A Mortal Terror (12 page)

“I’m not going to,” he said, and took another careful step away from me, sliding his feet along the narrow ledge. He raised the automatic and placed the muzzle under his chin. He didn’t move as the searchlight played over him and the crowd below gasped. He stood, rock solid, until the slightest movement of his finger shattered the night with a sharp noise, blood, and bone.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“W
HO WAS THAT
up there?” Phil Einsmann asked. He’d been coming upstairs as Kaz and I headed down, and he turned to descend with us. He handed me a handkerchief, and I must have looked at him dumbly because he made a rubbing motion. I ran the handkerchief across my face and it came away red-streaked. I’ve never gotten used to the tremendous power of the human heart, and I don’t mean its capacity to love. I mean as a pump. The last mechanical function at the moment of death by violence, the release of crimson as if the body is leaving its final mark upon this Earth. And on anyone who happens to be close by.

“It’s not a story, Phil. Not one his folks back home need to read, anyway.”

“I’m not asking as a reporter, Billy. I have a lot of friends here. Who was it?”

“Jim Cole. Sergeant with CID. Did you know him?”

“No, not really. I heard he was new with CID, saw him around, but those guys are a tight-lipped bunch. What set him off?”

“Hard to say.” I meant it.

I handed Einsmann his handkerchief, but he told me to keep it. Couldn’t blame him. I introduced him to Kaz, and then left him to go to CID. I didn’t feel like talking right now, and Kaz could tell. He took the handkerchief and wiped the side of my neck. The top of my jacket was covered in tiny dots of drying blood, and I hoped it wasn’t too noticeable. We walked among people filtering back to what they had been doing before the crazy sergeant shot himself on the roof. Shaking their heads, telling each other it was unbelievable, the poor guy must have been off his rocker. All the things people say to put as much distance between their own lives and the suddenness of death.

That was one of the terrifying things about being on the line. There was so little distance. Death was all around you, and not just during combat. It could be a mine where you didn’t expect it, a sniper shot, or a random shelling. It’s why you lived in a hole in the ground, getting as much distance as possible between yourself and the rest of the world.

I found myself standing in front of the door to CID. Staring at it. Kaz was standing by, patiently. I rubbed my eyes, shook my head, and wished I had a hole to crawl into.

“We don’t have to do this now,” Kaz said.

“Yeah, we do. I don’t want anyone going through Cole’s stuff. Might be a clue there.” I put on my cop face and opened the door.

An MP sat at his desk, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. “Jeez, Lieutenant,” he said, shaking his head. “Can you believe it?”

“Did you see it?” I asked.

“Yeah, we were trying to keep people back. That shot. The blood. I couldn’t believe it was Jim.”

“Was he acting strange at all?”

“No more jumpy than usual. He spooked easy. But I never figured he would kill himself. Jesus.”

“Did you see him leave here?”

“Yeah, I did. He went into his office, then came out a few seconds later. He must have gone straight to the roof. Jesus.”

We left the MP and went into the office Cole shared with the other CID investigators. It was empty. Cole’s desk was clean as a whistle except for the white phosphorus grenade set square in the middle of it.

“What is that?” Kaz asked, stopping short of the desk.

“It’s a new kind of grenade. M15 white phosphorus.” I walked around the desk and studied it. The safety lever and pin were both securely in place. It was about the shape and size of a beer can, painted gray with a yellow stripe around it. “When it bursts, the phosphorus makes white smoke, good for cover. It also burns incredibly hot, thousands of degrees, I’ve heard. It’s used for taking out pillboxes or fortifications, if you can get close enough.”

“Why would a CID agent have one?” Kaz asked.

“No reason at all,” I said, opening the two drawers on the side of the desk. The playing cards Cole had shown me were there, along with forms, pencils, an empty holster, and an Armed Services Edition paperback—
Deadlier Than the Male
, by James Gunn. I flipped through it and two photos fluttered to the floor.

One photo was of Cole standing in front of the Caserta Palace with two people. One of them looked like Captain Max Galante. That was a surprise, but not as much as the other.

“This is Signora Salvalaggio, Galante’s former cook and landlady,” I said. “What was Cole doing with them? For that matter, what was Galante doing with her?”

“We can ask her tonight,” Kaz said. “I am billeted with you.”

