by James R Benn
“But no connection to Doctor Galante,” Kaz said. “He showed no recognition of that name.”
“Still, it’s interesting. And why did he deny that Flint and Landry went to see him? All the sergeants agreed that they had.”
“Maybe Landry went to see that girl he liked. Maybe that’s where the money went,” Kaz said. “Perhaps Inzerillo was afraid to admit there had been a fight, in case he would be closed down.”
“Could Landry and Flint have beaten him like that?” I wondered aloud. “Maybe he harmed the girl, and they took it out on him.”
“Or your Lieutenant Landry was insanely jealous of this prostitute, and killed her,” Luca said. “And then her family attacked Inzerillo and killed the lieutenant.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“No, but with no evidence, it makes as much sense as your conjectures.”
“I’ll talk to Flint and see what he says. I’ll bet the girl fits in somewhere. Any chance of finding her?”
“A prostitute, yes. A specific prostitute, never. If anything did happen with Landry, she will have disappeared. If not, she would not allow herself to be found by the authorities for obvious reasons.”
“Well, I don’t know of anything else we have to go on. Luca, if you hear of anything else from Inzerillo, please let us know. Kaz and I will check out the hospital and see what the staff has to say about Galante.”
Luca ordered as the waiter delivered a decanter of wine. “Since we spoke last night of Queen Margherita, I thought you should taste the dish named after her. Pizza Margherita. It is said that she scandalized the court by eating pizza bread from street vendors when she visited Naples. It used to be sold plain, rolled and eaten by hand. The story goes that she noticed the poor eating it and ordered a guard to bring her one. She loved it, and the people of Naples appreciated her for noticing their native food. A chef created a pizza dish in her honor, using tomato sauce, mozzarella cheese, and basil leaves, to represent the colors of the Italian flag: red, white, and green.”
“Quite a lady,” I said. “Pearls and pizza.” Kaz nearly choked on his wine.
The pizzas were good, thinner than I was used to from the North End, but tastier. The place was crowded, and I was glad to see normal life returning to this little part of Italy.
“What was it like in Yugoslavia?” Kaz asked Luca as we relaxed after the food.
“Garrison duty, mostly boring. A few times we went out with the army to hunt for partisans. We never found them, which was frustrating, since they could always find us when they wanted to. We lost men on guard duty, throats slit. Terrible.”
“Did you have a hard time with the Germans, when the king declared the armistice?”
“No. There were no Tedeschi in our area. The Carabinieri stayed loyal to the king. Other units did as their commanders told them. Some even joined the partisans to fight the Germans. It was a difficult time.”
That was that. I got the impression Luca didn’t want to talk about it, and I wondered if he had friends or family who had gone over to Mussolini’s puppet state in the north.
“Boring, frustrating, difficult,” I said. “You add terrifying and you pretty much sum it up for all of us, Luca.”
No one disagreed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The 32 nd station Hospital was buzzing. It was a complex of buildings that might have been Italian Army barracks from a couple of wars ago. Outside of the headquarters building, a line of ambulance trucks, their sides painted with huge red crosses, pulled into the central square. Doctors, nurses, and orderlies spilled out of half a dozen buildings, unloading stretchers and directing the wounded to different wards. The patients were all bandaged and wearing army-issue pajamas; these weren’t fresh casualties, but transfers from evacuation and field hospitals closer to the line.
At the same time, GIs were loading a pair of trucks parked next to the dispensary, as a nurse with a clipboard checked the inventory while talking with a doctor. He wore a wrinkled white lab coat, a major’s gold leaf, and a neatly trimmed mustache. He looked like the guy we’d come to see.
“Excuse me, Major Warren?”
“I’m a little busy, Lieutenant. See the adjutant if you’re looking for a buddy, or Ward 13 if you’ve got the clap.” He spoke without looking at me, and went back to reviewing the inventory with the nurse. She wore the army-regulation white dress and blue cape, which looked snazzy, but wasn’t very useful closer to the front lines, where nurses wore whatever army fatigues they could scrounge.
