A Mortal Terror bbwim-6

by James R Benn

  Where was Danny? What would I do if he were killed out here, not by the Germans, but by a man I’d been sent to track down? How could I tell my mother, or confess my failing to my father? I ached to find Danny, and I prayed as I drove, bargaining with God, offering everything I could think of, frightened that it wasn’t God who held Danny’s future in his hands, but a homicidal maniac. I’d bargain with him too, if I knew what he wanted, and if it were mine to give.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  “Look out,” Kaz said, leaning forward in his seat. “Slow down, there are shell holes all around.”

  “Good reason to go faster,” Harding said from the backseat, where he’d just finished checking in with Big Mike on the walkietalkie. I maintained my speed, weaving between the blackened holes, aware of the burned-out wrecks of vehicles on either side of the road. “Looks like the Germans have this area zeroed in. Narrow road, nowhere to go. We’d be sitting ducks if it wasn’t for this fog.”

  The wind had died down, leaving the coast shrouded in mist, making it hard to see where I was going. But if I couldn’t see, the Germans up in the hills sure as hell couldn’t either, and I was glad not to have a ton of explosive steel raining down on us.

  “Stop!” Harding yelled. I braked, and he jumped out, running to an overturned truck, where a body lay sprawled on the ground. All I could think was, please let it not be Danny.

  It wasn’t. There were bloody compresses on his chest, where medics had worked on him. Other medical debris was scattered around him. There may have been other wounded, so the medics left the corpse behind for Graves Registration.

  “False alarm,” Harding said.

  “Perhaps not,” Kaz said, holding the dead man’s dog tag. “This says Amos Flint.”

  “Search him,” I said. “We need to find out what name Flint is using.” Kaz and I went through his pockets, but Flint must have beaten us to it.

  “Nothing,” Kaz said. “The man is clever, I must say.”

  “Save the compliments,” Harding said. “The fog is clearing, let’s go.”

  We crossed a wooden bridge and took the road into Valmontorio, a cluster of cinderblock buildings scattered about on either side of the road as it bent north, along the bank of the Mussolini Canal. Every building had been hit. Roofs were gone; the contents of homes tumbled out into the street or were left charred inside gutted structures. It looked like a ghost town.

  “Get that goddamn jeep out of sight!” barked a GI who appeared from nowhere. Suddenly men appeared in doorways and at windows. One of them waved us into a spot between two houses and beckoned us to follow inside. “What are you boys doing here?” he said, as if we’d been caught trespassing. At the far end of the room, two GIs were eating their rations, glancing occasionally at the foggy view of the shoreline and canal. A radio sat on a table, along with binoculars and a map of the coast. A rather casual observation post.

  “Your rank, soldier?” Harding said, stepping forward so his insignia could be seen.

  “Lieutenant George Bodine, First Special Service Force. What can I do for you, Colonel?” He made it sound like a chore to even answer the question.

  “Why did you pull us in? Are there Germans close by?”

  “No, Colonel, there ain’t a live Kraut within a mile of here,” Bodine said as the other two men chuckled. “But the fog is about to blow off, and in five minutes you’d be dead if you went up that road. German gunners have been waiting for hours now to spot something.”

  “It doesn’t look like it’s clearing,” Kaz said, peering out through the glassless window.

  “It is. You wait.”

  “Lieutenant,” I said. “We’re looking for a sergeant and a private, traveling by jeep most likely, one with a mounted. 30 caliber. You see anybody like that?”

  “Only visitor here was some loudmouth British general, about an hour ago. Asked a lot of stupid questions and said units like ours were a waste of resources. On some kind of inspection tour or some such bullshit.”

  “What’d you say to that?” Harding asked.

  “Offered to take him out on patrol tonight so he could see what the Krauts’ opinion was. He didn’t take us up on the offer. You know what they call us out here? Black devils. That’s what they think of us.”

  “Why black devils?”

  “Because we blacken our faces when we patrol at night. And we leave these calling cards behind, pasted to the foreheads of dead Krauts.” He handed Harding a red-and-white sticker, with the arrowhead insignia of the Force, and the words Das dicke Ende kommt noch.

