“I’m trying to find a way to look at this, Father. So far, there’s no reason I can find for anyone to do more than pin a Good Conduct Medal on these guys.”
“Yes, I understand. It’s a bit like my line of work, isn’t it? People seem to be fine on the surface, but it’s their eternal soul that I worry about. It takes some digging to find out the truth about a soul.”
“Sounds like you didn’t dig anything up on Landry or Galante.”
“No, and I’m not keeping anything from you. Neither took confession with me, or shared confidences. Perhaps they were what they seemed.”
“What about Sergeant Jim Cole?” I was getting a little tired of people singing the praises of the living and the dead. I needed to hear their secrets, not their eulogies. “Did he do his job?”
“He did,” Father Dare said, not meeting my eyes. He stood and began taking things out of his field pack and repacking them.
“Past tense?”
“I’m sure he’s doing a good job at CID as well.”
“When was he transferred out of the division?”
“After Monte Cesima, about a month ago.”
“Why?”
“Jim Cole is a good man. He was one of the most selfless leaders you’d ever hope to find up on the line. He never asked a man to do what he wouldn’t do, or hadn’t done a hundred times. Night patrols, taking the point, it didn’t matter, he was always there.”
“Was he in Landry’s platoon?” I couldn’t believe Cole would leave that out if he was, but I was beginning to wonder what he had left out.
“No, he was with 1st Platoon.”
“But same company? Did he know Landry and his men?”
“Damnation, Boyle! Of course they knew each other. There weren’t but a few dozen who’d been with the outfit that long. Everybody knows everybody, except for the replacements, until they’re dead or veterans.”
“What happened to Cole, Padre?”
“Leave him out of this.”
“I’ve been told that before.”
“Then I don’t need to say it again.” He threw a few decks of cards into his pack. He had a cardboard box full of them.
“Where do you get the playing cards?”
“Quartermaster. Chaplains are morale officers, among other things. I’m issued sports equipment, cards, that sort of thing. I don’t think there will be much time for baseball when they ship us out.”
“Do you usually play poker with the enlisted men?” Chaplain or no, it was frowned upon for officers and men to gamble together.
“All the time, Lieutenant Boyle, all the time. They’re a lot more fun than most of the officers, who never let me forget I’m a priest. And I love poker. I cleaned up at the seminary.” He grinned, and I couldn’t help taking a liking to him.
“But not tonight.”
“No, Flint won big. I can read most people. It comes with the profession, and it’s useful in poker. But Flint is different. Bluffing or holding four aces, it’s all the same on his face. Unreadable. The best damn poker player in the platoon.”
“They asked him if he was going to give the money back. Why?”
“It’s sort of a tradition. If I win, I use the money to help out any boys who need it. Problems at home, that sort of thing. Sometimes for the local children, if we’re in a village. When I lose big, the winner will usually pass some scrip back to me.”
“Like tipping the dealer.”
“Sort of. Word got around it was good luck, so my private goodwill fund is never entirely depleted.”
“Pretty creative, Padre. Did you play cards with Landry?”
“A couple of times. He didn’t like to gamble with the men under his command. Said he didn’t want any of them owing him money.”
“Because someone might question who he chose to take point?”
“I think so,” Father Dare said. “It’s strange, though. He’d gamble with a captain or major who might send him to his death, but he wouldn’t play with an enlisted man whom he might have to give the same order to. Doesn’t really add up, does it?”
“It makes sense to the army,” I said, giving up on understanding the logic of military rules. The padre gave a short snort of laughter and continued with his packing.
“How was Landry the last time you saw him? Was there anything unusual?”
“Not that I recall. Of course, everything here is unusual when you know you’re being fattened up for the kill. Everyone is a bit jumpy.”
“Anyone in Landry’s platoon a big loser? I mean in hock to another guy?”
“Louie. I’m sure he’s introduced himself to you.”
“Louie Walla from Walla Walla.”
“That’s Louie. He owes a few guys money from cards and craps. He won’t have much left next payday, but he’s good for it. Anyway, that couldn’t be a motive. He didn’t gamble with Landry.”
“No, I guess not. What about Stump and Flint?”
“Stump’s been up and down at cards, and he stays away from the craps games. Flint usually wins, like I said. He’s got a good poker face. Otherwise, he’s the life of the party, a real charmer most of the time.”
“Most of the time?”
“He’s also got a temper, but you don’t see it too often. I heard he got into a fight with three Italians in town and laid them all out.”
“What was it about?”
“No idea. A woman, a bottle, who knows? The boys don’t go to museums when they get a pass. They wander around, eat and drink, look for women. It doesn’t always put them in the best neighborhoods.” He stopped stuffing wool socks into his pack and sighed, shaking his head. “Listen, for all their faults, they’re a good bunch. They just like to blow off steam once in a while.”
“You ever been to that joint in Acerra? The one where one of Flint’s men had a fight?”
“That’s where Flint took on the three locals, from what I hear. Bar Raffaele on Via Volturno. And no, I haven’t been there. A chaplain would definitely put a damper on things for all concerned. Now let me finish getting my gear together so I can catch some shut-eye. Unless you need spiritual counseling.”
“Thanks for your time, Father.” As I rose to leave, he pulled a. 45 automatic from his duffel and loaded a magazine into it. “I thought chaplains were men of peace.”
“We are. Trouble is, we’re at war. The Geneva Convention allows medics and litter bearers to be armed, in order to provide protection for the wounded. Sometimes it’s necessary to guard the flock. You know what it’s like in battle, I expect. Men are on edge, their fingers on the trigger, waiting for the next threat, the next person trying to kill them. They don’t always see the red cross on a helmet or that a man is down and wounded. All they see is the uniform, and the threat it implies.”
“You think you’re going to stop a berserk German with a Schmeisser submachine gun with that?”
“I may be a man of God, but I don’t plan on being a martyr. I’ll do what I have to do to protect those under my care.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The afternoon was dark and gloomy as I sat in a line of military traffic, inching along in my jeep. We had to pull over for a truck convoy heading into the 3rd Division bivouac area. Men, artillery, and supplies flowed along the mud-caked road, nearly bumper to bumper. Something was happening, but in true army fashion, I’d be the last one to know if all my suspects shipped out to parts unknown.
