Читать книгу For God and Country - Mark Bowlin - Страница 13

December 29, 1943

0945 Hours

Campobasso, Italy

It had taken the group longer to get on the road than they had desired. The two younger soldiers had to be pulled from their beds by Sam and Perkin, much to the chagrin and embarrassment of the restaurateur’s daughters. Kulis, in particular, remained in such bad shape from the previous night’s debauchery that Perkin had decided it would be a safer course of action to drive himself.

While Sam and Perkin saw to the red-eyed and hungover privates, Finley-Jones and Cardosi saw to breakfast. A small café sold them a dozen cornetti—Italian croissants stuffed with butter and jam—and filled all the canteens with an indescribably black, viscous coffee.

Perkin would have liked to have spent a little more time in the picturesque village, but it was beginning to snow, and in any case, he didn’t want to deal with an angry father on behalf of his troops. Consequently, the officers unceremoniously dumped the privates into the backs of the jeeps, and the party made a hasty departure from Santa Croce del Sannio.

The going was slow because of the accumulating snow and the winding roads through the Abruzzi foothills, but it wasn’t long before they began to see indications of recent combat. Coming around one bend, the party was surprised when the landscape changed dramatically. Gone were the trees and brush, replaced by a burned and scarred hillside. Tree stumps indicated heavy artillery shelling, and two burned-out German halftracks had already begun to rust in a roadside ditch.

It was an unnerving transition, Perkin thought. One side of a hill was an idyllic winter scene. Around the bend was death and destruction. Except for the sleeping privates, the soldiers all instinctively checked their weapons, and Sam sat his Garand across his lap. Even more eerie was the absence of animals—no birds, or deer, or even rabbits. It was if the passing combat had taken all life on the hill for eternity. The remainder of the drive to the next town of any size, Campobasso, was a repetition of the same phenomena. The little highway wove through pristine mountain forest, followed by the devastation of war.

Perkin was almost relieved when Campobasso came into view. It was considerably larger than Santa Croce, but as they approached the town, it was apparent that the war had not passed Campobasso. Reminiscent of San Pietro, shattered and collapsed buildings could be seen from a distance.

A large Canadian Red Ensign and a manned roadblock greeted them as they rolled up to the town. Two soldiers in British-looking uniforms approached Perkin and Sam’s jeep, which was in the lead. The soldiers at the checkpoint offered a British salute upon recognizing officers in the jeep, but when they asked for orders, the accents were clearly North American.

“Where are you headed, sir?” a lance corporal asked of Perkin.

“We’re on our way to Eighth Army headquarters.” Perkin replied.

“Who’s that?” the lance corporal asked, indicating the sleeping Private Kulis.

“Our driver.”

The soldier laughed. “Excellent. Been on a bit of a bender? He smells like he’s had a few for the king.”

Perkin nodded, “He had some for the king, some for Roosevelt, and a few for Uncle Joe just to make sure he drank to all our allies.”

The Canadian soldier laughed again. “God bless him. A word of advice, sir. Get him tidied up or the English MPs in the rear will write him up; they never pass up the chance to chivvy the Yanks. Don’t try and cut the corner to Vasto—most of the bridges remain out, and there’s a Kiwi roadblock to the north that you should avoid. They’re searching traffic looking for contraband booze, which they’re not authorized to do because it’s not contraband, but they do it anyway.” His face darkened—he obviously had strong feelings on the issue. “It just goes straight into their own goddamned mess. Stay on this road until you get to the coast, sir, and expect a slowdown at Termoli, and then just follow the signs from there.”

Perkin thanked the soldiers and returned their salute as the jeeps passed through the roadblock, and then took in the horrors of Campobasso. A much larger town than San Pietro, it had suffered somewhat less than total destruction, but the damage and loss of homes and businesses still shocked the soldiers who had yet to harden to the worst of the vicissitudes of war.