  “What does that mean?” Harding asked.

  “The worst is yet to come,” Bodine said, with a smile. “That’s why there aren’t any Krauts within a mile or so. They began to pull back once we started going out after dark. Now we have to walk farther each night to find any.”

  “Is this your right flank?”

  “Hell no, Colonel. This is the rear area. Most of our guys are across the canal, set up in Sabotino and other towns over there. Nice and snug, not all blown up like this dump. This is where we bring the wounded for transport back to Anzio, and pick up supplies.”

  “Does HQ know about this?”

  “Maybe,” Bodine shrugged. “It’s a fluid situation.”

  “Meaning you like being on your own.”

  “Yes sir. Less interference from the brass, the better. Meaning no offense.”

  “None taken. You’re sure about not seeing our two men pass through?”

  “Yeah. Maybe they got hit back at the bridge. The Krauts like to shell that area.”

  “So I noticed,” I said, then heard the shrill whistle that was becoming too familiar. I flinched, and noticed Bodine smiling.

  “That’s the bridge again,” he said. “Must be another supply run. You boys might want to get a move on while the Germans are busy.”

  We took his advice, heading north along the canal, and damned if the fog didn’t clear a few minutes later.

  “I guess he knew what he was talking about,” I said.

  “They recruited a lot of outdoorsmen for that outfit,” Harding said. “Lumberjacks, game wardens, fishermen, guys who are used to living rough. They have a sixth sense about the weather.”

  “Did you believe him about not seeing Flint and Danny?”

  Harding shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  I glanced at Kaz, wondering if he’d picked up on it. He looked perplexed, and I gave him a minute as I drove down a tree-lined road, hoping the branches gave us some cover from the German observers, or that they wouldn’t want to waste all those shells on a single jeep.

  “He didn’t ask why we were looking for them!” Kaz said, snapping his fingers. “That would be a natural question to ask.”

  “Yep. Good catch, Kaz. You’ll be a detective yet.”

  “Why didn’t you press him then?” Harding said, growling with irritation, at either my lack of follow-up or the fact that he hadn’t noticed it. I nodded at Kaz, giving him the go-ahead.

  “Because there was only one direction for Flint to go, the same one we are taking. And, assuming Lieutenant Bodine is an honest man, Flint must have fed him some story that made him sympathetic. Something that would appeal to a solider slightly contemptuous of authority.”

  “Slightly?” Harding said, as he picked up the walkie-talkie for the routine check. “Big Mike, come in. Big Mike, come in.”

  Big Mike reported in. He and Cosgrove were in Santa Maria, which he said was nothing more than a cluster of farmhouses and chicken coops. Cosgrove was going through his routine, making enemies. Something he seemed to have a flair for. No sign of trouble.

  We drove on, slowly, not wanting to overtake them. It began to mist, a fine drizzle that seemed to float in the air rather than fall. I scanned the few buildings that dotted the road, most of them shelled by the Germans, denying us observation posts and a dry place to sleep.

  “There, Billy,” Kaz said, pointing to a stone farmhouse ahead and to our left. Whe
never possible, vehicles anywhere in the beachhead were parked behind buildings to block the view of German observers in the hills. There, tucked in the lee of the farmhouse, was a jeep with a mounted machine gun. The house, set too far back to be an observation post, had not been hit by artillery. It was intact, with a full view over open fields in every direction. A perfect hideout. Kaz was still pointing, and I pressed his arm down.

  “Don’t,” I said, as I carefully maintained my speed. “If Flint is looking, I don’t want him to notice anything out of the ordinary.” We had him. Now came the hard part. I continued on until a grove of trees masked a turn in the road, and pulled over. “We have to approach on foot,” I said. “Very carefully. There’s a few rows of trees we can use as cover.”

  “But this way we don’t catch Flint in the act,” Kaz said.

  “But we get Danny out safely,” I said, looking to Harding. He nodded, and we checked weapons, crossed the road, and ducked low as we ran through rows of turnips toward the line of trees. Lemon trees, but my mind wasn’t on fruit. It was on getting in and getting Danny out. We needed to go in hard and fast. I was most worried about being in the open, where Flint could see us. That would give him an edge, since he’d have Danny for cover and we’d be exposed. We got near the end of the trees and hunched down.

