A Mortal Terror

by James R Benn

  “They can give him this one,” Charlie said, and everyone laughed. Except him. He was serious.

  “Coal miners are on strike for more money and decent working conditions,” Danny read from another section. “Sure feel bad for them, burrowing underground and all.” That got a laugh, and I drank some more wine, happy to be with Danny, happy to be alive.

  I flipped through the paper as it was passed around. Nightclub owners in Miami were protesting having to close at midnight to conserve electricity. Business was good. In Michigan, thirteen legislators were arrested on bribery and corruption charges. Business was good there too, until you got caught.

  I walked over to Einsmann, and gave him back the paper. “Phil, what do you know about what the Nazis are doing to the Jews?”

  “What everybody knows, I guess. They take their property, send them to camps, shoot a lot of them. Why?”

  “You ought to talk to Luca Amatori, a lieutenant with the Carabinieri here. He knows what went on in one of the Italian concentration camps.”

  “No thanks. Not worth my time. The Italians are our allies now. No one wants to air dirty laundry, not when we need them fighting the Germans.”

  “You’ve been told that?”

  “Not in so many words. But you get the sense of things after enough stories have been squashed. Italian concentration camps? Not what the reading public wants to hear about.”

  “Ask Luca about clean laundry then. Might be worth your time.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You’re the reporter, you find out,” I said as I got up and went back to my seat. Maybe if he got the story about the spies from Luca, he’d ask him about the camp. Maybe not. Maybe Einsmann was busy planning his next murder. Maybe not. Maybe I’d live to see the dawn.

  We drank some more. Guys smoked and chatted. No one was trying to kill us. We had warm food and good wine, and deep holes to jump into. Anything beyond those immediate needs was insignificant.

  “You sure keep that weapon mighty clean, Padre,” Flint said as he opened a letter. Father Dare had his automatic in pieces, cleaning each with a toothbrush.

  “Cleanliness is next to Godliness, they say. Letter from home?”

  “Yeah,” Flint said. “Mail truck had this for me, and a couple for Louie and Rusty. That’s it. Sorry, fellas.” He looked around at the others, then scanned the single page, before tucking the letter back in the envelope and stowing it away. He shook a cigarette loose from a crumpled pack. “Anyone got a light?”

  “I never saw a padre carry a pistol,” Bobby K said, tossing Flint a lighter while eyeing Father Dare.

  “There’s a first time for everything, son,” Father Dare said, as he rubbed gun oil on the metal. He cleaned the pieces slowly, handling each like holy relics. When he had it all put back together, he held it between his palms, as if it gave off warmth. “Especially at war, there are many first times.”

  He sounded weary, and I wondered if the pistol was a temptation, a way out for a man who, in his mind, had failed at whatever good he had tried to do. Or did he worship the weapon, aware of the power it bestowed, so much more immediate than penance? Or maybe the vino had gone to my head.

  Einsmann took out his .45 and began cleaning it as well. He had a little trouble taking it apart, not being as adept as Father Dare.

  “Geez,” Bobby K said. “Watch out, you could shoot someone with that thing.” Everybody thought that was hilarious.

  “Flint,” a captain called as his jeep pulled up. “Your replacements never made it out of the truck. Take a vehicle down to the docks and see what you can find.” He scribbled out an order and gave it to Flint.

  “Right now, sir?”

  “Right now. They won’t last long.” With that, he was off.

  “Okay, let’s see what we can find. Danny, you come with me. We’ll show these new boys it doesn’t take long to become a grizzled veteran. Billy, sorry, but duty calls. Good luck back in Naples.” Flint smiled, shook my hand, and walked away, giving Danny and me a minute.

  “Be careful,” I said, wishing I could take Danny with me.

  “I will be. I’m in good hands, Billy. And remember, you were the one who taught me how to fight.” We shook hands, even though I wanted to give him a bear hug, which would have embarrassed him. I stopped myself from reminding him that knowing how to bob and weave in the ring was not going to help at Anzio.

