mountains, with the rain, cold and knee-deep mud. But to do both at the same time? No wonder some guys go off their rocker.”
There wasn’t much to say about that. I tried to imagine what it was like, winter in the high Apennines; Germans dug in behind every ridgeline, trying to kill you while you worked at not freezing to death. Yeah, no wonder. I sipped my whiskey and tried not to think about the guys who were up there right now, dying. There were times to think, and times to drink. If you knew which to do when, you might stay sane. I took another sip, then slammed back the rest of the booze, waiting for the warmth in my belly to spread while visions of cold and wet GIs faded from my mind.
They didn’t. As Einsmann and I gabbed, about the war, the women in the room, the brass, all the usual bull, I knew they were out there. I’d been there too, not as high as in those mountains, but out in a foxhole with cold water pooled at the bottom, hot lead flying above, and the cries of the wounded all around. I could see it now, even as I watched Einsmann return with a couple of fresh glasses, and for a moment it felt like there was no time at all, but simply here and there, the bar and the mountains, and I could as easily be in one as the other. I must be tired, I thought, too much travel. We talked, and drank, and the noise of the conversations in the room rose into an incessant buzz as it grew more crowded. I could barely make out what Einsmann was saying and had to lean closer when I heard him mention ASTP.
“What did you say about ASTP?” My kid brother Danny was in the Army Specialized Training Program back home. He’d enlisted as soon as he was eighteen, and the army put him into ASTP after basic training. It was a program for kids with brains, sending them to college for advanced courses while keeping them in uniform. The idea was that they’d graduate as officers, keeping the army supplied with second lieutenants as the war went on. It was tailor-made for Danny; he was a bright kid in some ways, but he was too young to have any common sense about staying alive. A college campus was the safest place for him.
“Working on a story about it,” Einsmann said. “The army is pulling most of those kids out of college.”
“Why?”
“They’re short on infantry replacements. The brass figures it doesn’t make much sense to keep those boys in college when they need bodies now. They pulled over a hundred thousand of them out, about two-thirds of the program.”
“When did this happen?” I’d had a letter from Danny a month ago and he hadn’t mentioned a thing about it.
“Few weeks ago. There’s a transport landing in Naples tomorrow with the first batch for Italy. Most are going to the 3rd. I’m going down there to interview some of them. Then I’ll follow up in a few days when they’ve been assigned to their platoons. Ought to be interesting.”
“My kid brother is in ASTP, but I guess I would have heard if he’d been called up. I can imagine these veterans giving college boys a cozy welcome, especially since they’ve been sitting out the past few months on campus.” I hoped Danny wasn’t among this bunch. They’d have a hard time before they ever got to the front.
“I figure that’s what will make it interesting,” Einsmann said. “Word is some noncoms think the ASTPers will have a monopoly on promotions when they hand out new stripes. Especially the Southern boys.”
“Everything will probably smooth out once they get up on the line,” I said. Yeah, it’ll be peachy up there, one big happy family united by butchery and misery.
I saw Major Kearns making his way through the crowd, with two Carabinieri officers in tow. They both wore dark-blue dress uniforms, with the flaming grenade emblem of the Italian national police on their service caps.
“Lieutenant Boyle,” Kearns said, after a nod of greeting to Einsmann. “This is Capitano Renzo Trevisi, and Tenente Luca Amatori. Capitano Trevisi is in charge of the local Carabinieri garrison.”
“Billy Boyle,” I said, standing to shake hands.
“Pleased to meet you,” Trevisi said in heavily accented but precise English. He looked to be about forty, with a thick, dark mustache, a slight paunch, and a friendly smile. “If I can be of any assistance, I am at your service. Major Kearns has told us of your investigations. I do not think there is any civilian involvement in this unfortunate matter, but please ask should you require anything.”
“Thank you, Capitano, I will.”
