Why?”
“You ought to talk to Luca Amatori, a lieutenant with the Carabinieri here. He knows what went on in one of the Italian concentration camps.”
“No thanks. Not worth my time. The Italians are our allies now. No one wants to air dirty laundry, not when we need them fighting the Germans.”
“You’ve been told that?”
“Not in so many words. But you get the sense of things after enough stories have been squashed. Italian concentration camps? Not what the reading public wants to hear about.”
“Ask Luca about clean laundry then. Might be worth your time.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You’re the reporter, you find out,” I said as I got up and went back to my seat. Maybe if he got the story about the spies from Luca, he’d ask him about the camp. Maybe not. Maybe Einsmann was busy planning his next murder. Maybe not. Maybe I’d live to see the dawn.
We drank some more. Guys smoked and chatted. No one was trying to kill us. We had warm food and good wine, and deep holes to jump into. Anything beyond those immediate needs was insignificant.
“You sure keep that weapon mighty clean, Padre,” Flint said as he opened a letter. Father Dare had his automatic in pieces, cleaning each with a toothbrush.
“Cleanliness is next to Godliness, they say. Letter from home?”
“Yeah,” Flint said. “Mail truck had this for me, and a couple for Louie and Rusty. That’s it. Sorry, fellas.” He looked around at the others, then scanned the single page, before tucking the letter back in the envelope and stowing it away. He shook a cigarette loose from a crumpled pack. “Anyone got a light?”
“I never saw a padre carry a pistol,” Bobby K said, tossing Flint a lighter while eyeing Father Dare.
“There’s a first time for everything, son,” Father Dare said, as he rubbed gun oil on the metal. He cleaned the pieces slowly, handling each like holy relics. When he had it all put back together, he held it between his palms, as if it gave off warmth. “Especially at war, there are many first times.”
He sounded weary, and I wondered if the pistol was a temptation, a way out for a man who, in his mind, had failed at whatever good he had tried to do. Or did he worship the weapon, aware of the power it bestowed, so much more immediate than penance? Or maybe the vino had gone to my head.
Einsmann took out his. 45 and began cleaning it as well. He had a little trouble taking it apart, not being as adept as Father Dare.
“Geez,” Bobby K said. “Watch out, you could shoot someone with that thing.” Everybody thought that was hilarious.
“Flint,” a captain called as his jeep pulled up. “Your replacements never made it out of the truck. Take a vehicle down to the docks and see what you can find.” He scribbled out an order and gave it to Flint.
“Right now, sir?”
“Right now. They won’t last long.” With that, he was off.
“Okay, let’s see what we can find. Danny, you come with me. We’ll show these new boys it doesn’t take long to become a grizzled veteran. Billy, sorry, but duty calls. Good luck back in Naples.” Flint smiled, shook my hand, and walked away, giving Danny and me a minute.
“Be careful,” I said, wishing I could take Danny with me.
“I will be. I’m in good hands, Billy. And remember, you were the one who taught me how to fight.” We shook hands, even though I wanted to give him a bear hug, which would have embarrassed him. I stopped myself from reminding him that knowing how to bob and weave in the ring was not going to help at Anzio.
I watched Danny and Flint depart, taking a truck that was parked near my jeep. I said my good-byes to the others, reinforcing the story that I was leaving in the morning with Stump in custody. On the way to my jeep, I saw a crumpled envelope on the ground. It was Flint’s letter. Had he thrown it away, or had it fallen from his pocket? I was about to give it to Father Dare to hold, when I thought it would be a good excuse to follow Danny down to the docks and see him again, maybe throw some weight around and get some decent replacements for the platoon.
Always looking out for my kid brother, I thought, as I laid my carbine down on the passenger seat and drove off toward the fog that was rolling in from the sea.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
After an hour of looking, I’d given up trying to pick out Danny from among the hundreds of helmeted GIs swarming over the docks. LSTs were arrayed along the waterfront, like openmouthed whales disgorging modern-day Jonahs. It looked like a major resupply effort, and I figured Stump would be heading back with the wounded on one of these LSTs riding high in the water.
It was almost dark, and I decided to talk with Doc Cassidy again before checking in at headquarters to see if Harding had come up with a general and if Kaz was back yet. Driving to the hospital area, I had to pull over as a line of ambulances came screaming down the road, horns blaring.
Hell’s Half Acre was in chaos. The wounded were everywhere, pulled out of ambulances and set in rows, where doctors and nurses checked them, yelling instructions to move this one, leave that one, prep for surgery, all amidst the groans of morphine-addled pain.
“They’re all Rangers,” I said to a young kid standing next to me.
“Yeah, they tried to infiltrate into Cisterna last night. The Krauts must have known they were coming.”
“Looks like they got hit hard pulling out,” I said.
“This is the relief force. Two battalions of Rangers made it into Cisterna. Six men made it out,” he said in a soft Texas drawl. “Eight hundred good men, half killed, half prisoner, they’s saying.”
“Jesus,” I said, and thought of Father Dare praying to God for help, but asking Him to leave Jesus home. This was no place for kids, but as I looked at this scrawny sergeant, I thought he ought to be still in high school. “How old are you, Sergeant?”
“Nineteen, sir. I mean twenty, twenty years old.”
“Don’t sweat it, kid. If you’re dumb enough to lie about your age to get in the army, I’m not going to get you in hot water. How’d you make sergeant so fast?”
“Guess because sergeants get killed so fast. I’ve been here since North Africa.”
“Looks like the army is robbing the cradle.”
“Listen, Lieutenant, just because I look young don’t mean you have to insult me,” he said. If it weren’t for the sweat popping out on his forehead and his fluttering eyelids, I would’ve bet he was thinking about decking a superior officer.
“Sorry, Sergeant,” I said, steadying him before he fell flat on his face. “What are you in for, anyway?”
“Malaria,” he croaked. “Give me a hand, will ya?” I helped him back to his tent, and got him off his feet.
“You all right?” I asked as his head hit the pillow.
“Yeah, I’ll be out of here soon. Damn malaria hits me now and then. Picked it up in Sicily.”
“Want anything?”
“No thanks, Lieutenant. Sorry I mouthed off out there.”
“Forget it, kid. The name’s Billy Boyle, by the way. From Boston.” I gave him my hand.
“Audie Murphy, from Farmersville, Texas. Take care of yourself, Lieutenant.” I left him in bed, wondering how he ever got this far, a thin little whip of a kid with a strain of malaria, which I knew had sent stronger men home on a Red Cross ship.
I went back out and looked for Cassidy. The scene had calmed down, and most of the stretcher cases were gone. A few were draped with blankets, those who had died on the way in. A nearby tent was filled with other stretchers, and I watched a medic give a morphine syrette to a Ranger with blood-soaked compresses on his chest. He threw down the empty syrette and ran his fingers through his hair, shaking his head. This was the tent for the not-yet-dead. I walked on.
“Wait for me in the mess tent,” Cassidy said when I finally found him. “I have a leg to amputate.”
I waited, drinking coffee with sugar, not tasting a thing.
