A Mortal Terror bbwim-6

by James R Benn

  “You must be Boyle,” said a figure in an armchair, seated before an old coal stove. I was glad of the warmth, and stood close, rubbing my hands. He watched me, folding the newspaper he’d been reading, as if he thought I might be of greater interest. He was a British captain, the Royal Army Medical Corps insignia obvious on his lapels.

  “You were expecting me?”

  “Yes. We got a note that you’d be taking Max Galante’s room. Terrible thing, him getting it like that. Bradshaw’s the name,” he said, extending his hand. “Harold Bradshaw.”

  “Doctor Bradshaw?”

  “Oh, please. Leave the doctor and military business out of our little home, will you? There’s enough of that outside these walls. Hope that doesn’t spoil things for you, Boyle. Sit down, why don’t you?”

  “If I wasn’t taking a dead man’s bed, I think I’d feel at home here,” I said, settling into another chair drawn near the fire. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. Can’t say I knew Galante all that well, and this is war, isn’t it? Still, one hopes for a quick bullet on the field of battle, if one has to buy it. Not a brutish attack by one of your own.”

  Bradshaw packed a pipe and fussed with it the way pipe smokers do. He was in his forties, with a bit of a paunch and receding hairline. His uniform was worn and wrinkled, and I guessed this was about as much spit and polish as the army was going to get out of him. I stretched my legs and let the stove warm my boots.

  “You’re both doctors at the same hospital, and you lived together, but you didn’t know him well? How come?”

  “What’s your concern with this, Boyle?”

  “They didn’t tell you I was investigating the murders?”

  “No,” Bradshaw said as he blew out a plume of smoke. He admired the coals for a moment before continuing. “Only your name and that you were to be billeted here. So you’re with the American CID?”

  “Working with them. I’m curious about your remark, if you don’t mind me asking.” I figured the best way to interrogate Bradshaw was to keep it casual, pal to pal after a tough day at work.

  “Not at all. Galante kept to himself. There were four of us here, all medical men. Two American, two English. We work long hours, not much time for socializing. And at my age, not the same inclination as the younger lads.”

  “There are two other doctors living here?”

  “One, at the moment. Stafford got transferred, then Galante got himself killed. That leaves Wilson. Captain Jonas Wilson. Yank, like you.”

  “Was he any friendlier with Galante than you were?”

  “Well, I wasn’t unfriendly. The way you put it makes it sound like I disliked the fellow. No, he was pleasant enough company. He and I often chatted at meals. We all tried to arrange our schedules to be here for dinner. Signora Salvalaggio can work wonders with any kind of ration. Even bully beef.”

  “The lady in the kitchen?”

  “Yes. She lives downstairs. Keeps house for us, cooks and cleans. We all pool our rations and share with her, pay her a bit as well.”

  “Is Captain Wilson here?”

  “Not yet. Should be soon, though. You’re welcome to stay and eat with us, but if it’s going to be a regular thing you’ll have to throw in your share.”

  “Thanks. Not tonight. I have to meet someone. Is there anything else you can tell me about Captain Galante? Did he have any enemies you know of?”

  “He never mentioned anyone. He was transferred to the hospital only a month ago, hardly time to generate a blood feud.”

  “Where was he before the transfer?” That was something that hadn’t been covered in the file I’d been given.

  “An infantry division, part of the medical battalion,” Bradshaw said. “Can’t recall which one.”

  “You really don’t know much about the man, do you?”

  “Hardly a thing, Boyle. We didn’t work together at the hospital. I specialize in skin conditions, or at least I did in civilian life. Here I deal with trench foot, frostbite, burns, that sort of thing. Galante was a surgeon, but he was also interested in shell shock. Nervous exhaustion. He’d talk a blue streak about it if you let him.” There was something disapproving in Bradshaw’s voice.

  “You’re not as interested?”

