A Mortal Terror bbwim-6

by James R Benn

  “Old trick I learned in Cairo. Tighten your muscles when you’re being tied up. When you relax them, you’ve got a bit of wiggle room. Unfortunate, Flint getting away like that. Jerry should have no trouble bagging him, though, out alone with a broken wrist.”

  “Yeah,” I said, not certain what he’d seen.

  “But your brother, he’s safe now, isn’t he? Banged up, but he’s seen the elephant and will live to tell the tale. Not every man here will be able to say the same.”

  I had nothing to say, nothing left. I felt a tremendous weariness settle in my body. I slumped down next to Danny, as I heard the sound of vehicles pulling to a halt and boots stomping on the ground. Jeeps, an ambulance, even a truck full of Carabinieri. I put my arm around Danny and held him close, his blood sticky and thick. I watched Big Mike, willing him to wake up and shake off the pounding he’d taken. All this suffering, and Flint had gotten away. But I had Danny, and I prayed I’d made the right choice. And that I could live with myself.

  Harding, Kaz, and Luca hovered over me, but I couldn’t speak, couldn’t answer their questions or look into their eyes. Medics pushed them away and took Danny from me. Others picked up Big Mike and put him on a stretcher. Graves Registration men wandered around with the mattress covers, searching for the dead. Finally, someone came for me.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  “Your sergeant has a subdural hematoma,” Doc Cassidy said. “We’re prepping him for surgery right now.”

  We were back at the hospital, in a small tent that had been set aside for our banged-up group. Danny’s shoulder was encased in bandages. Cosgrove sported a bandage over his right temple, and for some reason I was on a cot, too. Harding and Kaz sat at a small table by the open flaps.

  “Will he be okay?” I asked.

  “If he got here fast enough,” Cassidy said. “I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”

  “Can I see him?” I asked, sitting up and getting my feet on the floor.

  “You stay put, doctor’s orders. You were disoriented, in shock when you came in. I want to watch you for another day.”

  “How long have I been here?” I asked, not remembering the journey here or anything since lights out back at the canal.

  “A couple of hours. You don’t remember?” Cassidy pushed me back down on the cot and peered into my eyes.

  “No, I don’t think so. How’s Danny?”

  “I’m fine, Billy,” he said from his cot, a sloppy grin on his face. “Listen to the doctor and lie down.”

  “Is he?” I asked Cassidy in a whisper. “Is he really fine?”

  “He’s feeling no pain right now, due to the morphine we gave him. We got the bullet out, but he’ll need another operation in Naples. That’s a million-dollar wound he’s got there.”

  That was all I needed to hear. I closed my eyes.

  Time passed. I must’ve slept, because I know I dreamed. Of home. Danny, Mom and Dad. Uncle Dan telling stories at the tavern. Walking the beat, playing baseball and mumblety-peg. Sunday dinners. It was all nice until I lost Danny, and I was just a little kid myself, alone in a strange city, and my hands were smeared with blood.

  “Billy, what is it, what’s wrong?” It was Kaz, seated by my cot.

  “Huh?”

  “You cried out in your sleep.”

  “Bad dream, I guess. Where’s Danny? How’s Big Mike? How long…?”

  Kaz answered me, but I fell back asleep, the thought that Doc Cassidy had given me something bubbling up from the tiredness inside me.

  It was light outside when I awoke again. I was alone in the tent. I must have slept through the night, I thought, then saw I was wearing pajamas. When the hell did I put these on? I struggled to get up, felt a little dizzy, then lay down for a minute.

  “Boyle? Boyle, can you hear me?” It was Doc Cassidy, shaking my arm. I must’ve dozed off. I opened my eyes, and a lantern was the only light in the tent. How could it be night already?

  “Yeah, I hear you. What’s going on? Where’s Danny?”

  “In Naples by now. How are you feeling?”

  “Thirsty. Hungry.”

  “Good,” he said, helping me sit up and giving me a glass of water. “I was worried about you.”

  “I must’ve been tired. How long have I been out?”

  “Forty-eight hours.”

  “Impossible,” I said, although I knew it wasn’t.

