A Mortal Terror

by James R Benn

  Cosgrove was not going to be very popular. Harding agreed to inform First Special Service Force HQ that a senior general was coming through on an inspection tour, to determine if the unit should be disbanded. It was precisely the kind of news that would spread like wildfire throughout the brigade. If Flint came within earshot of even a single private, odds were he’d hear about it. If I’d guessed right about his plan.

  “You sure you want to go through with this, Cosgrove?” Harding asked as our phony general eased himself into the backseat of the staff car. “The Force men are a rough bunch. Between Flint, the Krauts, and them, you won’t have a friend within miles.”

  “Don’t worry, Sam,” Big Mike said. “I got my .45 automatic, a Winchester Model 12 trench gun, and a .38 police special for backup.” Harding permitted a causal familiarity from Big Mike, which no one else would ever dare to try to get away with. Big Mike did it so naturally, I don’t think Harding could take offense. Plus, Big Mike knew when to call him ‘sir.’

  “Where the hell did you get a shotgun?” Harding asked.

  “It’s not hard when you’ve got a supply officer desperate to get his fancy jeep back,” Big Mike said. “Automatic at my hip, shotgun by my side, revolver in my pocket, and walkie-talkie on the seat. If Major Cosgrove gets killed, you can fire me.”

  “That’s General Paget to you, Sergeant,” Cosgrove said. “And if he does get me killed, Harding, break him to private and keep him in the army for life.”

  “In that case, you’re safe as a baby with me,” Big Mike said, settling in behind the wheel.

  “Remember, the SCR-536 has a range of only a mile. We’ll stay close, but don’t wander off, or we’ll lose you. Check in every thirty minutes.”

  “Will do.” With that they were off.

  Their first stop would be Valmontorio, on the coast where the Mussolini Canal ran into the sea. It was the far end of the line that the Force held, and the plan was for Cosgrove to kick up a big stink, so word would spread ahead of him. Kearns had already radioed General Frederick, who agreed to go along with the plan, and let word slip to his staff about an inspection by a British general who thought highly trained units like the FSSF were a waste of resources.

  The unit held the canal north up to Sessano, and that was where Luca and his Carabinieri came in. He was there with a truckload of men, supposedly searching for spies. If we needed help, we’d send a radio message and then have reinforcements from another direction. It was a good plan, especially since GIs were used to seeing the blueuniformed Carabinieri, and tended to ignore them.

  The dull crump of distant artillery rolled in from the north, and I had the usual thought: glad it’s them, not me. We went in the MP office for one last check. No one had reported seeing the missing jeep, no sign of Flint or Danny. By the time we left, the artillery was louder. Closer.

  “Why’d you switch to that peashooter?” Harding said as we got into the jeep. He was carrying a Thompson submachine gun. Kaz was armed only with his Webley revolver, but he was pretty good with it and didn’t like carrying anything else. Ruined the cut of his uniform, he claimed.

  “Traded with a guy who got us out of a scrape,” I said. “Besides, it’s light, and more accurate than the Thompson.”

  “Just make sure you shoot him more than once with that,” Harding said. “I’ve seen Krauts take a couple of those slugs and keep running.” He was right; compared to the M1 rifle, or the Thompson, the M1 carbine round was small and less powerful. Still, it had its uses.

  I drove, Kaz at my side, Harding in the back. We went along the coast road, and watched destroyers cut circles in the bay, smoke pots churning on their fantails, disappearing into the white clouds that they created. All that smoke was camouflage for an incoming convoy, and the German gunners registered their disapproval by sending a few shells after the destroyers, not even getting close but sending up great geysers of blue-and-white foam. The wind kicked up, and dark clouds drifted in from the sea, blowing the smoke in our direction. The water, air, and sky became the same uniform gray, the heavy weather covering the land with an opaque, damp, shivering chill. I steered the jeep around the occasional bomb crater not yet filled in by the engineers, who had round-the-clock work keeping roads, bridges, and airfields functioning.