  “I served as a private in the trenches back in ’18. Saw enough shell shock to last a lifetime. Didn’t want to talk about it.” Bradshaw held the pipe stem in his mouth with grim determination and looked away from me, out the window, into the darkness.

  “Did Galante talk about anything else? Interests?” I knew the topic of shell shock was closed, but I didn’t want Bradshaw to clam up totally.

  “He knew Italian history, and spoke some of the language. Chatted with Signora Salvalaggio now and then. About what, I have no idea. I recall that he was intrigued by the Royal Palace. Quite a place in its time, I’m sure, but a drafty flea-ridden ruin now.”

  “Fleas?” I resisted the urge to scratch.

  “Fleas and rats. Never go near the place if I can help it. Ah, here’s Wilson.”

  Bradshaw introduced me to the other doctor, telling him I was with CID. Close enough.

  “Are we suspects?” Wilson asked as he took a seat and lit a cigarette. He was younger than Bradshaw, but not by much. Dark hair, thinning. Dark eyes, glancing at Bradshaw, who only grunted.

  “Where were you the night he was killed?”

  Wilson’s eyes widened. Apparently his question had been a joke.

  “Here, I think. We had a lot of casualties in from the Liri Valley that day. We all worked late. Bradshaw and I were both back here by eight o’clock or so. Galante never showed, but that was normal for any of us. We often sleep at the hospital if needed. After dinner, I sacked out. We’re not really suspects, are we?”

  “Listen,” I said. “Most investigations are about ruling people out. I’m sure no one thinks of you as suspects, or they wouldn’t have me staying here. Were you close with Galante? Friends?”

  “Friendly,” Wilson said, relaxing into his chair. “Not pals. He hadn’t been here long, and like I said, the hours can be long.”

  “So the 32nd Station Hospital does more than care for calluses on the backsides of HQ types?”

  “Fair amount of that,” Bradshaw offered. “When you get this many generals in one place, you tend to see a lot of normal ailments, the type of things you’d see in peacetime. Colds, influenza, gout, bad back, the list goes on.”

  “A lot of them would like their own personal physician too,” Wilson said. “But we get a lot of battle casualties brought in from the line. Wounds and illnesses. We’ve had over a thousand cases of trench foot, not to mention frostbite.”

  “Worse among you Americans,” Bradshaw said. “Your army needs better waterproof boots. The way it rains around here, your chaps end up living in constant mud in the mountains.”

  “Could Galante have been at the palace to treat a general?” I wanted to get the conversation back to the main topic. Shortage of winter gear was a whole separate crime.

  “Maybe,” Wilson said. “Hasn’t CID checked that already?” “I’ll check tomorrow. I only got in today, so I need to get up to speed.”

  “From where?” Wilson asked.

  “I was on vacation in Switzerland,” I said.

  “Just what we need, a joker. Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”

  The room was spare. One bureau with a washstand. One narrow bed. One small table and chair. One light hanging from the ceiling. One window. I tossed my duffle on the floor and sat on the bed. The springs creaked. The room smelled faintly of dust and stale air. I went to the window and opened it, despite the weather. I leaned out and lifted my face to the cold rain, hoping it would help me rally against the tiredness that was creeping through my bones. It was fully dark now, the B-17s on the airstrip lost in the gloom. I heard a jeep start up and saw headlights casting their thin glare on the rain-slicked road. Time for me to go too. Drinks at the palace. What a war.


  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I grabbed a meal at the officer’s mess at the palace. Not the senior officer’s mess, which I had first mistakenly blundered into. I knew something was wrong when I saw the white tablecloths set with gold-trimmed porcelain and crystal glassware. GIs wearing white jackets carried trays of broiled steaks and other delicacies to tables graced by elderly colonels and generals who looked more like businessmen at a hotel than soldiers not far from the front. I’d backed up to the doorway, not wanting to draw attention to my silver lieutenant’s bars. I watched the diners, staff officers most likely, and wondered what they wrote home about. The atmosphere was muted, soft and swanky, the hefty clink of real silverware on porcelain somehow reassuring.

