Free A Mortal Terror by James R. Benn

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