James Benn - A Mortal Terror

“We’re supposed to have twelve-man squads,” Flint said. “We each have two or three experienced men, but none ready for corporal’s stripes yet. Plus about a half-dozen replacements.”

“Are you getting any of the ASTP replacements coming in?” I asked.

“Them college boys? Be more trouble than they worth,” Louie said, crushing out his cigar.

“Aw, you never know,” Stump said. “Keep an open mind, will ya?”

“My kid brother is in ASTP,” I said, unexpectedly bristling at Louie’s insinuation. “I think he’ll do alright if it comes to that.”

“No offense, Lieutenant,” Louie said. “You know how it is with replacements.”

“Yeah, I know. Tell me, did any of you know Captain Galante?”

“He patched me up once,” Flint said. “Got a piece of shrapnel in the calf, and he took good care of it. Let me lay around the hospital for a couple of days, with all those pretty nurses. He was a decent guy.”

“That’s what I heard too,” Stump said. Louie agreed.

“Any idea who’d want him dead?”

“No,” Stump said, looking at the others, who shook their heads. “He wasn’t like a lot of the other officers. Didn’t drink a lot, kept to himself. Didn’t you tell me, Flint, he had a thing for Italian art?”

“Yeah, right,” Flint said, snapping his fingers. “He told me all about the fancy artwork they have in the churches here. I don’t remember the names of the artists, but he knew them all. He knew all about Italian royalty too. Me, I didn’t even know they had a king over here until he fired Mussolini. King Victor Emmanuel, it was. Galante told me all about them, how the royal family used to have fancy dance balls right here in Caserta, in the palace.”

“A real bookworm,” Louie said.

“Louie, you got no class,” Stump said. “Billy, you got any other questions? We gotta go get our boys ready for inspection. Everybody gets a pass into town once we’re done.”

“Just one. What about Jim Cole?” There was silence, and three sets of eyes looked everywhere but at me. “What’s the big secret?”

“Nothing,” Stump said. “Cole’s a good guy.”

“Yeah, leave him out of this,” Flint said. “Let’s go.”

Louie shrugged, and they all stood.

“Don’t you feel bad taking all that dough from the padre?” Stump said.

“I’m going to give it back, most of it anyway. For some worthy cause,” Flint announced with a grin. “I just wanted to hang onto it for a while, make believe it was mine.”

“Who’s the padre?”

“Father Dare,” Flint said. “Regimental chaplain.”

“Last guy to see Landry alive,” Stump said.

“Not counting the guy what killed him,” corrected Louie Walla from Walla Walla.

T HE RAIN HAD let up, so as the three sergeants went to organize their squads, I walked back to where Landry’s body had been found. Smoke mingled with the fog and dressed everything in a dull, damp gray. I stood in the narrow pathway in the rear of the supply tents, an alleyway bordered by stakes and ropes from the tents on either side. I planted my feet where the killer must have stood to drop Landry’s body, and saw how he must’ve had to drag him by the collar to get him under the guy wires and up against the tent.

Where did you come from? I thought as I looked around. How far did you carry him? Why did you bring him here? I went back to the boardwalk and looked in every direction. More tents, more open space. Was Landry killed in a tent? No, then he could have been left there. I walked in front of the supply tent, and noticed the tire tracks in the mud. Trucks had been bringing in supplies constantly, backing up to the supply tents for easy unloading.

Here, Landry was killed here. In between trucks parked for the night. No, not for the night, just for a while. That’s why the killer had to move the body, if he didn’t want it found right away.

But why did he need the body not to be found? Why hide both bodies in places that only delayed their discovery? To show someone else? To frighten someone-a major, maybe? Or was it simpler than that? Maybe he had to go get a deck of cards. If that was it, then the cards were an afterthought.

So what if they were? That and a nickel would get me a phone call.

I shivered, mostly from the chill creeping up my boots, but also from the presence of murder. Here, on this meaningless patch of dirt, a man’s life ended. The air was different here, choked with mist, as if the specter of violence oozed from the ground. I looked around, feeling I was being watched, trying to pick out a pair of eyes focused on me and this patch of dirt. Nothing but GIs hurrying back and forth, killing time while waiting to be killed.

Maybe Landry would have been dead anyway in a week, maybe two, when they went back to the line. But that made those two stolen weeks all the more precious. Some bastard had taken that from him, and I was going to make sure he paid for his sins.

Before he added to them, I prayed.

“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.”