James Benn - A Mortal Terror

The rain was heavier now, and we dashed along the plank boardwalks to a tent in the Easy Company area. Gates held the flap as we entered, and the warmth from a glowing tent stove was welcome. Crates of supplies were stacked to the rear, and next to the stove a table was set up, with three noncoms lounging around it. Two lanterns hung from the ceiling, shedding light on a stack of cash, empty bottles, cigar butts, and other debris from what looked like a long night of poker.

“Game busted up, boys?” Gates asked.

“Yeah. Flint finally cleaned the padre out. He was the big winner all night, and when he caved, the other guys left. Couple of corporals from Baker Company, they shoulda quit hours ago. Who’s this?” A stubby hand gripping a smoldering cigar waved in my direction.

“Lieutenant Boyle. He’s looking for whoever killed Landry and Galante. He wants to talk to you guys.”

“Call me Billy, fellas. Everyone does. Who made the killing?” All three of them looked at me, mouths agape. “I mean, who was the big winner?” I pointed to the pile of scrip.

“That’d be me, Billy. Amos Flint.”

“Flint has Second Squad,” Gates said. “Louie with the stogie there has First Squad, Stump the Third.”

I shook hands with Flint. He had a ready grin, but who wouldn’t, after raking in all that dough? He had startlingly blue eyes, and was neatly attired in a chocolate-brown wool shirt, usually reserved for officers. He had the satisfied calmness of a winner who’d known he’d win all along.

“Louie Walla, from Walla Walla,” the cigar-chomping sergeant said as he extended his callused hand. “Last name is Walla, and I’m from Walla Walla, Washington. How ’bout that?”

“Amazing, Louie,” was all I could say. Louie was short, with black curly hair, a raspy voice, and an easy grin wrapped around his cigar.

“Don’t mind Louie, he gives everyone that speech,” the next sergeant said. “Marty Stumpf. They call me Stump, on account of the Kraut-sounding name.” Stump was sandy-haired, with high cheekbones and eyes that didn’t seem to miss a thing.

“Yeah, if we called him Stumpf up on the line, one of his cousins might answer,” Flint said, and they all laughed at what sounded like a familiar joke. Stump rolled his eyes.

“You guys answer Billy’s questions. I’m going to pull Evans away from his bridge party. Weapons inspection in one hour. Have your men ready.”

“Aw, Rusty, we been up all night,” Louie said.

“Yeah, and look where that got you. One hour,” Gates said as he left.

“He’s right,” Flint said to the others. “We gotta stay on our toes, and show the rookies what’s what.” The other sergeants groaned but did not argue.

“Anybody have an idea about who might want Landry dead?” I asked, watching their eyes for the downward glance, the rapid flicker, anything that would signal hesitation, the censoring of thought into words.

“Nobody south of the Bernhardt Line,” Flint said, referring to the name the Germans gave to their current main line of defense, stretching across the Italian mountains south of Monte Cassino.

“You got that right,” Stump said. “Landry was one of the best.”

“That’s what everybody says,” I said. “Funny that he got murdered. What do you think, Louie?”

“I think I’d like to get my hands on whoever done it. Now we got ourselves a ninety-day wonder for a platoon leader, like to get us all killed if he ain’t smart enough to let Rusty run things.”

“I think Billy is asking what we think about who might have killed him, Louie,” Flint said. “Not about his replacement.”

“Yeah, sure. Well, no one had a beef with him that I know of. He was real good to us, on the line and off. Kept the MPs off our backs, that sort of thing.”

“He a big gambler?”

“No,” Stump replied, and the others shook their heads in agreement. “No more than the average Joe. Helps to pass the time. But he didn’t owe anyone, I’m pretty sure.”

“You think that’s why the ten of hearts was left on him?” Flint said. “Like a warning not to welsh?”

“No, you don’t kill a guy who owes money, unless it’s to make an example.”

“Hell, if the Lieutenant needed dough, any of us woulda been glad to cough up what we had,” Louie said. “We all looked out for each other. I woulda given the shirt off my back for the guy. Saved my life just a coupla weeks ago. Pulled me outta the way of a Kraut 88. Took the arm off a guy not twenty yards behind us. And Flint, he saved Landry’s life more than once, right?”

“Yep,” Stump said. “He plugged that Kraut officer we thought was dead. He was about to put a slug into Landry’s head. Flint shot him from fifty yards out, square in the back of the head.”

“Nice shooting,” I said.

Flint shrugged. “Lucky. I was just hoping these guys would hit the dirt. The guy only had a Walther.”

“Worked, didn’t it?” Stump said. “I dove into a shell hole filled with mud. I would have shot that sonuvabitch just for getting me wet. Landry gave that Walther to Flint, and he sold it to some headquarters weenie for a load of booze when we got sent here.” He grinned.

“Yeah, there’s no percentage in carrying a Kraut pistol,” Louie said. “You get captured, especially by the SS, and they take exception.”

“Don’t like it much myself,” Flint said. “Finding a Kraut carrying around anything from our boys.” There were murmurs of agreement, and I knew I was in the presence of hard men, men who knew how to survive, to put away mercy until another day. Kinder men than them were buried in graveyards for hundreds of miles behind us.

“You guys have any trouble with the military police?”

“Naw, nothing that you’d call trouble,” Stump said. “We ain’t had time to get into any real trouble. A few twelve-hour passes that got us as far as Acerra, a town about an hour south. It ain’t much, but it’s still in one piece, so it’s the best place to go if you can’t get to Naples.”

“Landry go down there much?”

“A few times, sure,” Flint said. “We saw him having dinner with some other officers at a cafe, that sort of thing. He and I had to go down there the night before he died, as a matter of fact. One of the men in my squad started a fight, broke up a joint pretty bad. We had to square it with the locals.”

“What kind of joint?”

“The kind with booze and broads,” Louie said, grinning as he clamped the cigar in his mouth. “We didn’t want the MPs to declare it off-limits, so we took up a collection, fixed things with the owner.”

“Landry knew it would be better all around to keep things quiet,” Flint said. “Give the boys a place to blow off steam, and keep a good soldier out of the stockade. All it took was a wad of occupation scrip.”

“No hard feelings with the locals?”

“No,” said Flint. “And even if there were, no civilian could make it in here, never mind get the drop on Landry.” He was right. I’d had a flicker of hope that this could be traced back to a barroom brawl, but it didn’t add up. This killer was in uniform, invisible to everyone around him. A strong, experienced killer.

“You all know Landry a while?”

“Yeah,” Stump said. “He was with battalion staff when I got transferred in, back in Tunisia. Landry brought Louie with him when he got the platoon just before Sicily. Flint’s been around the longest, since Morocco, right?”

“Yep,” Flint said. “Not many of us left from back then.”

“Any other sergeants in the outfit?” I asked. “Assistant squad leaders?”

“We was the assistant squad leaders,” Louie said. “We got promoted due to sudden vacancies opening up. Ain’t enough noncoms to go around, so no more assistant squad leaders. Just a bunch of green replacements.”