  I watched Danny and Flint depart, taking a truck that was parked near my jeep. I said my good-byes to the others, reinforcing the story that I was leaving in the morning with Stump in custody. On the way to my jeep, I saw a crumpled envelope on the ground. It was Flint’s letter. Had he thrown it away, or had it fallen from his pocket? I was about to give it to Father Dare to hold, when I thought it would be a good excuse to follow Danny down to the docks and see him again, maybe throw some weight around and get some decent replacements for the platoon.

  Always looking out for my kid brother, I thought, as I laid my carbine down on the passenger seat and drove off toward the fog that was rolling in from the sea.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  AFTER AN HOUR of looking, I’d given up trying to pick out Danny from among the hundreds of helmeted GIs swarming over the docks. LSTs were arrayed along the waterfront, like openmouthed whales disgorging modern-day Jonahs. It looked like a major resupply effort, and I figured Stump would be heading back with the wounded on one of these LSTs riding high in the water.

  It was almost dark, and I decided to talk with Doc Cassidy again before checking in at headquarters to see if Harding had come up with a general and if Kaz was back yet. Driving to the hospital area, I had to pull over as a line of ambulances came screaming down the road, horns blaring.

  Hell’s Half Acre was in chaos. The wounded were everywhere, pulled out of ambulances and set in rows, where doctors and nurses checked them, yelling instructions to move this one, leave that one, prep for surgery, all amidst the groans of morphine-addled pain.

  “They’re all Rangers,” I said to a young kid standing next to me.

  “Yeah, they tried to infiltrate into Cisterna last night. The Krauts must have known they were coming.”

  “Looks like they got hit hard pulling out,” I said.

  “This is the relief force. Two battalions of Rangers made it into Cisterna. Six men made it out,” he said in a soft Texas drawl. “Eight hundred good men, half killed, half prisoner, they’s saying.”

  “Jesus,” I said, and thought of Father Dare praying to God for help, but asking Him to leave Jesus home. This was no place for kids, but as I looked at this scrawny sergeant, I thought he ought to be still in high school. “How old are you, Sergeant?”

  “Nineteen, sir. I mean twenty, twenty years old.”

  “Don’t sweat it, kid. If you’re dumb enough to lie about your age to get in the army, I’m not going to get you in hot water. How’d you make sergeant so fast?”

  “Guess because sergeants get killed so fast. I’ve been here since North Africa.”

  “Looks like the army is robbing the cradle.”

  “Listen, Lieutenant, just because I look young don’t mean you have to insult me,” he said. If it weren’t for the sweat popping out on his forehead and his fluttering eyelids, I would’ve bet he was thinking about decking a superior officer.

  “Sorry, Sergeant,” I said, steadying him before he fell flat on his face. “What are you in for, anyway?”

  “Malaria,” he croaked. “Give me a hand, will ya?” I helped him back to his tent, and got him off his feet.

  “You all right?” I asked as his head hit the pillow.

  “Yeah, I’ll be out of here soon. Damn malaria hits me now and then. Picked it up in Sicily.”

  “Want anything?”

  “No thanks, Lieutenant. Sorry I mouthed off out there.”

  “Forget it, kid. The name’s Billy Boyle, by the way. From Boston.” I gave him my hand.

  “Audie Murphy, from Farmersville, Texas. Take care
of yourself, Lieutenant.” I left him in bed, wondering how he ever got this far, a thin little whip of a kid with a strain of malaria, which I knew had sent stronger men home on a Red Cross ship.

  I went back out and looked for Cassidy. The scene had calmed down, and most of the stretcher cases were gone. A few were draped with blankets, those who had died on the way in. A nearby tent was filled with other stretchers, and I watched a medic give a morphine syrette to a Ranger with blood-soaked compresses on his chest. He threw down the empty syrette and ran his fingers through his hair, shaking his head. This was the tent for the not-yet-dead. I walked on.

  “Wait for me in the mess tent,” Cassidy said when I finally found him. “I have a leg to amputate.”

  I waited, drinking coffee with sugar, not tasting a thing.