1115 Hours

Vasto, Italy

The little procession had cleared numerous checkpoints, and they were without question in Eighth Army territory. The vehicles that they passed were a mix of Imperial equipment and American Lend-Lease, many carrying the scars of recent combat. The soldiers reflected an army as multinational as their own Fifth Army. Canadian, Indian, New Zealander, and British divisions comprised the heart of the Eighth Army, but other nationalities were also represented. Finley-Jones pointed out several small Asian soldiers that he called Gurkhas—“Splendid fellows,” he said. “Absolute brutes in battle.”

The Canadian soldier was correct: there had been little traffic on the road to the coast, but it picked up dramatically as supplies raced to the front from whatever Italian ports on the Adriatic remained functional. All along the coastal road, Perkin and Sam saw the signs of recent combat, and Sam remarked to his cousin that he imagined it was what Georgia looked like after Sherman’s army swept through—buildings had been leveled on the streets to provide effective roadblocks; stores and hospitals had been looted by retreating German troops; and ancient stone bridges had been dropped into numerous streams and rivers. The soldiers from the Fifth Army held their breath as they passed over makeshift pontoon bridges and the amazing Bailey Bridges.

When they reached the coastal highway, traffic slowed again. Kulis, after being tidied up, fell asleep once more. Perkin looked at his cousin, who seemed deep in thought.

“Somethin’ on your mind? You ain’t said much this morning.”

Sam looked around to see if Kulis was asleep, and then nodded. “After you and the boys turned in last night, I got around to reading Maggie’s letter. It’d been burning a hole in my pocket since mail call yesterday morning, but I wanted to, you know, read it in private.”

“Is there somethin’ goin’ on back home?”

Sam sighed, “I don’t belong here, Perk. I should be at home. With Maggie. It’s unfair to ask her to run that big ranch by herself. Unfair to wait for me all these years—we might not get home until ’47 or ’48, and we ain’t hardly doin’ anything here on the continent. We’re just now gettin’ started, and look how long the Great War took.” He looked hard off into the distance at a pasture that was bereft of animals.

Perkin felt his cousin’s mood shift from self-pity to anger. “I don’t believe that, Sam. Once the second front’s begun in earnest, we’ll be home before you know it. I heard there’s more than a million dogfaces headed to England for the cross-channel landing. As soon as we get ’em across, the war’s as good as over. Hell, you’ve seen how well we’ve done here, and it ain’t like Italy’s made for modern warfare. I’m telling ya, we’ll meet the Soviets in Warsaw and have a hell of a party, and I promise it’ll be long before ’48.”

“It don’t matter if we’re home by Christmas. This goddamned war is taking too long. It’s unfair for her to put up with all that crap.”

“Bear, what did Maggie say to set you off so?”

Sam hesitated, then said, “She was at our bank in Corpus to settle on a parcel of land that she bought over by Gum Hollow—”

“That’s a bit from the ranch, ain’t it?”

“Yeah, that’s OK. It’s some pretty property that abuts the back bay—we can go giggin’ for flounder there when we’re home.”

“Oh Lord, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do,” Perkin said sincerely. “Except maybe trout fishin’ in the front bay. So what’s the problem at the bank?”

“Well, she was waitin’ for her appointment, and she overheard two men talking. She looks over and one of ’em was old man Ebbins. Ronald’s dad.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah, and he started to braggin’ to this other fella about how much money he’s made off the war—”

“He didn’t!”

“He did, and it gets worse. He keeps braggin’ and then tells this other man that he hopes the war goes on forever.”

Perkin was disgusted. It was not that he didn’t know some people back home were profiting from the war, it was the unforgivable thought that a man with a son in a fighting unit in a theater of the war would voice such a sentiment.

“I hope Maggie gave him a piece of her mind.”

Sam’s frown disappeared and a proud grin spread slowly across his face. He reached over and slapped Perkin’s thigh with the back of his hand. “My girl did better than that. First she punched him in the face and knocked the old man down. Then she sat on his chest and slapped the hell outta him until the bank guard came and pulled her off. When Ebbins got to his feet, you know what that son-of-a-bitch did? He told the guard to hold her so he could hit her back. The guard wasn’t gonna do that, of course, but he was gonna have her arrested, until it came out what Ebbins said. Turns out the guard’s an old Marine and lost a son at Guadalcanal and has another boy missing in action from Makin Island. So the guard hollers out, ‘What the hell?’—although Maggie wrote ‘heck’—and he draws his nightstick and breaks old Ebbins’s collarbone faster than you can snap your fingers. I guess he was fixin’ to kill the old man, but the bank president stopped him first.”

