“I’ve noticed that cops and criminals sometimes sound a lot alike. More so than cops and grocers or accountants.”
“Exactly. We share a common interest, but one viewed from differing perspectives. That’s why Landry and I were friends. He was an agnostic. He believed the unknowable was… unknowable. I call it a lack of faith, but that’s another matter. We often talked of life and death. He wanted the men to have spiritual solace, but he couldn’t partake of it himself. That’s why when he asked me to help, I was only too glad.”
“Help for him and Ileana.”
“Yes. He wanted me to help get permission for them to marry. To testify to her good character.”
“To lie for him.”
“Can’t a woman sin and still be a good woman at heart? Ileana lost her father in the Allied bombing, her brother was killed in Africa, and her mother has succumbed to grief. There are two younger sisters at home, and Ileana did what she had to do to keep them off the streets. There is so much misery in this war, how could I not help alleviate some small part of it?”
“So you didn’t think it a lie?”
“What does it matter? They turned Landry down, and now he’s dead. I wonder if it’s even worth trying to help anymore. What help can I provide against all this killing? It’s monstrous, too much for any man to overcome. A priest on a battlefield, I used to think it made sense, great sense. Now it seems pathetic. Anyway, I didn’t think Landry and Ileana had anything to do with these killings, and I saw no reason for the authorities to delve into what on paper would sound sordid. Landry’s family doesn’t need to hear the army’s version of what went on between them. Call the boys, will you, the stew’s ready,” he said, putting a lid on the pot and the conversation.
I stood, heaving a sigh and wondering what would become of Ileana. I put my fingers between my teeth and whistled, signaling that chow was ready. In the distance, two trucks raced toward the stone farmhouse, slamming on their brakes close to the door. Bluejacketed men spilled out, circling the building. Carabinieri.
“What’s going on?” Flint said, pointing to the farmhouse. Just then the shrieking sound of incoming artillery tore at the sky, and men dove in every direction, heading for dugouts, foxholes, any cover at all. I tripped on a shovel and felt myself being pulled underground, strong hands gripping my shoulders. At least a dozen explosions rippled the ground all around us, spraying debris against the soles of my boots as I slithered into the dugout with Flint.
Artillery blasts thundered around us, and I wondered if the GIs caught out in the field had had time to get to cover. Green replacements and trucks filled with ammunition were not a good combination in a barrage. I couldn’t think about it long. The shelling kept up, shaking my bones every time a salvo hit close by. Dirt cascaded from above, and my thoughts went to those guys Father Dare knew, buried alive in a dugout like this one. Then I tried not thinking at all, and closed in on myself, knees to my chest, hands on my helmet. The damp, freshly dug soil jumped up at me with every blast, as I felt the impact of each explosion, the concussion traveling through the earth and air, enveloping me, reaching into our hole where the shrapnel couldn’t, letting me know that life and death had come down to mere chance, the weight and trajectory of shells alone determining who would walk away and who would remain.
The shelling stopped abruptly and I was left with ringing in my ears and dirt in my mouth. I looked at Flint, and he was already at the entrance, looking out over the open field.
“Jesus,” I said as I crawled next to him, neither of us ready to stick our necks out any farther.
“Yeah,” he said. “Hell must look like this.”
Trucks were wrecked and overturned. Gasoline burned in bright yellow-red plumes, tires in thick, acrid black smoke. Blackened shell holes were strewn in lines across the field, a half dozen in each group, testimony to the accuracy of the German fire. The ground smoldered, an odd smell drifting up, of burnt vegetation, burning rubber and human flesh. Too many men had been caught out in the field, replacements who hadn’t learned how to react without thinking or asking questions.
“They had the field zeroed in,” Flint said. He crawled out of the dugout and stood. Other men followed his cue. Danny and Charlie, Father Dare, Einsmann, Bobby K, all safe. “Look at the shell holes. This wasn’t a random barrage. There were several batteries firing, all hitting within this field.”