  An hour later, Cassidy came in, looking drawn and exhausted. His blond hair was dirty, and there were dark bags under his eyes. “I’m hungry,” was all he said. I followed him through the line, accepting frankfurters and beans in my kit, topped off with freshbaked bread.

  “I know I shouldn’t be able to eat after all that,” Cassidy said as we sat down. “Some guys drink. I eat. Can’t help it.”

  “Those guys were shot up pretty bad,” I said.

  “They went through hell trying to get to their buddies. Lots of multiple wounds. Two battalions lost, and a third ripped apart trying to rescue them. We only get the worst cases here, you know what I mean? The aid stations and casualty clearing stations take care of the light wounds. And you know what? Most of them want to get up and go right back out there.”

  He raised a fork to his mouth, his hand trembling. He set it down and gritted his teeth.

  “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck!” Louder this time, but no one looked. Not uncommon, I guessed. He cupped his hands on the table and took a deep breath. “Too many of them. We were overwhelmed. I shouldn’t have had to cut off that leg, but by the time we got him on the table …” He shook his head and uncupped his hands. He tried the fork again, and this time his hand was steady, but he still didn’t eat. Combat fatigue comes in all forms, I guess.

  “Sorry to bother you, Doc,” I said, after giving him some time. “Bad timing, but I have a few more questions.”

  “It’s never a good time here,” he said. “Ask.”

  “I need to know what to look for if this guy we’re after really is a psychopath. Everything you said points to someone who can act normal, so how can I spot him? I need something to look for, some sign. There’s got to be something.”

  “I’m not sure. The few I knew of were spotted by experts, usually after some violent event that left no doubt. But I’d say the key is what you said about acting normal. It’s all an act, so watch for something that takes him by surprise.”

  “To see how he reacts, like flying off the handle over some little thing.”

  “That could describe half the guys here. Constant exposure to death can make anyone overreact. Watch for the opposite. Some event that would draw an emotional response from any normal person.”

  “That’s not much to go on, Doc.”

  “Okay, I’ll make it easy on you. Just look for someone without a soul.”

  “I know a priest who might be able to help with that.”

  “Father Dare? The padre who was in here with a leg wound?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Strange fellow. Didn’t want to be separated from his Colt. But he’s got a good reputation with the medics and stretcher bearers. He stays up front, helps the wounded.”

  “He says he keeps the automatic to protect the wounded.”

  “Could be,” Cassidy said. “But how much protection would a pistol really provide against machine guns, mortars, tanks and artillery?”

  It was a really good question, but what I needed were some really good answers.

  THE SUN HAD set, and the going was slow back to headquarters. As I drew close, air-raid sirens began to wail, and the street filled with men running for the shelters. Searchlights blinked on near the harbor and began stabbing at the sky, probing for the shape of German bombers. Flares blossomed in the inky darkness, floating to earth on parachutes, illuminating the town and harbor, creating day from night. Bombs were not going to be far behind. I pulled the jeep over and jumped out, making for a shelter dug out of the earth and covered with a corrugated tin roof. It wouldn’t withstand a direct hit, but it would have to do.

  There were already about twenty guys crammed inside. I sat near the door, listening to the antiaircraft batteries open up and the crump of exploding bombs creeping closer. I hoped Danny was well away from the docks by now; no reason why he shouldn’t be. Someone lit a candle, and it gave off a flickering light. I leaned back, settling in for a long wait. I noticed Flint’s letter sticking out of my front jacket pocket.

  I took it out and looked at the return address. American Red Cross. Why would they be writing to him, from the States? I removed the letter, looking around guiltily, as if anyone in the shelter would know I was reading someone else’s mail.

  We regret to inform you that your mother, Abigail Flint, died on December 25, 1943, of injuries sustained from an unknown assailant. Police are investigating and we will provide you with further information as it becomes available. Please accept our sincere condolences.

  A chill went through me. Flint’s mother had been murdered on Christmas Day, and all he’d done was ask for a light. He’d read the news with no visible emotion. Or if Cassidy was right, with no emotion at all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “I KNOW WHO the killer is,” I said. Harding looked up without a trace of surprise. As soon as the all clear sounded I’d gone straight to headquarters and found him with Kearns. “Sir,” I added, having been well trained.