“By God, that woman’s got some starch!” Perkin slapped his hand down on the steering wheel. “It does my heart good to hear stories like that!”

“Yeah, and believe me, that’s just her gentle side. But you know the Ebbins family ain’t likely to let that pass. I think that he would’ve pressed charges against her, except he’d either get laughed outta Texas for gettin’ beat up by a girl, or rode out on a rail for what he said. He tried to press charges against the guard, but the guard claimed he was defendin’ Maggie, so I suspect that’s that. Maggie says it likely won’t go nowhere. But all of that aside, I’m still worried about what Ebbins might try. Maggie wrote that she thinks some Mexican fella’s taken to followin’ her, and someone put sugar in her gas tank one day in town. My gas tank—it was my pickup, goddamn it! She made it to Gregory before it died on her, and she had to have the engine stripped completely down and cleaned—I don’t doubt that old Ebbins is up it to all.”

“Oh, Sam.” Perkin looked at his cousin with concern. “You gotta be just sick. You want me to write Pop?”

“He already knows. I am worried, but . . . well, Ebbins also got that guard fired from his job at the bank. So it looks like I now got a new employee—a former Marine who knows nothing about cattle, but always carries a Colt .45 that he brought home from Belleau Wood. Between her sharp tongue and that old Marine Gunny, I guess it’s Ebbins that ought to watch out!”

1645 Hours

Eighth Army Headquarters, Vasto, Italy

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I’m Captain Perkin Berger, the intelligence officer of the 1st Battalion, 141st Infantry, 36th Division. The classification of this briefing is secret. I would like to state up front that this is the work of Lieutenant Commander Jimmy Cardosi of the United States Navy. Commander Cardosi was, until about an hour ago, serving as the naval intelligence liaison to the Fifth Army. When we arrived this afternoon, he found a set of orders awaiting him, and he’s now rejoining the combined fleet.”

Perkin kept his thoughts about Cardosi’s orders to himself, but they could only mean one thing: the Allied Command was preparing for another amphibious landing in Italy. That was Cardosi’s specialty—intelligence collection prior to a landing. Maybe a shot at Rome is in the works, he thought. Or perhaps even a landing in northern Italy to cut Kesselring’s supply lines.

Cardosi had been apologetic, but Perkin could see the excitement in his face. As he made his good-byes, he pulled Perkin aside and said, “I know that if you get the chance, you’ll deal with this son-of-a-bitch. All I’m asking is to make one round from me.” Cardosi had looked around, and then lowered his voice. “I shouldn’t say anything, but based on what we talked about last night, I’m not so sure that Fifth Army’s thought through the next step for you guys. I hope I misunderstood the planners, but I think they’ve got you rednecks slated for the river. You keep your head down, Perkin, and I’ll look you up in Rome.”

He handed over his briefcase with photos and notes, shook Perkin’s hand and returned his salute. An awaiting navy jeep whisked Cardosi away. The total elapsed time from when they checked in with the US Navy liaison officer at Eighth Army to Cardosi’s departure back to the fleet was less than ten minutes.

Private Kulis and Perkin were in a darkened room in front of several officers, British and American, assigned to the Eighth Army staff. When they had arrived at the briefing room, Kulis had a crash course from a British NCO on how to work a slide projector while Perkin prepared his thoughts. The senior officer present was a British colonel from the Eighth Army staff named Scrope—an intelligence officer who looked younger than Perkin. As the briefing went on, essentially a recitation of Cardosi’s update from two days before, the British officer took copious notes. He nodded frequently, but swore intensely when Grossmann’s culpability in the Bari bombing was brought up.

