by James R Benn
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 ways 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.
“Sorry,” he said, standing. “We lost a lot of men before we came off the line after Monte Cesima. Took the starch out of my collar.” He forced a weak smile. “The men get torn up horribly. I never imagined there were so many ways to be wounded and still live. I work with the litter bearers mostly.”
“It’s hard to imagine there’s someone living in the midst of this carnage and committing murder,” I said, trying to bring Father Dare back to the present.
“Evil exists in the world, we know that to be true,” he said. “It saddens me, but comes as no surprise. This person must have a tortured soul. Perhaps the exposure to so much violence has released demons that might have stayed buried in peacetime.”
“That’s generous of you.”
“No, not generous—realistic. Being a man of God means that you also have to accept the devil for what he is. Why wouldn’t the prince of darkness haunt a battlefield, probing for weaknesses, uncovering what lies beneath our civilized exteriors?”
“I was a cop in civilian life. I found the reasons for murder were more mundane. Love and money usually topped the list.”
“Don’t you think it takes the devil to turn what once was love into murderous intent?”
“Maybe,” I said, not wanting to get into a theological argument. My money was on the devil within us, not the guy with horns and a pitchfork. “Did Landry or Galante have any problems with love or money?”
“There’s little time for love of the kind you mean. Lust can be satisfied for chocolate or cigarettes, I understand. I have no idea what Landry may have done while in town, but I know Captain Galante was not the type to pursue lust. He was a not a lighthearted man. He took his responsibilities seriously. Any free time he had he spent studying Italian culture. He loved the language, the history, everything about it.”
“So I’ve heard. The only guy he seemed to antagonize was Colonel Schleck.”
“The colonel does his job the best way he knows how. So did Galante; he just didn’t care whose feathers he ruffled. Can’t say why. No one really knew him well. There was another chaplain, a rabbi, who he got along with, but he was wounded in Sicily and shipped home.”
“Galante was Jewish?”
“Yes, he was. Does that matter?”
“I don’t know. Maybe some guy said something, you know, ‘dirty Yids,’ that sort of thing. And Galante took offense.” I tried to sound like I neither approved nor disapproved of the term, so I could go along with the good Father whichever way he went.
“Some people aren’t too used to Catholics either, but they don’t murder them. Landry was Protestant, I believe. I never heard anything about remarks directed against Galante’s religion.”
“I’m trying to find a way to look at this, Father. So far, there’s no reason I can find for anyone to do more than pin a Good Conduct Medal on these guys.”
“Yes, I understand. It’s a bit like my line of work, isn’t it? People seem to be fine on the surface, but it’s their eternal soul that I worry about. It takes some digging to find out the truth about a soul.”
“Sounds like you didn’t dig anything up on Landry or Galante.”
“No, and I’m not keeping anything from you. Neither took confession with me, or shared confidences. Perhaps they were what they seemed.”
“What about Sergeant Jim Cole?” I was getting a little tired of people singing the praises of the living and the dead. I needed to hear their secrets, not their eulogies. “Did he do his job?”
“He did,” Father Dare said, not meeting my eyes. He stood and began taking things out of his field pack and repacking them.
“Past tense?”
“I’m sure he’s doing a good job at CID as well.”
“When was he transferred out of the division?”
“After Monte Cesima, about a month ago.”
“Why?”
“Jim Cole is a good man. He was one of the most selfless leaders you’d ever hope to fin
d up on the line. He never asked a man to do what he wouldn’t do, or hadn’t done a hundred times. Night patrols, taking the point, it didn’t matter, he was always there.”
“Was he in Landry’s platoon?” I couldn’t believe Cole would leave that out if he was, but I was beginning to wonder what he had left out.
“No, he was with 1st Platoon.”
“But same company? Did he know Landry and his men?”
“Damnation, Boyle! Of course they knew each other. There weren’t but a few dozen who’d been with the outfit that long. Everybody knows everybody, except for the replacements, until they’re dead or veterans.”
“What happened to Cole, Padre?”
“Leave him out of this.”
“I’ve been told that before.”
