I nodded, following the black wire up and out the rear of the tent, where it was tied together with a bundle of other insulated wire.
'That line is spliced into the civilian telephone network. With this dialer, also German, you can call any number in Sicily.'
'Who did Hutton talk to on this thing?' I was having a hard time imagining Aloysius Hutton as the kingpin of a Mafia conspiracy, huddled in here calling mobsters all over Sicily.
'I don't think he talked to anyone. He didn't speak Italian, and he wasn't much of a talker anyway.'
'But he could make a call and route it to anyone connected through this switchboard?'
'Sure,' Howard said. 'Or anyone connected through any of our switchboards.'
'Like the divisional Supply Company?'
'Definitely, along with division HQ, Corps HQ…'
'What about AMGOT?'
'Yep, we have them too, the Syracuse HQ and the Gela Civil Affairs Office,' Howard said. 'Connect this with our high-frequency radio, and I could give Ike himself a call in Algiers.'
'Get much radio traffic between AMGOT and the 45th?'
'Fair amount. The Civil Affairs officers call in from towns all along our front.'
'What about a Major Elliott?'
'Yeah, I've seen his name on a lot of messages. Some coded, some in the clear.'
Now I knew why Rocko was so broken up to hear Hutton had been killed. Hutton was his way to contact Vito, Elliott, and whoever else was in on this.
'So Lieutenant Andrews arranged for Hutton to be assigned to Rocko at the supply depot, so he could keep an eye on him and have him make a call whenever he needed to,' I said, spelling it out. 'But Hutton was in your platoon-right?-not Andrews's. How come he was sent to work for Rocko?'
Howard answered, 'I didn't have any choice about assigning Hutton. Orders came from division.'
'From who, exactly?'
'Don't know. That's what Captain Stanton said. He wasn't too happy about it either. You figure something funny is going on here?'
'Rocko was killed. Murdered,' I added, stressing the distinction.
'You think Hutton was mixed up in something illegal?'
'Hard to figure him for a crook.'
'I agree. He was a good kid. You got any idea who's behind all this?' 'I'm working on it.'
'What a waste,' Howard said as he looked at the contents of the tent, the tools lined up neatly on the workbench, dust starting to settle on the hardware.
'Just so you know, Hutton did OK up on Biazza Ridge. He stood his ground.'
'Good for him. I hope he didn't suffer when he got it,' Howard said.
'No,' I said, remembering the hole in his forehead and how he had quietly slumped over his rifle. 'I don't think he knew what hit him.'
'Thanks. You seem OK for a headquarters louie.'
'All depends on who you ask. Mind if I look around here a bit?'
'Knock yourself out, pal. Just don't make any long-distance calls.'
Howard left and I began to search the tent. For what exactly, I had no idea. With so much funny business going on, there was sure to be some sign of something shady, if only I could recognize it when I saw it. There were technical manuals stacked everywhere, so I flipped through the pages, looking for notes or maybe Mussolini's phone number. A couple of well-read Popular Mechanics issues from 1940 had loose pages falling out. I lifted up every piece of equipment and looked underneath. Nothing but dust. Checked the few items of clothing that were left scattered around and felt under the cot frame. Nothing but a wad of chewing gum.
There weren't any of Hutton's personal effects; those must have been picked up to be shipped home. If there was anything out of place, Howard would probably have noticed. Which meant if Hutton had left anything, he'd had a hidey-hole. I tried to put myself in his place. A loner, he liked to tinker with things. I remembered his hands were smooth, with long tapering fingers. Perfect hands for working with tubes and connections in cramped spaces. He didn't talk much, didn't bunk with anyone, so he probably didn't have a lot of pals. Where would he place his trust? What would seem to be a safe place to him?
I picked up a thin screwdriver from the workbench and eyed the piles of equipment. There were a lot of screws holding these things together, and I tried to guess which one he'd pick. It had to be one he knew no one else would use. The BD-72? No, I'd seen half a dozen others in operation in the Message Section tent. Someone might need a replacement and take his. But no one would need German equipment, right? I got to work on the dialer and the exchange device, unscrewing a wooden side panel from each and looking inside. Nothing. I screwed the sides back on and decided Hutton would not have risked taking these things apart-too many things might go wrong.
I sat back in his chair and stared at the thing. A thin metal plaque was fixed to the side with a diagram of the circuits and a bunch of German writing. Howard had been right about the name- Umtauschtelefonschnittstelle-it was a mouthful. I found a flashlight on the workbench and shined it on the metal. Four small screws held it in place; two of them had very small scratches at the end of the slot. Of course. No need to take it apart at all.
I found a smaller screwdriver and took out three screws. The plaque swiveled down, hanging by the single bottom right screw, as a small piece of paper fell to the table. I picked it up and read five rows of numbers, printed in a neat, precise hand.
92221166
09137422
32290664
71910900
230933
If I hadn't been sitting down, you could have knocked me over with that slip of paper. I had no idea what the first four numbers were, but I knew the last one by heart. It was the main phone number of the Hotel St. George in Algiers. General Eisenhower's headquarters.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I replaced the plaque and put Hutton's tools back where I'd found them. I felt sorry for the kid. I was sure he had been dragged into this by Andrews to get Rocko off his back, and had only been doing what he was told. This, clearly, had been his world: wires and gizmos, radios and transceivers, the stuff of colorful Popular Mechanics covers. A page that had fallen out of one of the magazines lay at my feet. It was headlined RADIO GOES TO WAR! Problem was, it didn't always come home.
'You!'
I swiveled in my seat to see a finger pointed at me. At the other end was Captain Stanton, his red hair no match for the color rising up from his neck.
'Stand up, goddamn it,' he said. 'Now!'
I wasn't as worried about the finger pointed at me as I was about the carbine held by the same MP who had kept me out of the Code Section. It wasn't at port arms anymore.
'Sure thing,' I said, standing up, keeping the piece of paper folded in the palm of my hand. 'What's the problem, sir?'
I placed my hand on my hip, as if my back were sore, slipping the paper into my belt. The MP got nervous, stepping forward and motioning 'hands up' with the carbine.
'Hold on, fellas,' I said, reaching for the sky. 'We're all friends here, right?'
Neither of them wanted to be my pal. The MP held the carbine up to my neck as he took my. 45 from the holster then shoved me out of the tent.
'What's going on?' I asked, looking around for a friendly face.
'You're not asking the questions here, Boyle, so shut up,' Stanton growled.