“Damn him, and damn that fool colonel of yours! That whole bloody affair caught us flat-footed, you know. We didn’t know about the mustard gas aboard your freighter in the harbor, and because of that, many of our doctors didn’t know what they were treating. The gas saturated the clothing of the victims, including an untold number of British sailors, and when the doctors and nurses handled them, they picked up traces of the agent as well. Poor buggers.”

Perkin nodded uncomfortably. He didn’t want to be in the position of defending the American stockpile of the poison gas, nor the actions of the colonel who had disclosed the information to Grossmann’s agent, Antoniette Bernardi.

Perkin continued. He told the assembled officers what he knew of Grossmann’s background—where he went to school in California, what was known of his family, his major at college.

“Where did you say he went to university?” The questioner was a man with an English accent that Perkin hadn’t noticed before. Two men wearing civilian clothes were sitting in the back of the room in a dark corner not reached by the light of the slide projector. One of the men, a small gray-haired man wearing a crumpled suit, stood.

Perkin stared into the darkness for a moment, then answered, “I didn’t say, sir. I was about to mention that he went to the University of Heidelberg.”

“That makes sense, doesn’t it? Heidelberg isn’t far from Darmstadt. Were you aware that Heidelberg is a fanatical pro-Nazi university?” The small man stood and walked forward until he was in the edge of the shadows.

“No, sir, I wasn’t.”

“Yes. The Nazis took over the university in the middle part of the last decade and released those that had, well, democratic sympathies. They even made redundant a few old monarchists. Naturally, they were replaced by professors of a National Socialist bent, and the student body underwent a strict indoctrination into Nazism. In past centuries, Heidelberg was known for the fighting fraternities. Today, for feeding the officer corps of the SS.”

“Thank you, sir. I didn’t know that. I would note, however, that interrogations of the soldiers that we captured in Pisciotta indicated that while Grossmann considered himself to be a German patriot, he was also apolitical.”

The small civilian spoke again, “Thank you, Dr. Berger, that’s worth knowing. Please continue.”

Perkin stared briefly back into the shadows and then shared with the audience the remainder of what he knew about Grossmann, Bernardi, and Gerschoffer.

The small man stood and spoke again, “Would you please detail your encounter with Captain Gerschoffer for us?”

Perkin nodded and took a deep breath. This was not a subject he wanted to discuss. “Yes, sir. I was conducting a reconnaissance of the village of San Pietro, and I had acquired a German uniform. During my reconnaissance in the village, I met Gerschoffer by chance and we struck up a conversation. I realized at that point that I was talking to one of the men responsible for the terror bombings in Naples. He thought I was a panzer grenadier, so he offered to give me a ride back to my unit. I accepted, and when we were out of San Pietro, I produced a weapon and interrogated him. He told me of Grossmann’s unit of Auslandsdeutsche, and of Bernardi, although he wouldn’t give me her name, and of the penetration of the Fifth Army staff and the mustard gas at Bari.”

A British major spoke, his tone incredulous: “Am I to understand you put on a German uniform and simply strolled through the village?”

“Yes, sir. Something like that.”

“Is your German that good?”

Perkin’s audience sat forward in their seats, and he felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. For one of the few times in his life, he did not relish the attention.

“No, sir. I had, um, been wounded . . .” Perkin indicated the scars and bruises on his face. “And my face was pretty heavily bandaged. I couldn’t hardly move my lips . . . he didn’t question it.”

“Good God, man!” the British officer exclaimed. “They would have executed you!”

“It was one of those ‘it seemed like a good idea at the time’ experiences, sir. Now, if we could move on to the issue of—”

“Pardon me, Dr. Berger. How did you induce Gerschoffer to speak and what ultimately happened to him? Is he available for further interrogation?” Perkin was interrupted by the small man in the back.

A long silence. “He’s not. As I was saying, maybe we should move on to the issue of Grossmann’s training . . .” Perkin had brief flashback where he was sitting in a bloody car with Gerschoffer, the German officer pleading for his life—a plea that was answered with a scream of hatred and revenge as Perkin pulled the trigger on his Colt.

Perkin stopped for a glass of water and was glad to see his hand wasn’t trembling. He composed himself, the small man took his seat again, and the briefing continued without further questions. When Perkin finished, his audience filed out, and while Private Kulis was putting away the slides and pictures, Perkin was joined by the British colonel and the two civilians.

