Blame the Dead

by Ed Ruggero

  “We’re looking for a paratrooper by the name of Colianno, talks dago real good,” the leader said. “Sounds like we found him.”

  Harkins felt Colianno stiffen beside him, as if ready to run. Or fight.

  The man clicked on a flashlight with a red filter, pointed it first at Harkins and then at Colianno. Harkins could see, in the reflected light, that the man had a shotgun in his hand; not an army-issue weapon, but something sawed off.

  “Turn that light off,” Harkins said.

  The GI waited an insubordinate few seconds before clicking off the flashlight.

  “What’s with the shotgun?” Harkins asked.

  “Oh, this here is what the dagos all use to kill one another. It’s called a, uh, what’s it called, Sammy?”

  One of the other men said, “A lupara.”

  Harkins put his hand on his pistol, unbuttoned the leather flap covering it. Colianno was wearing his pistol, but did not reach for it.

  “What do you want?” Harkins asked. Colianno still had not spoken.

  One of the other men said, “Not here. This guy’s a friggin’ MP.”

  Harkins asked again. “I said, what do you want?”

  “I got no beef with you, Lieutenant.”

  The man half turned. “You’re Colianno, right?” He held the shotgun in his right hand, by the balance point. Colianno did not answer.

  Harkins eased his pistol from its holster, not trying to hide the motion, but not moving too quickly, either.

  “I know what you did,” the speaker said to Colianno. After a few seconds he stepped back into the shadows, and Harkins could just make out another jeep, a few yards away, a fourth figure in the driver’s seat. The man who’d been doing all the talking got in the front passenger side, the others in the back.

  “We’ll be seeing each other again,” he said before tapping the driver on the arm. The jeep backed, did a quick K-turn, and drove away.

  Harkins let out a breath. Colianno still had not moved.

  “You OK?” Harkins asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Want to tell me what that was about?” He pushed his pistol back into its holster, buttoned the leather flap.

  “Not really,” Colianno said. “It’s my problem, Lieutenant.”

  “The guy had a shotgun, Colianno. Maybe came out here to shoot you, for Christ’s sake. Make it look like some local did it.”

  Harkins heard his pulse in his ears as the adrenaline coursed through his limbs, felt his face flush. He had a sudden mental image of Michael, wondered if his little brother had been alone when he realized the end was coming.

  “I’d like to know what the hell we’re dealing with.”

  After a quiet moment, Colianno said, “You want, you can send me back to my unit.”

  “They don’t want you. I’m stuck with you, thanks to my do-gooder brother.”

  Colianno stood in the dark, infuriatingly silent.

  “Shit, let’s go,” Harkins said, climbing into his own jeep. “I’d probably wind up with a replacement that was even more of a pain in the ass. But you’re going to have to deal with those guys sooner or later.”

  22

  3 August 1943

  2345 hours

  It was nearly midnight when Colianno dropped Harkins off at the admin tent, where he’d left Donnelly working on the casualty tags.

  “Where are you going to be?” Harkins asked his driver.

  “There’s a spare cot over in the enlisted tent, where the orderlies stay. I’ll be over there.”

  There was a quarter moon, but Harkins could not see Colianno’s face in the shadow cast by his helmet. He suspected the paratrooper was going to look for Ronan.

  “Be back here before first light,” Harkins said. He pulled his musette bag from the backseat and walked into the admin tent. Donnelly was there, seated at the same table, an even bigger stack of bloody casualty tags in front of her. Patrick Harkins sat on the crate beside her, reading from the cards as she transcribed names. They both looked up when Harkins came in.

  “Pat,” Harkins said.

  The priest stood, pulled his brother into an embrace. Harkins felt a sudden catch in his throat. He started to speak but choked on the words.

  “Kathleen told me you got a letter from Da at yesterday’s mail call,” Patrick said. “So did I.”

  Patrick held his brother at arm’s length, looked into his eyes, his big hands squeezing Harkins’ shoulders.

