The first building was long and narrow. Stalks of dried dead grass stuck out from sagging drainpipes. Open windows revealed machinery sitting idle in the darkness. Lathes, maybe, I don't know. I never liked getting close to factory work. Long hours doing the same thing while worrying about losing fingers never held any attraction for me.
Peering around the corner, I saw a single deuce-and-half truck parked near the open door at the front of the building. GIs wearing the 45th Division shoulder patch were loading up boxes and gear, pulling out, like the corporal had said. Watching the windows as I walked toward them, I tried to sense any movement inside, any furtive shuffling or shadowy figures. There was nothing, only the beat of my heart and the thuds of heavy cartons being dropped on the truck bed.
I smiled, my best friend-of-the-enlisted man smile. 'Hey, fellas, anyone else around here?'
'Who you looking for? Hey, Renzo, come sta?'
The private, who looked like he was ready for his sixteenth birthday, exchanged some halting Italian and sign language with Renzo, grinning. He gave him a pack of Luckies and they shook hands warmly.
'Renzo's a great guy,' he said. 'What are you all looking for? Kind of an odd bunch, aren't you?'
He didn't even try to salute Kaz or Harry. Me, I could've been their driver in my OD undershirt and bandaged right arm. I liked his attitude right away.
'We're looking for an AMGOT print shop. We're supposed to meet a guy there,' I said.
'You came to the right place. They're taking over our joint now that we're moving out.'
'You're the chap who draws Willie and Joe, ' Harry said. 'I saw your picture in the newspaper back in Tunisia. How come no drawings in the paper here?'
'That's me, Bill Mauldin's the name. We 're heading up to Caltanis-setta now, and if we can find a photoengraver and zinc plates, Willie and Joe will be back in business. Wasn't enough here to work with. Gotta go,' he said, as the engine started and the other GI newspapermen climbed aboard.
'Wait,' I said. 'Where's the AMGOT print shop? Is anybody there?'
'Next building over, down at the far end. They're using a small press they found there, but they're going to move into this place as soon as they get reliable electricity. Turning presses by hand is a bear of a job!'
The truck pulled away, Mauldin waving and calling out to Renzo, ' Arrivederci!'
Everyone was cheery, but my arm was throbbing and I didn't like standing out in the open.
'Let's get inside,' I said, glancing up at the roofline of the building across from us.
We went through the double doors. Tables held tin cans full of cigarette butts, empty wine bottles, and scattered pages of the 45th Division News. It was dark and cooler inside, the concrete walls damp and musty. Behind the tables was a printing press, the huge rollers idle but still glistening with ink from the last run. The room smelled of ink, oil, and tobacco, with the yeasty smell of old wine and sweat thrown in. Any newspaperman I'd known in Boston would have felt right at home.
'Lieutenant Boyle.'
I jumped at the sound of my name, startled that someone had come up behind us without our hearing him. The voice came from a figure in the doorway, but my eyes weren't adjusted to the darkness yet and with bright sunlight behind him, I couldn't make him out right away. I could only see his outline and the position of his hands. None of it was threatening. Then his face became clear.
'Howard?' It was the Signals Company lieutenant. Kaz looked at me, one eyebrow raised and the Webley pointed in the general direction of the doorway.
'Yes. Lieutenant Frank Howard, 45th Division Signals,' he said, extending his hand to Kaz and Harry, who introduced themselves. I was trying to think why he might be here or how he'd known we were. Perhaps Harding had told him, but before I could ask, he and Renzo were shaking hands.
' Sono contento di conoscerla, Sergente, 'Howard said, returning Renzo's salute.
'What the hell are you doing here?' I asked.
'I have a message for you.'
'How did you know I was here?'
'I wasn't certain you would be. Can we talk privately?'
'If it's about the matter we discussed earlier, Kaz and Harry work with me. They know everything I do.' Or don't. But I didn't bother saying that.
'OK,' Howard said, leaning against a table and pulling out a crumpled pack of Luckies. He lit one with a shiny Zippo, took a deep drag on it, and spoke as the smoke wafted from his mouth. 'There was an uproar after Corporal Miecznikowski let you get away. Or I should say Private, since Stanton busted him and threatened to have him court-martialed for leaving his post. What happened to you anyway?' He seemed finally to notice that I wasn't in the same shape as when he'd last seen me.
'Little run-in with the Luftwaffe. That's too bad about Big Mike.'
'Yeah, well, no good deed goes unpunished. Mike's a stand-up guy, and if he thought you were on the level, then you're OK in my book. So when a message came through for Major Elliott from AMGOT in Gela, I took a look.'
'What did it say?'
'That you were headed here, to the AMGOT printing facility in Vittoria, and that Elliott should follow to make certain you arrived. There are two Mafia gunmen waiting and a thousand-dollar contract out on you. In real greenbacks, not occupation currency.'
'They said that in an open radio message?' Harry asked.
'No, it was in code, to be delivered to Elliott. He's on the road but he's got a communications jeep. I had to let it through, but I thought I should warn you.'
'How were you able to decode it?' Harry asked.
'We have all the low-level codebooks. It only took a few minutes, then I passed the message down the line to be transmitted to Elliott.'
'Thanks, Howard,' I said. 'I appreciate it.'
'I've got my own beef with these guys. Hutton was one of my best men, and he'd still be alive today if it wasn't for them. I'll stay with you here until things get straightened out.' He patted his. 45.
'Someone has already taken a shot at Billy,' Kaz said. 'It may have been the Mafia.'
'If there is a contract out on me, I can't believe it comes from Don Calo,' I said. 'More likely Legs or Vito, working their own deal.'
'You don't mean Vito Genovese? And Don Calo, the Mafia boss? You guys travel in strange circles,' Howard said.
I walked back and forth in front of the printing press, thinking. Elliott was probably on his way here, with official or unofficial muscle. The shooter who had ambushed us in Scoglitti could be waiting in the next building for another try, or near enough to get off a clean shot as we headed into the AMGOT print shop. They were closing in from two sides; it was time to push back.
They were too damn close to pulling it off, using this big press to run off sheets of scrip with whatever high- denomination plate they had managed to steal or copy. I knew they couldn't have done it yet, not with Bill Mauldin and his crew hanging around. But now that they'd left all that stood in their way was a Sicilian cop and four junior officers with sidearms and one carbine. Well, if they wanted a fight, this was the time to oblige. With Howard's tip- off, we finally had an edge. A small one, but an edge.
'OK, here's what we do,' I said, turning to face the others. 'Kaz and Harry, get up on the roof and keep a lookout, one on each end. Watch for Elliott on the road, and the local shooter and his pals in one of the other three buildings.'
'What are you going to do?' Frank asked me.
I wasn't sure. There were three long, narrow concrete buildings on our side of the road. We were in the front of the first one. The AMGOT print shop was at the other end of the middle building, which was the largest of the three. It stood two stories tall, wider than the buildings on either side, and was a grimy unpainted gray.
'I'm going to go in quietly, through the other end of the big building. They'll be expecting me to walk in through the print-shop entrance.'
'What do you want us to do if Elliott shows up?' Harry asked.
'Shoot over his head or disable the jeep if you can hit it with that thing,' I said, pointing to his carbine. 'But keep your head down. Depending on who he has with him, you might be outgunned.'