Trevisi spoke in Italian to his lieutenant, who had been silent during the exchange in English. I heard Galante and Landry’s names mentioned as he gestured to me. “Tenente Amatori will provide whatever you need if I am not available. Buona sera.”
“Interesting,” Einsmann said as they moved off.
“What?”
“I’ve never seen Italian officers here before, army or Carabinieri. I wonder what’s up?”
“Well, the Italians are on our side now. They have a combat group fighting near Cassino, and most of the Carabinieri are loyal to the new government. Stands to reason they’d show up at HQ sooner or later. Plus there have been two murders.”
“Yeah,” Einsmann said. “But the killings are an army matter. No way they’d let the locals in on that unless they needed them for something.”
“Well, not my problem,” I said as I watched Kearns and the two Italians huddled in conversation. Maybe it was somebody else’s problem, maybe not. I decided I had enough to worry about without adding Italian cops, and got back to the subject of Galante.
“This Colonel Schleck, who got Galante transferred out. Where do I find him?”
“Personnel section, 3rd Division HQ, over at San Felice.”
“I’m headed there tomorrow. I’ll see what he knows.”
“What can he tell you? I doubt he killed Galante because they disagreed about combat fatigue.”
“No, but if he had it in for Galante, he had to know him, right? You can’t have a beef with a guy and not get to know him, even if it’s only his weaknesses.”
“And Galante’s weakness might tell you about who killed him?”
“It’s all I have right now,” I said.
I finished my drink and made my way out of the room, passing a group of colonels and women in low-cut dresses. The colonels were flushed and loud, their lips smacking with drink and lust. The women laughed, a harsh, high laugh that echoed off the marble floor and stayed with me as I stood in the rain, looking toward the invisible mountains to the north, where men shivered, suffered, and bled.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SAN FELICE WAS a fair-sized village, or at least had been before the fighting passed through. Now it was a fair-sized pile of rubble, with the few intact buildings housing the 3rd Division staff. In front of a burned-out church, a water pipe stuck up from the ground, a spray of water gushing into the air. Women and children with buckets were lined up, eager to haul the fresh water home. At the base of the pipe, a gleaming white stone arm lay on the ground, its fingers gracefully pointing to the sky. Debris and masonry cascaded from the buildings into the street, making it hard to tell where the outline of homes and shops had been, but it was obvious this had been the piazza, the center of the village. Now it was crammed with shattered stone, a line of black-clad women, and American military vehicles.
I found G-1, Personnel, on the ground floor of a two-story school that was missing its roof. Colonel Raymond Schleck was seated at a desk near a boarded-up window, a tin bucket catching drips of rainwater from the ceiling. Files were stacked in wooden boxes all around him, and two clerks at the other end of the room pecked at typewriters, making piles of forms in triplicate, some nearly a foot high. They had the grimly bored look of men who knew there was probably an easier way to do this job, but also understood it had to be done the army way.
“Colonel Schleck?”
“See one of my clerks, Lieutenan
t, I’m busy.” Schleck cranked a field telephone, barked a few quick questions into it, listened, and slammed it into its leather case without comment. He crossed off names on a list and consulted a personnel file. Without looking up, he spoke again. “You still here?”
“Yes sir. I need to speak with you about Captain Max Galante. I’m afraid one of your clerks won’t do.”
“And who the hell are you to tell me what won’t do?” Now I had his full attention. I showed him my orders. He gave them back, frowned, then waved in the general direction of a chair.
“You’ve heard Captain Galante was murdered?”
“Yeah. Tough break. I lost a good platoon leader too. Landry. What can I do for you, Boyle?”
“Tell me about Galante. You two had a disagreement, right?”
“You think I killed him because of that?” He gave a small chuckle and shook a Chesterfield from a crumpled pack. He lit up and tossed the match into the bucket.
“You had him transferred out of the division, so I doubt there’d be a reason to kill him. But what did you think of him?”
“I thought he worked hard, and was sincere in his beliefs.”