“Then I don’t need to say it again.” He threw a few decks of cards into his pack. He had a cardboard box full of them.
“Where do you get the playing cards?”
“Quartermaster. Chaplains are morale officers, among other things. I’m issued sports equipment, cards, that sort of thing. I don’t think there will be much time for baseball when they ship us out.”
“Do you usually play poker with the enlisted men?” Chaplain or no, it was frowned upon for officers and men to gamble together.
“All the time, Lieutenant Boyle, all the time. They’re a lot more fun than most of the officers, who never let me forget I’m a priest. And I love poker. I cleaned up at the seminary.” He grinned, and I couldn’t help taking a liking to him.
“But not tonight.”
“No, Flint won big. I can read most people. It comes with the profession, and it’s useful in poker. But Flint is different. Bluffing or holding four aces, it’s all the same on his face. Unreadable. The best damn poker player in the platoon.”
“They asked him if he was going to give the money back. Why?”
“It’s sort of a tradition. If I win, I use the money to help out any boys who need it. Problems at home, that sort of thing. Sometimes for the local children, if we’re in a village. When I lose big, the winner will usually pass some scrip back to me.”
“Like tipping the dealer.”
“Sort of. Word got around it was good luck, so my private goodwill fund is never entirely depleted.”
“Pretty creative, Padre. Did you play cards with Landry?”
“A couple of times. He didn’t like to gamble with the men under his command. Said he didn’t want any of them owing him money.”
“Because someone might question who he chose to take point?”
“I think so,” Father Dare said. “It’s strange, though. He’d gamble with a captain or major who might send him to his death, but he wouldn’t play with an enlisted man whom he might have to give the same order to. Doesn’t really add up, does it?”
“It makes sense to the army,” I said, giving up on understanding the logic of military rules. The padre gave a short snort of laughter and continued with his packing.
“How was Landry the last time you saw him? Was there anything unusual?”
“Not that I recall. Of course, everything here is unusual when you know you’re being fattened up for the kill. Everyone is a bit jumpy.”
“Anyone in Landry’s platoon a big loser? I mean in hock to another guy?”
“Louie. I’m sure he’s introduced himself to you.”
“Louie Walla from Walla Walla.”
“That’s Louie. He owes a few guys money from cards and craps. He won’t have much left next payday, but he’s good for it. Anyway, that couldn’t be a motive. He didn’t gamble with Landry.”
“No, I guess not. What about Stump and Flint?”
“Stump’s been up and down at cards, and he stays away from the craps games. Flint usually wins, like I said. He’s got a good poker face. Otherwise, he’s the life of the party, a real charmer most of the time.”
“Most of the time?”
“He’s also got a temper, but you don’t see it too often. I heard he got into a fight with three Italians in town and laid them all out.”
“What was it about?”
“No idea. A woman, a bottle, who knows? The boys don’t go to museums when they get a pass. They wander around, eat and drink, look for women. It doesn’t always put them in the best neighborhoods.” He stopped stuffing wool socks into his pack and sighed, shaking his head. “Listen, for all their faults, they’re a good bunch. They just like to blow off steam once in a while.”
“You ever been to that joint in Acerra? The one where one of Flint’s men had a fight?”
“That’s where Flint took on the three locals, from what I hear. Bar Raffaele on Via Volturno. And no, I haven’t been there. A chaplain would definitely put a damper on things for all concerned. Now let me finish getting my gear together so I can catch some shut-eye. Unless you need spiritual counseling.”
“Thanks for your time, Father.” As I rose to leave, he pulled a .45 automatic from his duffel and loaded a magazine into it. “I thought chaplains were men of peace.”
“We are. Trouble is, we’re at war. The Geneva Convention allows medics and litter bearers to be armed, in order to provide protection for the wounded. Sometimes it’s necessary to guard the flock. You know what it’s like in battle, I expect. Men are on edge, their fingers on the trigger, waiting for the next threat, the next person trying to kill them. They don’t always see the red cross on a helmet or that a man is down and wounded. All they see is the uniform, and the threat it implies.”
“You think you’re going to stop a berserk German with a Schmeisser submachine gun with that?”
