James Benn - A Mortal Terror

I found Cassidy sitting on the tailgate of a truck, leaning against his duffel bag. He looked young for a doctor, with wavy blond hair and an easy smile. Behind him the truck was loaded with medical supplies, stretchers, blankets, cots, and rations.

“Taking a trip, Doctor Cassidy?”

“I am, Lieutenant. Naples harbor is all I heard. You know anything about what’s happening?”

“Not a clue,” I said, introducing myself and giving Cassidy the short version of the investigation. Like everyone else within twenty miles, he knew about the murders and the suicide. “Anything you can tell me about Max Galante would be helpful.”

“Max was brilliant,” he said, without hesitation. “Too brilliant, maybe, for his own good.”

“What do you mean?”

“I happen to agree with his ideas about combat fatigue. Other units are using the same approach, and it’s working well. But Max was so sure of himself that he didn’t suffer fools gladly. Sometimes he forgot he was in the army and didn’t hold his tongue. It’s a problem with us doctors. We think we’re gods, but the army has other gods who outrank us.”

“Like Colonel Schleck, Third Division.”

“Right. Him and his assistant, Major Arnold. Max made a big stink about how they were incompetent Neanderthals for not taking combat fatigue seriously, as a disease. If he’d been more diplomatic, he’d probably be alive today.”

“You’re not saying there’s a connection?” Did Cassidy know more than he was letting on?

“Not-I just mean he would have been with his unit, and wouldn’t have run into whoever killed him. Is there a connection?”

“Not that I can see. If every guy who ran afoul of incompetent Neanderthals got killed, there wouldn’t be anyone left to fight this war.” Cassidy gave a knowing laugh. “Anything going on in Galante’s personal life that might have gotten him in trouble?”

“Can’t see it,” Cassidy said. “He spent time reading medical journals, when he could get them. Visited museums when they weren’t bombed out. He liked his landlady, said she was helping him improve his Italian. He couldn’t wait to get to Rome, poor guy. His family hailed from there, went way back to Roman times, according to him. Other than that, I can’t think of a thing.”

“Did he ever mention Sergeant Cole?”

“Sure. He got him transferred to CID after that incident in Campozillone. He was worried about him.”

“Any guys from his old outfit come to see him here?”

“Yeah, Landry, the other guy who got killed. He and Galante got on well. I know Max went to their bivouac at least once. Cole dropped by a couple of times after he started at the palace.” That was the first link I had between the two victims, not to mention Cole.

“Do you think Cole was unbalanced? Did Galante think he should have been hospitalized?” I wanted to know more about Galante and Cole, and anyone else he knew in Landry’s platoon. Like the killer, maybe.

“No. Not in the way you mean. We call it Old Sergeant’s Syndrome. Unofficially, of course.”

“What’s that, some sort of combat fatigue?”

“It’s more than that. According to current thinking, combat fatigue can be dealt with by rest and a short period of relative safety. But for those men who have fought and endured for long periods of time, there finally comes a point at which they become fatalistic. They’re usually sergeants, because simply by surviving for months in battle, they’ve been promoted. In most cases, they are the only man left of their original squad, if not platoon.”

“So hot chow and a cot won’t do it for them?”

“Nope. You can send them back on the line, but they’ll just tell you they know their number is up. They become ineffective as leaders, see themselves as dead men. They’ve reached the breaking point, and if placed in danger, they simply can’t function. And remember, these are men who, by virtue of their survival, have won citations and been praised for their bravery. Like Sergeant Cole. The incident in that village just hurried along what was about to happen. The wonder is not that he succumbed to it, but that he endured so long.”

“What’s the treatment?” I asked, starting to think about Cole, and what strings Galante had pulled to watch over him, or what regulations he’d broken. Who else knew about that?

“Well, that’s the good news. All that’s needed is to remove these men from immediate danger, and to give them something useful to do. They still want to serve, so any position off the line makes them feel useful. Once the threat of death in combat is removed, they become healthy again, especially if they have a job to do. CID was perfect for Cole.”

“But you said Galante was worried about him.” Or maybe he was worried about what Cole knew. Was there a reason Cole ended up in CID, working in the palace, where he’d have a chance to search for pearls?

“Yeah. What happened in that village produced a burden of guilt that was unusually strong. It must have weighed on him more than we thought.”

“Well, it could have been something else entirely,” I said, wondering again about the pearls and what part they played in this. The truck engine turned over, and Cassidy jumped down, hoisted the tailgate, and we shook hands.

“Good luck, Lieutenant. I hope you catch the guy. Gotta run.”

“Keep your helmet on and your head down, Captain.” I liked Cassidy, and hoped he wasn’t headed into dangerous territory. Sometimes keeping your head down just wasn’t enough.

I watched the trucks leave, with Cassidy and another doctor as passengers and enough gear and supplies for more casualties than I wanted to think about. Replacements, doctors, Naples harbor, leaves cancelled. It was obvious that a force was shipping out, but for where? They could be headed to England for all I knew. Or maybe southern France. Or Rome, who knew? Was that why Diana had to get back so quickly? No, don’t let it be Rome, I prayed silently. I don’t want her in the midst of a battle. And don’t let Danny be one of the nameless replacements either. I decided I should find a church and send up some prayers before it was too late.

“Billy,” Kaz said, strolling out of a nearby ward. “What is wrong? You look lost.”

“Just thinking. About Diana, and my kid brother Danny.” I told Kaz about the ASTP program being curtailed, and how some had been among the replacements flowing in. I told him about the accident, and that I wanted to be sure Danny wasn’t among the injured.

“Come, I will ask Edie to check,” he said.

“Edie?” I said as I followed him.

“First Lieutenant Edie Embler, of Long Island, New York. She is an operating-room nurse, and is heartbroken over the departure of Doctor Cassidy. But I will console her, if we ever solve this case.”

“Will you now?” I was glad to hear it, but I didn’t want to act like it was a big deal, so I needled him a bit. He ignored me.

“Edie,” he said when he found her. “Could you put my friend’s mind at ease, and check the names of the young men from the truck accident? He is worried his brother could be among them. Humor him, please.”

“Sure, Piotr. What’s the name?” Edie had a faint trace of freckles across her nose, and curly black hair pulled back and stuffed under her white cap.

“Danny Boyle,” I said, as she grabbed a mimeographed sheet from a pile on her desk.

“Boyle,” she said, tracing her finger down the list. “No, not a Boyle among them. Feel better?”

“Yes,” I said, but I didn’t. I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that hung over me. Was it Diana I was worried about? Danny? I felt connected to both, and certain that one of them was in danger.

“Edie,” Kaz said, “tell Billy what you said about Captain Galante.”