  Where was Danny? What would I do if he were killed out here, not by the Germans, but by a man I’d been sent to track down? How could I tell my mother, or confess my failing to my father? I ached to find Danny, and I prayed as I drove, bargaining with God, offering everything I could think of, frightened that it wasn’t God who held Danny’s future in his hands, but a homicidal maniac. I’d bargain with him too, if I knew what he wanted, and if it were mine to give.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  “LOOK OUT,” KAZ said, leaning forward in his seat. “Slow down, there are shell holes all around.”

  “Good reason to go faster,” Harding said from the backseat, where he’d just finished checking in with Big Mike on the walkietalkie. I maintained my speed, weaving between the blackened holes, aware of the burned-out wrecks of vehicles on either side of the road. “Looks like the Germans have this area zeroed in. Narrow road, nowhere to go. We’d be sitting ducks if it wasn’t for this fog.”

  The wind had died down, leaving the coast shrouded in mist, making it hard to see where I was going. But if I couldn’t see, the Germans up in the hills sure as hell couldn’t either, and I was glad not to have a ton of explosive steel raining down on us.

  “Stop!” Harding yelled. I braked, and he jumped out, running to an overturned truck, where a body lay sprawled on the ground. All I could think was, please let it not be Danny.

  It wasn’t. There were bloody compresses on his chest, where medics had worked on him. Other medical debris was scattered around him. There may have been other wounded, so the medics left the corpse behind for Graves Registration.

  “False alarm,” Harding said.

  “Perhaps not,” Kaz said, holding the dead man’s dog tag. “This says Amos Flint.”

  “Search him,” I said. “We need to find out what name Flint is using.” Kaz and I went through his pockets, but Flint must have beaten us to it.

  “Nothing,” Kaz said. “The man is clever, I must say.”

  “Save the compliments,” Harding said. “The fog is clearing, let’s go.”

  We crossed a wooden bridge and took the road into Valmontorio, a cluster of cinderblock buildings scattered about on either side of the road as it bent north, along the bank of the Mussolini Canal. Every building had been hit. Roofs were gone; the contents of homes tumbled out into the street or were left charred inside gutted structures. It looked like a ghost town.

  “Get that goddamn jeep out of sight!” barked a GI who appeared from nowhere. Suddenly men appeared in doorways and at windows. One of them waved us into a spot between two houses and beckoned us to follow inside. “What are you boys doing here?” he said, as if we’d been caught trespassing. At the far end of the room, two GIs were eating their rations, glancing occasionally at the foggy view of the shoreline and canal. A radio sat on a table, along with binoculars and a map of the coast. A rather casual observation post.

  “Your rank, soldier?” Harding said, stepping forward so his insignia could be seen.

  “Lieutenant George Bodine, First Special Service Force. What can I do for you, Colonel?” He made it sound like a chore to even answer the question.

  “Why did you pull us in? Are there Germans close by?”

  “No, Colonel, there ain’t a live Kraut within a mile of here,” Bodine said as the other two men chuckled. “But the fog is about to blow off, and in five minutes you’d be dead if you went up that road. German gunners have been waiting for hours now to spot something.”

  “It doesn’t look like it’s clearing,” Kaz said, peering out through the glassless window.

  “It is. You wait.”

  “Lieutenant,” I said. “We’re looking for a sergeant and a private, traveling by jeep
most likely, one with a mounted .30 caliber. You see anybody like that?”

  “Only visitor here was some loudmouth British general, about an hour ago. Asked a lot of stupid questions and said units like ours were a waste of resources. On some kind of inspection tour or some such bullshit.”

  “What’d you say to that?” Harding asked.

  “Offered to take him out on patrol tonight so he could see what the Krauts’ opinion was. He didn’t take us up on the offer. You know what they call us out here? Black devils. That’s what they think of us.”

  “Why black devils?”

  “Because we blacken our faces when we patrol at night. And we leave these calling cards behind, pasted to the foreheads of dead Krauts.” He handed Harding a red-and-white sticker, with the arrowhead insignia of the Force, and the words Das dicke Ende kommt noch.

  “What does that mean?” Harding asked.

