James Benn - A Mortal Terror

“Strange,” I said as I started up the jeep. “The Carabinieri aren’t known for Fascist tendencies. And Luca didn’t come across as a Nazi sympathizer.”

“Would you, after the king deposed Mussolini and the government went over to the Allies?”

It was a good question, and I gave it some thought as we drove back to Caserta, even though I couldn’t see how it had a damn thing to do with our card-dealing killer and the murder of Inzerillo. But I did wonder what Luca had done to deserve the contempt of a fellow officer, to generate so intense a disdain that it would be brought up to a stranger, an outsider. Maybe it was nothing, some guy with a beef, spreading rumors about Luca. I didn’t want to know. I had problems of my own.

We drove to the 3rd Division bivouac area. I wanted to see who had been where this afternoon. But the going was slow, the roads crammed with long convoys of trucks, all headed east, toward Naples and its big harbor. Huge GMC deuce-and-a-half trucks, some pulling artillery, most crammed with GIs huddled together on the open bench seats. Ambulances, flatbeds with Sherman tanks, and jeeps overflowing with soldiers and gear, some so top-heavy I was surprised they made it around the next bend. It was a constant flow of men, so many that it seemed we must have emptied out entire towns and schools to get all these soldiers, all these anonymous clean-faced boys, their hands clenched around the barrels of their M1s, heads bowed low against the wind, as if they were murmuring their nighttime prayers.

There was little traffic in the opposite direction, but we were held up at every intersection. As we came to the outskirts of Caserta, a flight of P-40 fighters flew over, heading for a landing at the Marcinese airfield. One plane trailed the others, smoke rhythmically sputtering behind it.

“Do you think he’ll make it?” Kaz said, following the P-40’s progress.

“He’s close, he should,” I said, and glanced upward. The puffs of smoke stopped and the aircraft hung in the air for a moment, then began a lazy twirl straight down, as if a giant hand had swatted it out of the sky. There was no evidence of a pilot trying to regain control, nothing but dead weight descending to a stony field where it blossomed into a fireball, a final violent eruption of flame and smoke marking the spot.

We drove on.

An hour later we pulled into San Felice, home of the 3rd Division headquarters. I wanted to quiz Colonel Schleck and Major Arnold about their disagreement with Max Galante over combat fatigue. From what Doctor Cassidy told me, it had been more personal than professional. Maybe they’d also tell me how much longer the division was going to be around. I had a feeling it wouldn’t be for long.

The bombed-out school that served as headquarters had its own fleet of trucks parked outside, tailgates down and GIs loading them up with boxes and crates of whatever it was you needed to run a division HQ. Typewriters, carbon paper, and Scotch were high on the list.

We parked the jeep and worked our way inside amidst the heavy lifting.

“You back again? Boyle, wasn’t it?” Colonel Schleck growled, heading out in full battle gear. Grenades hung from his web belt, Thompson submachine gun at the ready, helmet on. You might have thought the Germans were right outside the door.

“Still is, sir. I wanted to talk to you and Major Arnold if I could.”

“You can’t. We’re pulling out, and Arnold is AWOL. If you see the bastard, shoot him. My clerk is still in the office upstairs. Talk to him if you need anything. You find that killer yet?”

“No sir. The whole division pulling out?”

“Headquarters is staging to Naples, that’s all I can say.” And that was all he did say. He got in a waiting jeep, signaled with his hand like a cowboy at a cattle drive, and a small convoy of trucks followed him.

“Interesting fellow,” Kaz said as we headed to the G1 office. “I’m not surprised he doesn’t believe in combat fatigue. He looks like he’s enjoying the war.”

“Some guys do. They get rank and privileges they never had in civilian life, and if they’re just behind the front lines, in a headquarters outfit, they wear combat gear and get their picture taken to show the folks back home. I’ll bet a lot of them will get into politics after the war.”

“I fear for your nation,” Kaz said, as we entered the office. Boxed files were stacked everywhere, and a corporal with his sleeves rolled up was pulling sheets from a typewriter, separating the carbon paper from the duplicates, as he looked up.

“Sorry, Lieutenant. No more replacements, we’re all sold out.”

“I don’t want replacements-”

“Well, if you don’t like the ones you got, sorry, can’t do anything about that either. Those ASTP kids are wet behind the ears, but we gotta take what we can get.”

“No, no, listen. I need to talk to Major Arnold. Colonel Schleck said he was AWOL?”

“Lieutenant, you got a complaint about the guys in your platoon, lodge it with me. It’s better than bothering the officers. What’s the beef?”

“No beef, Corporal. It’s a murder investigation.”

“This war’s murder. You mean the guy with the cards? Thought that kinda died down, so to speak.” He laughed at his own joke.

“Corporal,” Kaz said, in a low and even voice. “Tell us where Major Arnold is or the killer may start working the deck in the other direction. An eight of hearts would do quite nicely for you.”

“I’ve heard guys say they’d kill for my job, but no one ever threatened me outright,” he said, and again laughed at his little joke. We didn’t. “Okay, okay. This morning we got the last truckload of replacements in, right off the boat, twenty ASTP kids to farm out. The colonel was eager to leave, so he told Major Arnold to handle it. He tells me to pull the list of platoons still short on guys. Problem is, there’s been trouble in some squads. The ASTP guys hang together, the noncoms resent them since they come out of college and the officer program, you know how it is. It ain’t easy keeping everyone happy.”

“Does this story lead to Major Arnold anytime soon?”

“Yeah. So the major wants to place these kids one per squad, figuring they’ll fit in better if they have to buddy up with a non-ASTP guy. See?”

“Sure,” I said, not really caring about the psychology of replacement handling.

“So he takes my lists, and has the driver take him to the bivouac area, and doles out the kids, one per squad, where they’re needed most. Takes him an hour or so, then he comes back here. Tells me he’s going to his tent to square away his gear, and I ain’t seen him since.”

“Why did Schleck say he was AWOL? He told me I could shoot him if I found him.”

“The colonel sent for him, sent runners everywhere. To his quarters, back to the bivouac area, but nobody could find him. Colonel Schleck is a man of little patience.”

“Did he have much patience for Max Galante?”

“At first, he tolerated him ’cause he was a good doctor and he worked right up front. But when he started pestering the colonel about nervous exhaustion or whatever, that did it. Colonel Schleck does not believe in it, therefore it doesn’t exist, so Galante got his walking papers.”

“What was Major Arnold’s opinion of Galante?”

“His opinion was that his immediate superior is correct in all things. Makes it easier to get through the day around here. Which reminds me, I got to get everything packed and shipped to Naples. Anything else I can do for you?”

“Where is Major Arnold?” I asked, one hand on his shoulder in a fatherly gesture, the other hand on the butt of my. 45 automatic.

“Honest, I don’t know, Lieutenant. He should have been back long ago.”