  GI waiters crossed in front of me, taking orders, clearing dishes, pouring wine looted from only the best cellars. I saw one guy trip, a little stumble, losing his balance enough to send his load of plates crashing down. It was loud, the tile floor sending echoes of shattering sounds across the room. Heads rose from beefsteaks, irritated at the interruption. Turning to leave, I noticed another GI huddled in a corner, hidden from the diners by a sideboard that held glasses and dishware. He gripped the sideboard with one hand, pulling himself up, the other hand held over his heart. His face was white, his mouth open as he gulped in shallow breaths of air.

  “You okay, buddy?” I asked as I took his elbow.

  “Yeah… yes, sir, I’m fine. The noise, it surprised me, that’s all. I’m fine.” He stood, embarrassment flushing his face red. At least it gave him some color. He tossed me a weak smile and left, glancing around guiltily in case anyone else had noticed.

  There were no fine tablecloths in the officer’s mess. The food was warm and filling, even if I had to serve myself, and I didn’t linger. But there was plenty of lingering in the room that served as the officer’s club. A bar was set up beneath a towering gold-relief sculpture of an angel holding a scroll, with two doorways twenty feet high on either side. The floor was inlaid marble, with plush carpets set out in the seating areas to keep the noise down, but that did little to drown out the chatter that rose from every corner of the room. It was a lively bunch, officers of all ranks, nationalities, and services, with a liberal sprinkling of WACs, ATS, and other females, some wearing decidedly civilian outfits. Those ladies were surrounded by senior officers, guys who wouldn’t be questioned about their choice of female companion.

  I saw Einsmann and he nodded to an empty table at the far end of the room. I got a whiskey at the bar and joined him.

  “How are things, Billy?”

  “Better for some than others,” I said, raising my glass in a toast and glancing at the brigadier general with a woman who looked like a movie star on his arm.

  “You got that right,” he said. “This war is a real racket for some guys.”

  “I saw the senior officer’s mess upstairs. Talk about easy street.”

  “I ate there a couple of times. Nice thing about being a reporter is that when the brass wants to butter you up, you eat well. You know the chef they got up there worked at the Ritz in New York?”

  “He should’ve brought over his own waiters. Those GIs dressed up in white jackets are lucky they aren’t paid in tips.”

  “Better than white coats,” Einsmann said with a sharp laugh.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “They’re all convalescents from the hospital. Bomb-happy, you know what I mean? They got the jitters all the time. Somebody figured it was a good job for them while they waited to go back up the line.”

  “Interesting choice of occupation,” I said.

  “How so?”

  “Waiting hand and foot on senior brass, watching them devour steaks, knowing they’re the guys ordering you into the mountains, to live on K rations in a muddy hole. Must be great for morale.”

  “I never thought about that. Could be a story in it, Billy.”

  “Everybody’s got a story,” I said, not certain where Einsmann might be going with this. Some of those convalescent boys had had it tough, and I didn’t want an overeager newshound making it tougher. “Did you find out anything about what I told you?”

  “Not much, Billy. Word is Galante was kicked upstairs, sent to the 32nd Station Hospital because he didn’t get along with a senior officer on the 3rd Division staff.”

  “Galante was with the 3rd? That’s the same outfit Landry was from.”

  “Yeah, but he was with the Medical Battalion. Unless Landry had been wounded, chances are he wouldn’t run into him. There are probably over twelve thousand guys in the 3rd Division right now, especially with all the replacements coming in.”

  “Okay, so what was the problem?”

  “Shell shock, or nervous exhaustion, whatever they’re calling it these days. Galante had his own ideas about treating it, and he clashed with a colonel named Schleck. Seems Schleck doesn’t buy the whole concept, and blames any GI’s failure of nerve on poor leadership.”