  “The worst is yet to come,” Bodine said, with a smile. “That’s why there aren’t any Krauts within a mile or so. They began to pull back once we started going out after dark. Now we have to walk farther each night to find any.”

  “Is this your right flank?”

  “Hell no, Colonel. This is the rear area. Most of our guys are across the canal, set up in Sabotino and other towns over there. Nice and snug, not all blown up like this dump. This is where we bring the wounded for transport back to Anzio, and pick up supplies.”

  “Does HQ know about this?”

  “Maybe,” Bodine shrugged. “It’s a fluid situation.”

  “Meaning you like being on your own.”

  “Yes sir. Less interference from the brass, the better. Meaning no offense.”

  “None taken. You’re sure about not seeing our two men pass through?”

  “Yeah. Maybe they got hit back at the bridge. The Krauts like to shell that area.”

  “So I noticed,” I said, then heard the shrill whistle that was becoming too familiar. I flinched, and noticed Bodine smiling.

  “That’s the bridge again,” he said. “Must be another supply run. You boys might want to get a move on while the Germans are busy.”

  We took his advice, heading north along the canal, and damned if the fog didn’t clear a few minutes later.

  “I guess he knew what he was talking about,” I said.

  “They recruited a lot of outdoorsmen for that outfit,” Harding said. “Lumberjacks, game wardens, fishermen, guys who are used to living rough. They have a sixth sense about the weather.”

  “Did you believe him about not seeing Flint and Danny?”

  Harding shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  I glanced at Kaz, wondering if he’d picked up on it. He looked perplexed, and I gave him a minute as I drove down a tree-lined road, hoping the branches gave us some cover from the German observers, or that they wouldn’t want to waste all those shells on a single jeep.

  “He didn’t ask why we were looking for them!” Kaz said, snapping his fingers. “That would be a natural question to ask.”

  “Yep. Good catch, Kaz. You’ll be a detective yet.”

  “Why didn’t you press him then?” Harding said, growling with irritation, at either my lack of follow-up or the fact that he hadn’t noticed it. I nodded at Kaz, giving him the go-ahead.

  “Because there was only one direction for Flint to go, the same one we are taking. And, assuming Lieutenant Bodine is an honest man, Flint must have fed him some story that made him sympathetic. Something that would appeal to a solider slightly contemptuous of authority.”

  “Slightly?” Harding said, as he picked up the walkie-talkie for the routine check. “Big Mike, come in. Big Mike, come in.”

  Big Mike reported in. He and Cosgrove were in Santa Maria, which he said was nothing more than a cluster of farmhouses and chicken coops. Cosgrove was going through his routine, making enemies. Something he seemed to have a flair for. No sign of trouble.

  We drove on, slowly, not wanting to overtake them. It began to mist, a fine drizzle that seemed to float in the air rather than fall. I scanned the few buildings that dotted the road, most of them shelled by the Germans, denying us observation posts and a dry place to sleep.

  “There, Billy,” Kaz said, pointing to a stone farmhouse ahead and to our left. Whenever possible, vehicles anywhere in the beachhead were parked behind buildings to block the view of German observers in the hills. There, tucked in the lee of the farmhouse, was a jeep with a mounted machine gun. The house, set too far back to be an observation post, had not been hit by artillery. It was intact, with a full view over open fields in every direction. A perfect hideout. Kaz was still pointing, and I pressed his arm down.

  “Don’t,” I said, as I carefully maintained my speed. “If Flint is looking, I don’t want him to notice anything out of the ordinary.” We had him. Now came the hard part. I continued on until a grove of trees masked a turn in the road, and pulled over. “We have to approach on foot,” I said. “Very carefully. There’s a few rows of trees we can use as cover.”

  “But this way we don’t catch Flint in the act,” Kaz said.

  “But we get Danny out safely,” I said, looking to Harding. He nodded, and we checked weapons, crossed the road, and ducked low as we ran through rows of turnips toward the line of trees. Lemon trees, but my mind wasn’t on fruit. It was on getting in and getting Danny out. We needed to go in hard and fast. I was most worried about being in the open, where Flint could see us. That would give him an edge, since he’d have Danny for cover and we’d be exposed. We got near the end of the trees and hunched down.

