by James R Benn
“A British general?” Kearns said.
“Unless you got any others around here,” Cassidy said. “Italian, French, it wouldn’t matter to him. What matters is upping the stakes. I think the POW murder was a desperation move, but one that may have reinvigorated him.”
“Wait a minute,” Harding said, holding up his hand. “Didn’t you just say that sticking to a plan is not what these nutcases do? He’s got one helluva plan here.”
“I think I know why, sir,” I said. “From what the doc told me, being in combat might be a psychopath’s dream. Lots of opportunity for killing, legit and otherwise. Arms and ammo. Rules and rank to hide behind.”
“As a professional army man, I might take offense at that, Boyle.”
“No, it’s not the army he likes. It’s war. War gives him everything. Death. Stimulation. Belief in his own power. I think something happened in Caserta that put Galante onto him. I was bothered by the order of the murders, but if you think about Galante being the first victim, it makes more sense. The cards were a cover, to confuse us. I think Galante wanted to help this guy. Maybe he told Red Heart he could get him into a hospital, heal him, something like that.”
“That would have instantly turned Galante into a target,” Cassidy said. “The last thing Red Heart would want to give up would be his freedom to kill.”
“So he planted the jack on Galante, then killed Landry? So Landry must have been the one to send him to Galante.”
“Exactly. Maybe he noticed something, and sent Red Heart to Galante to be evaluated.”
“Why not stop there?” Harding asked.
“Because he’d created a new pattern,” Cassidy said. “Remember, this isn’t a normal, logical mind at work. He may be addicted. Perhaps killing in combat no longer satisfies him.”
“But he also had a reason for each murder. You, Colonel, because you’re here to oversee the investigation. Arnold-” I stopped myself. I hadn’t thought about Arnold, but there was only one reason I could see. “Arnold, because he paid him off to have my brother transferred into the platoon.”
“Are you sure Major Arnold was the type to be bought off?” Harding asked.
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Kearns said. “Rumor was he was in the souvenir racket, big time. No one paid it much mind, but I think it was more about loot than souvenirs with him. What do you think the killer’s motive was to get your brother in the platoon?”
“Simple,” I said. “To use him against me if I got too close. Insurance.”
“I don’t know if I buy all this,” Harding said. “Seems long on theory and short on facts.”
“Colonel,” Cassidy said. “I observed psychopaths when I was a resident. They’re chilling. Some of their stories of cruelty gave me nightmares. Training and arming a psychopath, and giving him permission to kill, well, that’s the biggest nightmare of all. Because no matter how many people he kills, it’s never enough. He’ll never sicken of it. Nothing can ever fill that black hole he has inside. That’s why I think he’s going to strike again. There’s no alternative for him, no going back.”
Everyone was silent. These men knew how to fight the enemy, but not how to combat this particular terror. “What about Danny?” I said. “Will you transfer him now?”
“Let’s do it another way, Boyle,” Harding said. “Let’s keep this under our hats. Ship Sergeant Stumpf out and let people think we’ve got the killer. That will lull this Red Heart character into thinking he’s pulled one over on us. You go spend time with your brother. Tell him we’re staying a few more days and you’re having a reunion. As long as the Germans don’t attack, the battalion can stay in reserve. That will give you a chance to watch things.”
“What do you have in mind, Colonel?”
“I’m already working on finding a general to use as bait. We’ll offer Red Heart a tempting target. We should have somebody here soon.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Never mind, just get over there. Bring an entrenching tool, they’re digging in deep.”
I wondered if the bait was me and my brother. Generals were hard to come by, and the only one I’d seen around here was deep underground, smoking his corncob pipe. I had Kearns sign a supply requisition, and drove my jeep to the quartermaster’s tent, where I stocked up on what GIs digging in out in the open really needed. Pickaxes, shovels, blankets, a few cans of meat and vegetable stew, tins of coffee, and a carton of smokes. At least I’d be popular with everyone, with the exception of one lunatic, a lunatic I thought I’d had in custody.