“I may be a man of God, but I don’t plan on being a martyr. I’ll do what I have to do to protect those under my care.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE AFTERNOON WAS dark and gloomy as I sat in a line of military traffic, inching along in my jeep. We had to pull over for a truck convoy heading into the 3rd Division bivouac area. Men, artillery, and supplies flowed along the mud-caked road, nearly bumper to bumper. Something was happening, but in true army fashion, I’d be the last one to know if all my suspects shipped out to parts unknown.
I needed several things. I needed to know if the division was shipping out soon. I needed to see where Galante’s body had been left. And I needed help. I needed Kaz. Kaz would be an extra set of eyes and ears, not to mention someone smart enough to figure out what was going on. I needed Lieutenant Baron Piotr Augustus Kazimierz.
Kaz had been my best friend since I got shipped over here in 1942. He’d been on General Eisenhower’s staff as a translator, mostly as a courtesy to the Polish government-in-exile. Kaz was the last survivor of his family, alive only because he’d been studying in England when the Germans invaded Poland. His entire family had been killed, wiped out by the Nazis as they eliminated the educated elite of the country. Kaz wanted to serve, but a heart condition had kept him out of uniform. He finally talked his way in, as a translator for Uncle Ike. He was a skinny, bookish kid, and the idea was he could work in an office and do his bit.
Kaz’s father had seen what was coming, and deposited the bulk of the family fortune in Swiss banks. As a result, Kaz was filthy rich. Rich enough to permanently keep a suite of rooms at the Dorchester hotel in London, the same suite where he and his family had celebrated their last Christmas together. I bunked with Kaz when I was in London and felt the ghosts of his past life drift by us in the ornate high-ceilinged rooms. One of those ghosts was Daphne, the love of Kaz’s life. Sister of Diana Seaton. Maybe that’s why I worried about Diana so much. I didn’t want to become scarred like Kaz.
Kaz wore a physical scar as well. An explosion—the same explosion that had killed Daphne—had ripped his face from the corner of one eye down to the cheekbone. The injury and the loss had changed him. For a long time, he hadn’t cared whether he lived or died, and I felt it was my job to keep life interesting enough for him to hang around. Lately, he’d turned a corner. He’d begun working out, building himself up, but
for what I didn’t know. All I did know is that he had more brains than ten other guys put together and wasn’t afraid to use the Webley break-top revolver he wore. I could use both kinds of firepower. I decided to radio Colonel Harding and ask for Kaz to be sent down from London.
The column finally passed and the traffic moved along, toward Caserta. I ran through the leads I had to follow. Pay a visit to Bar Raffaele in Acerra and see what the scuffle was all about, and why Landry and Flint went down there to pay damages. Find out whom Louie owed his next paycheck to. Go back and find Major Arnold, Schleck’s second-in-command, and see if he’d be more talkative. Ask Sergeant Jim Cole why he didn’t tell me about knowing Landry and Galante. An infantry division is a big place, about fourteen thousand guys at full strength. He should have mentioned it, even if it was only a coincidence. He didn’t, and I wanted to know why. I also needed to find out how Galante had gotten a squad killed, and why Cole was supposed to know about that. Maybe it was just a rumor that Schleck glommed onto, but if true, it would be a motive for revenge. Then ask the same question around the 32nd Station Hospital, and see what Galante’s colleagues had to say.
It was a lot of legwork, and none of it might end up being important. But it gave me the illusion of being on the right track, and I might get lucky and stumble onto something I’d recognize as a clue. After an hour of stop-and-go traffic, I parked in front of the Caserta HQ and went to see Major Kearns. My plan was to send the radio message to Harding, then look at where Galante’s body was found before it got too dark. Then Cole, then chow, and onto the officer’s club to practice my interrogation skills at the bar. It was a good plan, except that it didn’t hold much promise in terms of solving the murders.
“Billy!” A familiar voice echoed in the hallway leading to Kearns’s office.
“Kaz,” I said, turning to find him behind me. “What are you doing here? I was on my way to radio Harding to ask for you.”