“Listen, Colonel,” I said. “It’s nice not to speak ill of the dead, but that doesn’t help me find who killed Galante and Landry.”
“Okay,” Schleck said. “He was a snotty prig who thought he was smarter than everyone else. I mean it when I say he worked hard, but he had a bad attitude.”
“About combat fatigue?”
“Listen, Boyle,” Schleck said, sitting up straight and pointing his nicotine-stained finger at me. “You start telling these boys that all they have to do to get out of the line is to go on sick call with the shakes, pretty soon you’ll have empty foxholes all across these damn mountains. You can be damn sure the Krauts don’t believe in combat fatigue.”
“You think it isn’t real?”
“I don’t say there isn’t something to it. But Galante and I differed on the cause. In my book, there’s only one way to explain why one unit, on the line as long as another, has a completely different rate of combat fatigue cases.”
“What’s that?”
“Leadership, Boyle. At every level, from generals to second lieutenants. That’s what makes the difference. Poor leadership leads to excessive cases of nervous exhaustion, or whatever the shrinks call it. In a unit with good leadership, the cases are fewer. When the men trust their officers, they have confidence, and that keeps them going.”
“But it still happens, in every unit.”
“Some men are cowards. It’s unpleasant, but it’s true.”
“Was this the reason you had Galante transferred out?”
“It was on my recommendation, yes. We needed to send a message, that there was no easy way out of combat duty. Galante was always trying to ease the burden on the men, with all good intentions, I’m sure. But the fact is, it’s a heavy burden they face. It’s not fair to them to make believe it’s anything but.”
“Okay, I get what the beef was about. You described him as snotty. Why? Because of his attitude?” I understood the difference of opinion. But the use of “snotty” spoke to something deeper, a disdain that made me suspicious.
“Holier than thou, by a mile.”
“You also said he was a prig. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing. That’s just me spouting off. He liked art, Italian history, that sort of thing. He preferred to spend his off-duty hours chatting with the locals and visiting museums. He wasn’t much of a poker player or drinker.”
“He wasn’t the only guy to visit a museum over here. Did he think he was better than you?”
“I didn’t say that. He just didn’t pass the time like most guys. We do have a few other oddballs who keep to themselves, but they do their job and don’t get anyone hurt.”
“You make him sound dangerous,” I said.
“He was. He got an entire squad killed.”
“How?”
“Ask Sergeant Jim Cole. He’s one of your CID buddies, isn’t he? Now get the hell out. If you need anything else, see my assistant, Major Arnold, next office. He will cooperate as required, but I don’t want to see you step foot in my office again.”
That was that.
MAJOR MATTHEW ARNOLD wasn’t in, and his clerk said he was busy organizing the new replacements. I showed him my orders and told him to inform the major I might have questions for him. The clerk said everyone had questions for Major Arnold, like how many replacements would they get, and were any experienced men coming in. I got the impression I was everyone’s lowest priority.
I thought about Cole not saying anything about knowing Galante. That made me suspicious. If Galante did get a squad wiped out, then there would be plenty of guys looking to even the score. Maybe Landry was involved? But why hadn’t Schleck told me more, and why hadn’t anyone else mentioned it? I hoped the guys in Landry’s platoon could explain things. I drove out of the village, toward the 7th Regiment bivouac area, following the signs as they led me along roads that were little more than dirt tracks soaked from recent rains. Heavy trucks plowed the mire in both directions, splattering my jeep with thick, yellowish Italian mud.
I drove until the road turned into a field, churned into a thick ooze of ankle-deep mud by countless wheels and thousands of GI boots. Beyond was a sea of tents, rows of olive drab stretching in every direction. I gunned the jeep before I got stuck, and parked on a patch of high ground in a line with other vehicles. As I got out, my boots sank in the muck, and it began to rain. I turned up the collar of my mackinaw and ran, as best I could, to the rows of tents marked 2nd Battalion, Easy Company.