I’d been fooled, and by an expert. In the midst of strangling Harding, a German shell sent them both flying. A near miss that could have killed him. Most guys would have been stunned, groggy, disoriented. Not Red Heart. He quickly found a guy to throw suspicion on, and clocked him one. So who was Red Heart?
I could rule out Evans, not that I’d ever thought him a likely suspect. He’d been in the general area of the first murders, but I doubted he could have attacked Harding with shrapnel in his shoulder, and he was tucked away in Hell’s Half Acre when the Kraut paratrooper bought it.
Flint? The last surviving sergeant. But he’d been busy rescuing Evans, under fire, after he brought out Louie’s body. It didn’t seem to be the kind of thing a psychopath would bother with. Father Dare, with blood in his boot? Maybe he’d gone to that church to pray for forgiveness. Charlie Colorado, lost in the smoke, the radioman I’d already overlooked? Phil Einsmann? Maybe he thought he’d get away clean after the first two, only to have his agency send him right back to Italy. Did he have a nose for news, or murder?
Or Bobby K, who I’d just met, or any of the other guys in the platoon, company, or whole damn VI Corps who I hadn’t met yet. Anyone could be Red Heart, but one thing my heart told me was that he was close to Danny. Too close.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The battalion was in reserve in an open field. A pine grove bordered it on the south side, and to the north a paved road cut across it, the roadbed built up about six feet above the soggy ground. GIs were digging in the woods, or along the embankment, carving out caves in the sloped earth. A convoy of trucks carrying replacements and supplies made its way along a dirt track, skirting the customary stone farmhouse in the center of the field. In the midst of these martial preparations, a woman hung her white sheets on a clothesline, domestic chores once again uninterrupted by war.
I saw Charlie Colorado walking along the edge of the embankment, a burlap sack over one shoulder and an M1 over the other. I slowed and asked if he wanted a lift.
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” he said, setting the sack down between his legs, the dull clinks signaling full bottles of something alcoholic.
“Having a party?”
“Toasting the dead,” he said. “I traded C rations for wine at that farmhouse.”
“Hope they like Spam,” I said.
“They seemed nervous,” Charlie said, glancing back at the woman in the yard. “Maybe they thought I was coming to shoot them. The daughter spoke a little English, and said they hated the Fascists and the Germans.”
“Of course.”
“It would be foolish to say otherwise to an American soldier with a rifle and C rations to trade.”
“Good point,” I said, noting that Charlie was pretty sharp. “I heard you were Landry’s radioman.”
“Yes.”
“You went to Bar Raffaele with him?”
“Sometimes. But the owner didn’t like me there. Said I drank too much and caused trouble. He was right.”
“Did you know Ileana?”
“Everyone knew Ileana,” he said, a touch of weariness in his voice.
“Landry fell for her, right?”
“He did. I think she liked him too. She hated working there, most of the girls did. But they had to feed their families, even if it brought them shame.”
“She told you that?”
“I could see it, when they thought no one was looking. But there were worse places to work
.”
“I can imagine. Inzerillo said he had his own doctor for the girls.”
“And a priest,” Charlie said. “For their shame.”
“An Italian?”
“No. Someone who wanted to keep watch on his own sinners.”
He clammed up after that, probably thinking he’d said too much. But then again, Charlie Colorado impressed me as a guy who didn’t waste a single word.
Ahead of us, trucks disgorged their passengers and handed down supplies to waiting lines of troops. I scanned the sky for enemy aircraft, not wanting to be caught in a line of vehicles during an air raid. Charlie pointed to a section of embankment and I pulled over.
Entrances to the hillside had been scraped out, with shelter halves strung up over the holes, some reinforced with thin wooden planks from ammo and ration cartons. It had a distinctly hobo look about it.
“Billy,” Danny said, walking up to the jeep. “You’re just in time. Flint’s been made Platoon Sergeant. Charlie went to scrounge some vino for a celebration.” He looked at the sack Charlie held up and whistled. “You did okay!”
I studied my little brother. He’d already lost that permanently startled look that replacements had. He was at ease, feeling part of the platoon if only because so many had died since he’d joined. Being a survivor meant he was a veteran of sorts, which gave him confidence. The fact that the odds were against him living many more days didn’t seem to bother him. For now, he was surrounded by his buddies, toasting their remaining sergeant, celebrating a promotion made necessary by three departed sergeants-two dead, one prisoner.
