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?”