It didn’t make sense. We were in the rear, such as it was. The Germans couldn’t have an observation post that could see us, especially behind the roadway embankment. The farmhouse. Carabinieri still surrounded it, and not a single shell had come close. The white sheets still hung on the line.
“You’re right,” I said. “Just like Le Ferriere. There was a farmhouse there, and a woman hung white sheets on the line. A few minutes later, the shelling hit a column on the road. We were in a blind spot, the Germans shouldn’t have been able to see us.”
I took off at a run, toward the farmhouse, away from the carnage and the cries of the wounded. I should have stayed and helped, but I told myself I wasn’t a medic. I knew I was a coward. I couldn’t face the torn bodies, the pleas for help, for mercy, for mother. I ran, glad of the excuse, my palm on the butt of my. 45, itching to deliver revenge, or at least blot out the screams for a moment.
Flint was at my heels, and as we closed in on the farmhouse I recognized Luca directing the Carabinieri, who were holding the farmer’s wife back as she screamed at him, hands outstretched to heaven one second, beating at her breasts the next. A small girl clung to her skirts, and an older one stood behind her, sullen.
“Dove la radio e? ” Luca demanded.
“It’s the sheets, isn’t it?” I said, breathless. The other Carabinieri had turned toward us, weapons at the ready, uncertain if we were a threat or a nuisance. Luca acted as if he expected us.
“Yes, the sheets, the bright white sheets which can be seen at a distance. The signal for the German observers to tune to the frequency assigned to their radio. Fascisti,” he spat.
“There are others,” I said. “I know of one outside Le Ferriere.”
“There are many,” Luca said. “And we already have visited that farmhouse. Whenever they have a target to report, the wash goes out. We found out about it yesterday, when a neighbor of one family reported them, suspicious of all the laundry being hung. He said they were filthy pigs and doubted they washed once a month, much less every day.”
“Have you found their radio?”
“No, and if we do not, we may have to let them go. It could be a coincidence, after all.”
“Can we look around?” Flint asked.
Luca gave commands in Italian and one of his men led us inside, where other Carabinieri were ransacking the joint. In the kitchen, two officers had the farmer seated at his kitchen table. He had a stern face, his thick black hair peppered with gray. He wore a work shirt and vest; his hands were rough and callused. On the wall, a rectangular patch of dark wallpaper showed where Mussolini’s portrait had probably hung until the invasion.
The Carabinieri were throwing rapid-fire questions at him, to which he shook his head repeatedly. They seemed frustrated. He looked calm and haughty, as if he knew his secret was safe. He was a good actor, but then Mussolini and his bunch were pretty theatrical.
Flint moved closer, edging the officers out of the way. He reached into his pocket, and the farmer flinched. But he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and the fellow relaxed. Flint offered one, and lit it for him.
“ Nome? ” Flint asked, smiling as he clicked his Zippo shut.
“Frederico Pazzini,” he said, giving a slight bow of his head, before taking a deep drag on his Lucky.
Before he could exhale, Flint struck him on the cheekbone with the butt of his. 45, hard. Blood spurted onto the table, and Frederico choked on smoke and blood as Flint shook off the two Carabinieri who tried to pull him away. He grabbed Frederico’s arm and held it to the table, the muzzle of his automatic pressed into the palm of one callused hand. He thumbed back the hammer, and spoke one word.
“Radio?”
Frederico shook his head, but with fear in his eyes this time. The two officers stepped back, apparently liking what they saw, or at least the fact that someone else was doing it for them. I wondered how far Flint was going to take it. Myself, I was ready to shoot the other hand, images of the dead and wounded still fresh in my mind.
But Flint didn’t shoot. He released Frederico, smiled, and shrugged his shoulders. Then he pointed outside, and simply said, “Signora Pazzini.” We hadn’t taken two steps when Frederico began bawling and pointed to a cupboard near the sink. The officers got down on their knees and pulled out cans of olive oil, tins of flour, and some large bowls. Then they pried up the floorboards, and lifted out a radio. Under one of the dials was the word Frequenzeinstellung.