  “I’m so sorry, Pat,” Harkins managed.

  Kathleen slipped past them, out of the tent, left them alone.

  “You know he would have joined up anyway,” Patrick said. “He’d have found a way.”

  “But I made it so much easier,” Harkins said. He’d found his voice but his eyes were swimming, his nose running. He swiped at his face with a sleeve. “Maybe if he’d waited a year like we asked he wouldn’t have been on that ship.”

  “He’d have been on some other ship, though,” Patrick said.

  Harkins sat down heavily on a wooden crate and put his head in his hands. Patrick pulled up a folding chair and sat in front of him, their knees almost touching. After a minute or two, Harkins looked up and said, “How are you doing?”

  “I’m kind of in shock, you know. I hadn’t seen Michael in eight, nine months. Then this letter comes, but it doesn’t feel real yet.”

  “Were you worried about him?” Harkins asked. “He was just a kid.”

  “Sure. Worried about him, worried about you, worried about the old folks. Difference between you and me is that when I worry, I pray a lot.”

  “Helps?” Harkins asked.

  “I think so.”

  Harkins wiped his face on his other sleeve, which was just as filthy. He hadn’t changed his clothes in three weeks.

  “Mom will never forgive me,” he said.

  “She will,” Patrick said. “She believes in redemption.”

  “Wish I did.”

  They sat like that for a few more minutes. When Harkins looked up he was struck with a sudden realization. Patrick and Michael looked so much alike that, as long as his paratrooper brother survived the war, he’d always know what Michael would have looked like had he aged, too.

  Kathleen knocked on the tent pole by the door. “OK to come in?” she asked.

  Harkins mopped his face again. “Yeah, sure. Come on.”

  “You guys OK?” she asked when they were all crammed inside.

  “Just peachy,” Harkins said, looking up and trying a smile.

  Patrick stood and picked a musette bag off the floor. HARKINS was stenciled on the side, along with a hand-drawn cross.

  “That your salvation kit?” Harkins asked.

  “Might save your sanity, if not your soul,” Patrick said as he reached inside and pulled out two of the paperback books. “Saw these in a pile of gear the guys were getting rid of and grabbed them for you.”

  Harkins took the books: Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn and Jack London’s White Fang. The back half of Huck Finn was swollen where someone had dropped it in a puddle or got caught in the rain. Harkins had read both books before—Huck Finn several times—but was glad for the gift.

  “No catechism available, huh?” Harkins said. He wanted to talk about anything but Michael and how he helped send his younger brother to sea.

  “If I thought you’d read it I’d scare one up,” Patrick said.

  Harkins looked at Donnelly. “My brother worries about my immortal soul,” he said.

  “Speaking of your immortal soul,” Donnelly said, “Patrick, ask him where he’s been.”

  Patrick looked at Donnelly, then his brother.

  “A whorehouse,” Harkins said. “My second visit today, in fact.”

  “I’ll just assume this has to do with the investigation,” Patrick said. “Kathleen has filled me in on what’s been happening.”

  “I found out something interesting about Herr Doktor Lindner, too,” Kathleen said.

  “You’ve been b
usy,” Harkins said. “You managed that without leaving this tent?”

  “I’m just that good. And two other nurses visited me right after you left.”

  Harkins dragged another crate from the shadows and sat down beside Patrick. He looked at his brother, then at Kathleen. Would he have told her about Harkins’ role in getting Michael the forged birth certificate, getting Michael killed?

  He wondered if someone could die from shame.

  Harkins put his hands to his face.

  “You OK?” Kathleen asked.

  “Sure, sure.”

  “Turns out Lindner is treating a pretty senior American officer for the clap,” she said. “A general. Very hush-hush.”

  “I imagine that would be,” Harkins said. “Why would the general use a prisoner?”

  “Lindner is an accomplished urologist, for one thing. The other reason might be that the guy can get rid of Lindner at any time. Just ship him back to the States with the next batch of POWs.”

  “So who’s the general?” Harkins asked.