“Professor Berger—” the small man began.

“Excuse me, sir. I’ve not been on a faculty. I haven’t earned that title, and quite honestly, I am surprised to hear it from you, as I don’t believe I mentioned my degree. In any case, Perkin works just fine, or you can call me Captain if you prefer.”

“OK, Perkin.” It was the taller of the two civilians speaking. Also gray-haired, he was lean and fit, and spoke in an American accent. “My name is George Hill. My colleague is Charles Ackernley. We work in a combined counterintelligence task force on special issues on behalf of General Alexander. I’m on loan to the War Department from the FBI, and Mr. Ackernley worked for the Special Branch of the Metropolitan Police.”

“You’re cops?”

“Police? No. Not anymore,” Ackernly said. “We’re detectives from previous lives. We have investigative skills that most soldiers don’t have. Colonel Scrope,” he nodded to the British officer, “asked us to listen in, to see if we can help.”

“You see, Captain . . .” Scrope said, and then turned to the listening Kulis. “Private, would you step outside for a moment?”

Kulis looked to Perkin and, at Perkin’s nod, left the room.

Scrope continued, “Major Grossmann’s outfit has come to our—meaning British—attention before—and you were present when he did. When we learned of your, ah, intervention on behalf of Father Riley, and Riley told us through his brother of the events and of the American-accented German soldiers, we put out inquiries to our network in Rome. We learned enough to sketch a picture, figuratively speaking, of his Abwehr office in Rome. All of this was coming together for us about as time-coincident as it did for Fifth Army. I must say, old boy, that I’m truly grateful for your presence here today, as well as for your excellent briefing. It helps us to complete our profile, and adds many more pieces to the puzzle. We are deeply indebted for the photographs by the by, and I can assure you, they’ll be put to good use in short order.”

Perkin looked at the group and sized up the men before him. There was something going on, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He paused for a moment, then asked, “What have you learned that we don’t know, and what is your interest in me?”

Scrope didn’t answer. He looked at the American civilian, Mr. Hill, who said, “As for you, Perkin, you naturally came to our attention at Pisciotta. Were you really going to execute those soldiers before the priest arrived?” He stopped speaking and an understanding smile flitted across his face. “Don’t look so alarmed. But I should tell you that through our counterparts at Fifth Army, we’ve had a look at your file and read your after-action reports from both Salerno and San Pietro. In addition to your reconnaissance at San Pietro, we were particularly impressed with your handling of the affair at the monastery. You’re a decorated combat soldier; you seem to have a knack at being at the right place at the right time; and you don’t seem to shy away from . . . well, hard work. We have a common interest in Major Grossmann, and we’d like to pay him back for the trouble he caused from Naples to Bari—and when we get the opportunity to do so, we’ll do so in spades. If we can count on your support, we’d like it. Now, to the heart of your question, and why we’re talking to you now: we think we know what Major Grossmann will do next!”

1730 Hours

Eighth Army Headquarters, Vasto, Italy

Sam stared disbelievingly at Captain Waller Finley-Jones. “And why in God’s name would I want to do that?”

“Sam, as you chaps said long ago, we’ve seen the elephant. But for all the hard fighting that we’ve done, it’s been a slog on the beaches and in the mountains and the valleys. I’m saying we should get a close look at the street fight that’s going on now and take the lessons learned back to the division.”

“Yeah, I understood the words the first time, Waller. We sometimes even speak the same language. I just wanna know why I would want to.” Sam shook his head. He had no desire to go to the front lines to see urban warfare up close, no matter how altruistic the motives might be, but he knew that Perkin would be enthusiastic as soon as he heard of it. If Perk was going, he would feel honor-bound to go as well.

“Rome, Sam. Rome. Once we breach the Gustav Line, there’s nothing between us and Rome. No spring line, no summer line. Just open valley. But when we get to Rome, if the Germans don’t have the humanity to make it an open city, it’ll be our Stalingrad. There’ll be fights for every street, every row house, every piazza, stone by stone, yard by yard. It’s what’s happening just ten miles from here in Ortona. The Canadians are fighting the German’s 1st Paras, and it’s a laboratory of modern warfare. We should go see that laboratory for ourselves.”

