“Yeah. Tough break. I lost a good platoon leader too. Landry. What can I do for you, Boyle?”
“Tell me about Galante. You two had a disagreement, right?”
“You think I killed him because of that?” He gave a small chuckle and shook a Chesterfield from a crumpled pack. He lit up and tossed the match into the bucket.
“You had him transferred out of the division, so I doubt there’d be a reason to kill him. But what did you think of him?”
“I thought he worked hard, and was sincere in his beliefs.”
“Listen, Colonel,” I said. “It’s nice not to speak ill of the dead, but that doesn’t help me find who killed Galante and Landry.”
“Okay,” Schleck said. “He was a snotty prig who thought he was smarter than everyone else. I mean it when I say he worked hard, but he had a bad attitude.”
“About combat fatigue?”
“Listen, Boyle,” Schleck said, sitting up straight and pointing his nicotine-stained finger at me. “You start telling these boys that all they have to do to get out of the line is to go on sick call with the shakes, pretty soon you’ll have empty foxholes all across these damn mountains. You can be damn sure the Krauts don’t believe in combat fatigue.”
“You think it isn’t real?”
“I don’t say there isn’t something to it. But Galante and I differed on the cause. In my book, there’s only one way to explain why one unit, on the line as long as another, has a completely different rate of combat fatigue cases.”
“What’s that?”
“Leadership, Boyle. At every level, from generals to second lieutenants. That’s what makes the difference. Poor leadership leads to excessive cases of nervous exhaustion, or whatever the shrinks call it. In a unit with good leadership, the cases are fewer. When the men trust their officers, they have confidence, and that keeps them going.”
“But it still happens, in every unit.”
“Some men are cowards. It’s unpleasant, but it’s true.”
“Was this the reason you had Galante transferred out?”
“It was on my recommendation, yes. We needed to send a message, that there was no easy way out of combat duty. Galante was always trying to ease the burden on the men, with all good intentions, I’m sure. But the fact is, it’s a heavy burden they face. It’s not fair to them to make believe it’s anything but.”
“Okay, I get what the beef was about. You described him as snotty. Why? Because of his attitude?” I understood the difference of opinion. But the use of “snotty” spoke to something deeper, a disdain that made me suspicious.
“Holier than thou, by a mile.”
“You also said he was a prig. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing. That’s just me spouting off. He liked art, Italian history, that sort of thing. He preferred to spend his off-duty hours chatting with the locals and visiting museums. He wasn’t much of a poker player or drinker.”
“He wasn’t the only guy to visit a museum over here. Did he think he was better than you?”
“I didn’t say that. He just didn’t pass the time like most guys. We do have a few other oddballs who keep to themselves, but they do their job and don’t get anyone hurt.”
“You make him sound dangerous,” I said.
“He was. He got an entire squad killed.”
“How?”
“Ask Sergeant Jim Cole. He’s one of your CID buddies, isn’t he? Now get the hell out. If you need anything else, see my assistant, Major Arnold, next office. He will cooperate as required, but I don’t want to see you step foot in my office again.”
That was that.
M
AJOR
M
ATTHEW
A
RNOLD
wasn’t in, and his clerk said he was busy organizing the new replacements. I showed him my orders and told him to inform the major I might have questions for him. The clerk said everyone had questions for Major Arnold, like how many replacements would they get, and were any experienced men coming in. I got the impression I was everyone’s lowest priority.
I thought about Cole not saying anything about knowing Galante. That made me suspicious. If Galante did get a squad wiped out, then there would be plenty of guys looking to even the score. Maybe Landry was involved? But why hadn’t Schleck told me more, and why hadn’t anyone else mentioned it? I hoped the guys in Landry’s platoon could explain things. I drove out of the village, toward the 7th Regiment bivouac area, following the signs as they led me along roads that were little more than dirt tracks soaked from recent rains. Heavy trucks plowed the mire in both directions, splattering my jeep with thick, yellowish Italian mud.
I drove until the road turned into a field, churned into a thick ooze of ankle-deep mud by countless wheels and thousands of GI boots. Beyond was a sea of tents, rows of olive drab stretching in every direction. I gunned the jeep before I got stuck, and parked on a patch of high ground in a line with other vehicles. As I got out, my boots sank in the muck, and it began to rain. I turned up the collar of my mackinaw and ran, as best I could, to the rows of tents marked 2nd Battalion, Easy Company.