  “Combat fatigue,” I said, recalling what I’d heard back in London. “They’re calling it combat fatigue now.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s plenty of it going around, whatever the moniker. The boys in the 3rd Division have been at it since North Africa. I wrote a piece about them a month ago. They hit the beaches at French Morocco, then ten months later in Sicily. Then more landings at Salerno, fighting along the Volturno River and up to Cassino. They finally got pulled out of the line a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Is that why they’re here, to rest and refit?”

  “Who knows? Maybe the brass is fattening them up for the kill. Me, I don’t know how the infantry does it. It’s one thing to fight the Germans in this terrain. It’s another thing to live up in those mountains, with the rain, cold and knee-deep mud. But to do both at the same time? No wonder some guys go off their rocker.”

  There wasn’t much to say about that. I tried to imagine what it was like, winter in the high Apennines; Germans dug in behind every ridgeline, trying to kill you while you worked at not freezing to death. Yeah, no wonder. I sipped my whiskey and tried not to think about the guys who were up there right now, dying. There were times to think, and times to drink. If you knew which to do when, you might stay sane. I took another sip, then slammed back the rest of the booze, waiting for the warmth in my belly to spread while visions of cold and wet GIs faded from my mind.

  They didn’t. As Einsmann and I gabbed, about the war, the women in the room, the brass, all the usual bull, I knew they were out there. I’d been there too, not as high as in those mountains, but out in a foxhole with cold water pooled at the bottom, hot lead flying above, and the cries of the wounded all around. I could see it now, even as I watched Einsmann return with a couple of fresh glasses, and for a moment it felt like there was no time at all, but simply here and there, the bar and the mountains, and I could as easily be in one as the other. I must be tired, I thought, too much travel. We talked, and drank, and the noise of the

  conversations in the room rose into an incessant buzz as it grew more crowded. I could barely make out what Einsmann was saying and had to lean closer when I heard him mention ASTP.

  “What did you say about ASTP?” My kid brother Danny was in the Army Specialized Training Program back home. He’d enlisted as soon as he was eighteen, and the army put him into ASTP after basic training. It was a program for kids with brains, sending them to college for advanced courses while keeping them in uniform. The idea was that they’d graduate as officers, keeping the army supplied with second lieutenants as the war went on. It was tailor-made for Danny; he was a bright kid in some ways, but he was too young to have any common sense about staying alive. A college campus was the safest place for him.

  “Working on a story about it,” Einsmann said. “The army is pulling most of those kids out of college.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re short on infantry replacements. The brass figures it doesn’t make much sense to keep those boys in college when they need bodies now. They pulled ov
er a hundred thousand of them out, about two-thirds of the program.”

  “When did this happen?” I’d had a letter from Danny a month ago and he hadn’t mentioned a thing about it.

  “Few weeks ago. There’s a transport landing in Naples tomorrow with the first batch for Italy. Most are going to the 3rd. I’m going down there to interview some of them. Then I’ll follow up in a few days when they’ve been assigned to their platoons. Ought to be interesting.”

  “My kid brother is in ASTP, but I guess I would have heard if he’d been called up. I can imagine these veterans giving college boys a cozy welcome, especially since they’ve been sitting out the past few months on campus.” I hoped Danny wasn’t among this bunch. They’d have a hard time before they ever got to the front.

  “I figure that’s what will make it interesting,” Einsmann said. “Word is some noncoms think the ASTPers will have a monopoly on promotions when they hand out new stripes. Especially the Southern boys.”

  “Everything will probably smooth out once they get up on the line,” I said. Yeah, it’ll be peachy up there, one big happy family united by butchery and misery.

  I saw Major Kearns making his way through the crowd, with two Carabinieri officers in tow. They both wore dark-blue dress uniforms, with the flaming grenade emblem of the Italian national police on their service caps.

  “Lieutenant Boyle,” Kearns said, after a nod of greeting to Einsmann. “This is Capitano Renzo Trevisi, and Tenente Luca Amatori. Capitano Trevisi is in charge of the local Carabinieri garrison.”