killed?”
Wilson’s eyes widened. Apparently his question had been a joke.
“Here, I think. We had a lot of casualties in from the Liri Valley that day. We all worked late. Bradshaw and I were both back here by eight o’clock or so. Galante never showed, but that was normal for any of us. We often sleep at the hospital if needed. After dinner, I sacked out. We’re not really suspects, are we?”
“Listen,” I said. “Most investigations are about ruling people out. I’m sure no one thinks of you as suspects, or they wouldn’t have me staying here. Were you close with Galante? Friends?”
“Friendly,” Wilson said, relaxing into his chair. “Not pals. He hadn’t been here long, and like I said, the hours can be long.”
“So the 32nd Station Hospital does more than care for calluses on the backsides of HQ types?”
“Fair amount of that,” Bradshaw offered. “When you get this many generals in one place, you tend to see a lot of normal ailments, the type of things you’d see in peacetime. Colds, influenza, gout, bad back, the list goes on.”
“A lot of them would like their own personal physician too,” Wilson said. “But we get a lot of battle casualties brought in from the line. Wounds and illnesses. We’ve had over a thousand cases of trench foot, not to mention frostbite.”
“Worse among you Americans,” Bradshaw said. “Your army needs better waterproof boots. The way it rains around here, your chaps end up living in constant mud in the mountains.”
“Could Galante have been at the palace to treat a general?” I wanted to get the conversation back to the main topic. Shortage of winter gear was a whole separate crime.
“Maybe,” Wilson said. “Hasn’t CID checked that already?” “I’ll check tomorrow. I only got in today, so I need to get up to speed.”
“From where?” Wilson asked.
“I was on vacation in Switzerland,” I said.
“Just what we need, a joker. Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”
The room was spare. One bureau with a washstand. One narrow bed. One small table and chair. One light hanging from the ceiling. One window. I tossed my duffle on the floor and sat on the bed. The springs creaked. The room smelled faintly of dust and stale air. I went to the window and opened it, despite the weather. I leaned out and lifted my face to the cold rain, hoping it would help me rally against the tiredness that was creeping through my bones. It was fully dark now, the B-17s on the airstrip lost in the gloom. I heard a jeep start up and saw headlights casting their thin glare on the rain-slicked road. Time for me to go too. Drinks at the palace. What a war.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I GRABBED A meal at the officer’s mess at the palace. Not the senior officer’s mess, which I had first mistakenly blundered into. I knew something was wrong when I saw the white tablecloths set with gold-trimmed porcelain and crystal glassware. GIs wearing white jackets carried trays of broiled steaks and other delicacies to tables graced by elderly colonels and generals who looked more like businessmen at a hotel than soldiers not far from the front. I’d backed up to the doorway, not wanting to draw attention to my silver lieutenant’s bars. I watched the diners, staff officers most likely, and wondered what they wrote home about. The atmosphere was muted, soft and swanky, the hefty clink of real silverware on porcelain somehow reassuring.
GI waiters crossed in front of me, taking orders, clearing dishes, pouring wine looted from only the best cellars. I saw one guy trip, a little stumble, losing his balance enough to send his load of plates crashing down. It was loud, the tile floor sending echoes of shattering sounds across the room. Heads rose from beefsteaks, irritated at the interruption. Turning to leave, I noticed another GI huddled in a corner, hidden from the diners by a sideboard that held glasses and dishware. He gripped the sideboard with one hand, pulling himself up, the
Wilson’s eyes widened. Apparently his question had been a joke.
“Here, I think. We had a lot of casualties in from the Liri Valley that day. We all worked late. Bradshaw and I were both back here by eight o’clock or so. Galante never showed, but that was normal for any of us. We often sleep at the hospital if needed. After dinner, I sacked out. We’re not really suspects, are we?”
“Listen,” I said. “Most investigations are about ruling people out. I’m sure no one thinks of you as suspects, or they wouldn’t have me staying here. Were you close with Galante? Friends?”
“Friendly,” Wilson said, relaxing into his chair. “Not pals. He hadn’t been here long, and like I said, the hours can be long.”
“So the 32nd Station Hospital does more than care for calluses on the backsides of HQ types?”
“Fair amount of that,” Bradshaw offered. “When you get this many generals in one place, you tend to see a lot of normal ailments, the type of things you’d see in peacetime. Colds, influenza, gout, bad back, the list goes on.”
“A lot of them would like their own personal physician too,” Wilson said. “But we get a lot of battle casualties brought in from the line. Wounds and illnesses. We’ve had over a thousand cases of trench foot, not to mention frostbite.”
“Worse among you Americans,” Bradshaw said. “Your army needs better waterproof boots. The way it rains around here, your chaps end up living in constant mud in the mountains.”
“Could Galante have been at the palace to treat a general?” I wanted to get the conversation back to the main topic. Shortage of winter gear was a whole separate crime.
“Maybe,” Wilson said. “Hasn’t CID checked that already?” “I’ll check tomorrow. I only got in today, so I need to get up to speed.”
“From where?” Wilson asked.
“I was on vacation in Switzerland,” I said.
“Just what we need, a joker. Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”
The room was spare. One bureau with a washstand. One narrow bed. One small table and chair. One light hanging from the ceiling. One window. I tossed my duffle on the floor and sat on the bed. The springs creaked. The room smelled faintly of dust and stale air. I went to the window and opened it, despite the weather. I leaned out and lifted my face to the cold rain, hoping it would help me rally against the tiredness that was creeping through my bones. It was fully dark now, the B-17s on the airstrip lost in the gloom. I heard a jeep start up and saw headlights casting their thin glare on the rain-slicked road. Time for me to go too. Drinks at the palace. What a war.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I GRABBED A meal at the officer’s mess at the palace. Not the senior officer’s mess, which I had first mistakenly blundered into. I knew something was wrong when I saw the white tablecloths set with gold-trimmed porcelain and crystal glassware. GIs wearing white jackets carried trays of broiled steaks and other delicacies to tables graced by elderly colonels and generals who looked more like businessmen at a hotel than soldiers not far from the front. I’d backed up to the doorway, not wanting to draw attention to my silver lieutenant’s bars. I watched the diners, staff officers most likely, and wondered what they wrote home about. The atmosphere was muted, soft and swanky, the hefty clink of real silverware on porcelain somehow reassuring.
GI waiters crossed in front of me, taking orders, clearing dishes, pouring wine looted from only the best cellars. I saw one guy trip, a little stumble, losing his balance enough to send his load of plates crashing down. It was loud, the tile floor sending echoes of shattering sounds across the room. Heads rose from beefsteaks, irritated at the interruption. Turning to leave, I noticed another GI huddled in a corner, hidden from the diners by a sideboard that held glasses and dishware. He gripped the sideboard with one hand, pulling himself up, the
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