“I ain’t a scientist, damn it, I’m a cowboy.”

“Oh, don’t be such an old bones, Sam. We won’t go into action, just observe it. And think through what I’ve said—even if we give Rome a miss, there’s a thousand hamlets, villages, towns and cities between here and Berlin.”

“What’s a hamlet?”

“It’s a small village.”

Sam shook his head, “Why wouldn’t we just shell the damn thing?”

“I think you’re missing the point, Sam.”

“No, Waller, I think you’re missin’ the damn point. This is my vacation, remember?”

Finley-Jones smiled at his friend. He knew that although Sam was grousing, he would come around. “It’s too cold to sit on the bloody beach, isn’t it? Come on, we’ll wake up, get some bangers and chook, and then just go have a look see.”

“What the hell’s bangers and chook? I already told ya, you ain’t gettin’ me in a whorehouse.”

Finley-Jones smirked, “Pity. No, bangers are sausages, although a little blander than those ones stuffed with hot peppers that you gave me. I shan’t forget that, and I will enjoy my revenge someday!”

The memory of Finley-Jones eating jalapeno-stuffed sausages drew a laugh from Sam. He asked, “Ain’t my fault your food’s tasteless. Why do you call ’em bangers?”

“They have a rather unfortunate tendency to explode.”

“Oh. That’s swell. Exploding sausages and chook—which is what? A detonatin’ biscuit?” Sam picked up his Garand and began to break it down for cleaning.

“I keep telling you, real biscuits are what you might call cookies; your biscuits are rather unimaginative scones; and chook . . . well, chook are army eggs.” Powdered eggs to be exact, but Finley-Jones thought he’d leave that out.

“Army eggs? You mean the green ones?”

“Only if properly cooked in copper pots, you know. What do you say?”

“I’m cleanin’ my rifle, ain’t I?”

1745 Hours

Eighth Army Headquarters, Vasto, Italy

A British orderly brought in two pots of tea and a tray of ham and butter sandwiches at the request of Colonel Scrope. Perkin sent Kulis to find the rest of their party and tell them to go ahead and find something to eat, and that he would track them down later.

“So, y’all think you know what Grossmann’s going to do next? Have any thoughts then on where he might be?”

“We do,” said Ackernly. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts as he absentmindedly put two teaspoons of sugar into an empty cup and then poured a little milk onto the sugar. Only after he had stirred the two together did he add the steaming tea.

Scrope spoke while the civilian tended to his tea. “Captain Berger, what we’re going to tell you is classified most secret. Sorry, top secret—old habits die hard. I can’t stress enough that this information needs to be closely guarded, and that unauthorized disclosure of what we’re going to tell you could severely compromise the Vatican and His Majesty’s Government.” Scrope had an intense look on his face, and to emphasize his point, he said again slowly, “Compromise His Majesty’s Government.”

“I understand, sir. Does this have something to do with Father Riley?”

Ackernly raised his hand as if to indicate he wanted to tell the story. He took a sip of tea first, and in a quiet voice he said, “Yes and no, young man. Riley is involved, but it goes much farther than a low-level priest. Have you ever heard of Monsignor Hugh O’Flaherty?”

“No, sir.”

“O’Flaherty is one of Riley’s fellow Irishmen in the Vatican. Another Jesuit. Whereas Riley was in the Jesuit Curia before being stranded in southern Italy, O’Flaherty is assigned to the Vatican Curia. If you’re not familiar with how they run things in God’s little acre, the Roman Curia are the administrative offices of the Church. They help develop, promulgate, and administer Church policy, and O’Flaherty is considered a fast-track chap. Brilliant, overly Irish, and a scratch golfer of all things.”

“Overly Irish?” Perkin asked.