“It’s about Captain Galante, sir.”
“Listen, Lieutenant,” he said, turning to face me. “I’ve talked to CID and gave them a statement. I don’t have time to go over that again, so check with them. Some sergeant was here, I forget his name.”
“Sergeant Cole?”
“Yeah. Talk to him, I’m busy.”
“He’s dead, sir. He killed himself.”
“Jesus! Was that the guy who shot himself on the palace roof?”
“Yes sir. I just need a few minutes of your time.”
“Perhaps I can assist with the supplies, while the doctor speaks with my friend?” Kaz said to the nurse. She was pretty, but I knew Kaz was going to interrogate her while I talked to the doctor. Major Warren agreed, and led me to his office. The sign above the door read Chief of Medical Services.
“Sorry if I barked at you, Lieutenant, but I’ve been up to my eyeballs in work today, starting before dawn.” He fell into the chair behind his desk and I sat across from him, waiting as he lit up a Lucky. His desk was stacked with patient charts, an overflowing inbox, and an empty outbox. “Accident on the road from Naples. A truckload of replacements-ASTP kids-goes over an embankment. Broken bones, lacerations, the usual for a road accident. Poor bastards hadn’t been off the boat for a full day yet, and they’re all banged up already.”
“I hear there’s a lot of replacements coming in,” I said, trying not to think of my brother Danny and worrying if he was headed for trouble.
“Indeed. Some of us have been told to get ready to move out. There’s a big push going on somewhere, that’s for sure. Now, what can I do for you?”
“I need to ask some questions about Doctor Galante that Sergeant Cole may not have asked. Did he frequent prostitutes?”
“Galante? That’s a good one, Lieutenant. He probably never even thought about it. I never heard him speak about much of anything except medicine and Italian culture.”
“You’re sure? This won’t be part of any official report, in case you’re worried about his family finding out.”
“I’m sure. Have you talked to the doctors he roomed with? Wilson and Bradshaw?”
“Yes, they didn’t really know him well. Ships passing in the night. Galante was transferred from Third Division. You know anything about that?”
“Just what I heard. He got into a dispute with a colonel and got booted upstairs. He wasn’t happy about it, I can tell you that.”
“You all must work hard, but this place does look pretty comfortable.”
“It is. Long hours every day of the week, but clean sheets and decent food every night. A far cry from battalion aid stations near the front lines. The Luftwaffe bombed us once, but that’s as close as we’ve come to real danger here.”
“What was it that Galante didn’t like?”
“He wanted to work on combat fatigue cases. Exclusively. He was almost a bore on the subject.” He looked at me shrewdly. “You probably know that’s what the beef with the colonel was about. Sending him here was a real punishment. We don’t treat psychiatric disorders. We have dentists, physical therapists, surgeons, even a dietician, but no psychiatrists.”`
“So what happens to combat fatigue cases?” I sensed that there had been no love lost between Warren and Galante, especially on this topic.
“We don’t often get casualties direct from the front. Like the boys who just came in, they’ve already been patched up and sent here for further treatment. They have to be ac
tually wounded to be sent here.” He crushed his cigarette out.
“What’s your opinion on combat fatigue?”
“Not sure. I’m a surgeon. If I can’t cut it out or sew it up, I’m at a loss. I know some cases are sent back to headquarters to do menial work. Seems sort of pathetic.”
“I agree. I’ve seen the waiters in the senior officer’s mess.”
“But Galante’s theory seems weird too. A hot meal, change of clothes, a good night’s sleep, and then wham, back to the front.”
“Isn’t that what you do? Patch them up so they can go back as soon as they’re able?”
“That’s what Galante said. I guess the difference is some of the brass don’t mind GIs in a hospital bed if they have holes in them, but they don’t like the idea of able-bodied men getting a rest from combat.”
“Able-bodied, yes. But what about their minds? Their spirits?” I thought about Jim Cole. No surgeon could ever cut out the memory of that basement, remove the guilt, and patch it all up.
