nonexplosive.
I tried to figure my next move as I headed for Rocko's tent. I needed a place to rest, to eat and catch some shut-eye. And to think. Rocko was the only guy I knew on this island who could provide all that, barring a trip to the stockade, even though he seemed too interested in me by half, and had showed himself to be a real louse when he skipped out on the Biazza Ridge dragnet. It wasn't a good combination, but what better hideout than a supply dump? Everything I needed within easy reach. Of course, that meant I'd be within easy reach of Rocko too. I slung my rifle over my shoulder and unholstered my. 45. The pistol was better for close work if things didn't go well.
Close work? Where did I get that from? I seemed to know my weapons and the mechanics of killing. I gripped the automatic tightly, feeling the crosshatch marks on my palm. It felt familiar, and damn if it didn't calm me right down.
Light seeped out along the edges of the flaps of Rocko's tent. I went down the side, stepping over taut ropes, listening. I stopped and concentrated. Snatches of conversation drifted in from the road. Cigarette smoke mingled with the salty smell of the beach and the odor of dead fish. Engines rumbled and gears grinded. No one saw me as I lay flat along the edge of the tent. I eased the canvas up, slow and silent, to peer inside. A row of wooden crates, stacked four high, blocked my view. I took off my helmet and rifle, laid them down, and rolled under the flap. Everything sounded loud-my canteen as it hit the gravelly soil, the crunch of stiff canvas as I held the tent flap up, my own breathing. I fought down panic, telling myself it really wasn't that loud, it was my nerves. I heard voices from inside the tent but the blood was pounding so loudly in my temples that I couldn't make them out. I reached for my helmet and pulled it in, then my rifle. There was about a foot of space between the stacked cartons and the tent flap. I gripped my. 45 tightly as I strained to listen. I needed to know the lay of the land before I stood up and said hello to Rocko. I took a few silent, deep breaths, willing myself into a state of calm and quiet.
Staring at the canvas above me, I saw water. It was as if I weren't flat on my back in a tent in Sicily but walking on a sidewalk, along the water. Then it was gone, replaced by the dull, dark green canvas, which was as blank as my mind. That had to have been a memory, though it felt real. I thought about today, about waking up, about Biazza Ridge, and all the things I'd done. Those scenes in my mind played out like that jaunt along the water. The water. It hadn't been clean like at the beach. It must've been in a city, a harbor someplace. I tried to replay that vision and get myself to turn, to see what was behind me, but I couldn't.
The whir of a field telephone being cranked up brought me back from wherever that place was.
'Lieutenant Andrews.' That was Rocko, asking for someone at the other end of the line. I heard a match flare and smelled cigar smoke. 'Yeah, it's me. You find that guinea prisoner yet? No? Well, I found out where he came from. The 207th Coastal Defense Division, based in Agrigento. We ain't there yet, so there shouldn't be too many-'
I heard his fingers drumming on the table as he listened and filled the tent with blue smoke. 'I don't give a fuck if they're giving up by the thousands! You find that wop and bring him to me!'
He slammed the phone down. I knew of only one Italian POW Rocko would give a damn about-the guy who had been trying to shoot me when Rocko and his pals found me. At least, that was Rocko's story. I decided to wait a few minutes so he wouldn't think I had overheard his conversation.
'So, do we have a problem?' That was another voice. Smooth, relaxed, not like Rocko, who sounded like he was on edge.
'No, no problem at all. It'll take some time for Andrews to sort through the Eyetie prisoners.'
'How long?'
'I dunno. He can't leave the Signals section anytime he wants. And he's gotta get that German dialer workin' with the BD 72-'
'I am disappointed in you and your Lieutenant Andrews. I did not expect this delay.'
'I can't help it that there's so goddamn many POWs! They're giving up by companies now. Includin' a couple hundred from the 207th, and they're about a hundred miles west of here, in Agrigento.'
Lieutenant? I might not remember things perfectly, but I knew noncoms did not talk to officers the way Rocko had spoken to Andrews. Unless, maybe, they had something on them.