  Donnelly looked at Patrick, then back at Harkins. “You know I can get into a lot of trouble like this, gossiping about patients? Is this really part of the investigation?”

  “Kathleen, I had a couple of hours’ sleep in the last three days. The last thing I want to do right now is chat about something that isn’t going to help me. So, yes, this is part of the case.”

  “What about you, Patrick?” she asked.

  “I can go outside.”

  “No, stay,” Harkins said.

  “Then we’ll call it secrets of the confessional. You have anything you need absolution for, Kathleen?”

  Patrick smiled, and Harkins thought, There’s no way she told him about that.

  “Pure as the driven snow, Father.”

  “Can we get back on track here?” Harkins said.

  “OK, OK,” Kathleen said, holding up a hand. “The general is named Glass. He’s a supply guy.”

  “I know that name. He’s in charge of logistics for the next big operation,” Patrick said. “Which I assume is the invasion of the mainland.”

  “How do you know that?” Harkins asked his brother.

  “Because in airborne operations, we spend all our time talking about how many airplanes are available, ’cause that determines how many guys we can put on an objective, on an operation.”

  “The chaplains talk about that?”

  “Not so much, but we bunk with the other captains, and they obsess about it.”

  Harkins chewed the inside of his lip to keep himself awake.

  “Treating someone for the clap require multiple visits?” he asked.

  “In most cases, yes,” Kathleen said. “Why do you ask?”

  “I want to know if Lindner will be going back to see General Glass, or if he’s finished.”

  “I don’t think the course of treatment is finished, no.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The pharmacist. He and Lindner had some conversations about treatment.”

  “OK, let me think about it.”

  “So,” Patrick said. “Kathleen tells me it’s all over the hospital that you punched a doc named Wilkins, maybe wanted to shoot him.”

  “No maybe about it; I did want to shoot him,” Harkins said. “The important thing is that I didn’t.”

  Patrick shook his head. The big priest, who was a bruising boxer, a nearly unstoppable force, had rarely been in a fight outside of the ring, and could not understand why trouble followed his younger brother.

  “What was that about?” Patrick asked.

  Harkins shrugged. “He asked for it.”

  Patrick was silent, probably disappointed in his brother, but cutting him some slack. They’d both gotten terrible news.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Harkins said. “That’s Uncle Jimmy’s line.”

  He stood, pushed back the crate he’d been sitting on. There was a bundle of GI blankets on a shelf. He pulled one out and spread it on the ground.

  “You going to sleep right there?” Donnelly asked.

  “Is that OK? ’Cause if it isn’t, you’d better tell me in the next ten seconds, because I’m going to be out like a dead man.”

  “There is one other thing,” Patrick said.

  Harkins sat down on the blanket, pulled off his boots and socks. “Is it going to require me standing up?”

  “It’s about Colianno,” Patrick said.

  “Yeah, I wanted to thank you again for sticking me with your save-a-private, save-the-world idea. It’s bad enough he’s always ready to get into a fight. Now we have guys coming out looking for him.”

  Harkins told Patrick and Kathleen about the GIs who’d shown up outside the bordello, looking for Colianno.

  “There’s a rumor going around the regiment,” Patrick said. “You know those groups of paratroopers I told you were wandering around lost on D-Day?”

  “’Cause the jump was scattered,” Harkins said.

  “Yeah. Well, there’s a story that, in one of those groups, one paratrooper killed another.”

  “Jesus,” Donnelly said.

  “And it was the group Colianno was in?” Harkins asked.

  “I think so.”

  “But it’s a rumor, and you don’t know how Colianno is involved. Got anything more concrete than that? Because that’s pretty weak.”

  Harkins was a bit surprised to hear himself defending Colianno, or at least looking out for him.

  “No. I’ve identified two guys who were on that patrol, but neither one of them is talking about it. To me, anyway. I’m still trying to figure out who else might know something.”

  “Isn’t this something you should turn over to the commander? No offense, but you’re the chaplain.”

