“Perhaps not,” Kaz said, holding the dead man’s dog tag. “This says Amos Flint.”
“Search him,” I said. “We need to find out what name Flint is using.” Kaz and I went through his pockets, but Flint must have beaten us to it.
“Nothing,” Kaz said. “The man is clever, I must say.”
“Save the compliments,” Harding said. “The fog is clearing, let’s go.”
We crossed a wooden bridge and took the road into Valmontorio, a cluster of cinderblock buildings scattered about on either side of the road as it bent north, along the bank of the Mussolini Canal. Every building had been hit. Roofs were gone; the contents of homes tumbled out into the street or were left charred inside gutted structures. It looked like a ghost town.
“Get that goddamn jeep out of sight!” barked a GI who appeared from nowhere. Suddenly men appeared in doorways and at windows. One of them waved us into a spot between two houses and beckoned us to follow inside. “What are you boys doing here?” he said, as if we’d been caught trespassing. At the far end of the room, two GIs were eating their rations, glancing occasionally at the foggy view of the shoreline and canal. A radio sat on a table, along with binoculars and a map of the coast. A rather casual observation post.
“Your rank, soldier?” Harding said, stepping forward so his insignia could be seen.
“Lieutenant George Bodine, First Special Service Force. What can I do for you, Colonel?” He made it sound like a chore to even answer the question.
“Why did you pull us in? Are there Germans close by?”
“No, Colonel, there ain’t a live Kraut within a mile of here,” Bodine said as the other two men chuckled. “But the fog is about to blow off, and in five minutes you’d be dead if you went up that road. German gunners have been waiting for hours now to spot something.”
“It doesn’t look like it’s clearing,” Kaz said, peering out through the glassless window.
“It is. You wait.”
“Lieutenant,” I said. “We’re looking for a sergeant and a private, traveling by jeep most likely, one with a mounted. 30 caliber. You see anybody like that?”
“Only visitor here was some loudmouth British general, about an hour ago. Asked a lot of stupid questions and said units like ours were a waste of resources. On some kind of inspection tour or some such bullshit.”
“What’d you say to that?” Harding asked.
“Offered to take him out on patrol tonight so he could see what the Krauts’ opinion was. He didn’t take us up on the offer. You know what they call us out here? Black devils. That’s what they think of us.”
“Why black devils?”
“Because we blacken our faces when we patrol at night. And we leave these calling cards behind, pasted to the foreheads of dead Krauts.” He handed Harding a red-and-white sticker, with the arrowhead insignia of the Force, and the words Das dicke Ende kommt noch.
“What does that mean?” Harding asked.
“The worst is yet to come,” Bodine said, with a smile. “That’s why there aren’t any Krauts within a mile or so. They began to pull back once we started going out after dark. Now we have to walk farther each night to find any.”
“Is this your right flank?”
“Hell no, Colonel. This is the rear area. Most of our guys are across the canal, set up in Sabotino and other towns over there. Nice and snug, not all blown up like this dump. This is where we bring the wounded for transport back to Anzio, and pick up supplies.”
“Does HQ know about this?”
“Maybe,” Bodine shrugged. “It’s a fluid situation.”
“Meaning you like being on your own.”
“Yes sir. Less interference from the brass, the better. Meaning no offense.”
“None taken. You’re sure about not seeing our two men pass through?”
“Yeah. Maybe they got hit back at the bridge. The Krauts like to shell that area.”
“So I noticed,” I said, then heard the shrill whistle that was becoming too familiar. I flinched, and noticed Bodine smiling.
“That’s the bridge again,” he said. “Must be another supply run. You boys might want to get a move on while the Germans are busy.”
We took his advice, heading north along the canal, and damned if the fog didn’t clear a few minutes later.
“I guess he knew what he was talking about,” I said.
“They recruited a lot of outdoorsmen for that outfit,” Harding said. “Lumberjacks, game wardens, fishermen, guys who are used to living rough. They have a sixth sense about the weather.”
“Did you believe him about not seeing Flint and Danny?”
Harding shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I?”
I glanced at Kaz, wondering if he’d picked up on it. He looked perplexed, and I gave him a minute as I drove down a tree-lined road, hoping the branches gave us some cover from the German observers, or that they wouldn’t want to waste all those shells on a single jeep.
“He didn’t ask why we were looking for them!” Kaz said, snapping his fingers. “That would be a natural question to ask.”
“Yep. Good catch, Kaz. You’ll be a detective yet.”
“Why didn’t you press him then?” Harding said, growling with irritation, at either my lack of follow-up or the fact that he hadn’t noticed it. I nodded at Kaz, giving him the go-ahead.
“Because there was only one direction for Flint to go, the same one we are taking. And, assuming Lieutenant Bodine is an honest man, Flint must have fed him some story that made him sympathetic. Something that would appeal to a solider slightly contemptuous of authority.”
“Slightly?” Harding said, as he picked up the walkie-talkie for the routine check. “Big Mike, come in. Big Mike, come in.”
Big Mike reported in. He and Cosgrove were in Santa Maria, which he said was nothing more than a cluster of farmhouses and chicken coops. Cosgrove was going through his routine, making enemies. Something he seemed to have a flair for. No sign of trouble.
We drove on, slowly, not wanting to overtake them. It began to mist, a fine drizzle that seemed to float in the air rather than fall. I scanned the few buildings that dotted the road, most of them shelled by the Germans, denying us observation posts and a dry place to sleep.
“There, Billy,” Kaz said, pointing to a stone farmhouse ahead and to our left. Whenever possible, vehicles anywhere in the beachhead were parked behind buildings to block the view of German observers in the hills. There, tucked in the lee of the farmhouse, was a jeep with a mounted machine gun. The house, set too far back to be an observation post, had not been hit by artillery. It was intact, with a full view over open fields in every direction. A perfect hideout. Kaz was still pointing, and I pressed his arm down.
“Don’t,” I said, as I carefully maintained my speed. “If Flint is looking, I don’t want him to notice anything out of the ordinary.” We had him. Now came the hard part. I continued on until a grove of trees masked a turn in the road, and pulled over. “We have to approach on foot,” I said. “Very carefully. There’s a few rows of trees we can use as cover.”
“But this way we don’t catch Flint in the act,” Kaz said.
“But we get Danny out safely,” I said, looking to Harding. He nodded, and we checked weapons, crossed the road, and ducked low as we ran through rows of turnips toward the line of trees. Lemon trees, but my mind wasn’t on fruit. It was on getting in and getting Danny out. We needed to go in hard and fast. I was most worried about being in the open, where Flint could see us. That would give him an edge, since he’d have Danny for cover and we’d be exposed. We got near the end of the trees and hunched down.
“I’ll take the back door,” I said. “Kaz, you follow me. I’ll check the jeep. If it’s ours, you stay outside and guard it. Make sure Flint doesn’t escape if he gets past me. Colonel, wait until you hear me hit the door, then go in the front. Okay?”
“Okay,” Harding said. “Low and quiet until we go in.”
“And make sure-”
“Yes, we know, Billy. We’ll be careful not to shoot Danny.”