  “Sergeant Amos Flint,” he said. “We’re already looking for him.”

  “How … ?”

  “Lieutenant Kazimierz has returned from Naples,” Harding said. “Good to know you both agree. He’s over there, with our general and his driver.” He pointed to a far corner of the wine cellar, where Kaz, Big Mike, and Major Charles Cosgrove were huddled around a desk.

  It was an unlikely crew. Staff Sergeant Mike Miecznikowski was Polish, like Kaz, but there the resemblance ended. He was over six feet tall, and so broad in the shoulders that he split seams on his uniform regularly. The nickname came naturally. Big Mike was a former Detroit cop who’d become part of our unit after helping us out in Sicily. He got into so much hot water because of it that Harding had to bail him out and take him in.

  Major Charles Cosgrove was another story. We’d started off badly when I first came to London, which is a nice way of saying we’d hated each other. Long story. By now, we had both mellowed a bit, and there was a grudging respect between us, which is something for an Irish lad to say about a British intelligence officer from MI5.

  “Billy,” Kaz said excitedly. “I know who the Red Heart Killer is.”

  “Amos Flint?”

  “I told you he’d figure it out,” Big Mike said. “How you doing, Billy?”

  “Glad you’re here, Big Mike,” I said as we shook hands. “When did you get in?”

  “A couple of hours ago. First thing I do is pick up Kaz down at the docks off a PT boat from Naples, and he announces the identity of the killer. Looks like the major and I spent twenty-four hours in a Catalina for nothing.”

  “How are you, Major Cosgrove, or is it General Cosgrove?”

  “General Bernard Paget, Commander in Chief, Middle East Command, if you don’t mind. Got to bait the hook well, don’t we? Paget recently took over as CIC, so it lends a bit of realism to the charade.”

  “You look the part, General,” I said. Cosgrove was kitted out in a nicely tailored dress uniform, with the red lapel patches of a general officer. I wondered when Harding had begun to cook up this scheme, or if maybe Cosgrove had a whole closet full of disguises. “But is this really MI5 territory?” MI5 was charged with counterespionage, catching German
spies, not GI killers.

  “Personal requests from Winston tend to blur lines of jurisdiction. Colonel Harding asked General Eisenhower, who asked the prime minister, who said by all means. Anything to help get this invasion moving. Winston is not pleased with the progress, or lack thereof, and doesn’t wish things to get any worse if this maniac gets close to a real general. So here I am, the sacrificial lamb.”

  “Don’t worry,” Big Mike said. “I ain’t leaving your side until we got this guy.”

  “Very good. You make a larger target than even I do,” Cosgrove said. Which wasn’t the case with most men. Cosgrove had fought in the Boer War and the Great War, but his days of fighting trim were long gone. He was thick-waisted, with a full gray mustache and a limp. Without Big Mike as a bodyguard, he’d be a sitting duck.

  “So what did you find out about Flint?” I asked Kaz.

  “I found Ileana,” he said.

  “How?”

  “Well, I probably should not return to the Naples area for a while. An officer matching my description is wanted for the theft of penicillin from the hospital at Caserta. I knew I needed something to bargain with, and nothing will make the owner of a bordello talk more than a supply of penicillin for his girls.”

  “It’s practically a public service,” Big Mike said.

  “Sure it is. So you got someone to talk.”

  “Yes. Ileana was recovering south of Naples, at a farm. She had been badly beaten. As it turns out, she and Landry really were in love. She rejected him at first, fearing that he would cast her aside. But he persisted, and she came to love him. They had a plan for him to take her away, but they kept up the story of her milking him for money, so Inzerillo would not be suspicious.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Landry told Flint.”

  “Yes. He asked for his help. Instead, Flint went to Bar Raffaele and paid for Ileana’s services. He intended to humiliate Landry, to ruin their love. But he could not perform, and Ileana made the mistake of laughing at him. He nearly killed her. He threatened Inzerillo with the same if he said anything, and told Ileana he would kill Landry if she revealed what had happened.”