“Like I said, I cut, I stitch. And I do a damn good job of it, as well as running this place. I’ve seen the inside of men’s bodies, I’ve operated on the brain more times than I like to recall. But I never saw evidence of a spirit in there. Sorry. I wish I had.” I wasn’t so sure he was. Anyone who looked for the soul between bits of bone and blood didn’t know what they were looking for.
“Did Galante have professional differences with another doctor over this? Anything more than a medical disagreement?”
“Far as I know, his serious disagreements were all with the brass at Third Division. We may debate medicine here, Lieutenant, but we’re usually too exhausted to do much about an opposing opinion. But there is someone you should talk to. Doctor Stuart Cassidy. He’s in Radiology, but he’s the closest thing we have to a shrink. He interned with a psych department in Chicago, I think. He and Galante were friendly, as far as that went with the late doctor.” Major Warren made a call, and told me to hustle out to the trucks that were being loaded. Cassidy was one of the doctors being transferred to parts unknown.
I found Cassidy sitting on the tailgate of a truck, leaning against his duffel bag. He looked young for a doctor, with wavy blond hair and an easy smile. Behind him the truck was loaded with medical supplies, stretchers, blankets, cots, and rations.
“Taking a trip, Doctor Cassidy?”
“I am, Lieutenant. Naples harbor is all I heard. You know anything about what’s happening?”
“Not a clue,” I said, introducing myself and giving Cassidy the short version of the investigation. Like everyone else within twenty miles, he knew about the murders and the suicide. “Anything you can tell me about Max Galante would be helpful.”
“Max was brilliant,” he said, without hesitation. “Too brilliant, maybe, for his own good.”
“What do you mean?”
“I happen to agree with his ideas about combat fatigue. Other units are using the same approach, and it’s working well. But Max was so sure of himself that he didn’t suffer fools gladly. Sometimes he forgot he was in the army and didn’t hold his tongue. It’s a problem with us doctors. We think we’re gods, but the army has other gods who outrank us.”
“Like Colonel Schleck, Third Division.”
“Right. Him and his assistant, Major Arnold. Max made a big stink about how they were incompetent Neanderthals for not taking combat fatigue seriously, as a disease. If he’d been more diplomatic, he’d probably be alive today.”
“You’re not saying there’s a connection?” Did Cassidy know more than he was letting on?
“Not-I just mean he would have been with his unit, and wouldn’t have run into whoever killed him. Is there a connection?”
“Not that I can see. If every guy who ran afoul of incompetent Neanderthals got killed, there wouldn’t be anyone left to fight this war.” Cassidy gave a knowing laugh. “Anything going on in Galante’s personal life that might have gotten him in trouble?”
“Can’t see it,” Cassidy said. “He spent time reading medical journals, when he could get them. Visited museums when they weren’t bombed out. He liked his landlady, said she was helping him improve his Italian. He couldn’t wait to get to Rome, poor guy. His family hailed from there, went way back to Roman times, according to him. Other than that, I can’t think of a thing.”
“Did he ever mention Sergeant Cole?”
“Sure. He got him transferred to CID after that incident in Campozillone. He was worried about him.”
“Any guys from his old outfit come to see him here?”
“Yeah, Landry, the other guy who got killed. He and Galante got on well. I know Max went to their bivouac at least once. Cole dropped by a couple of times after he started at the palace.” That was the first link I had between the two victims, not to mention Cole.
“Do you think Cole was unbalanced? Did Galante think he should have been hospitalized?” I wanted to know more about Galante and Cole, and anyone else he knew in Landry’s platoon. Like the killer, maybe.
“No. Not in the way you mean. We call it Old Sergeant’s Syndrome. Unofficially, of course.”
“What’s that, some sort of combat fatigue?”
“It’s more than that. According to current thinking, combat fatigue can be dealt with by rest and a short period of relative safety. But for those men who have fought and endured for long periods of time, there finally comes a point at which they become fatalistic. They’re usually sergeants, because simply by surviving for months in battle, they’ve been promoted. In most cases, they are the only man left of their original squad, if not platoon.”