“Acting Platoon Sergeant,” Flint said. “How you doing, Billy? Is it true what they’re saying about Stump? He’s the Red Heart Killer?”
“Yep. Caught in the act. Denies it, of course, but they all do.”
“What’s going to happen to him?” Danny asked.
“He’s going back to Caserta in irons. Court martial, then firing squad would be my guess.”
“Hard to believe,” Flint said, shaking his head. “Stump always seemed to be a regular guy.”
“Yeah,” I said. “The way the doc explained it, that’s what guys like him are good at. Anyway, I brought you some decent tools and grub, plus some smokes. Thought I’d spend some more time with Danny before I ship out tomorrow.”
“Real shovels,” Danny said, obviously tired of digging with a folding entrenching tool.
“Okay,” Flint said. “Charlie, stow that vino in my dugout. No one touches it until we give these tools a workout and dig in good and proper. Then we eat and drink.”
They unloaded the jeep and got to work, digging wider and deeper. Father Dare came by, and took charge of the extra rations. The meat stew was a new addition, and I figured it would be a welcome relief after meat hash, Spam, ham, and lima beans every day.
“I have a cooking pot I found in the rubble,” Father Dare said. “I’ll get this heated up for the boys.” He took an empty can, punched holes in the bottom with his can opener, and dropped in a couple of heating tabs. Smokeless, the tabs ignited easily and burned hot, long enough to heat a meal. Unfortunately, one pot was going to be enough for this platoon, since it had suffered so many losses.
“Hey, Billy,” a voice called from inside a dugout. It was Phil Einsmann, sitting cross-legged in his little cave, pecking away at his portable typewriter set up on a ration box. Above the opening was a wood plank with “Waldorf Hysteria” painted on it.
“That’s funny, Phil,” I said, pointing to the sign. “What are you up to?”
“Well, I tried to get a story about your killer past the censors, but they wouldn’t go for it. Injurious to morale, they said. Ruined my goddamn morale, that’s for sure. So I’m doing a piece on the lost company.”
“What lost company?”
“Easy Company. I don’t want to call it a retreat, since that might not go over well with the censors. But the rescue of a company in a forward position, slipping away from the clutches of the enemy, using the fossi to escape, that’ll get through and sell papers.”
“Fossi?” I was there and I was having trouble following Einsmann’s story.
“Italian for ditches. The English call them wadis. Either sounds better than a daring escape through a smoky ditch.”
“No argument there. Did you talk to my brother? Make sure you spell his name right.”
“Sure did. And that Apache, Charlie. Great stuff. What do you have to say about it, Billy?”
“Talk to this guy,” I said, when I noticed Bobby K swinging a pickax not far away. “He ran through enemy fire twice to get messages through, and led everyone out. Earned a battlefield promotion.”
“No kidding? He wasn’t here an hour ago when I made the rounds.”
I walked over to Bobby K and stood with my back to Einsmann. “Bobby K, I’ll fill you in later, but have you told anyone about that colonel in the hospital?”
“No, I haven’t had a chance. The CO sent me over here, said Third Platoon needed a noncom.”
“Keep it between us, all right?”
“Whatever you say.”
“Now follow me and I’ll make you famous.”
I left Bobby K with Einsmann, glad I had a chance to get to him before he spilled the beans about the German colonel. I hadn’t expected him to show up in Easy Company, but with the losses in noncoms, it made sense that somebody would be sent to fill in. I wandered over to Father Dare and took a seat on a carton of K rations.
“Do you have your own dugout, Padre? I trust the Lord myself, but I’d rather do it underground.”
“God helps those who help themselves, Billy. I’ve got my own foxhole right over there,” he said, pointing behind him with his thumb. “I prefer to dig straight down, not into the side of a hill. Saw two fellows buried alive in Sicily when a shell sent a few tons of dirt sliding over their dugout.”