Within the tent city, planking had been set up between rows, and the going was easier. There were mess tents, medical tents, supply tents, assembly tents, and command tents. The smell of wood smoke hung in the air, as small tent stoves tried to beat back the wet chill. Around the perimeter deuce-and-a-half trucks backed up to the large supply tents and disgorged crates of food, ammunition, and all the other necessities of life and death. Communication lines were being strung throughout the encampment, wire parties carrying spools of the stuff, unreeling it through their leather-glove-clad hands.
“Third Platoon?” I asked a corporal weighed down with bandoliers of M1 ammo.
“Follow me,” he said. After a couple of turns, he nodded to a small two-man tent. Then he left, distributing the bandoliers to neighboring squad tents. I pulled aside the tent flap, wondering if a new lieutenant had been assigned yet to take over Landry’s slot. Two-man tents were usually reserved for officers.
“Close the damn flap!” I did, and wiped the rainwater from my eyes. “Lieutenant,” a voice added as an afterthought.
Seated on one cot was a staff sergeant, cleaning his Thompson submachine gun and giving me the eye. Across from him a second lieutenant fed pieces of wood into a small stove. Between the two cots and footlockers, cases of supplies, the stove, and the two guys, there wasn’t much room.
“Looking for someone, Lieutenant?” the staff sergeant asked.
“Is this 3rd Platoon? Landry’s outfit?”
“Landry’s dead,” he said. “This here is Lieutenant Evans. He has the platoon now.”
“Andy Evans,” the other fellow said. He had an eager smile, a fresh face, and shiny lieutenant’s bars on the collar of his wool shirt. We shook hands, and I introduced myself to both of them.
“Gates,” was all the sergeant said. He was no more than a couple years older than Evans, but all the freshness was long gone from his face. He worked intently on reassembling his Thompson, the scent of gun oil rising from his labors.
“Platoon Sergeant?” I asked, pointing at his stripes, three chevrons and a rocker.
“Yeah,” Gates said. His eyes narrowed as he glanced at Evans, and back to me with the faintest glimmer of interest. “You assigned to us?”
“No,” I said. “I’m here to investigate the murder of Lieutenant Landry.”
“I hear he was a good man,” Evans said. He’d understood what Gates was getting at and was trying to assert his authority. Problem was, he wouldn’t have much pull with a veteran like Gates until he survived a few days in combat without getting anyone killed for no good reason.
“Good or bad, he’s dead,” Gates said, wiping down the assembled Thompson. “Not much we can do about it.”
“Let me guess,” I said, taking a seat on Evans’s cot, glancing at the red hair sticking out from under his wool cap. “They call you Rusty.”
“Yeah. Since I was in short pants. What do you want, Lieutenant?”
“To find out who murdered Landry. You want justice for him, don’t you?”
“Andy,” Gates said, ignoring my question. “Be a good time to check on the men, see that they got a full load of ammo.”
“Good idea,” Evans said, as if he’d been about to do just that. He put on his helmet and field jacket and left, looking happy to leave this talk of his predecessor behind.
“Justice,” Gates said. “You look like you been around enough to know there’s no justice up front.”
“The murders didn’t happen at the front.”
“No, but sooner or later your number’s up. At least Landry went out clean and dry. Odds were he wouldn’t last much longer anyway. Good platoon leaders seldom do. Lucky guys and cowards have a better chance. Sorry, but I can’t get all worked up over it. I’ve seen too many come and go to care how they get it.”
“That’s a helluva attitude,” I said.
“It’s the way it is. If I can help you, I will. But I have my hands full right now with this platoon and a green second louie. They’re getting ready for something, and it’s going to happen soon. They pulled us off the line a few weeks ago, gave us clean uniforms, hot showers, good food, and plenty of passes. Not to mention replacements. There’s something brewing, and it ain’t good news, let me tell you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You ever get good news in the army?”
“You have a point. What do you think of Evans?”
“Nervous. Eager to show he’s got what it takes. He got transferred in from a supply outfit in Acerra. At least he ain’t right off the boat. He’ll screw up, then either figure things out or get himself or us killed. The usual.”
“Landry figured things out?”
“Yeah. He came to us from battalion staff. He knew some of the guys, didn’t have to prove anything. Made sure we had hot chow when he could, never volunteered, kept his head in a fight. Can’t ask for much more.”