  “I’ll take the back door,” I said. “Kaz, you follow me. I’ll check the jeep. If it’s ours, you stay outside and guard it. Make sure Flint doesn’t escape if he gets past me. Colonel, wait until you hear me hit the door, then go in the front. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Harding said. “Low and quiet until we go in.”

  “And make sure-”

  “Yes, we know, Billy. We’ll be careful not to shoot Danny.”

  “Or let Flint get near him. Let’s go.”

  We scuttled to the building, watching the windows for any sign of movement. This was dangerous, too; I wouldn’t shoot at a shadow for fear of hitting Danny, but a shadow might not worry about shooting me. We went flat against the rough stone, Harding ready by the door. Kaz and I crouched and went to the rear of the building, hiding behind the jeep. It was splattered with muck, the identification on the bumper hidden by caked-on mud. Flint was a smart one, all right, but his luck was about to run out. I wiped the mud away and saw VI-37Q. It was enough. I nodded to Kaz, gripped my carbine, and made for the door. When I pressed my back against the wall and went for the latch, I noticed the door hadn’t been fully closed. I pushed at it with the barrel of my rifle, just a touch, to get a look inside. I needed to signal Harding, and a silent entry wasn’t going to do that. Once I got a peek, I’d kick the door and go in like gangbusters.

  I didn’t get a peek. Instead, I got the muzzle of an M1 Garand in my face.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Two force men pinned me to the wall as two others advanced on Kaz, Thompsons aimed at his head. He wisely laid his revolver on the seat of the jeep. They dragged us both inside, where Harding was seated in the kitchen, disarmed. His colonel’s eagle insignia seemed to be buying him a bit more respect than my lieutenant’s bars were. A sergeant stood behind him, arms folded, holding a. 45 pointed at the floor.

  “Who the hell are you?” the sergeant said, to none of us in particular. “ Sprechen Zie Deutsch? ”

  “Sergeant, I am Colonel Samuel Harding, of General Eisenhower’s staff. These two work for me.”

  “Yeah, right. Ike’s in London last I heard. You tellin’ me he sent you down here to sneak up on us? You with that British general snoopin’ around? Or have we caught ourselves some Kraut spies?”

  “General Eisenhower did send me,” I said. “To catch a murderer. Sergeant Amos Flint, last seen driving that jeep outside.” I saw the men exchange glances.

  “Murder? Who’d he kill?”

  “His own lieutenant. A doctor, a captain, a major, a POW, and at least one sergeant from his own platoon. He stole that jeep and we think he’s headed into enemy territory. What line did he feed you?”

  “Big tall guy? With a skinny kid tagging along?”

  “Yeah, that’s him,” I said. “Hey, if you’re sure we’re not Germans, how about giving us our weapons back?”

  Harding stood and held out his hand. The sergeant gave him his. 45 back. Our other weapons were laid on the table.

  “They were here earlier this morning. Gave us a story about bein’ on the lam from the MPs for slugging some desk jockey who got a bunch of his men killed for nothin’. Seemed believable.”

  “He’s a practiced liar,” I said. “Damn good at it, so don’t feel bad. He let you have the jeep?”

  “We swapped. Had an old Italian ambulance, a Fiat truck, that we used for transporting wounded. Most times, the Krauts don’t shell ambulances on their own. But we liked the jeep and that. 30 caliber, so we suggested a trade. Thought it might help him blend in.”

  “Did he say where they were headed?”

  “Back to his outfit, he claimed, in Le Ferriere. Said they’d lie low for another day or so until the dust settled, then show up to get the lay of the land.”

  “How well is the line defended along here?”

  “Well, you got the Hermann Goering Panzer Division over there, but they pulled back pretty far. You can cross the canal any time you want and get nothing more than wet feet. It’s more of a big drainage ditch than any canal I ever saw.”

  “You have outposts along the canal?”

  “Colonel, our outposts are way across the canal. That’s why the Krauts pulled back. They don’t like waking up in the morning to find sentries with their throats slit.”

  “ Das dicke Ende kommt noch,” Kaz said.