Within the tent city, planking had been set up between rows, and the going was easier. There were mess tents, medical tents, supply tents, assembly tents, and command tents. The smell of wood smoke hung in the air, as small tent stoves tried to beat back the wet chill. Around the perimeter deuce-and-a-half trucks backed up to the large supply tents and disgorged crates of food, ammunition, and all the other necessities of life and death. Communication lines were being strung throughout the encampment, wire parties carrying spools of the stuff, unreeling it through their leather-glove-clad hands.
“Third Platoon?” I asked a corporal weighed down with bandoliers of M1 ammo.
“Follow me,” he said. After a couple of turns, he nodded to a small two-man tent. Then he left, distributing the bandoliers to neighboring squad tents. I pulled aside the tent flap, wondering if a new lieutenant had been assigned yet to take over Landry’s slot. Two-man tents were usually reserved for officers.
“Close the damn flap!” I did, and wiped the rainwater from my eyes. “Lieutenant,” a voice added as an afterthought.
Seated on one cot was a staff sergeant, cleaning his Thompson submachine gun and giving me the eye. Across from him a second lieutenant fed pieces of wood into a small stove. Between the two cots and footlockers, cases of supplies, the stove, and the two guys, there wasn’t much room.
“Looking for someone, Lieutenant?” the staff sergeant asked.
“Is this 3rd Platoon? Landry’s outfit?”
“Landry’s dead,” he said. “This here is Lieutenant Evans. He has the platoon now.”
“Andy Evans,” the other fellow said. He had an eager smile, a fresh face, and shiny lieutenant’s bars on the collar of his wool shirt. We shook hands, and I introduced myself to both of them.
“Gates,” was all the sergeant said. He was no more than a couple years older than Evans, but all the freshness was long gone from his face. He worked intently on reassembling his Thompson, the scent of gun oil rising from his labors.
“Platoon Sergeant?” I asked, pointing at his stripes, three chevrons and a rocker.
“Yeah,” Gates said. His eyes narrowed as he glanced at Evans, and back to me with the faintest glimmer of interest. “You assigned to us?”
“No,” I said. “I’m here to investigate the murder of Lieutenant Landry.”
“I hear he was a good man,” Evans said. He’d understood what Gates was getting at and was trying to assert his authority. Problem was, he wouldn’t have much pull with a veteran like Gates until he survived a few days in combat without getting anyone killed for no good reason.
“Good or bad, he’s dead,” Gates said, wiping down the assembled Thompson. “Not much we can do about it.”
“Let me guess,” I said, taking a seat on Evans’s cot, glancing at the red hair sticking out from under his wool cap. “They call you Rusty.”
“Yeah. Since I was in short pants. What do you want, Lieutenant?”
“To find out who murdered Landry. You want justice for him, don’t you?”
“Andy,” Gates said, ignoring my question. “Be a good time to check on the men, see that they got a full load of ammo.”
“Good idea,” Evans said, as if he’d been about to do just that. He put on his helmet and field jacket and left, looking happy to leave this talk of his predecessor behind.
“Justice,” Gates said. “You look like you been around enough to know there’s no justice up front.”
“The murders didn’t happen at the front.”
“No, but sooner or later your number’s up. At least Landry went out clean and dry. Odds were he wouldn’t last much longer anyway. Good platoon leaders seldom do. Lucky guys and cowards have a better chance. Sorry, but I can’t get all worked up over it. I’ve seen too many come and go to care how they get it.”
“That’s a helluva attitude,” I said.
“It’s the way it is. If I can help you, I will. But I have my hands full right now with this platoon and a green second louie. They’re getting ready for something, and it’s going to happen soon. They pulled us off the line a few weeks ago, gave us clean uniforms, hot showers, good food, and plenty of passes. Not to mention replacements. There’s something brewing, and it ain’t good news, let me tell you.”
“Why do you say that?”
