They unloaded the jeep and got to work, digging wider and deeper. Father Dare came by, and took charge of the extra rations. The meat stew was a new addition, and I figured it would be a welcome relief after meat hash, Spam, ham, and lima beans every day.
“I have a cooking pot I found in the rubble,” Father Dare said. “I’ll get this heated up for the boys.” He took an empty can, punched holes in the bottom with his can opener, and dropped in a couple of heating tabs. Smokeless, the tabs ignited easily and burned hot, long enough to heat a meal. Unfortunately, one pot was going to be enough for this platoon, since it had suffered so many losses.
“Hey, Billy,” a voice called from inside a dugout. It was Phil Einsmann, sitting cross-legged in his little cave, pecking away at his portable typewriter set up on a ration box. Above the opening was a wood plank with “Waldorf Hysteria” painted on it.
“That’s funny, Phil,” I said, pointing to the sign. “What are you up to?”
“Well, I tried to get a story about your killer past the censors, but they wouldn’t go for it. Injurious to morale, they said. Ruined my goddamn morale, that’s for sure. So I’m doing a piece on the lost company.”
“What lost company?”
“Easy Company. I don’t want to call it a retreat, since that might not go over well with the censors. But the rescue of a company in a forward position, slipping away from the clutches of the enemy, using the fossi to escape, that’ll get through and sell papers.”
“Fossi?” I was there and I was having trouble following Einsmann’s story.
“Italian for ditches. The English call them wadis. Either sounds better than a daring escape through a smoky ditch.”
“No argument there. Did you talk to my brother? Make sure you spell his name right.”
“Sure did. And that Apache, Charlie. Great stuff. What do you have to say about it, Billy?”
“Talk to this guy,” I said, when I noticed Bobby K swinging a pickax not far away. “He ran through enemy fire twice to get messages through, and led everyone out. Earned a battlefield promotion.”
“No kidding? He wasn’t here an hour ago when I made the rounds.”
I walked over to Bobby K and stood with my back to Einsmann. “Bobby K, I’ll fill you in later, but have you told anyone about that colonel in the hospital?”
“No, I haven’t had a chance. The CO sent me over here, said Third Platoon needed a noncom.”
“Keep it between us, all right?”
“Whatever you say.”
“Now follow me and I’ll make you famous.”
I left Bobby K with Einsmann, glad I had a chance to get to him before he spilled the beans about the German colonel. I hadn’t expected him to show up in Easy Company, but with the losses in noncoms, it made sense that somebody would be sent to fill in. I wandered over to Father Dare and took a seat on a carton of K rations.
“Do you have your own dugout, Padre? I trust the Lord myself, but I’d rather do it underground.”
“God helps those who help themselves, Billy. I’ve got my own foxhole right over there,” he said, pointing behind him with his thumb. “I prefer to dig straight down, not into the side of a hill. Saw two fellows buried alive in Sicily when a shell sent a few tons of dirt sliding over their dugout.”
I didn’t need to mention that I’d seen what was left of a man in a foxhole at Salerno who took a direct hit from a mortar round. To each his own. “How’s your leg?”
“Okay. I got the bandage changed this morning and the nurse said it was fine. I was a little dizzy yesterday, I didn’t realize how much blood I’d lost.” He dumped a couple of large cans of meat stew into the pot.
“Padre, would you happen to know any chaplains who visited Bar Raffaele in Acerra?”
“Are you asking me to inform on my brethren, Billy?”
“I didn’t say they went there for the hookers. Maybe someone thought the men might need some guidance in such a sinful place?”
“Billy, if a chaplain showed up at a joint like that, the men would simply move on to the next disreputable establishment. I told you when we first met, we would not be welcome at such a place.”
“What if someone needed help? One of the girls, maybe? Or Lieutenant Landry?”
“Landry was brought up Protestant.”
“Interesting, but not an answer.”
“I am the chaplain for this unit,” Father Dare said. He stirred the pot, staring into the stew as wisps of steam began to drift up. I could tell he was working on a way to explain something to me. “For all the men, Catholics, Protestants, Jews, and even those who do not believe. I’ve noticed that atheists enjoy talking about religion in a way that believers don’t.”
“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.