  Patrick shrugged. “You could say chaplains have a broad mandate. I can pretty much go where I want if I can call it ‘taking care of the troops.’ That’s why I’m always riding around visiting our guys in the hospital.”

  “I could use your help as a detective,” Harkins said. “You can go around talking to people for me. They’d probably trust a priest more, anyway.”

  “Anyway, I’m going to talk to the CO in the morning. I wanted to give you a heads-up. Something else, too.”

  “Great. Can’t wait to hear what tops the fact that I might be riding around with a homicidal maniac.”

  “Our regimental commander, Colonel Gavin, is putting Colianno in for a Silver Star for his action at a place called Biazza Ridge.”

  “That’s a big deal, right?” Donnelly said.

  “It means he did something pretty remarkable during a fight,” Patrick said.

  “Besides the possible fratricide, you mean?” Harkins said.

  Patrick reached into his musette bag again, pulled out a small silver flask. Harkins recognized it: their father had given one to each of his two oldest sons, engraved with their initials, when they completed basic training. Eddie Harkins’ flask had been stolen on board the troop ship en route from the States to North Africa.

  “Kathleen?” Patrick asked, offering it to the nurse.

  “Don’t mind if I do, thanks.” She raised the flask in a toasting gesture but seemed hesitant to say anything.

  “To Michael,” Patrick said.

  “To Michael,” she said. She put the flask to her lips and took a dainty pull. “Where do you get whiskey out here?”

  “We paratroopers are resourceful,” Patrick said. He offered a drink to his brother.

  “Michael,” Harkins said before he drew a long sip. Then he turned the flask to see where it had been engraved. On the side opposite the “PH” someone had scratched paratrooper wings, the kind Patrick wore on his uniform blouse. The work was primitive, like a jailhouse tattoo.

  Harkins wondered if Michael had eventually gotten the same gift from their father. Wondered if it was on the bottom of the Pacific.

  After Patrick made his toast he asked, “So how’s the investigation going? I mean, in general.”


  “Sometimes I feel like I’m making progress, but then I learn something that has me going in another direction, and I just wind up being more confused. Chasing my tail. One thing for sure, now I know why it takes so long to become a detective, I mean a real detective, back home.”

  “You feel like you’re in over your head?” Patrick asked.

  “All the time. I’m just stumbling around, asking dumb questions.”

  “Why are they dumb questions?” Kathleen asked.

  “Well, they may or may not be dumb, but anybody I talk to has only one perspective. It’s like, if two people see the same thing, you’re going to get two completely different stories from them,” he said. “And then, of course, some people are just going to lie.”

  “So what does a detective do?” Patrick asked.

  Harkins, who could feel sleep coming over him like a heavy blanket, was not sure he heard the question.

  “What is the nature of a detective?” Patrick said.

  “This sounds like something from one of those philosophy classes you had to take,” Harkins said. He teased his brother, but was jealous of Patrick’s education. “Some pope write this?”

  “A Roman emperor, actually,” Patrick said. “So, what does a detective do?”

  “Asks questions,” Kathleen said.

  “That’s a technique,” Patrick said.

  “A detective tries to find out what happened,” Harkins said. “And if there has been a crime, who is responsible.”

  “A detective compares stories, right?” Kathleen asked. “To see if one contradicts another.”

  “Yes,” Patrick said. “He might try to trip people up by pointing out inconsistencies in a story.”

  “Sometimes detectives lie to people they’re questioning,” Harkins said. “I’ve seen that myself. They pretend to have information they really don’t have. Once I saw a detective tell a suspect, ‘We don’t need your statement. Your partner already told us what happened, and he fingered you.’”

  “Isn’t that the plot of every gangster movie?” Kathleen said.

  “It works, though,” Harkins said. “Sometimes you ask them the same question, to see if they contradict themselves, because it’s hard to keep track of the lies. Sometimes you hit them with an unexpected question.”

  “What’s your favorite Shakespeare play, Kathleen?” Patrick asked.