“Well, yes, despite his good deeds which I’ll detail momentarily, he’s not a fan of the British Empire. He is, what one could say, that truly rare beast—a good, devout, fearless man. But a man who grew up in the shadow of the Irish Civil War and partition, and the Black and Tans. I don’t think he’d cross the street to help King George.”

“So, what’s his connection to Grossmann?”

“I’ll get to that . . . O’Flaherty was arrested by British forces in Southern Ireland in ’21, but was released without any further action. It appears to have been a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He graduated from Mungret College in Limerick and was ordained in ’25. Most of his time as a priest has been spent at the Vatican, although he has traveled extensively and he was assigned to what was essentially a diplomatic mission for a year in Haiti and the Dominican Republic. He also completed a mission in Palestine and, significantly, spent two years, ’36 to ’38, in Czechoslovakia.”

“So he’s had the opportunity to view the jackboots firsthand.”

“Exactly. Beginning during the North Africa campaigns, O’Flaherty began to visit the prisoner of war camps here in Italy, serving as an English interpreter to another Vatican official. He was always friendly to all the lads, including the English ones, and he would bring back names of the fellows he met and broadcast them over the Vatican radio. It was a great help to many families whose boys were reported as missing in action, when in fact they were prisoners of the Italians. When some of them later escaped in the confusion following your landing in September, they made it to Rome and sought out O’Flaherty. He put some of them up in his apartment—in the German College no less—and others were sent into sympathetic Italian homes. It appears that his sympathies were not just to the Allied boys but to anti-fascist Italians, Jews, and, well, anyone needing protection from the Germans.”

“How did he come to your attention?” Perkin was intrigued by the story of the Irish monsignor and was wondering how this would affect him.

“A couple of different ways, actually. Believe it or not, both of our countries still maintain a diplomatic mission to the Holy See. Although O’Flaherty is not working with us by any means, he lets our chap at the Vatican know who he’s got under his wing, and they pass him funds to help finance the operation. Also, we’ve had a handful of men trickle back to our lines from Rome, and they’ve told us of the help that they’ve received from the monsignor. That’s how we know—”

Hill, the American official, interrupted, “There may have been just a trickle back to us, but we think O’Flaherty has more than a thousand of our boys—of every flavor imaginable—tucked away in the Vatican or helpful Italian households. And when I say every flavor, that’s what I mean: Yanks, Brits, Diggers, Kiwis, Canucks, Yarpies, Rhodies—and soldiers from a hundred points in the British Empire that you and I never heard of before. Think of the footprint of a thousand Allied soldiers. So . . .”

“So,” Perkin said, finishing Hill’s thought, “if there are that many looking to get out, and they’re using the Church as a conduit, they’ve now come to the German’s attention.”

“Yes!” said Ackernly. “Therein lies the rub. O’Flaherty’s come not only to our attention, but that of Jerry as well, and I imagine the SS and the Gestapo are preparing to bugger him like a choirboy. I can’t tell you how much I admire this man whom I’ve never met, so I would feel dreadful were that to occur.”

Perkin thought for a moment. “Are you positive that he’s come to the Germans’ attention?”

Colonel Scrope looked at the others, and when Ackernly nodded, Scrope answered, “Yes. Can’t discuss sources, but we’re sure.”

“Do you have a feel for when the Gestapo might move against him?” Perkin felt his excitement mount, and he wondered, What’s my role in this?

Scrope answered again. “No. We’re getting a sense that there may be a power struggle among German intelligence agencies on this issue—specifically the Abwehr and the Gestapo. We’re not sure. We believe that the SS is conducting this train, and we have further reason to believe that they have prepared contingency plans to depose the Pope and occupy the Papal territory. We’ve even heard of plans to establish an Anti-Pope in Lichtenstein. But . . . we also have indications that a move against the Vatican is being held in abeyance.”

Ackernly nodded and said, “If that’s the case, what would you suppose that they are waiting for, young man?