  “I gave you a mild sedative when you came in here. You seemed agitated, in a state of shock. But it shouldn’t have knocked you out for two days.”

  “Big Mike?”

  “I don’t know. We relieved the pressure on his brain, and Harding got him on a hospital ship headed to Naples, where he can be treated by a specialist.”

  “What kind of specialist?”

  “A brain surgeon. Billy, he didn’t wake up. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t by now. Your Colonel Harding didn’t want to take any chances.”

  “Danny’s doing all right, isn’t he?” Please.

  “That shoulder is going to bother him whenever it rains. After a few months of physical therapy, he’ll have at least ninety percent use of it. Could have been worse.”

  “Yeah. So he’s going home?”

  “Definitely. He’s a lucky kid. He told me about Flint, and how he let him go. And being wounded by shrapnel. Yep, one lucky kid.”

  “Can I get out of here now?”

  “Can you stand?” I got my legs off the cot and stood. Wobbled a bit, but stayed vertical. I looked at Cassidy. “If you can stay upright, you can go,” he said.

  “What was wrong with me?” I asked as I shuffled around, testing my legs.

  “Shock, or to be more accurate, acute stress reaction. Pressure. Exhaustion. Moral dilemma. Guilt.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing at all. Just words from my psychiatric residency. Here. I saved a souvenir for you.” He pressed a small hunk of metal into my hand. “Keep your head down, Boyle.”

  I waited until he left. I opened my palm and saw the misshapen but unmistakable shape of a. 30 slug from an M1 carbine.

  HARDING AND KAZ walked on either side of me as we made our way to the mess tent in Hell’s Half Acre. I guess they wanted to be sure I didn’t fall facedown in the mud.

  “We’re on a PT boat out of here at 0600 tomorrow,” Harding said as we each sat with our mess kits full of hot chow.

  “Not soon enough,” I said. “I’m sorry Flint got away, Colonel.”

  “Well, at least he didn’t fill his royal flush. We’ve sent his name to the International Red Cross, in case it shows up on a POW list. Meanwhile, we’re looking into anyone who was on that road and was reported missing. We’ll figure out whose dog tags he grabbed.”

  “Any word on Big Mike?” I asked.

  “Nothing yet. Your brother is shipping out tomorrow from Naples. Sorry you’ll miss him.”

  “As long as he’s going home in one piece, I’m happy.”

  “Any idea what Flint meant?” Kaz asked. “About a joker downriver?”

  “The joker must refer to a card. Maybe he had me tagged for a joker in my pocket. Downriver? No idea. Maybe he meant in the future. Who’s to know? So what’s next, Colonel?” I said. “After Naples.”

  “Cosgrove has set something up for us in Brindisi. Then back to London. I hope to God Big Mike is alive and kicking when we get back. How about you, Boyle? Are you all right? That was a helluva nap you took.”

  “Doc Cassidy said it was a reaction to the sedative he gave me. I guess seeing Danny almost get killed was more of a shock than I thought it was.”

  “It makes sense,” Kaz said.

  “Nothing makes sense,” I said.

  They exchanged looks, and Kaz shrugged, granting me the point. I lifted a cup of coffee, and saw ripples in the black steaming brew. My hand was shaking, so I set it down. Harding and Kaz stared at their food. I tried to look at mine, but all I saw was Danny and his ruined shoulder, Big Mike inert on the ground, the look of
surprise on the face of the German with the grenade, and a blur of faceless uniforms, dappled camouflage drenched in blood. Flint, giving me his silhouette on the riverbank, daring me to shoot.

  “Billy,” Kaz said, his arm reaching toward mine. “Are you all right?”

  “Leave me alone,” I said, not wanting to lie to Kaz, or tell the truth to Harding. I settled for bitterness instead. I was hungry and I ate, which was simple, unlike everything else that had happened here. I went after my food, not caring what anyone thought, wanting only to fill my belly and get out of the Anzio Bitchhead, which was what the orderly who brought my clothes had called it. I couldn’t argue.

