“From what Cassidy said, he’s pretty committed to going through with this plan. But he also said psychopaths can be impulsive, so it makes sense that he changed course so quickly.”
“If he’s like most hoodlums, he’ll have a new set of wheels in no time,” Big Mike said.
“There was a major from the Quartermaster Corps in here earlier. His jeep was stolen yesterday, down by the docks,” I said. It fit perfectly. “Big Mike, check with the officer in charge, and find out the time it was taken. If it was around 1600 hours, it was probably Flint. Tell them to approach with caution, that we want the driver and passenger taken alive. There’s a mounted. 30-caliber machine gun on that jeep, and I don’t want any itchy trigger fingers with Danny on board.”
“Sure thing, Billy.”
“What should we do next?” Kaz asked. I gazed at the map. The right flank, lightly guarded, lightly defended. A wide gap between the Germans and the First Special Service Force. That had to be it.
“We have to tempt him,” I said, looking at Cosgrove. “We have to let him think he has a chance to pull it all off. And we have to take him before he does any of it.” Once, I might not have cared if Cosgrove got himself killed, but familiarity had bred admiration, so I wanted to be reasonably certain he didn’t end up being a victim. Most of all, I wanted Danny out of Flint’s clutches. Trouble was, Flint knew that, and would use it against me.
“Billy, the time checks out,” Big Mike said, returning to the table. “The jeep was last seen at 1530 hours. That major left it there for his corporal to pick up, but when the corporal got there, he thought the major had kept it. That’s why it wasn’t reported right away.”
“Okay. They sending it out?”
“Yep, radioing it now to all units, and sending a message to the Carabinieri like you asked. And here’s the good news. The major gave them the serial number, VI-37Q-DP-4. The Q identifies it as a Quartermaster vehicle, and the DP means from the Depot Company. It ought to be pretty easy to spot a Quartermaster’s jeep with a. 30 mounted on it.”
“Good work. Now let’s catch up with Harding and get this thing rolling.” The army believed in doing things big, so each vehicle had its serial number stenciled in white paint on the front bumper. If the MPs kept their eyes open, and Flint stayed on the roads, it was only a matter of time. Big if.
Cosgrove was not going to be very popular. Harding agreed to inform First Special Service Force HQ that a senior general was coming through on an inspection tour, to determine if the unit should be disbanded. It was precisely the kind of news that would spread like wildfire throughout the brigade. If Flint came within earshot of even a single private, odds were he’d hear about it. If I’d guessed right about his plan.
“You sure you want to go through with this, Cosgrove?” Harding asked as our phony general eased himself into the backseat of the staff car. “The Force men are a rough bunch. Between Flint, the Krauts, and them, you won’t have a friend within miles.”
“Don’t worry, Sam,” Big Mike said. “I got my. 45 automatic, a Winchester Model 12 trench gun, and a. 38 police special for backup.” Harding permitted a causal familiarity from Big Mike, which no one else would ever dare to try to get away with. Big Mike did it so naturally, I don’t think Harding could take offense. Plus, Big Mike knew when to call him ‘sir.’
“Where the hell did you get a shotgun?” Harding asked.
“It’s not hard when you’ve got a supply officer desperate to get his fancy jeep back,” Big Mike said. “Automatic at my hip, shotgun by my side, revolver in my pocket, and walkie-talkie on the seat. If Major Cosgrove gets killed, you can fire me.”
“That’s General Paget to you, Sergeant,” Cosgrove said. “And if he does get me killed, Harding, break him to private and keep him in the army for life.”
“In that case, you’re safe as a baby with me,” Big Mike said, settling in behind the wheel.
“Remember, the SCR-536 has a range of only a mile. We’ll stay close, but don’t wander off, or we’ll lose you. Check in every thirty minutes.”
“Will do.” With that they were off.
Their first stop would be Valmontorio, on the coast where the Mussolini Canal ran into the sea. It was the far end of the line that the Force held, and the plan was for Cosgrove to kick up a big stink, so word would spread ahead of him. Kearns had already radioed General Frederick, who agreed to go along with the plan, and let word slip to his staff about an inspection by a British general who thought highly trained units like the FSSF were a waste of resources.
The unit held the canal north up to Sessano, and that was where Luca and his Carabinieri came in. He was there with a truckload of men, supposedly searching for spies. If we needed help, we’d send a radio message and then have reinforcements from another direction. It was a good plan, especially since GIs were used to seeing the blueuniformed Carabinieri, and tended to ignore them.
The dull crump of distant artillery rolled in from the north, and I had the usual thought: glad it’s them, not me. We went in the MP office for one last check. No one had reported seeing the missing jeep, no sign of Flint or Danny. By the time we left, the artillery was louder. Closer.
“Why’d you switch to that peashooter?” Harding said as we got into the jeep. He was carrying a Thompson submachine gun. Kaz was armed only with his Webley revolver, but he was pretty good with it and didn’t like carrying anything else. Ruined the cut of his uniform, he claimed.
“Traded with a guy who got us out of a scrape,” I said. “Besides, it’s light, and more accurate than the Thompson.”
“Just make sure you shoot him more than once with that,” Harding said. “I’ve seen Krauts take a couple of those slugs and keep running.” He was right; compared to the M1 rifle, or the Thompson, the M1 carbine round was small and less powerful. Still, it had its uses.
I drove, Kaz at my side, Harding in the back. We went along the coast road, and watched destroyers cut circles in the bay, smoke pots churning on their fantails, disappearing into the white clouds that they created. All that smoke was camouflage for an incoming convoy, and the German gunners registered their disapproval by sending a few shells after the destroyers, not even getting close but sending up great geysers of blue-and-white foam. The wind kicked up, and dark clouds drifted in from the sea, blowing the smoke in our direction. The water, air, and sky became the same uniform gray, the heavy weather covering the land with an opaque, damp, shivering chill. I steered the jeep around the occasional bomb crater not yet filled in by the engineers, who had round-the- clock work keeping roads, bridges, and airfields functioning.
Where was Danny? What would I do if he were killed out here, not by the Germans, but by a man I’d been sent to track down? How could I tell my mother, or confess my failing to my father? I ached to find Danny, and I prayed as I drove, bargaining with God, offering everything I could think of, frightened that it wasn’t God who held Danny’s future in his hands, but a homicidal maniac. I’d bargain with him too, if I knew what he wanted, and if it were mine to give.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“Look out,” Kaz said, leaning forward in his seat. “Slow down, there are shell holes all around.”
“Good reason to go faster,” Harding said from the backseat, where he’d just finished checking in with Big Mike on the walkietalkie. I maintained my speed, weaving between the blackened holes, aware of the burned-out wrecks of vehicles on either side of the road. “Looks like the Germans have this area zeroed in. Narrow road, nowhere to go. We’d be sitting ducks if it wasn’t for this fog.”
The wind had died down, leaving the coast shrouded in mist, making it hard to see where I was going. But if I couldn’t see, the Germans up in the hills sure as hell couldn’t either, and I was glad not to have a ton of explosive steel raining down on us.
“Stop!” Harding yelled. I braked, and he jumped out, running to an overturned truck, where a body lay sprawled on the ground. All I could think was, please let it not be Danny.
It wasn’t. There were bloody compresses on his chest, where medics had worked on him. Other medical debris was scattered around him. There may have been other wounded, so the medics left the corpse behind for Graves Registration.
“False alarm,” Harding said.
