‘I’ll make you a bet. I’ll bet we all come outa this with Silver Stars. I know this La Volte, see. He’s got every fuckin’ paisano guerrilla in north Italy up his sleeve. It’ll be a little Second Front, up here. They’ll kick the Krauts in the ass and we’ll be across the Po before Christmas.’
‘Yeah, right, right.’ Corrigon tried to sound enthusiastic.
‘You know why I picked you for this end, Corrigon? Hunh? Because Pulaski and Devlin there, they been slug- gin’ it out all the way since Anzio. If anything goes wrong, we’re between you and the Heinies, if there are any. And we been in here now two days and not a sign, not even any recons overhead. Hell, buddy, God lost his galoshes in here. Nobody’s gonna bother us.’
Corrigon was beginning to feel a little better. You oughta be a coach, he thought.. You’d have the whole team playin’ with broken legs.
‘Feel better?’
Corrigon nodded. ‘I’m okay, Captain. Believe me.’
Younger laughed, his all-American smile flashing through the blackface. ‘What the hell am I pumping you up for? Look, two days, we’ll be back in Naples. I’ll swing a seven-day pass for all of us out on Capri and the drinks’ll be on old Bud Younger.’
‘You’re on,’ Corrigon said.
Younger slapped him on the arm. ‘Don’t break radio silence until you’re set up. You won’t hear from us unless there’s trouble. When you’re ready, give us a call and we’ll be back at you. We won’t be a anile away from you when they make the drop.’
‘Right.’
Younger walked back to Pulaski and Devlin and said, ‘Okay, let’s saddle up.’ They started off to the north into the black night.
‘See you in a couple hours,’ Younger said jauntily and then the darkness swallowed him up. Corrigon didn’t move for a couple of minutes. He felt suddenly lonely. Fear tickled his chest. Then finally he turned to the two paisanos and swung his arm and they started off towards the lake. Fredo led the way with Sepi bringing up the rear, a tight little group walking almost on each other’s heels. In less than an hour they reached the bluff overlooking di Garda. They lay on their stomachs on top of the ridge and Corrigon
could hear the wind sighing across the lake and feel its cool breeze on his cheeks. Somewhere down below, a hundred yards away perhaps, water slapped against a shore.
‘Garda,’ Fredo whispered, pointing down the opposite side of the slope. ‘Yeah, Si,’ Corrigon whispered. It would have been nice, he thought, if just one of these Eyeties could say something in English besides ‘cigarette’ and ‘chocolate.’ But then, why should he complain? The only Italian be knew was ‘fig-fig’ and a couple of cusswords.
Typical army. Three guys behind the German lines and they can’t even talk to each other.
Corrigon took out his binoculars and scanned the darkness. Here and there small diamonds of reflected light shimmered on the rough surface of the big lake. A wave of fear washed over Corrigon and then it went away. He reached into the breast pocket of his field jacket, took out the rice-paper map, and spread it on the ground beside him, holding a tiny penlight over it. Fredo looked at it for a moment or two and nodded vigorously, smiling with a row of broken teeth, and pointing to a spot on the northeast shore of Lago di Garda. It was almost exactly on the perimeter Younger had laid out for him.
‘Phew,’ Corrigon murmured with relief.
‘Buono?’ Fredo asked. Corrigon nodded. ‘Si, very buono. Uh, the flares, uh, la flam, flame, uh...’
‘Ahh, si,’ the guerrilla answered and nodded again as he reached into the khaki duffel bag and took out one of the railroad flares. He was a nodder, this Fredo. The flare was eight inches long with a short spike attached to one side and a pull fuse on the bottom. There were twelve in the bag. Fredo and his companion, Sepi, knew exactly what to do. They had been rehearsing all afternoon, ever since Captain Younger had dropped in and made contact with La Volte. Fredo tapped Corrigon’s shoulder and pointed down at his wrist.
‘Ten to eight,’ Corrigon said.
Fredo puzzled with it a minute and then smiled again. ‘Den, den,’ he said, wriggling ten fingers in the corporal’s face.
‘Yeah, right, si, ten more minutes.’ He pointed to the duffel bag and then down the hill towards the lake and Fredo and Sepi moved out without a sound. Corrigon
listened for a full two minutes and heard nothing. They were good, no doubt about that, like cats tiptoeing on sand.
He snapped open the khaki cover on the radio and cranked it up, then spoke softly into the headset.
‘Spook One, this is Spook Two. Do you read me. Over.’ The radio crackled to life, much too loud, and Corrigon quickly turned the volume down. Sweat broke out in a thin kne across his forehead, smearing the black shoe polish on his face. His hands were wet. And they were shaking.
‘Spook One to Spook Two. Reading you loud and clear.’
‘Spook One, we’re set up. No trouble so far,’ Corrigon said.
‘Roger, Spook Two, and we’re affirmative also. Any signs yet?’
‘Negative. We got’ — he looked at his watch again — ‘seven minutes.’
‘That’s roger and we’re in synch. Out.’
‘Out,’ Corrigon said and cradled the headset. He was lying on his stomach, chewing unconsciously -on his thumb, wondering what the hell he was doing there, when he heard a sound beside him. An electric shock of fear shot through his chest and he reached for his .45 and turned on the penlight. Fredo grinned back at him.