  PART FOUR

  BRINDISI, ITALY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Never one to miss an opportunity to improve relations with our allies, even one that had recently been our enemy, Harding had come up with the idea of returning the pearls Cole had found to the Italian royal family. Me, I had sort of hoped everyone would forget about them, and Kaz and I could do a split once we were back in London, since I’d come to know some fellows there who might be in the market for hot jewels. But Kaz was already rich, so that plan didn’t occur to him. Plus, being one of the European nobility, even if from a minor branch of that intertwined family, he felt it was the right thing to do.

  The only thing I liked about the whole idea was that Signora Salvalaggio was the one who was going to give them back to the king and queen. It was only right, since she’d practically been accused of the theft, and her whole life had been changed by it. Maybe the king would be so happy to get his mother’s pearls back that he’d give her a reward, or a castle, or whatever kings these days had to give.

  The only thing that worried me about the whole idea was that Signora Salvalaggio had insisted on bringing Ileana along. She’d taken her under her wing, and since neither had anyone else to take them in, it didn’t seem like a bad match. But escorting a former prostitute to see a king just plain made me nervous.

  We walked up the stone steps to the Swabian Castle in Brindisi, on the heel of the Italian boot. It was a medieval fortress overlooking the harbor, where King Victor Emmanuel III hung his hat. It would have been hard for him to find a suitable joint any farther from the fighting. Signora Salvalaggio was dressed in her finest black. Ileana wore a long white silk dress that the signora had helped her sew. It showed off her raven-black hair and dark eyes. I didn’t comment on the fact that it looked like parachute silk. Shopping was hard in war-torn Italy, after all.

  “Remember,” Harding had lectured us. “There are over twenty thousand Italian soldiers fighting the Germans right now, and acquitting themselves well. We want more to join them, and we want King Emmanuel to encourage it. He’s been supportive, and any little thing we can do to show our appreciation will be good for the war effort. So best behavior, Boyle.”

  I wanted to ask why he singled me out, but instead I just said, “Yes sir.”

  The beachhead seemed very far away as we trooped through the ornate rooms of the castle. I’d cleaned myself up, gotten a new dress uniform, and was currently trying to fool myself into believing everything was going to be fine. Danny was on his way home, and he’d have stories to tell. He’d proved himself in combat, and would live to tell his kids about it. Flint was hopefully in a POW cage where he wouldn’t be associating with generals, and where, with the help of the International Red Cross, we might find him. What could go wrong?

  Nothing. Except that everything already had gone wrong. I was living in a world where shooting your own brother was the logical thing to do. I had known I was going to do it, if the opportunity presented itself, for quite a while. I just hadn’t admitted it to myself, even though I knew exactly why I’d swapped for that damn carbine. Now I was having dreams of shooting shadowy men in Luftwaffe camouflage, and as they fell and their faces turned in surprise, they became Danny. All of them. I was no longer afraid for Danny; I was afraid for myself. Would I be able to pull the trigger next time? Be fast enough, quick enough, to act without thinking?

  This world had gone mad, and I was part of it. One of the faceless crowd. Flint had been right about that.

  I felt a hand on my arm. It was Kaz, and we were already standing in front of the king. How did we get here? I tried to focus, but it was all a lot of Italian mumbo-jumbo. King Victor was a bit short in the legs, and I could barely see the top of his head over Signora Salvalaggio’s bent form. Harding had a translator who gave a cleaned-up version of how the pearls were found, and then introduced the signora. She bowed, spoke for a minute, and then motioned to Ileana, who opened her purse, drew out the coiled pearls, and presented them to the king. He said something in a low voice, and nodded to one of his aides, who came and retrieved them. I knew enough Italian to hear him thank Signora Salvalaggio before he turned his back and walked away.

  “That was underwhelming,” I said. Even Harding didn’t disagree, as our small group was left alone in the large room with portraits of long-dead rulers staring down at us.

  “I am sure the king will make some gesture,” Kaz said once we were outside. Harding and Cosgrove had gone to get the staff car while we waited with the ladies. “Once he understands the value of the necklace.”

  “His mother draped herself in them,” Signora Salvalaggio said. “That family knows the value of pearls like a pig knows mud. I don’t want his money. If anyone who is left alive knows of the theft, now they know I and my officer did not do it, God rest his soul. That spineless shrimp can go to hell. His father would be ashamed of what he’s done to Italy.”

