"You look right at home surrounded by prisoners," I said.
"That's what the lieutenant said when he stuck me here. What about you?" He narrowed his eyes and studied me.
"Boston PD. But don't tell my lieutenant. I don't want to get stuck babysitting POWs."
"Smart choice, rookie. OK, what do you need?"
"G-2 wants me to find a Roberto Bellestri, wounded and captured a few days ago. They think he has the dope on some gun emplacements." I turned so the Seventh Army shoulder patch was visible and hoped he wouldn't ask for orders or identification or the name of the officer who'd sent me on this errand.
"Wounded bad?"
"I don't think so. Graze along the ribs. But maybe a bit worse."
"Well, you're welcome to try the Italian aid station. Badly wounded cases are treated in field hospitals, only the walking wounded are sent here. We've got a bunch of Eyetie medics and doctors. We fixed them up with supplies, so they can take care of their own. Most of the wounded head down here to the beach as soon as they can."
"Why's that?"
"They say the Krauts are going to kick our ass off this island, and they want to get away before the Germans take over again. Ain't that somethin'? Except for the locals, that is. You hear about Bradley's order?"
"I've been a little out of touch," I said, with a fair amount of truth.
"Just came in," he said, pulling a sheet from his clipboard. "General Bradley's got some smarts. Any Sicilian who surrenders will be immediately paroled and allowed to go home. We released a couple hundred who left laughing and singing."
"The Vichy French shot at us when we came ashore near Algiers, and we ended up kissing them on both cheeks. The Italians shoot at us here and we let them go home. It's a crazy war."
"Well, only the Sicilians are cut loose. The other Italians are a close second when it comes to surrender. I never saw so many guys eager to get to North Africa."
"Odds are they haven't been there before. I have. Where do I find the aid station?"
"Take this dirt track," he said, pointing up a small rise. "See those palm trees? That's where it's been set up. Good luck."
"If I find him?"
"He's yours. I got plenty."
Three whitewashed stone houses stood along the narrow track, nestled under the shade of tall palms. Behind them were U. S. Army tents and what I guessed were Italian Army tents, some marked with red crosses. Though they were not guarded, no one looked as if he was about to sneak off to fight to the death for Mussolini. The first house held supplies and two orderlies playing cards. The next two were set up as makeshift operating rooms, but no one was on the tables.
"Can I help you?" The voice from behind startled me. I nearly brought my rifle up as I turned, then I steadied myself.
"Sorry," I said. He was Italian, and his English was precise, with that faintly British accent of Europeans who learned English from the source. He was drying his hands on a white apron worn over his uniform. He wore khaki breeches with puttees and heavy brown leather boots. His light khaki jacket was almost a dead ringer for the one I had been wearing, only his collar was more pointed and showed the insignia of the 207th Coastal Defense Division, a white patch with a blue triangle. Funny how those little things popped into my mind, things I didn't even know I knew.
"Are you a doctor?"
"Yes. Captain Dottore Enrico Sciafani. What can I do for you?" He cocked his head as if it was an invitation for me to introduce myself.
I let that vague request for rank and name hang in the air. "I'm looking for an Italian soldier who was wounded in the side three days ago. It wasn't too serious, and he may have been brought here. His name is Roberto Bellestri."
He nodded, as if Americans came calling for their Italian cousins every day. "Names mean very little here. We take care of light wounds and injuries then send the men down to the boats as soon as we can. They are most eager to go. We keep no records ourselves. That is now a matter for your army."
"Does the wound sound familiar, Doctor?"
"They all sound familiar, my friend. Where did you get yours?" He removed my helmet and peered at the dirty bandage.
I felt oddly comforted and at the same time disturbed. Doctor or not, he was supposed to be the enemy prisoner, not the one in charge.
"I don't remember." I was tired of lying; it felt good to come out and say it. This guy wasn't about to cause me any trouble.
"It happens, more often than you think. With some wounds, it is better not to remember. When did you last have that dressing changed?"
"Yesterday, I think."
"Come, I will give you a new bandage, then you can look for your man."
I followed him and sat down. It was cool inside, and I let him remove the gauze and clean the wound.
"This is not so bad," he said. "You have no recollection?"
"No. And I was hit in the arm too." I rolled up my sleeve and showed him those bandages. He cut them away and shrugged.
"Superficial. That makes your memory loss more interesting. What were you doing before the injuries were sustained?"
"I don't know that either. I woke up in a field hospital. I didn't remember anything, not even my name."
"Which is why you haven't told it to me?"
"No, it's come back. A lot has come back, but not everything."
He surveyed me as he studied my injuries. He worked quickly, wrapping my arm in gauze and tape, and putting a smaller dressing on my head, tying it off with a torn strip of white cloth. He was young, under thirty, with thick black hair, a narrow nose, and dark eyes. A small triangular scar marked one cheekbone; other than that, his skin was smooth except for fine lines at the corners of his eyes.
"Where'd you get your scar?" I asked.
His hand automatically went to the scar and brushed it faintly.
"My younger brother. We were sword fighting with sticks and he gave me this. My father stitched me up and then thrashed us both. With the sticks."
"Your father's a doctor?"
"Yes, in Palermo," he said, tying off the bandage and standing back to check his work.
"Is your brother still there?"
"His submarine never came back from patrol last year."
"I'm sorry."
"Ah, yes, so am I." He fingered the scar and sighed. "So am I. Now tell me what do you want with Roberto Bellestri?"
"I believe he saved my life. I remembered him a while ago, lifting me up and taking me away… from wherever this happened. Some men-Americans-found us, and one of them shot him. That's all I remember."
"You say your memories have been returning since this happened? When was that?"
"Three days ago, maybe four."
"Four days ago, the invasion had not occurred."
"Yes," I said.
"Very interesting. You think this Roberto may have some answers for you?"
"I hope so. I'm looking for him because I don't know what else to do."
"Why not do nothing? Your memories are likely to return fully, since they have started already."
"Because I'm not sure of what it was I was doing. And why."
"You know, my nameless friend, you are the most fortunate of men," he said, laughing as he poured water over his hands and dried them again on his apron. He pulled up a chair and sat next to me. "In some respects."
"How do you mean, Doctor?"
"What did the philosopher say? Something about the unexamined life not being worth living? Most men live an unexamined life, and have little interest in truly knowing who they are. Most go through life untested, with no need even to understand what they are capable of. They get up, eat, go to work, eat, make love, sleep, and get up again. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I do," I said, surprised that I really did.
"We, though, we have seen war. We know there is more to life than a meaningless cycle of tasks, do we not? We know the day is here to be savored."