  I was sure the calling card that the Force men left behind would appeal to Flint. “Did you give him any of your stickers?”

  “Yeah, a souvenir, sorta. He didn’t like hearing about that Limey any more than we did. No offense, lieutenant,” he said to Kaz. “Seeing as you’re Polish.”

  Kaz, who wore the red shoulder flash that proclaimed Poland on his British uniform, nodded in acceptance.

  “We have to get to Big Mike,” I said. “Fast.”

  We hotfooted it out of there, all of us worried about Big Mike and Cosgrove now, not to mention Danny. Flint had a new vehicle, one that gave him an edge. The red cross on the Italian ambulance was like a free pass. GIs would wave him on, the Germans would hold their fire, and Big Mike wouldn’t know what hit him.

  “Big Mike, come in,” Harding said into the walkie-talkie, holding down the press-to-talk switch. “Big Mike, come in.” He released the switch. Nothing.

  “Keep trying, maybe they’re out of range,” I said as I started the jeep and pulled out into the road. We were clear of the trees in a few seconds, and I prayed that whatever German up in the hills had his binoculars trained on us couldn’t be bothered to call in fire on one measly jeep.

  For the second time today, I was wrong. Really wrong. I heard the whistle of incoming shells, and stepped on it. For the third time today, wrong again. The salvo hit just ahead of us, and if I’d pulled over I could have avoided going through it. Bright flashes shuddered against the ground, sending dirt and smoke everywhere, blinding me as I lifted one arm to shield my eyes, holding onto the steering wheel with the other.

  The next thing I knew, I had a mouthful of mud. I was in a ditch by the side of the road, a thin rivulet of water soaking me. I tried to get up and clear my head. I saw a blurry figure standing over me, got up on one knee, and blinked my eyes until I could make him out.

  “You all right, Colonel?”

  “Leg’s banged up a little, but I’m fine,” he said, taking my arm and helping me up.

  “Where’s Kaz? What happened?”

  “He’s looking for the walkie-talkie. We hit a shell hole and rolled the jeep. We’re lucky it didn’t come down on top of us.”

  The barrage had stopped, but I heard shelling farther up the road. “That could be Big Mike and Cosgrove getting hit,” I said. “Or Flint and Danny.”

 
“The radio is useless,” Kaz said, pointing to the jeep on its side in the ditch. The pieces of the walkie-talkie were pinned underneath.

  “See if you can get some help to right the jeep,” I said, grabbing my carbine. “I’m going up there.” I started to run, hearing Harding and Kaz yelling at me to stop, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t wait by the side of the road like a stranded motorist. I had to move, to get to Danny before everything went wrong. If it hadn’t already.

  The first thing that went was my helmet. Too damn heavy. Then the canteen from my web belt. I wasn’t wearing the ammo bandolier, so all I had was the fifteen rounds loaded in the carbine and my. 45 automatic. If that wasn’t enough, I was in bigger trouble than I thought. My Parsons jacket went next, and then I settled into a run, remembering track team in high school. Danny used to come watch me practice. I did the hurdles and the long jump. Not all that well, but it had been a hell of a lot easier without combat boots, an automatic flapping on my hip, and an M1 carbine at port arms.

  I could see puffs of explosions in the distance, rising above the shrubs and trees that lined the canal. If there were Force men hidden along the canal, they didn’t show themselves. From what the GIs we’d met told us, most were on the other side, hiding out until nightfall. I ran, focusing on lifting my legs, getting the most out of each stride, keeping my breathing regular and my eyes on the horizon. Get into the rhythm, Coach used to say. Don’t stare at the ground in front of you, it’s all the same. Look ahead, to where you want to be.

  I ran.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The explosions ahead had ended. The road was deserted. I kept running, my legs aching and my lungs burning. I wondered if a German observer was tracking me through his binoculars, figuring another dogface had gone nuts. Shell-shocked, battle-fatigued, crazy. I ran, remembering Coach’s words: Just because you feel pain, you don’t have to stop. My boots beat a rhythm on the road, and I imagined Danny waiting for me, although all I could see in my mind was a kid in short pants, running through the backyards of our neighborhood.