I figured he might have run into Elliott and it made the story more plausible.
'Hey, that's funny too. We got a Major Elliott right here.'
I'd run into some really smart MPs in this war and some dumb ones. This guy either had a real subtle sense of humor or he was on the deep end of dumb. The guy with the clipboard got out as his partner started the jeep.
'Major John Elliott, Lieutenant Boyle. We 've been looking all over for you.'
He smiled, his mustache rising at the corners. He was a short, barrel-chested guy, dark haired and on the far side of thirty. He looked entirely too happy to have me in his paws.
'Miller,' he said to the MP who was still trying to figure out if there really were two Major Elliotts. 'You take this jeep. Boyle, you come with me.'
'No,' I said. I slammed the gear into reverse. I had to count on Miller being slow on the uptake and a lousy shot with the carbine that was slung over his shoulder. The other MP's hands were on the steering wheel, and Elliott hadn't made a move for the. 45 still snapped shut in his holster. It wasn't much, but it was all I had. I tried to figure my chances, but a distant sound hummed in my ears, growing louder and breaking my concentration.
'Don't do it!' Elliott yelled. Miller looked up, and so did Elliott. Two dark forms took shape in the air. Twin - engined Me110s, German fighter-bombers. They came from the direction of Gela, probably heading home from a raid on the harbor and looking for a few more Americans to strafe. They were so close to the ground I could see bright sunlight reflecting off the cockpit canopies.
Then came the sparkling of machine gun and cannon fire from the nose of each plane. The ground around us exploded as shells hit rocks, cactus, and the hard-packed earth. Elliott and the two MPs hit the dirt, making themselves as small as possible in the ditch running along the side of the road. I didn't even think about it. I jumped from my jeep, vaulted into the MP's jeep in front of me, and threw it into first, punched the accelerator, and kept my head down. Metallic tearing sounds and bright white lines surrounded me as phosphorescent tracer shells snapped at the vehicles. Twin explosions boomed behind me, not the sharp cracks of bombs, but the whump and whoosh of gas tanks igniting.
I chanced a look backward and saw the tail fins of the Me110s as the aircraft gained altitude and sped away. Three figures rose from the ditch, stumbling around the wrecked and burning jeeps, and I saw one shake his fist at me. God bless the Luftwaffe.
I kept my foot pressed to the floor. The wind whipped at my face as I outraced the swirling clouds of churning dust my tires kicked up. I smelled smoke and saw the charred hole in the passenger-seat cushion where a tracer had ignited the stuffing. There were two more holes in the floorboard. I'd gotten off pretty easy. I downshifted to take a sharp curve and felt an odd sensation in my right arm. I took my hand off the gearshift and watched rivulets of bright red blood trickle into my palm. It didn't hurt, but it surprised me. I looked at my arm, wincing as I drew it across my body. The cushion wasn't the only thing burning. I slapped at the smoldering black and glistening red above my elbow, trying to hold onto the wheel with my right hand, now sticky and slippery with blood. Oh damn. It started to hurt.
Good, I thought. If it hurts, it means I'm not going into shock. I think. I looked again at the big holes in the floor and realized that half an inch in the other direction and the slug would have taken my arm off. Of course, half an inch the other way, and I wouldn't have been breaking out in a cold clammy sweat. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. It was only a bad scratch. I got away from Elliott and was almost to Scoglitti. It wasn't so bad.
Then I laughed and pressed hard on the accelerator, picking up speed. I was bleeding, on the run from mobsters and MPs, and driving like a maniac to rendezvous with my friends in a stolen, shot-up jeep. I loved it. I had been wondering who I was only days ago. This was who: I was on the hunt, enjoying the chase, living by my wits. Living or dying. That sobered me up. Then I thought it was funny again and laughed, a mad cackle that ended as I coughed and hawked up road dust.
The next turn took me close to the beach, flat grassy land on either side, the wind bending the stalks across my path. A small peninsula jutted out from the town ahead, a church tower dominating it, shimmering against the deep blue sea beyond. The sun was at my back, illuminating the stark, bleached, almost blinding whiteness of the church. I didn't know what was going to happen next or who would be waiting for me and at that moment I didn't care. Not many people experienced a single moment of knowing exactly who they were and what they were made for. But now I knew. This was me. All the doubts about identity, guilt, and death were swept away in the gleaming sunlight.
I was the guy who did what had to be done. I might suffer for it, I might wonder what it had done to my soul, but while the Rockos of this world ran and hid from the fight, God help me, I couldn't. I saw the wounded paratrooper drop his sling in the road while his buddy limped along with him to the sound of gunfire on Biazza Ridge. I saw Villard, a look of surprise in his dying eyes, and knew I'd paid the price, and that I'd pay it again. I heard Dad telling me to remember who I was, and understood that as long as that voice echoed in my head, I would never forget, no matter what sins priests demanded I confess.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I passed beached fishing boats, tangled nets hanging over their gunwales. A wooden dock stood in pieces, gaps from age or war or both creating little wood islands in the sea. Squat stone houses lined the edge of the water, and the air smelled of salt, seaweed, and dead fish. A wrecked LST lay on its side on the beach, waves crashing around it. This was CENT Beach, the easternmost invasion area for the 45th Division. I turned away, hoping all the GIs had gotten out after the landing craft had been hit.
The street widened, a few two-and three-story buildings telling me this was the town center. Down a side street, I saw a gaggle of army vehicles, and figured that's where I'd find Kaz and Harry. I coaxed the jeep forward, hoping my driving-or the hits it had taken from the German shells-wouldn't bring it to a grinding halt. I pulled into a spot next to a flatbed truck and killed the engine. Sitting on the bed, beneath a mounted crane, were six U. S. Army field safes, doors wide open.
'Billy, where did you get that jeep?' Harry asked as he stepped out of the building in front of me. It was the biggest one on the street, great gray granite blocks painted over with a picture of Mussolini. Two GIs stood guard on either side of the door.
'Where's the money?' I asked him, not wanting to explain right then about the manhunt for me.
'Drying out, up above us. This used to be the local Fascist headquarters, and it has a nice flat roof. Just the place to dry out two million dollars' worth of scrip, don't you think? What are you doing in a shot-up MP jeep?'
'And how far away are the people who are chasing you?' That was Kaz, right behind Harry. He knew me well.
'Not far, but now they're walking. How did you get the safes here?'
'We didn't. The navy raised them,' Kaz said. 'The landing craft had swamped in only ten feet of water, so once the divers found them it wasn't difficult to get them ashore. We have a platoon guarding the building.'
'Who?' Harry asked.
'Who what?' I returned as I got out of the jeep and scanned the street. They had guards at every corner.
'Who is walking?'
'Some MPs and an AMGOT officer named Elliott. Long story… '
'You're wounded,' Kaz said, looking at my right arm. 'Come with me.'
He didn't seem fazed. Not by my bloody arm or the military police jeep with bullet holes and a smoldering seat cushion. I let him lead me inside, past Mussolini's jutting chin in a framed photo. We ended up on the roof, under an awning, watching sailors in their blue dungarees spread out drenched occupation scrip.
I had to hand it to those Fascists, they didn't scrimp when it came to setting up shop. The building had a long meeting hall, offices with ornately carved wooden desks, and an ocean view from this terrace, where we sat in the shade, watching money dry.
'You may need this stitched up,' Harry said as he cut away my shirt and cleaned the wound with sulfa powder from a first aid pack. He unwound a roll of gauze for a bandage.
