James Benn - A Mortal Terror

“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.”

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.”

“He sent me immediately, but we had aircraft trouble and I was stuck at Malta for a day. It’s good to see you, Billy.” We shook hands warmly, both of us glad to be working together again. As usual, Kaz looked perfect in his tailored British battle dress uniform, complete with the red shoulder patch with “Poland” inscribed in bold letters. His blue eyes shone eagerly behind his steel-rimmed spectacles, and as usual the Webley revolver was at his hip.