“Good, because she doesn’t speak English,” I said, as we studied the other photo, which was much more worn at the edges. It showed three GIs, arms around each other, weapons slung over their shoulders and wine bottles in their hands. It looked like a hot and dusty summer’s day. Sicily, maybe.

“That’s Cole, on the left,” I said. “And Sergeants Louie Walla and Marty Stumpf. Third Platoon. Let’s find these guys. It’s time for secrets to be told.”

We asked the MPs on duty about the WP grenade. No one had noticed it, or seen anybody bring it in. I carefully put it in my jacket pocket and we headed for the jeep. On the main floor I spotted Father Dare, and he made a beeline for me.

“Is it true? Cole killed himself?” He looked stunned, his eyes wide with hope that I’d tell him it was all a mistake.

“Yes, Father, I’m sorry to say it is. I’m heading out to find the other sergeants now. Anything you want to tell me about Cole before I do?”

“I wasn’t there, Lieutenant. Better let them tell you,” he said. “You don’t have to look far, they’re all over at the NCO club. Passes were cancelled, so they drove over here to have a few beers. They told me about Cole.”

“They saw it happen?”

“Yes, Rusty told me. They were walking to the NCO club when they saw all the commotion. Was that you up there with Cole?” He glanced at the stains on my jacket, then locked eyes with me. “What did he tell you?”

“Not nearly enough. Where’s the NCO club?”

“Across the way from the main entrance there’s a row of Quonset huts. It’s marked, you can’t miss it.”

“What were you doing here, Father?”

“I came for a good meal at the officer’s club. I have a feeling we’re pulling out very soon. More replacements came in today; we’re almost back to full strength. I think I’ve lost my appetite, though. Good night, Lieutenant.”

“Good night, Father. I’m sorry.”

Father Dare walked away, looking distraught.

“Isn’t the clergy supposed to comfort others?” Kaz asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “What do you make of a poker-playing padre who carries a .45?”

“You can be religious and still wish to defend yourself. And to gamble.”

“No law against that. Listen, while I talk with these guys, will you ask around and find out if there’s an armory in this joint, or nearby? Some place where they have M15 WP grenades?”

“Do you think it had anything to do with Cole’s suicide?”

“I don’t know. It could be evidence from some other case, for all I know. See what you can find, and we’ll meet at the officer’s mess and compare notes.”

I
T’S NOT UNHEARD
of for an officer to grab a drink or a meal at a NCO club, but as a courtesy he’s expected to ask permission of a senior noncommissioned officer present. I spotted Rusty Gates and figured a platoon sergeant was senior enough.

“Mind if I join you fellows for a while?” Gates was sitting with Louie Walla from Walla Walla, Flint, and Stump. It was a subdued crowd. “Be glad to buy a round.”

“You just bought yourself a chair, Lieutenant,” Flint said, making room at the table. Gates gave me a nod, then signaled to the bar for five beers.

“Call me Billy, fellas. I was a cop back home, and I still turn around and look for my father when someone calls me lieutenant.”

“You’re in the family business, then?” Flint said.

“Until the war, yeah.”

“Looks like you’re still keeping your hand in,” Stump said. “Asking all those questions.”

“And I’ve got more. That’s why most cops don’t have a lot of friends outside the job. Always asking questions, it tends to get on people’s nerves.”

The beers came, and I waited to see who would say it, if anyone would. I held onto my bottle, half-raised in a toast.

“To Jim Cole,” Gates said. They all repeated his name, then we clinked bottles and drank.

“Was that you up there with Cole?” Louie asked, gesturing with his beer bottle to the rust-colored stains on my jacket.

“Yeah. Major Kearns thought I should try talking him down. You guys saw it all, right?”

“We did,” Gates said. “Now I suppose you want to know the whole story?”

“Yep. And why you all held back.”

“It was for Jim,” Louie said. “We was doin’ him a favor, goddamn it.”

“It’s okay, Louie, it’s okay,” Gates said. “Flint, tell Billy what happened.”

Flint took a long draw on his beer, set it down hard, and pursed his lips. He shook his head before beginning, as if he wondered if this was a good idea. “I was assistant squad leader. Cole was my sergeant. He came over from First Platoon after we lost a couple of guys. He knew what he was doing; he’d been with the company longer than anyone.”

