Mark Frost - The Second Objective

Just as Carlson found it in the book. “Sixty-seventh Evac.”

67th Evacuation Hospital, Malmédy

DECEMBER 16, 8:00 A.M.

When the artillery barrage began at dawn, no one at the hospital paid it much mind: By the time it ended an hour later, shells had started to land near Malmédy, word came in that the Germans had punched a hole through the American line, and paratroopers had been spotted on the ridge less than three miles away. The operating theater, which had been running at less than a third of capacity during the recent lull, was put on full alert.

A wave of ambulances arrived within minutes-front-line soldiers with blunt trauma and shrapnel wounds. Many had suffered puncture wounds when shells shattered the trees, firing splinters in every direction. A number of civilians were injured when a rocket hit near the town’s medieval Catholic cathedral after morning mass, knocking down a wall and ringing the bells.

Earl Grannit and Ole Carlson entered the large tent complex on the outskirts of Malmédy just after 7:30 A.M. They moved past a crowd of wounded GIs stacked in the prep area, located the surgery ward, and found the senior nurse on duty, Dorothy Skogan, working in postop recovery. Grannit showed his credentials and asked about Sergeant Vincent Mallory. Skogan didn’t know the name, but recognized him from Grannit’s description.

She told them Mallory had arrived earlier that night, without dog tags, just after 3:00 A.M., accompanied by a medic and a pair of MPs. He had been shot three times and his complicated surgeries lasted over two hours. By the time they finished, the soldier had stabilized, his severe blood loss restored by transfusion. The surgery team had just wrapped out of the OR when the bombs started flying.

“What’s his condition?” asked Grannit.

“Critical but stable. Severe blood loss, shock and hypothermia. Gunshot wounds to the right shoulder, left hip. His jawbone’s shattered, most of his teeth fractured.”

“Is he conscious?”

“No. Won’t expect him to be for hours, if then.”

“Well. We really need to talk to him.”

“That may be difficult, Lieutenant. The bullet tore up his tongue, and we had to wire what was left of his jaw to a plate. I didn’t even know his name until you just told me; he didn’t have his tags.”

Grannit looked at Carlson, frustrated. He quickly told her that Mallory had been shot and left for dead with three other men for over twenty-four hours before they’d found him. “Anything strike you as unusual about him?”

“When I was prepping him, I found an empty ampule of morphine in his field jacket. There was sulfa on all three wounds. I found bandages compressed against the wounds on his hip and shoulder that stopped him from bleeding out.”

“So the medics took care of him during transport,” said Grannit.

“No, that’s my point. The medic in the ambulance said that’s how they found him.”

“We’re the ones who found him,” said Grannit, puzzled.

“And you didn’t notice this?”

“No. You’re saying somebody gave him first aid before we got there?” asked Grannit.

“That’s what the medic said,” she replied. “I don’t think the sergeant was in any shape to do it himself, do you?”

They had reached Mallory’s cot in the recovery tent. His lower face and neck were encased in a yoke of bandage, an IV drip fed his arm, oxygen tubes straddled his nose. His face looked swollen as a football. Skogan wrote Mallory’s name on a strip of tape and fixed it to his cot.

“Least we know his name now,” she said. “He was lucky that bullet hit him in the jaw. It was headed toward his brain.”

“You didn’t happen to save the bullets, did you?”

“We’re a little busy right now.”

“It’s important. Ole’ll give you a hand,” said Grannit.

“Where you from, Dorothy?” asked Carlson, as he walked away with her.

“A long way from here, kiddo,” she said. “Madison, Wisconsin.”

“No kidding. I’m from Sioux Falls.”

Grannit moved to take a closer look at Mallory. He studied the angle of the wounds, visualizing him back at the checkpoint, trying to re-create the encounter.

He was behind you. You turned and he fired point-blank. He thought the first shot took you out. The second and third were afterthoughts, as you fell. Then he got distracted by the other men and assumed you were dead. He killed Private Ellis, while the second shooter took care of Anderson. Then he killed the second shooter, his own man.

Why?

Because he was hit. Private Anderson returned fire and shot him before he went down. Chest wound from an M1. Possibly fatal, but not right away. So our man didn’t want to take a chance and leave one of his own behind.

Two head shots. No hesitation. Kills his own man. They toss his body next to the other vics, take all their tags, placing a big bet nobody would notice this stranger among them. Drive on to Elsenborn.

Two officers, one private driving the jeep. One lieutenant who does the talking, and probably the shooting. All the way from Twelfth Army, Bradley’s HQ in Luxembourg, almost a hundred miles south.

So who treated Mallory’s wound before we got there?

Grannit shook his head to stay awake and rubbed a hand over his eyes, waves of fatigue washing through him. He’d been gunning for forty-eight hours straight; it was a sudden struggle to keep his thoughts on track.

Fuck it. The trail was cold. Now the Krauts launch this offensive. That tipped over the fucking applecart. No chance he’d ever get to the bottom of this now.

The idea burned a hole in him. He never let go of a case while he was on the job. Why should it be any different over here? Because life was cheaper? Did that make these murders any less important?

Vince Mallory lying there, hanging by a thread, his life shattered. Somebody did this to him. Find out who.

No excuse not to finish the job. He’d made that promise a long time ago, and backed it up ever since.

His mind kept working through the fatigue. Don’t let go. There’s more to this than you can see.

He needed coffee. He went to look for some.

Captain Hardy of the 291st Engineer Combat Battalion led his small convoy into Malmédy at 7:45 A.M. They found the tent complex of the 67th Evac Hospital on the outskirts of town. Bernie pulled up outside next to a line of ambulances. Hardy stopped his jeep alongside them and barked directions.

“Get your man squared away. Our rally point’s near the cathedral on the eastern approach.”

“We’ll be there,” said Von Leinsdorf, snapping a salute.

Hardy’s jeep pulled away. The medic helped Bernie guide Preuss down from the back of their Willys.

“We’ll get him inside,” said Bernie. “Thanks for your help.”

The medic swung onto the back of one of the convoy trucks as it drove off. Preuss stumbled and Von Leinsdorf grabbed his other arm. They propped him up between them, through the traffic congesting the front of the tent. Preuss moaned, half-conscious, in a morphine haze.

“What the hell do we do?” asked Bernie.

“We can’t leave him here,” said Von Leinsdorf. “For obvious reasons.”

Two nurses stationed at the entrance trotted out to help.

“Where’s he hit?” one of them asked.

“Right shoulder,” said Von Leinsdorf.

“Bring him this way.”

Holding Preuss between them, they followed the nurses into the tent, then set him down on a stretcher in a waiting area overflowing with wounded. A passing nurse kneeled down to take a look at Preuss just after he hit the canvas.

“He’s had first aid already,” said Dorothy Skogan.

“Medic gave us a hand on the way in,” said Von Leinsdorf. “What’s the procedure?”