CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The explosions ahead had ended. The road was deserted. I kept running, my legs aching and my lungs burning. I wondered if a German observer was tracking me through his binoculars, figuring another dogface had gone nuts. Shell-shocked, battle-fatigued, crazy. I ran, remembering Coach’s words: Just because you feel pain, you don’t have to stop. My boots beat a rhythm on the road, and I imagined Danny waiting for me, although all I could see in my mind was a kid in short pants, running through the backyards of our neighborhood.
I stumbled, one boot catching on the pavement, and went head over heels, tucking my chin and rolling until I came up again, running. I was bleeding somewhere on my arm, and one knee felt wobbly, but I focused on picking up my feet and kept going, watching the road ahead.
Then I heard shots. Pop pop pop, followed by a rat-tat-tat, then a chorus of mayhem as automatic weapons and rifles spat fire, and I picked up the pace, ignoring the searing pain in my lungs, trying to figure out where the fight was. On the right, by the canal. Small explosions thudded, grenades maybe. I was closer to the fight now, and slowed so I could catch my breath and be ready, watching for movement along the canal. I got off the road, double-timing it across a field and into the trees and shrubs lining the bank of the canal, hoping for cover before I was spotted. I worked my way into a patch of dense brush, and stopped, kneeling as I waited for my breathing to get under control. Gasping for air, I parted the bushes and scanned the canal, both directions. Nothing. Then I saw a head pop up across the bank, about fifty yards upstream. More rifle fire sounded, then a submachine gun, probably a Schmeisser MP40.
What was this? A German raid? The Force men said they’d pushed across the canal, but they had a lot of ground to cover, and maybe the Krauts had infiltrated for prisoners. Or revenge, for all those dead sentries. I took a deep breath, the cool air easing the burning in my lungs, and made my way along the riverbank, carbine at the ready, wishing I had my Thompson and a whole lot more ammo.
I heard splashes behind me, and ducked under cover. Footsteps came up the path and I heard snatches of whispered German. Two figures darted past me, and I recognized the camouflage smocks of the Hermann Goering Division. I stepped out onto the path and squeezed off two shots into the back of one of them, then fired two more at the other guy, but I must’ve missed, because the next thing I saw was a potato-masher grenade sailing through the air in my direction. I ran back down the path, until I heard the explosion behind me, then worked my way into the underbrush and crawled forward. Shouts and cries intermingled with firing, and all I could tell was that up ahead someone was putting up a helluva fight.
I took a chance and crawled out of the underbrush and into the field, running at a crouch along the edge of the farmland, hoping the Germans were too busy with the opposition ahead to worry about where I’d gotten to. I saw the outline of burned-out buildings through the vegetation. The firing was centered on the buildings, and it seemed as if the Germans were trying to flank whoever was inside. I ran faster, closing in on the tree line and the clearing in front of the buildings.
I heard two blasts, and recognized the distinctive booming sound of a shotgun. That had to be Big Mike. Were he and Cosgrove fighting off the Krauts? I scooted forward, staying as low as I could, watching for the familiar helmets and camouflage of Goering’s Luftwaffe troopers.
A single German stood up from the undergrowth not ten yards ahead, ready to throw a grenade at one of the houses. I fired my carbine-three, four shots-wanting to be sure he didn’t make the throw. He spun around and for a second he looked at me, his mouth open wide in surprise. Then he fell backward, the grenade still in his hand. First came the explosion, then the shrieks. There were others with him, probably hurt but still alive.
I dove into the greenery again, as bullets clipped the leaves over my head. I had their attention now, and I expected another grenade at any moment. I wished I had some of my own. How many times had I fired? Seven, eight? I crawled toward the canal this time, stopping to listen for the telltale rustling of leaves and branches as Germans searched for me. I was near the path, and as I drew myself up into a crouch, I heard a voice.
“Willi?”
“ Ja,” I answered in a rough whisper. I was rewarded with a hand thrust through branches, clearing a path. I shot him twice, then fired once more in case there was somebody behind him. I backtracked. Four, maybe five shots left.
It grew quiet. Splashes again, but they sounded as if they were heading back across the canal. I went back out into the field, and circled around to the buildings. The first thing I saw was the staff car, then Big Mike on the ground. I froze. Who had been firing? Three dead Germans lay in the clearing, one more at the blown-out door to the ruined home. Shotgun shells were scattered on the ground. I made my way to Big Mike, as silently as I could. His hair was matted with blood, but he hadn’t been shot. Maybe grazed, but he was still breathing. I shook him. No response.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
I heard a noise in the bushes, rose, and aimed my carbine over the hood of the staff car. I expected Germans, and my mind took a second, maybe two, to understand what my eyes were seeing. It was Danny, pulling at a leather strap twisted tight at his neck. Flint was behind him, shoving him forward, grinning so wide I could see his white teeth gleaming against pink gums. Then I realized what the strap was: the sling of Big Mike’s shotgun. The barrel was against Danny’s head. Flint’s victims ran through my head, and I struggled not to cry out as I calculated my chances. And Danny’s. The odds were against both of us, and I felt my stomach drop and my skin go clammy. I aimed at Flint’s head, which was mostly hidden behind Danny’s. I really didn’t know what to do.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Boyle,” Flint said, pushing Danny ahead of him. Danny dug in his heels and grabbed at the strap gouging his throat, getting a finger underneath. “You saved our lives. I guess I owe you something.”
“Let Danny go,” I said. “Then we’ll be even.”
“Even? No, not after all the trouble you’ve caused. What the hell did I ever do to deserve meddling lieutenants, huh? First Landry, now you.”
“Landry just wanted to help you,” I said, knowing that meant nothing to Flint. But I figured he’d kept his grand scheme bottled up so long that he might want to talk. And if he talked, he might make a mistake while he was jabbering.
“Landry was pathetic. Falling for that whore. Can you imagine living with a woman who sold her body to other men? It’s disgusting. I did him a favor, and look what he did to me.”
“You beat up Inzerillo, and Ileana too. He sent you to Galante, on the QT, to keep you out of trouble. It’s my bet Galante wanted to put you in a loony bin, that’s why you killed him.” I kept my eyes fixed on Danny’s, hoping he wouldn’t do anything stupid.
“You’re smart, too smart for your own good. Yeah, Galante wanted to get me into a psychiatric hospital. Made it sound like going to college. We’d work together and learn new things about the human mind, he told me.” Flint’s mouth twisted in disdain for the foolishness of Galante’s efforts. “I didn’t kill him until I had to. He was going to submit paperwork to have me discharged. He shouldn’t have done that. It was his own fault.”
“Sure, it was all his fault,” I said. “Then you cooked up the crazy card scheme to confuse things, right?”
“Crazy? It worked, didn’t it?” We were less than ten feet apart. Danny had stopped struggling, his hand limp where he held the strap. “It would have worked perfectly if it wasn’t for you getting in the way.”
“Like Louie?”
“It was too bad about Louie. I told you that I bought the Walther off him after he shot the Kraut officer. But it was me. I shot Rusty and the Kraut.” He said it proudly, his vanity too strong to resist the impulse to brag. Danny struggled, and Flint twisted the strap tighter. I had to keep Flint talking to me to keep his attention off Danny.
“But why Rusty?”
“He irritated me,” Flint said. He relaxed his grip on Danny, who gulped air. Danny’s eyes widened, as if asking me what I was going to do. I had no idea.
“That’s it? What about Louie? I thought you got along with him.”
“Louie was okay, but I knew a smart-ass like you would start asking questions about the pistol, so he had to go. Too bad, because you were sniffing around him, figuring him for the killer. I liked that. You screwed up, Boyle. If
