James Benn - A Mortal Terror

Hell’s Half Acre was in chaos. The wounded were everywhere, pulled out of ambulances and set in rows, where doctors and nurses checked them, yelling instructions to move this one, leave that one, prep for surgery, all amidst the groans of morphine-addled pain.

“They’re all Rangers,” I said to a young kid standing next to me.

“Yeah, they tried to infiltrate into Cisterna last night. The Krauts must have known they were coming.”

“Looks like they got hit hard pulling out,” I said.

“This is the relief force. Two battalions of Rangers made it into Cisterna. Six men made it out,” he said in a soft Texas drawl. “Eight hundred good men, half killed, half prisoner, they’s saying.”

“Jesus,” I said, and thought of Father Dare praying to God for help, but asking Him to leave Jesus home. This was no place for kids, but as I looked at this scrawny sergeant, I thought he ought to be still in high school. “How old are you, Sergeant?”

“Nineteen, sir. I mean twenty, twenty years old.”

“Don’t sweat it, kid. If you’re dumb enough to lie about your age to get in the army, I’m not going to get you in hot water. How’d you make sergeant so fast?”

“Guess because sergeants get killed so fast. I’ve been here since North Africa.”

“Looks like the army is robbing the cradle.”

“Listen, Lieutenant, just because I look young don’t mean you have to insult me,” he said. If it weren’t for the sweat popping out on his forehead and his fluttering eyelids, I would’ve bet he was thinking about decking a superior officer.

“Sorry, Sergeant,” I said, steadying him before he fell flat on his face. “What are you in for, anyway?”

“Malaria,” he croaked. “Give me a hand, will ya?” I helped him back to his tent, and got him off his feet.

“You all right?” I asked as his head hit the pillow.

“Yeah, I’ll be out of here soon. Damn malaria hits me now and then. Picked it up in Sicily.”

“Want anything?”

“No thanks, Lieutenant. Sorry I mouthed off out there.”

“Forget it, kid. The name’s Billy Boyle, by the way. From Boston.” I gave him my hand.

“Audie Murphy, from Farmersville, Texas. Take care of yourself, Lieutenant.” I left him in bed, wondering how he ever got this far, a thin little whip of a kid with a strain of malaria, which I knew had sent stronger men home on a Red Cross ship.

I went back out and looked for Cassidy. The scene had calmed down, and most of the stretcher cases were gone. A few were draped with blankets, those who had died on the way in. A nearby tent was filled with other stretchers, and I watched a medic give a morphine syrette to a Ranger with blood-soaked compresses on his chest. He threw down the empty syrette and ran his fingers through his hair, shaking his head. This was the tent for the not-yet-dead. I walked on.

“Wait for me in the mess tent,” Cassidy said when I finally found him. “I have a leg to amputate.”

I waited, drinking coffee with sugar, not tasting a thing.

An hour later, Cassidy came in, looking drawn and exhausted. His blond hair was dirty, and there were dark bags under his eyes. “I’m hungry,” was all he said. I followed him through the line, accepting frankfurters and beans in my kit, topped off with freshbaked bread.

“I know I shouldn’t be able to eat after all that,” Cassidy said as we sat down. “Some guys drink. I eat. Can’t help it.”

“Those guys were shot up pretty bad,” I said.

“They went through hell trying to get to their buddies. Lots of multiple wounds. Two battalions lost, and a third ripped apart trying to rescue them. We only get the worst cases here, you know what I mean? The aid stations and casualty clearing stations take care of the light wounds. And you know what? Most of them want to get up and go right back out there.”

He raised a fork to his mouth, his hand trembling. He set it down and gritted his teeth.

“Fuck,” he said. “Fuck!” Louder this time, but no one looked. Not uncommon, I guessed. He cupped his hands on the table and took a deep breath. “Too many of them. We were overwhelmed. I shouldn’t have had to cut off that leg, but by the time we got him on the table…” He shook his head and uncupped his hands. He tried the fork again, and this time his hand was steady, but he still didn’t eat. Combat fatigue comes in all forms, I guess.

“Sorry to bother you, Doc,” I said, after giving him some time. “Bad timing, but I have a few more questions.”

“It’s never a good time here,” he said. “Ask.”

“I need to know what to look for if this guy we’re after really is a psychopath. Everything you said points to someone who can act normal, so how can I spot him? I need something to look for, some sign. There’s got to be something.”

“I’m not sure. The few I knew of were spotted by experts, usually after some violent event that left no doubt. But I’d say the key is what you said about acting normal. It’s all an act, so watch for something that takes him by surprise.”

“To see how he reacts, like flying off the handle over some little thing.”

“That could describe half the guys here. Constant exposure to death can make anyone overreact. Watch for the opposite. Some event that would draw an emotional response from any normal person.”

“That’s not much to go on, Doc.”

“Okay, I’ll make it easy on you. Just look for someone without a soul.”

“I know a priest who might be able to help with that.”

“Father Dare? The padre who was in here with a leg wound?”

“That’s him.”

“Strange fellow. Didn’t want to be separated from his Colt. But he’s got a good reputation with the medics and stretcher bearers. He stays up front, helps the wounded.”

“He says he keeps the automatic to protect the wounded.”

“Could be,” Cassidy said. “But how much protection would a pistol really provide against machine guns, mortars, tanks and artillery?”

It was a really good question, but what I needed were some really good answers.

The sun had set, and the going was slow back to headquarters. As I drew close, air-raid sirens began to wail, and the street filled with men running for the shelters. Searchlights blinked on near the harbor and began stabbing at the sky, probing for the shape of German bombers. Flares blossomed in the inky darkness, floating to earth on parachutes, illuminating the town and harbor, creating day from night. Bombs were not going to be far behind. I pulled the jeep over and jumped out, making for a shelter dug out of the earth and covered with a corrugated tin roof. It wouldn’t withstand a direct hit, but it would have to do.

There were already about twenty guys crammed inside. I sat near the door, listening to the antiaircraft batteries open up and the crump of exploding bombs creeping closer. I hoped Danny was well away from the docks by now; no reason why he shouldn’t be. Someone lit a candle, and it gave off a flickering light. I leaned back, settling in for a long wait. I noticed Flint’s letter sticking out of my front jacket pocket.

I took it out and looked at the return address. American Red Cross. Why would they be writing to him, from the States? I removed the letter, looking around guiltily, as if anyone in the shelter would know I was reading someone else’s mail. We regret to inform you that your mother, Abigail Flint, died on December 25, 1943, of injuries sustained from an unknown assailant. Police are investigating and we will provide you with further information as it becomes available. Please accept our sincere condolences.

A chill went through me. Flint’s mother had been murdered on Christmas Day, and all he’d done was ask for a light. He’d read the news with no visible emotion. Or if Cassidy was right, with no emotion at all.