Perkin considered the question. “Well, it may be that the cost of doing it would be too severe, that it’d cause too many perturbations, specifically among the Austro-German Catholic population, or in, say, Vichy France or Hungary or Croatia or neutral Ireland—that the plan’s not postponed, but in fact shelved indefinitely. No sense inflaming all of Catholicism over a thousand POWs. Or perhaps they’re waiting to see if there is a change in the fortunes of war—a turnabout on the Eastern Front. A postponement of the channel crossing. Maybe a stalemate or even a victory here in Italy. Maybe if the war shifts back in their favor, who cares what the world of Catholicism thinks?” Perkin saw Ackernly lift his eyebrows and shrug. Perkin thought he knew what Ackernly was thinking and he continued, “On the other hand, when’s Hitler ever given two hoots about what anybody thinks of him? Maybe he just wants an airtight case against the Vatican before he moves first?”

“I think that’s a triple twenty, Captain Berger.” Scrope had a pleased yet serious look about him.

Ackernly asked another question of Perkin. “Do you see how this comes together now?”

“Yes, sir, I think so . . . The Germans will use Grossmann to penetrate O’Flaherty’s network—posing as an American or British soldier. He can spend time in the Vatican halls learning O’Flaherty’s mysteries, and that information will then be used to build Hitler’s case against the Pope.”

“Indeed,” Scrope said. “Grossmann will use his unique capabilities to infiltrate O’Flaherty’s network. The information that he gathers may be used to either construct a false case positing a relationship between the Pope and Allied Intelligence, or be used as a justification for abandoning the Concordat. Remember that this is a man who we believe burned the Reichstag in order to declare emergency powers, and who certainly staged a flimsy pretext for war against Poland. This is not beyond Hitler. Regardless, the best case is that the Pope is hopelessly compromised, and the worst case is that Pius XII’s reign ends in a concentration camp, and Hitler loots Vatican City three ways to Sunday!”

Perkin nodded seriously. It was plausible. “OK. We’re in agreement about this, so what does this have to do with me?”

“Well, let’s work through the next steps together, young man.” Ackernly may have been a policeman, but he seemed more like a teacher to Perkin. “What would you do?”

“I’d go to Rome and kill Grossmann.” Judging by the reactions Perkin saw on the faces of the three men around him, he wasn’t sure that was the preferred course of action. While Hill nodded in silent approval, Scrope had an amused look about him, and Ackernly was openly skeptical.

Ackernly spoke, “Just like that?”

“Well, you gotta find him first, but yes, sir. Just like that. If O’Flaherty has an underground railroad to get escaped prisoners out of Italy, then it can work in the other direction. Look, I’m just a battalion intel officer and I’ve only been that for a few weeks . . . I don’t know about these things, but surely the OSS or MI6 have people in Rome. Why not use them? Or their transportation?”

“It’s not that simple, young man. Grossmann may be getting close to penetrating Vatican City, in which case, it’s too late. British or American intelligence needs to get to him outside the walls of God’s little acre. We can’t run the risk of establishing any linkage between us and the Pope, and while we’d like to get to him in Rome, unfortunately, our people there are few and are not the sort of chaps that specialize in the type of work you suggest. Besides, they don’t know what Grossmann looks like.”

Perkin rapped his knuckles on the table and said, “Well, I do. Send me, and if I get the chance, I’ll kill him for God and country—in Saint Peter’s Basilica, if necessary.” Perkin hardly thought about the words as he spoke them, but they were the truth. The unspoken words were, “I’ll kill him for myself.” Perkin had a burning desire to avenge the murder of Gianina, and he would be willing to take extraordinary chances to exact it.

“I’m afraid that’s out the question, Perkin,” Hill said. “You don’t have the training or the language skills for this. No,” he raised a hand to forestall a protest from Perkin, “you have demonstrated amazing talent and determination, but this isn’t for you.”

“I don’t get it, gentlemen,” Perkin said, shaking his head. “Y’all don’t have the bubbas in Rome to do it. You’re unwilling to let me do it. So what is your plan, and please, Mr. Ackernly, let’s not play the didactic game again.”

Scrope and Hill smiled as Ackernly said, “I apologize, Dr. Berger—my wife says that’s a very annoying habit. Well, here’s what we’d like from you. Enjoy your stay with Eighth Army until after the New Year’s, and then we have a small favor to ask of you.”