James Benn - A Mortal Terror

I saw Charlie Colorado walking along the edge of the embankment, a burlap sack over one shoulder and an M1 over the other. I slowed and asked if he wanted a lift.

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” he said, setting the sack down between his legs, the dull clinks signaling full bottles of something alcoholic.

“Having a party?”

“Toasting the dead,” he said. “I traded C rations for wine at that farmhouse.”

“Hope they like Spam,” I said.

“They seemed nervous,” Charlie said, glancing back at the woman in the yard. “Maybe they thought I was coming to shoot them. The daughter spoke a little English, and said they hated the Fascists and the Germans.”

“Of course.”

“It would be foolish to say otherwise to an American soldier with a rifle and C rations to trade.”

“Good point,” I said, noting that Charlie was pretty sharp. “I heard you were Landry’s radioman.”

“Yes.”

“You went to Bar Raffaele with him?”

“Sometimes. But the owner didn’t like me there. Said I drank too much and caused trouble. He was right.”

“Did you know Ileana?”

“Everyone knew Ileana,” he said, a touch of weariness in his voice.

“Landry fell for her, right?”

“He did. I think she liked him too. She hated working there, most of the girls did. But they had to feed their families, even if it brought them shame.”

“She told you that?”

“I could see it, when they thought no one was looking. But there were worse places to work.”

“I can imagine. Inzerillo said he had his own doctor for the girls.”

“And a priest,” Charlie said. “For their shame.”

“An Italian?”

“No. Someone who wanted to keep watch on his own sinners.”

He clammed up after that, probably thinking he’d said too much. But then again, Charlie Colorado impressed me as a guy who didn’t waste a single word.

Ahead of us, trucks disgorged their passengers and handed down supplies to waiting lines of troops. I scanned the sky for enemy aircraft, not wanting to be caught in a line of vehicles during an air raid. Charlie pointed to a section of embankment and I pulled over.

Entrances to the hillside had been scraped out, with shelter halves strung up over the holes, some reinforced with thin wooden planks from ammo and ration cartons. It had a distinctly hobo look about it.

“Billy,” Danny said, walking up to the jeep. “You’re just in time. Flint’s been made Platoon Sergeant. Charlie went to scrounge some vino for a celebration.” He looked at the sack Charlie held up and whistled. “You did okay!”

I studied my little brother. He’d already lost that permanently startled look that replacements had. He was at ease, feeling part of the platoon if only because so many had died since he’d joined. Being a survivor meant he was a veteran of sorts, which gave him confidence. The fact that the odds were against him living many more days didn’t seem to bother him. For now, he was surrounded by his buddies, toasting their remaining sergeant, celebrating a promotion made necessary by three departed sergeants-two dead, one prisoner.

“Acting Platoon Sergeant,” Flint said. “How you doing, Billy? Is it true what they’re saying about Stump? He’s the Red Heart Killer?”

“Yep. Caught in the act. Denies it, of course, but they all do.”

“What’s going to happen to him?” Danny asked.

“He’s going back to Caserta in irons. Court martial, then firing squad would be my guess.”

“Hard to believe,” Flint said, shaking his head. “Stump always seemed to be a regular guy.”

“Yeah,” I said. “The way the doc explained it, that’s what guys like him are good at. Anyway, I brought you some decent tools and grub, plus some smokes. Thought I’d spend some more time with Danny before I ship out tomorrow.”

“Real shovels,” Danny said, obviously tired of digging with a folding entrenching tool.

“Okay,” Flint said. “Charlie, stow that vino in my dugout. No one touches it until we give these tools a workout and dig in good and proper. Then we eat and drink.”

They unloaded the jeep and got to work, digging wider and deeper. Father Dare came by, and took charge of the extra rations. The meat stew was a new addition, and I figured it would be a welcome relief after meat hash, Spam, ham, and lima beans every day.

“I have a cooking pot I found in the rubble,” Father Dare said. “I’ll get this heated up for the boys.” He took an empty can, punched holes in the bottom with his can opener, and dropped in a couple of heating tabs. Smokeless, the tabs ignited easily and burned hot, long enough to heat a meal. Unfortunately, one pot was going to be enough for this platoon, since it had suffered so many losses.

“Hey, Billy,” a voice called from inside a dugout. It was Phil Einsmann, sitting cross-legged in his little cave, pecking away at his portable typewriter set up on a ration box. Above the opening was a wood plank with “Waldorf Hysteria” painted on it.

“That’s funny, Phil,” I said, pointing to the sign. “What are you up to?”

“Well, I tried to get a story about your killer past the censors, but they wouldn’t go for it. Injurious to morale, they said. Ruined my goddamn morale, that’s for sure. So I’m doing a piece on the lost company.”

“What lost company?”

“Easy Company. I don’t want to call it a retreat, since that might not go over well with the censors. But the rescue of a company in a forward position, slipping away from the clutches of the enemy, using the fossi to escape, that’ll get through and sell papers.”

“Fossi?” I was there and I was having trouble following Einsmann’s story.

“Italian for ditches. The English call them wadis. Either sounds better than a daring escape through a smoky ditch.”

“No argument there. Did you talk to my brother? Make sure you spell his name right.”

“Sure did. And that Apache, Charlie. Great stuff. What do you have to say about it, Billy?”

“Talk to this guy,” I said, when I noticed Bobby K swinging a pickax not far away. “He ran through enemy fire twice to get messages through, and led everyone out. Earned a battlefield promotion.”

“No kidding? He wasn’t here an hour ago when I made the rounds.”

I walked over to Bobby K and stood with my back to Einsmann. “Bobby K, I’ll fill you in later, but have you told anyone about that colonel in the hospital?”

“No, I haven’t had a chance. The CO sent me over here, said Third Platoon needed a noncom.”

“Keep it between us, all right?”

“Whatever you say.”

“Now follow me and I’ll make you famous.”

I left Bobby K with Einsmann, glad I had a chance to get to him before he spilled the beans about the German colonel. I hadn’t expected him to show up in Easy Company, but with the losses in noncoms, it made sense that somebody would be sent to fill in. I wandered over to Father Dare and took a seat on a carton of K rations.

“Do you have your own dugout, Padre? I trust the Lord myself, but I’d rather do it underground.”

“God helps those who help themselves, Billy. I’ve got my own foxhole right over there,” he said, pointing behind him with his thumb. “I prefer to dig straight down, not into the side of a hill. Saw two fellows buried alive in Sicily when a shell sent a few tons of dirt sliding over their dugout.”

I didn’t need to mention that I’d seen what was left of a man in a foxhole at Salerno who took a direct hit from a mortar round. To each his own. “How’s your leg?”

“Okay. I got the bandage changed this morning and the nurse said it was fine. I was a little dizzy yesterday, I didn’t realize how much blood I’d lost.” He dumped a couple of large cans of meat stew into the pot.