  “But it is not fair,” said Kaz. “You should have something for all this time under suspicion, not to mention for returning the pearls.”

  “You are a good man, Baron,” she said. “Truly noble, in the real sense of the word. I do not want you to worry about an old woman, or a young one, either.” She patted Ileana’s arm, who smiled at her with a gentle grace. “So I will tell you a secret.” Her fingers worked at the top buttons of her dress, and with a girlish smile showed us a short strand of pearls, which quickly disappeared beneath the folds of black. Ileana giggled as she took the old woman by the arm, guiding her to the car that Harding had just driven to the curb. I laughed, and winked at her as she waited for the door to be opened.

  “Kaz,” I said, draping my arm around his shoulder, “I don’t believe I’ve felt this good in quite some time. Let’s ditch Harding and Cosgrove and find ourselves a bar.”

  “And toast that grand lady,” he said. We were already walking away when a British Army motorcycle skidded to a halt in front of us. The rider approached Cosgrove, who had helped the ladies into the car. He handed him a note, saluted, and roared off. Cosgrove read the note, then handed it to Harding. They both looked at me.

  “What?”

  “Message from SOE headquarters here in Brindisi. I’d asked them to keep me posted,” Cosgrove said. I didn’t have to ask about what. Diana worked for the Special Operations Executive, and her mission to Rome had been planned here. She had even adopted an accent from the Brindisi area as part of her cover story.

  “Tell me,” I said, balanced on a knife edge between two worlds, one with Diana alive, the other too terrible to imagine.

  “Miss Seaton has been taken,” Cosgrove said, his voice quavering. “The Germans have her.”

  Epilogue

  Pain stabbed at his wrist where the old man had struck. He tucked the useless hand into his shirt, and waited his turn. That bastard had surprised him all right, but not as much as Boyle had. He didn’t think Boyle would shoot him in cold blood, not once he’d let Danny go. But shooting his own brother, that took some steel in the spine. He hadn’t expected that. It was fun giving him a moment’s temptation, and the bonus was watching the shot hit bone, seeing the puff of dust from the hit, sensing Danny’s blood in the air.

  He hoped Danny had given his brother the message. He couldn’t find fault with the kid. He’d fought hard, saved his skin, and hadn’t done anything stup
id. It pleased him to grant the favor, like a great lord would do for a faithful servant.

  Sooner or later, though, they all disappointed him. Rusty Gates, Cole, Landry, they were all the same. Pretending to be pals, then becoming insistent, tedious, demanding, deserving of death. Danny was too young, too new for that. Besides, his plans had to wait. He didn’t get his general or Boyle. He still had the ace of hearts and the joker to play. A man had to plan things carefully, not kill everything in sight. Unless the army wanted you to. Downriver, he knew he’d come across a general somewhere. And if he was lucky, Boyle would follow once again. This time, the joker would not get away. The Ace of Hearts would taunt him, remind him of what he’d lost, and of what Flint knew about him. Draw him in deeper. Cain and Abel, in Italy.

  The river was everything to Flint. It flowed to the killing sea, and he drifted in it, taking what he needed. Downriver, there would always be more. Downriver, Boyle waited.

  “Kommt!” The guard poked at Flint with his rifle. There were six of them in the room, seated on a bench, guards at either end. There had been seven, but one had gone into the adjacent office and not come out. Flint wasn’t worried. He knew they did it to scare them. He let the guard prod him along into the next room. “Sitzen!”

  He sat in the wooden chair facing a German officer seated at a small wooden table, a stack of papers in front of him. His cap lay on the table next to an ashtray full of cigarettes. American cigarettes. He didn’t offer one from the pack of Luckies, but lit one for himself.

  “We don’t get many prisoners from among the criminals on the canal,” the German said. He spoke English well, but carefully, drawing out each syllable, pronouncing prisoners as priz-sun-ers. It took Flint a moment to understand he was referring to the First Special Service Force.

  “Those guys make me nervous,” Flint said with a smile. “Can’t imagine how you feel.”

  “Amusing,” the German said, consulting his paperwork. “Sergeant Peter Miller. You are now a guest of the Third Reich, as will be many others from Anzio. How long have you been there?”