'I know where Agrigento is. The food there is almost as good as in Palermo.' He said the names like a native, the syllables gently rolling off his tongue and sounding like a threat at the same time. His voice was deep and low, with a raw power to it.
'What I don't know is why you didn't kill him when you had the chance,' the man said, as if Rocko had forgotten to do the simplest of chores.
'There never was a chance, honest! First the medic shows up, then at the field hospital there was always someone around. I tried searching him, but he woke up. There was a chaplain right next to us the whole time. I couldn't do a thing! So I brought him down here, where I figured it'd be easy. But then that paratroop officer came along and shanghaied him. I couldn't help it, really.'
'You have many excuses,' the other voice said, with an icy edge of irritation.
'Don't worry, I'll take care of things,' said Rocko, a defensive whine creeping into his voice.
'I do worry,' the voice said and I heard a chair move. He spoke quietly, in a voice that carried authority. 'I worry about finding this prisoner. I worry about our friend with the handkerchief on the loose. I worry that by now he may have found the note. I worry about our yegg. And I worry about you. Charlotte worries about you, too.'
Footsteps, the rustle of canvas, a jeep engine turning over, and he was gone. All I heard was Rocko's exhalation, as if he'd been holding his breath through that little speech.
Charlotte? Who the hell was she? Yegg? Note? Did I have a note? Yeah, maybe I did. That web belt with the. 45 I had snagged was probably Rocko's. It held a couple of pouches with extra clips for the pistol and a first aid kit, besides the. 45 itself and a knife in a leather scabbard. I opened each pouch, praying the sound of the metal snap wouldn't carry. Nothing but what was supposed to be there. Nothing in the holster either. I couldn't maneuver quietly enough to check the canteen pouch. I lifted the helmet and checked inside. No note tucked away.
Only one place left. Another metal snap, and I pulled the M3 knife from its sheath. A slip of wrinkled white paper was wrapped around the blade. It was soft and worn, but the penciled sentence was clear, printed out in shaky letters, as if the writer was very old or very young. To find happiness, you must twice pass through purgatory.
What? I almost laughed. This was insane. Here I was, my memory shot, hiding in a tent from a supply sergeant, with a fancy silk handkerchief in one pocket, wondering what a yegg was, and holding a secret note telling me how to find happiness. The only trouble was, I would have to die twice. Unless this was purgatory, in which case I would only have to die once. Always look on the bright side. It was a great joke on me, and I was afraid I'd burst out laughing, or maybe cry hysterically. What the hell was next? Bob and Bing on The Road to Sicily?
'Is that water ready yet?' Rocko bellowed. It sounded like he'd opened the tent flaps. I took the handkerchief out of my pocket and wrapped the note in it. Then I stuffed the handkerchief between two crates of grenades. I holstered the. 45, keeping the knife in my right hand. I rose to a crouch and eased my head above the top crate. Rocko was opening the flap for a private struggling with big pot of steaming water. I ducked down as they passed me, moving farther back into the tent. I heard the sound of water being poured.
'You want anything else, Rocko?'
'Yeah, you outta here, and no one else in. I been lookin' forward to this bath all day.'
The private left. I peered over the crates again, hearing Rocko move around. I stepped out from my hiding place and crept closer, knife at the ready. I heard a grunt as one boot struck the ground, then another. There was a break in the stacks of cartons to my left. The sounds came from in there, where Rocko had a private bath set up for himself. That clawfoot bathtub was filled with hot water this time, hold the olives.
I took two steps into the gap in the wall of cartons. There was Rocko, in all his pink glory, his backside to me, pouring himself a drink from a table next to the tub. He took a swallow, put down the glass, and lifted one hairy leg into the tub. My knife was ready.
I stepped up to him, lifted my arm, and brought down the butt end of the hilt against his skull. It was all in the wrist, a quick snap. You didn't want to follow through-that could kill a guy. You had to hit him just right, hard enough to knock him out, not hard enough to crack his skull. Funny how some things came to me right when I needed them. Not funny that they all had to do with killing or hurting people.
Rocko crumpled, thankfully not into the tub. That was for me.