“Except not to get killed in bivouac. Any idea who had it in for him?”
“Not a clue. No one, really. He must have seen something, or ran into someone who had a secret. Someone who knew how to break a neck.”
“Who found the body?”
“Don’t know. Some private from the transportation company, I heard. It was stashed behind a supply tent.”
“Stashed? Why do you say that?”
“I went over there as soon as I heard. Landry was next to the tent, and a set of guy wires ran above his legs. He couldn’t have fallen there. So someone stashed his body, out of sight.”
“Makes sense. Can you show me?” The photo I’d seen of Landry hadn’t shown the lower part of his body, so I’d missed the fact that he’d been placed there. And Cole hadn’t mentioned it. Was he a rookie at this, or did he have something to hide?
“Come on,” Gates said with a sigh. He donned a poncho, his helmet, and slung his Thompson, barrel down, over his shoulder. We headed out into the rain. The supply tents were at the edge of the area, a double row, back to back. There was just enough space between the guy wires from each tent to walk without tripping over them. The ground was soaked, but it hadn’t been ground up into mud yet.
“It was dry when he was found,” I said.
“Yeah, we had a clear spell for a while. It’s been raining off and on since. You looking for anything special?”
“No, just trying to get a feel for things. I saw one photograph, but it only showed his upper body. You’re right, he wasn’t killed here. So someone had to carry him from someplace else.”
“What difference does that make?”
“Don’t know yet. Maybe he didn’t want the body found until he got to Galante.”
“I heard his body was sort of hidden too. Tucked away by those fancy fountains.”
“Rusty, for a guy who doesn’t care about this investigation, you seem to know a lot about it.”
“Not much else to do around here but clean weapons and listen to scuttlebutt. You seen enough?”
“Yeah,” I said, looking down the long row of tents, a back alley of olive-drab canvas. Landry had been killed somewhere close and hidden here. It had to be close. It took some nerve to snap a man’s neck and then carry him when you could be seen at any moment. Even in the dark, you could trip over a tent stake, create a racket, and be done for. I didn’t have a good feeling about this.
“Let’s get out of the rain,” Gates said.
W
E SAT IN
the mess tent, clutching mugs of hot coffee as rainwater dripped from our clothes. Gates wiped his Thompson down and leaned it against the bench.
“Not everybody here goes around armed,” I said.
“Not everybody here has been around since Tunisia, Sicily, and Salerno. I notice you keep your .45 close at hand.”
“You never can tell,” I said. “Especially in my line of work.”
“That’s what I tell the men. If you’re always loaded for bear, the bear won’t win. It’s got to become a habit, if you want to stay alive.”
“Evans hasn’t picked it up yet,” I said. He was a couple of tables away, playing cards with three other lieutenants. Not a weapon among them.
“No. He says it’s safe here.” He shook his head at the futility of explaining things to officers, and sipped his coffee. “He hasn’t fired a weapon since he’s been in Italy, so you can’t blame him. Too much.”
“Do you know Sergeant Jim Cole?”
Gates’s eyes flickered for a second. “Jimmy Cole? Sure. He’s over at CID now, right?”
“Yeah, he’s working this case with me. How about Captain Galante? Did you know him when he was with 3rd Division?”
“Knew of him,” Gates said. He looked away at nothing in particular.
“What did you think of him?”
“I think he’s dead, and I have the living to worry about. Now I have a question for you.”
“Okay.”
“Do you think I killed them?”
“That’s not how it works. If I could—”
“Do you think I killed them?”
I looked at his hard eyes. I looked at his strong arms, and at his weapon close by. He held ready violence like a whip at his side.
“I don’t think so. But I’ve been wrong before.”
“Fair enough,” Gates said. “You want to talk to the other sergeants?”
“Sure,” I said. “But tell me about Cole and Galante first.”
“No need for that. Come on.” Gates rose, and I followed him out of the mess tent. I knew I wasn’t going to get anything more out of him about Cole, but I didn’t know why. Rusty Gates was hiding something, but I didn’t think it was murder. He was a deadly killer, yes. But everything he did was about surviving. He wanted to live, and he wanted his men to live. Landry had been a good platoon leader, and there was no percentage in seeing him dead. But as I told Gates, I’d been wrong. Dead wrong.