  “I’ll take the back door,” I said. “Kaz, you follow me. I’ll check the jeep. If it’s ours, you stay outside and guard it. Make sure Flint doesn’t escape if he gets past me. Colonel, wait until you hear me hit the door, then go in the front. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Harding said. “Low and quiet until we go in.”

  “And make sure—”

  “Yes, we know, Billy. We’ll be careful not to shoot Danny.”

  “Or let Flint get near him. Let’s go.”

  We scuttled to the building, watching the windows for any sign of movement. This was dangerous, too; I wouldn’t shoot at a shadow for fear of hitting Danny, but a shadow might not worry about shooting me. We went flat against the rough stone, Harding ready by the door. Kaz and I crouched and went to the rear of the building, hiding behind the jeep. It was splattered with muck, the identification on the bumper hidden by caked-on mud. Flint was a smart one, all right, but his luck was about to run out. I wiped the mud away and saw VI-37Q. It was enough. I nodded to Kaz, gripped my carbine, and made for the door. When I pressed my back against the wall and went for the latch, I noticed the door hadn’t been fully closed. I pushed at it with the barrel of my rifle, just a touch, to get a look inside. I needed to signal Harding, and a silent entry wasn’t going to do that. Once I got a peek, I’d kick the door and go in like gangbusters.

  I didn’t get a peek. Instead, I got the muzzle of an M1 Garand in my face.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  TWO FORCE MEN pinned me to the wall as two others advanced on Kaz, Thompsons aimed at his head. He wisely laid his revolver on the seat of the jeep. They dragged us both inside, where Harding was seated in the kitchen, disarmed. His colonel’s eagle insignia seemed to be buying him a bit more respect than my lieutenant’s bars were. A sergeant stood behind him, arms folded, holding a .45 pointed at the floor.

  “Who the hell are you?” the sergeant said, to none of us in particular. “Sprechen Zie Deutsch?”

  “Sergeant, I am Colonel Samuel Harding, of General Eisenhower’s staff. These two work for me.”

  “Yeah, right. Ike’s in London last I heard. You tellin’ me he sent you down here to sneak up on us? You with that British general snoopin’ around? Or have we caught ourselves some Kraut spies?”

  “General Eisenhower did send me,” I said. “To catch a murderer. Sergeant Amos Flint, last seen driving that jeep outside.” I saw the men exch
ange glances.

  “Murder? Who’d he kill?”

  “His own lieutenant. A doctor, a captain, a major, a POW, and at least one sergeant from his own platoon. He stole that jeep and we think he’s headed into enemy territory. What line did he feed you?”

  “Big tall guy? With a skinny kid tagging along?”

  “Yeah, that’s him,” I said. “Hey, if you’re sure we’re not Germans, how about giving us our weapons back?”

  Harding stood and held out his hand. The sergeant gave him his .45 back. Our other weapons were laid on the table.

  “They were here earlier this morning. Gave us a story about bein’ on the lam from the MPs for slugging some desk jockey who got a bunch of his men killed for nothin’. Seemed believable.”

  “He’s a practiced liar,” I said. “Damn good at it, so don’t feel bad. He let you have the jeep?”

  “We swapped. Had an old Italian ambulance, a Fiat truck, that we used for transporting wounded. Most times, the Krauts don’t shell ambulances on their own. But we liked the jeep and that .30 caliber, so we suggested a trade. Thought it might help him blend in.”

  “Did he say where they were headed?”

  “Back to his outfit, he claimed, in Le Ferriere. Said they’d lie low for another day or so until the dust settled, then show up to get the lay of the land.”

  “How well is the line defended along here?”

  “Well, you got the Hermann Goering Panzer Division over there, but they pulled back pretty far. You can cross the canal any time you want and get nothing more than wet feet. It’s more of a big drainage ditch than any canal I ever saw.”

  “You have outposts along the canal?”

  “Colonel, our outposts are way across the canal. That’s why the Krauts pulled back. They don’t like waking up in the morning to find sentries with their throats slit.”