“We don’t often get casualties direct from the front. Like the boys who just came in, they’ve already been patched up and sent here for further treatment. They have to be actually wounded to be sent here.” He crushed his cigarette out.
“What’s your opinion on combat fatigue?”
“Not sure. I’m a surgeon. If I can’t cut it out or sew it up, I’m at a loss. I know some cases are sent back to headquarters to do menial work. Seems sort of pathetic.”
“I agree. I’ve seen the waiters in the senior officer’s mess.”
“But Galante’s theory seems weird too. A hot meal, change of clothes, a good night’s sleep, and then wham, back to the front.”
“Isn’t that what you do? Patch them up so they can go back as soon as they’re able?”
“That’s what Galante said. I guess the difference is some of the brass don’t mind GIs in a hospital bed if they have holes in them, but they don’t like the idea of able-bodied men getting a rest from combat.”
“Able-bodied, yes. But what about their minds? Their spirits?” I thought about Jim Cole. No surgeon could ever cut out the memory of that basement, remove the guilt, and patch it all up.
“Like I said, I cut, I stitch. And I do a damn good job of it, as well as running this place. I’ve seen the inside of men’s bodies, I’ve operated on the brain more times than I like to recall. But I never saw evidence of a spirit in there. Sorry. I wish I had.” I wasn’t so sure he was. Anyone who looked for the soul between bits of bone and blood didn’t know what they were looking for.
“Did Galante have professional differences with another doctor over this? Anything more than a medical disagreement?”
“Far as I know, his serious disagreements were all with the brass at Third Division. We may debate medicine here, Lieutenant, but we’re usually too exhausted to do much about an opposing opinion. But there is someone you should talk to. Doctor Stuart Cassidy. He’s in Radiology, but he’s the closest thing we have to a shrink. He interned with a psych department in Chicago, I think. He and Galante were friendly, as far as that went with the late doctor.” Major Warren made a call, and told me to hustle out to the trucks that were being loaded. Cassidy was one of the doctors being transferred to parts unknown.
I found Cassidy sitting on the tailgate of a truck, leaning against his duffel bag. He looked young for a doctor, with wavy blond hair and an easy smile. Behind him the truck was loaded with medical supplies, stretchers, blankets, cots, and rations.
“Taking a trip, Doctor Cassidy?”
“I am, Lieutenant. Naples harbor is all I heard. You know anything about what’s happening?”
“Not a clue,” I said, introducing myself and giving Cassidy the short version of the investigation. Like everyone else within twenty miles, he knew about the murders and the suicide. “Anything you can tell me about Max Galante would be helpful.”
“Max was brilliant,” he said, without hesitation. “Too brilliant, maybe, for his own good.”
“What do you mean?”
“I happen to agree with his ideas about combat fatigue. Other units are using the same approach, and it’s working well. But Max was so sure of himself that he didn’t suffer fools gladly. Sometimes he forgot he was in the army and didn’t hold his tongue. It’s a problem with us doctors. We think we’re gods, but the army has other gods who outrank us.”
“Like Colonel Schleck, Third Division.”
“Right. Him and his assistant, Major Arnold. Max made a big stink about how they were incompetent Neanderthals for not taking combat fatigue seriously, as a disease. If he’d been more diplomatic, he’d probably be alive today.”
“You’re not saying there’s a connection?” Did Cassidy know more than he was letting on?
“Not-I just mean he would have been with his unit, and wouldn’t have run into whoever killed him. Is there a connection?”
“Not that I can see. If every guy who ran afoul of incompetent Neanderthals got killed, there wouldn’t be anyone left to fight this war.” Cassidy gave a knowing laugh. “Anything going on in Galante’s personal life that might have gotten him in trouble?”
“Can’t see it,” Cassidy said. “He spent time reading medical journals, when he could get them. Visited museums when they weren’t bombed out. He liked his landlady, said she was helping him improve his Italian. He couldn’t wait to get to Rome, poor guy. His family hailed from there, went way back to Roman times, according to him. Other than that, I can’t think of a thing.”
“Did he ever mention Sergeant Cole?”
“Sure. He got him transferred to CID after that incident in Campozillone. He was worried about him.”
“Any guys from his old outfit come to see him here?”
“Yeah, Landry, the other guy who got killed. He and Galante got on well. I know Max went to their bivouac at least once. Cole dropped by a couple of times after he started at the palace.” That was the first link I had between the two victims, not to mention Cole.
“Do you think Cole was unbalanced? Did Galante think he should have been hospitalized?” I wanted to know more about Galante and Cole, and anyone else he knew in Landry’s platoon. Like the killer, maybe.
“No. Not in the way you mean. We call it Old Sergeant’s Syndrome. Unofficially, of course.”
“What’s that, some sort of combat fatigue?”
“It’s more than that. According to current thinking, combat fatigue can be dealt with by rest and a short period of relative safety. But for those men who have fought and endured for long periods of time, there finally comes a point at which they become fatalistic. They’re usually sergeants, because simply by surviving for months in battle, they’ve been promoted. In most cases, they are the only man left of their original squad, if not platoon.”
“So hot chow and a cot won’t do it for them?”
“Nope. You can send them back on the line, but they’ll just tell you they know their number is up. They become ineffective as leaders, see themselves as dead men. They’ve reached the breaking point, and if placed in danger, they simply can’t function. And remember, these are men who, by virtue of their survival, have won citations and been praised for their bravery. Like Sergeant Cole. The incident in that village just hurried along what was about to happen. The wonder is not that he succumbed to it, but that he endured so long.”
“What’s the treatment?” I asked, starting to think about Cole, and what strings Galante had pulled to watch over him, or what regulations he’d broken. Who else knew about that?
“Well, that’s the good news. All that’s needed is to remove these men from immediate danger, and to give them something useful to do. They still want to serve, so any position off the line makes them feel useful. Once the threat of death in combat is removed, they become healthy again, especially if they have a job to do. CID was perfect for Cole.”
“But you said Galante was worried about him.” Or maybe he was worried about what Cole knew. Was there a reason Cole ended up in CID, working in the palace, where he’d have a chance to search for pearls?
“Yeah. What happened in that village produced a burden of guilt that was unusually strong. It must have weighed on him more than we thought.”
“Well, it could have been something else entirely,” I said, wondering again about the pearls and what part they played in this. The truck engine turned over, and Cassidy jumped down, hoisted the tailgate, and we shook hands.
“Good luck, Lieutenant. I hope you catch the guy. Gotta run.”
“Keep your helmet on and your head down, Captain.” I liked Cassidy, and hoped he wasn’t headed into dangerous territory. Sometimes keeping your head down just wasn’t enough.
I watched the trucks leave, with Cassidy and another doctor as passengers and enough gear and supplies for more casualties than I wanted to think about. Replacements, doctors, Naples harbor, leaves cancelled. It was obvious that a force was shipping out, but for where? They could be headed to England for all I knew. Or maybe southern France. Or Rome, who knew? Was that why Diana had to get back so quickly? No, don’t let it be Rome, I prayed silently. I don’t want her in the midst of a battle. And don’t let Danny be one of the nameless replacements either. I decided I should find a church and send up some prayers before it was too late.