CHAPTER FOUR
Rocko looked good tied up. I was pretty sure he didn't feel so good, but the khaki undershirt I'd gagged him with was keeping him from complaining. It was my undershirt, and as I began to pay attention to my own personal hygiene, I felt bad about that. The truth of the matter was I stunk, and so did that shirt stuck in his yap.
Even after the fresh delivery of hot water, the bath was lukewarm. I guessed his visitor had been more important than a hot bath. Which was saying something, because as hot as it was during the day, at night the mercury plummeted. I poured some more scotch in the glass-real glass, no aluminum cup for Rocko-and decided it was OK but probably not my first choice. Rocko's eyes bulged out at me as he strained against the rough rope I'd bound him with. It wasn't a pretty sight, but it was satisfying.
'Calm down, Rocko,' I said. 'Sorry about the tap, but you avoided much worse by running out on us. You might've ended up like Aloysius.'
Rocko's eyes bulged even farther out. He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, asking me a question.
'Dead. Never knew what hit him,' I told him.
Rocko's head fell back. He looked shocked. I remembered how he had tried to protect Hutton from being shanghaied that morning. It didn't seem possible, but Rocko actually seemed to have cared about Hutton. Strange. I wondered what Hutton had done for him other than carry a clipboard.
Leaving Rocko to his grief, I concentrated on getting clean. I scrubbed my face with soap and water and felt the hair on my chin. I looked at the pile of my discarded clothes. They had the crumpled, greasy look of garments worn for days. My entire body smelled like it was covered with layers of dried sweat. Every fold of skin revealed a thin line of grime, and I felt sorry for the private who'd brought the water in. It was probably his job to clean the tub.
I might not know my name, but I did know my own whiskers. Something didn't add up. We 'd invaded yesterday, during the night and early morning. I'd awakened in the field hospital this morning. Now, it was maybe 2300 hours. Eleven o'clock, civilian time, I reminded myself automatically. Was that a habit of mine? It felt familiar. I liked that.
Two days ago, paratroopers had just begun to drop over Sicily. Infantry was offshore, getting ready to load into landing craft. I rubbed my chin again, and had a vague recollection of being in a small boat, rolling on the waves. It was dark, and it was dangerous.
That was it. Water! The things I remembered both had to do with water.
Never mind that now. I was a straight leg, right? So I hadn't jumped during the night. I must have come in by landing craft or small boat before dawn two days ago. D-day for Sicily. Operation Husky, scheduled for July 10, 1943. The code name and date popped into my head, another sudden revelation, followed by nothing.
I would've been clean shaven and wearing a fresh uniform. So why did I have a week's worth of beard? Not stubble but longer hair beginning to feel soft, like a beard growing in.
I must have arrived in Sicily before the invasion.
I scrubbed the dirt of days away, scouring my body, wishing the hopelessness I felt would fall away too. I lathered my face and shaved, using the small mirror and razor that had been set up next to the scotch. It was hard going, and I cut myself. Drops of blood fell into the dirty water, blossoming red and disappearing. I pressed my fingers against the cut and they came away wet and sticky. I stood and poured a pitcher of fresh water over me, rinsing off soap and lather and pale pink droplets. It was cold, but I didn't care.
I'd been here before the invasion.
The conclusion was plain but I didn't want to think about it. Mechanically, I dried off. Rocko made some noises but I picked up the knife and he quieted down. I gripped it in my palm, blade pointed at Rocko this time, as if I were about to stab him.
The knife. The knife in my hand was bloody, glistening wet. I felt it slide between someone's ribs, my hand twisting and cracking bone while a hand flapped uselessly against a holster, trying to draw a pistol, too late.
I gasped and dropped the knife. I blinked, half believing the man in uniform whom I had stabbed would be standing in front of me, breathing his last. There was no one but Rocko, though, naked and hog-tied, watching me with more fear than I'd yet seen in his eyes. I picked up the knife, felt the handle and looked for blood, scarcely able to believe it was clean and dry.
I'd been here before the invasion. And I was a killer.
I gathered up clothes and gear, leaving the M1 where it was and exchanging it for a Thompson. I liked the thought of a spray of. 45 slugs between me and trouble, and there was plenty of trouble on this goddamned island. Italian trouble, German trouble, and whatever brand of trouble I was in. I grabbed a M1928 field pack-oddly enough, I could remember all sorts of army nomenclature-and stuffed in socks, a shaving kit, anything I thought I might need for the next few days. I found an open carton of D rations and threw in some of the vitamin-fortified chocolate bars. Then I retrieved the handkerchief and the note from where I'd stashed them. I folded the handkerchief and stuck it under my T-shirt, against the small of my back. I located a sewing kit, picked up my shirt, and pulled a chair over in front of Rocko. I took out my knife. Rocko was shaking. I pulled the shirt from his mouth.
'Don't…,' he started to say, then spit on the floor. 'Don't kill me. You aren't gonna kill me, are you, kid? Jesus Christ!' He spit again, that last curse directed at the taste left in his mouth, not me. Not directly anyway.
I sat back and began cutting the stitches from my Seventh Army shoulder patch on the khaki shirt I'd been wearing. I figured it might come in handy to stay a Headquarters GI if I had to talk my way out of a fix. I got the patch off and pulled at the little threads, wondering if this was a clue to my identity or another subterfuge.
I didn't like the way things were going, and I needed to find out what I was involved in. So far, it all seemed suspicious. I mean, who would have been in Sicily prior to the invasion? Secret agents, maybe, but somehow I doubted I was one. Did secret agents let themselves be led around by Italians? Weren't they trained to remember things? I almost had to wonder if I was really an American. But outside of a few curse words in French and Italian, I couldn't come up with anything but English. So I was sure I was a genuine Yank. What did that tell me? Even if I was an agent, it didn't mean I was safe, not until I knew what my mission was.
'I heard some guy leave before I sneaked in here, Rocko,' I said as I threaded the needle. 'Who was he?'
'I dunno. Some officer who wanted a case of scotch.'
'Really?'
'Yeah.'
'Rocko, I think you were going to deliver me to someone dead or alive when you brought me down here this morning. I think I got out of here just in time.'
'I dunno what you're talkin' about,' Rocko said. 'Say, what happened to Hutton? Is he really dead?'
'Yep,' I said. 'He a pal of yours?'
'Yeah, you could say that.'
'Sorry for your loss.'
'Fuck you, buddy,' Rocko snarled. 'You better untie me now! I could holler my head off-'
The knife blade was at his throat before he could finish. He didn't say another word.
'Rocko, the things I remember are all pretty nasty. I've killed before, up close, like this. I killed people today. It wouldn't bother me to add one more.'
'Jesus, kid, we're on the same side!' He croaked out the words, his eyeballs swiveling down, trying to see the blade.
'If that were true, Rocko, you would've gotten in the jeep with us this morning.'
'The captain, he ordered me-'
'No, no, no,' I said, pressing the blade against his neck. 'Don't lie to me, Rocko, don't do it. I'm on edge right now, and I really don't care if you leave this tent under your own power or toes up.'
'OK, kid, geez, take it easy with that thing. I keep it pretty sharp, y'know.'
I moved the flat of the blade away from his throat, leaving the tip resting just below his Adam's apple. A tremble scurried through the muscles of my arm and settled in my gut. Was I a killer? A close-in killer? Not like up
