A Mortal Terror

by James R Benn

  “Go,” he said, working at a section of roof that had pinned one leg.

  Mortar rounds churned the water in the canal, but Flint was headed straight for it, Danny in tow. He was ahead of Danny, keeping him as a shield. In seconds they were in the canal, Flint making his way through the waist-deep water. I heard a German machine gun open up, close by. There were still plenty of them out there. Then, a burst stitched across the water, driving me back. Flint and Danny were up on the other bank now, Danny fighting, punching at Flint with one hand and trying to get a grip on the shotgun with the other. Flint had only one good hand, and he needed it to hold onto Danny, to keep him between us. He kicked Danny twice, and that put an end to his fight.

  Rifle fire picked up. Something was happening, but I couldn’t focus on it. Flint stood with Danny on the opposite bank, his good arm around his neck. He yelled something, but with more mortar rounds dropping all over, it was lost. I knelt, and braced my arm on my knee, aiming at Flint. I could see his white teeth, his mouth wide, speaking to Danny, his eyes on me all the time. I watched Danny, wondering if Flint would take him, or find a way to kill him. And if Danny got away, how long until a bullet or a bomb caught up to him? How long until he’d be a corpse or a combat fatigue case, unable to control the shakes, his dreams and waking nightmares, his life? I didn’t want him serving beefsteak to the brass and diving for cover every time a plate dropped. I didn’t want Danny to become one of the faceless crowd of casualties in this war.

  I tried to count the number of shots I’d fired. Flint was too far away for the pistol, so it had to be the carbine. Gunfire echoed up and down the canal, louder now, and more explosions hit behind me, the Germans working their mortars overtime. I steadied myself, let out a breath, lined up the target in the sights.

  Flint shouted one last time, then pushed Danny down the bank. He stood alone for a moment, silhouetted against the sky. Danny faced away from me, trying to free the shotgun, its strap still twisted around his neck. I had my target. I fired.

  And shot my brother.

  I WAITED, WATCHING for Flint, but he was gone. So was the machine-gun fire. I tossed the carbine away and ran to Danny, my legs heavy in the brackish water. His right shoulder was bloody, and his eyes dazed. He blinked, as if he thought I might not be real.

  “What happened?” He clutched at my arm, wincing in pain. It tore me apart, and I held back the tears I knew would give me away.

  “You’ve been hit. Take it easy, I got you.” I took the shotgun from around his neck and hung it from my shoulder. I picked up Danny like I’d done so many times, carrying him in from the backseat of the car, sound asleep, cradled in my arms. His weight was nothing as he rested his head on my chest, grabbing at my shirt with his good arm, his face contorted in pain.

  “Am I going to make it, Billy?”

  “Don’t talk stupid, Danny. You caught some shrapnel in your shoulder, that’s all. You’ll be fine.” I sloshed through the water, watching Cosgrove turn over Big Mike, wadding his jacket under his head for a pillow.

  “Flint?” Danny said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “He got away.”

  “Why didn’t you shoot?”

  “I did. I only had one round left, and I missed. What did he say to you?” I laid Danny down, leaning him against the fender of the car, next to Big Mike.

  “He said the joker would be waiting for you, downriver.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yeah. He told me that he was granting you a favor, like you asked. Since I hadn’t disappointed him.”

  “You have any idea what that meant?” I pulled open his uniform, sprinkling sulfa on the wound, and applied a compress from the first-aid pack that Cosgrove had retrieved from the car.

  “No. I have no idea what anything means.” Danny gritted his teeth, grimacing with pain. The bullet was still in there, nestled in a mix of shattered bone and muscle. He needed a hospital, and so did Big Mike.

  “How is he?” I asked Cosgrove, who was trying to clean Big Mike’s wound with water from a canteen.

  “Breathing, is all I can say.”

  “Thanks for getting the drop on Flint. That was just in time.”

  “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 D
oc 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, an
d 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.”