I didn’t need to mention that I’d seen what was left of a man in a foxhole at Salerno who took a direct hit from a mortar round. To each his own. “How’s your leg?”
“Okay. I got the bandage changed this morning and the nurse said it was fine. I was a little dizzy yesterday, I didn’t realize how much blood I’d lost.” He dumped a couple of large cans of meat stew into the pot.
“Padre, would you happen to know any chaplains who visited Bar Raffaele in Acerra?”
“Are you asking me to inform on my brethren, Billy?”
“I didn’t say they went there for the hookers. Maybe someone thought the men might need some guidance in such a sinful place?”
“Billy, if a chaplain showed up at a joint like that, the men would simply move on to the next disreputable establishment. I told you when we first met, we would not be welcome at such a place.”
“What if someone needed help? One of the girls, maybe? Or Lieutenant Landry?”
“Landry was brought up Protestant.”
“Interesting, but not an answer.”
“I am the chaplain for this unit,” Father Dare said. He stirred the pot, staring into the stew as wisps of steam began to drift up. I could tell he was working on a way to explain something to me. “For all the men, Catholics, Protestants, Jews, and even those who do not believe. I’ve noticed that atheists enjoy talking about religion in a way that believers don’t.”
“I’ve noticed that cops and criminals sometimes sound a lot alike. More so than cops and grocers or accountants.”
“Exactly. We share a common interest, but one viewed from differing perspectives. That’s why Landry and I were friends. He was an agnostic. He believed the unknowable was… unknowable. I call it a lack of faith, but that’s another matter. We often talked of life and death. He wanted the men to have spiritual solace, but he couldn’t partake of it himself. That’s why when he asked me to help, I was only too glad.”
“Help for him and Ileana.”
“Yes. He wanted me to help get permission for them to marry. To testify to her good character.”
“To lie for
him.”
“Can’t a woman sin and still be a good woman at heart? Ileana lost her father in the Allied bombing, her brother was killed in Africa, and her mother has succumbed to grief. There are two younger sisters at home, and Ileana did what she had to do to keep them off the streets. There is so much misery in this war, how could I not help alleviate some small part of it?”
“So you didn’t think it a lie?”
“What does it matter? They turned Landry down, and now he’s dead. I wonder if it’s even worth trying to help anymore. What help can I provide against all this killing? It’s monstrous, too much for any man to overcome. A priest on a battlefield, I used to think it made sense, great sense. Now it seems pathetic. Anyway, I didn’t think Landry and Ileana had anything to do with these killings, and I saw no reason for the authorities to delve into what on paper would sound sordid. Landry’s family doesn’t need to hear the army’s version of what went on between them. Call the boys, will you, the stew’s ready,” he said, putting a lid on the pot and the conversation.
I stood, heaving a sigh and wondering what would become of Ileana. I put my fingers between my teeth and whistled, signaling that chow was ready. In the distance, two trucks raced toward the stone farmhouse, slamming on their brakes close to the door. Bluejacketed men spilled out, circling the building. Carabinieri.
“What’s going on?” Flint said, pointing to the farmhouse. Just then the shrieking sound of incoming artillery tore at the sky, and men dove in every direction, heading for dugouts, foxholes, any cover at all. I tripped on a shovel and felt myself being pulled underground, strong hands gripping my shoulders. At least a dozen explosions rippled the ground all around us, spraying debris against the soles of my boots as I slithered into the dugout with Flint.
Artillery blasts thundered around us, and I wondered if the GIs caught out in the field had had time to get to cover. Green replacements and trucks filled with ammunition were not a good combination in a barrage. I couldn’t think about it long. The shelling kept up, shaking my bones every time a salvo hit close by. Dirt cascaded from above, and my thoughts went to those guys Father Dare knew, buried alive in a dugout like this one. Then I tried not thinking at all, and closed in on myself, knees to my chest, hands on my helmet. The damp, freshly dug soil jumped up at me with every blast, as I felt the impact of each explosion, the concussion traveling through the earth and air, enveloping me, reaching into our hole where the shrapnel couldn’t, letting me know that life and death had come down to mere chance, the weight and trajectory of shells alone determining who would walk away and who would remain.