“You understand German?”
“No. Did he talk to you?”
“No, just curious about what he had to say,” I said. No reason to let on that the Kraut was blaming someone else for killing Rusty. Maybe Evans had killed someone before, who knew?
“He did say Amerikaner over and over,” Evans said. “Maybe he was saying he was sorry. All I know is that I can’t get him out of my head.”
As Evans spoke, I heard the sound of distant thunder, or at least what always sounded like thunder. Father Dare and I hit the ground. The shrill whistling sound of falling shells came next, and even a rookie like Evans knew what that meant. He went flat as the shells burst, bombarding the village of Le Ferriere. The artillery fire kept up, striking the village over and over. A fireball blossomed up, probably a hit on a fuel truck. Then the shelling widened, explosions reaching the fields all around Le Ferriere, churning up the freshly plowed dirt, sending mud skyward. The barrage crept toward us, and I prayed that Danny would keep his wits about him, dive into a trench and stay put.
The ground shuddered with each hit. I looked across the field to where the squads had been digging in. Shells fell around them, leaving smoking craters as the firing slackened, then stopped.
“Wait,” I said as Evans began to get up. He looked at me quizzically until the whine of one last salvo announced itself, hitting Le Ferriere. It was an old trick, waiting to send the last shells over when everyone began sticking their heads out.
I was up, sprinting to the forward position, eyes peeled for Danny and Kaz. I spotted them, and thanked God, Usen, and all the saints I could remember. Next I saw Louie, then Flint and Stump checking on their men as they rose from the ground, wet and muddy.
Something was wrong. Kaz had Danny by the arm, helping him out of the trench. Danny’s eyes were wide with terror, and I searched his mud-splattered uniform for signs of blood.
“Danny?” I spoke his name but looked to Kaz.
“He is not hurt, Billy. It is Malcomb, the other ASTP boy. He ran.” Kaz pointed to a lifeless body twenty yards out, clothing, skin, blood, and bone shredded by the shrapnel-laced blast.
“I tried to stop him,” Danny said. “I tried.”
“You would have been killed too,” I said. “He panicked. You were smart to stay put.”
“I didn’t. Charlie grabbed me and held me down,” Danny said, his voice shaky as he glanced toward Charlie Colorado, sitting on the edge of the trench. A big guy, bronzed skinned, and quiet.
“Usen,” I said.
“I am not the Giver of Life,” Charlie said. I begged to differ.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“He was from Princeton,” Danny said, as if the aura of the Ivy League should have protected Malcomb from shrapnel and fear. He looked away as Flint helped to roll the body onto a shelter half so it could be carried away. It was a messy, unnatural business. The nuns had taught us that the human form was a sacred vessel, but out here, where artillery fire descended from the heavens, it was a delicate, thin-skinned thing, ready to spill the secrets of life onto the ground. For a soldier on the front lines, nothing is sacred, nothing is hidden, nothing is guaranteed to be his alone. Blood, brains, heart, and muscle are ripped from him, put on display, like his possessions, and carefully searched for the illegal or embarrassing before being boxed up to be sent to loved ones. His gear is divvied up-ammo, socks, food, and cigarettes handed around to squad mates-until finally, with his pockets turned out, his shattered body is covered and carried away. He is useless now, unable to fight, devoid of possessions, weapons, and breath, wrapped in waterproof canvas. This kid was from Princeton. Now he was of Anzio.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” I said to Danny, my voice low. I didn’t want anyone to hear, not his pals or a suspect. I watched Father Dare rise from giving the last rites, his knees drenched with damp earth and blood.
“No,” he said, scrunching his face like he always did when I told him it was time to come for supper. “Leave me alone, Billy. I can do this.”
“You can get killed is what you mean. What if Charlie isn’t around next time?”
“Billy, if you pull any strings and take me away from the platoon, I will never speak to you again. I mean it. Ever.”
“It’s only going to get worse, kid. This shelling was just a taste. Are you sure? You don’t have to prove yourself to me.” But I knew he had to. I wanted to take him by the arm and lead him away from here, but I knew neither of us could live with that.
“Yeah. I’m sure. I couldn’t live with myself if I left these guys. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Okay. I’m just a lowly lieutenant anyway. Probably couldn’t pull it off.” I jabbed him in the ribs to show there were no hard feelings, and thought about how I could make it happen so it didn’t seem to be my doing.
“Thanks, Billy. Maybe the war will be over soon, now that we’re so close to Rome. Then we can go back to Boston.”
“Sure, Danny. Could happen.”
Standing with his hands on his M1, in a muddy uniform and helmet, he looked like a child playing soldier, his wishful thinking nothing but a wistful dream of home. Who was I to burden him with the truth? He’d have more than enough of that in the days to come. It was time for a change of subject.
“Maybe we can get some leave together, paint the town. Have any of the guys mentioned a place in Acerra, name of Bar Raffaele?” I tried to sound like I was just making conversation, suggesting a hot joint.
“Yeah, all the time. Louie said he’d take me there when we got back. You been there, Billy? Is it true what they say, about the girls?”
“It probably is, but it went up in smoke. And if I ever catch you in one of those joints, I’ll give you a whupping.”
“Hey, I’ve been around. And even Lieutenant Landry went out with one of the girls there. It can’t be that bad.”
“Danny, she was a prostitute. He paid for her time, he didn’t go out with her. And now he’s dead.”
“Yeah, I know,” Danny said, trying to sound like a nonchalant man of the world. “But Charlie says she was going to give it all up, and wait for Landry. They loved each other. It’s sad, kind of like Romeo and Juliet.”
“How does Charlie know all this?” I asked, not commenting on Danny’s naive view of the world.
“He used to go all the time, when he was the lieutenant’s radioman.”
I felt like an idiot. I should have thought to talk to the radioman. He’s the one GI in a platoon who spends a lot of time with the platoon leader. He’d hear things, have a sense of his officer that even the sergeants might not.
“Let’s go,” Louie shouted. “Someone at HQ finally used their noggin. We’re goin’ into the village, where they got dry cellars. Move out!”
“I gotta go, Billy,” Danny said. “Will I see you again?”
“Sure. Maybe tomorrow.”
Charlie appeared at Danny’s side, moving silently for a big guy carrying two packs of gear. He didn’t speak. Next thing I knew, Danny was hugging me with more strength than I’d thought he had. We stayed that way for a moment, and the familiar feel of my brother’s grip brought me back to Southie, baseball games on the corner lot, leaves burning in the cool autumn air, and the scent of home. I gripped him even harder, and then we broke off in silent agreement that too much memory might not be a good thing right now.
I watched him move out with Charlie, wondering what secrets the radioman might have been told and what he might have seen. And why had he lost that job? Not that anyone wanted to carry around a heavy radio, much less be a priority target for the enemy. And how much of a coincidence was it that my kid brother was assigned to Landry’s platoon and buddied up with Charlie Colorado in the first place?
“You and the Limey officer staying in the village?” Louie asked as we walked along.