“Since North Africa,” I said.

“Yeah. That had started to bother him. You know, with so many guys killed and wounded, and not a scratch on him. He kept saying his number was up, it had to be.”

“Everybody worries about that,” Gates said. “That wasn’t the problem.”

“Right, right. The problem was Campozillone,” Flint said. He gulped the rest of his beer. “It’s a little village near the base of Monte Cesima. The division was advancing on Mignano, and we had to clear Campozillone of Germans. It was a small place, but it overlooked the main road. It was on a hill, with a big stone church at the top, like a lot of these villages.”

“Good place for an observation post,” I said.

“Yeah. Landry and the rest of the company stayed on the main road while Third Platoon hustled up this dirt track. The village had taken an artillery barrage the night before, and we hoped the Jerries got the message and cleared out. When we got there, it was all narrow streets, like switchbacks, heading up to the church. The buildings were real close together, made from white stone, like granite. Solid.”

“Them switchbacks were perfect for an ambush,” Louie said.

“Yeah. It was real quiet at first. Some buildings were piles of rubble. Others were fine. It was hard to tell if they were homes or shops or what. They were all shuttered up. So we keep going, checking out alleyways and side streets, advancing up toward the church. No sign of Germans or civilians.”

“It was hot,” Stump said. “I remember sweating. Hot for November, even in Italy.”

“Hot,” Flint agreed. “We were almost to the church, and it seemed like the Germans might have pulled out after all. There was a set of steps leading up to the road, so we took them, our squad. The others went around the bend in the road, and we went up the steps, figuring to save time.”

“It wasn’t a bad move,” Louie said. Everyone nodded their agreement.

“Then the Krauts opened up. Machine gun in a cellar window, at the head of the steps. They had the road and the steps covered. We lost two guys right away. One, MacMillan, had been with us a while. The other was a replacement, I never got his name.”

“We was pinned down,” Louie said. “Stump and me. Rusty was with us. We had one guy wounded, out in the middle of the street, but we were all holed up in doorways, nowhere to go.”

“We started lobbing grenades,” Flint said. “But they’d miss the window and bounce away. Some of these buildings had real narrow basement windows, and that’s where the Krauts set up. Like a pillbox. The building between us and the Krauts was nothing but rubble, which blocked all the entrances on our side. We couldn’t get at them.”

“Bishop was out in the street, hit pretty bad in the legs,” Gates said. “They left him alone, hoping one of us would try to get to him.”

“We was screwed,” Louie said.

“What happened?” I asked.

“The MG42 stopped,” Flint said. “A few rifle shots, then they were gone. The medics got to Bishop, and we kept going. But now we knew they were probably setting up somewhere between us and the church. Everyone was mad. We wanted to get those bastards. Mac and Bishop, plus that kid—it got us all pissed off. You know how it is, when one minute you’re so scared you just want to get into the deepest hole you can find, and then something happens, your blood’s up, and you’re doing something that might get you killed. It was like that. We moved up, hugging the walls, watching for those basement windows, waiting for shutters to swing open and the MG to open up again.”

“We were all jumpy,” Stump said. “Lots of firing at shadows.”

“Our squad was in the lead,” Flint said. “Cole took point. We were about fifty yards from the church, only one more switchback to go. I was looking at the bell tower, watching for snipers. I heard Cole say something and saw him point to a building at the top of the road. The roof had been caved in, but the rest of it was intact. It had stone steps leading up to the front door, and two small windows with bars on them on either side of the steps.”

“I heard him yell for covering fire,” Gates said.

“Yeah, then everyone started shooting. He ran toward the building, and I followed, shooting and yelling. We were all a little crazed, you know? Cole was screaming about the basement, that he saw movement, and to fire at the windows. I did, and as we got close, he pulled out a WP grenade, one of those new M15 gizmos, you know? And I figure, good idea, even if he misses, some of that Willie Peter will spray into the basement and fix those Krauts good. So he throws, and Jesus, it was a beautiful shot. The windows were a bit high off the ground, which made it a little easier, but it sailed in there perfectly. You saw it, Louie, wasn’t that a shot?”

“Right between the bars,” Louie said. “Cole had a helluva arm.”