“So hot chow and a cot won’t do it for them?”
“Nope. You can send them back on the line, but they’ll just tell you they know their number is up. They become ineffective as leaders, see themselves as dead men. They’ve reached the breaking point, and if placed in danger, they simply can’t function. And remember, these are men who, by virtue of their survival, have won citations and been praised for their bravery. Like Sergeant Cole. The incident in that village just hurried along what was about to happen. The wonder is not that he succumbed to it, but that he endured so long.”
“What’s the treatment?” I asked, starting to think about Cole, and what strings Galante had pulled to watch over him, or what regulations he’d broken. Who else knew about that?
“Well, that’s the good news. All that’s needed is to remove these men from immediate danger, and to give them something useful to do. They still want to serve, so any position off the line makes them feel useful. Once the threat of death in combat is removed, they become healthy again, especially if they have a job to do. CID was perfect for Cole.”
“But you said Galante was worried about him.” Or maybe he was worried about what Cole knew. Was there a reason Cole ended up in CID, working in the palace, where he’d have a chance to search for pearls?
“Yeah. What happened in that village produced a burden of guilt that was unusually strong. It must have weighed on him more than we thought.”
“Well, it could have been something else entirely,” I said, wondering again about the pearls and what part they played in this. The truck engine turned over, and Cassidy jumped down, hoisted the tailgate, and we shook hands.
“Good luck, Lieutenant. I hope you catch the guy. Gotta run.”
“Keep your helmet on and your head down, Captain.” I liked Cassidy, and hoped he wasn’t headed into dangerous territory. Sometimes keeping your head down just wasn’t enough.
I watched the trucks leave, with Cassidy and another doctor as passengers and enough gear and supplies for more casualties than I wanted to think about. Replacements, doctors, Naples harbor, leaves cancelled. It was obvious that a force was shipping out, but for where? They could be headed to England for all I knew. Or maybe southern France. Or Rome, who knew? Was that why Diana had to get back so quickly? No, don’t let it be Rome, I prayed silently. I don’t want her in the midst of a battle. And don’t let Dan
ny be one of the nameless replacements either. I decided I should find a church and send up some prayers before it was too late.
“Billy,” Kaz said, strolling out of a nearby ward. “What is wrong? You look lost.”
“Just thinking. About Diana, and my kid brother Danny.” I told Kaz about the ASTP program being curtailed, and how some had been among the replacements flowing in. I told him about the accident, and that I wanted to be sure Danny wasn’t among the injured.
“Come, I will ask Edie to check,” he said.
“Edie?” I said as I followed him.
“First Lieutenant Edie Embler, of Long Island, New York. She is an operating-room nurse, and is heartbroken over the departure of Doctor Cassidy. But I will console her, if we ever solve this case.”
“Will you now?” I was glad to hear it, but I didn’t want to act like it was a big deal, so I needled him a bit. He ignored me.
“Edie,” he said when he found her. “Could you put my friend’s mind at ease, and check the names of the young men from the truck accident? He is worried his brother could be among them. Humor him, please.”
“Sure, Piotr. What’s the name?” Edie had a faint trace of freckles across her nose, and curly black hair pulled back and stuffed under her white cap.
“Danny Boyle,” I said, as she grabbed a mimeographed sheet from a pile on her desk.
“Boyle,” she said, tracing her finger down the list. “No, not a Boyle among them. Feel better?”
“Yes,” I said, but I didn’t. I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that hung over me. Was it Diana I was worried about? Danny? I felt connected to both, and certain that one of them was in danger.
“Edie,” Kaz said, “tell Billy what you said about Captain Galante.”
“He had an argument,” she said. That got my attention. “The day before he was killed.”
“With who?”
“I don’t know his name. He was an infantry lieutenant, I could tell.”
“How could you tell?”
“You just can. The way they carry themselves. It sounds funny, but I just know. He wasn’t pretending at anything. And he wore the Third Division patch, the blue and white stripes. Probably a platoon leader.”