" Mi dispiace," I said.
"Look," Sciafani said. "Look at me. His blood is on my hands."
He held his hands out, palms up, coated in dark red blood. "These are the hands that did this. I did nothing to stop the Fascists, and now they are sending boys out to be killed for Mussolini. Do you know what Il Duce says about blood?"
"No."
"Blood alone moves the wheels of history," Sciafani quoted. "He said that in 1914. We had quite enough warning, don't you think?
Blood alone."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"Don't shoot!" I held my hands up and stepped in front of the three bandaged Italians on the floor. I knew what a glimpse of an enemy uniform might mean to the GI who had stuck the snout of his Thompson submachine through the door, not to mention what it could mean for me. "I'm an American."
" Non sparare, non sparare, " sobbed one of the wounded Italians. I guessed it was basically the same request.
"Come out where I can see you," the owner of the Thompson barked. He still wasn't showing more than the muzzle of his gun. Smart guy.
"Coming out," I said, holding my hands palm up, slightly forward, so the first thing he'd see was that they were empty.
"Who the hell are you, Mac?" The guy eyeing me was a buck sergeant, and while he didn't keep his Thompson leveled at my gut, he didn't exactly practice firearms safety with it either.
"Lieutenant Billy Boyle. I got separated from my unit. There's three wounded Italians in there," I said, pointing to the abandoned house where Sciafani and I had taken the survivors from the night before.
Over his shoulder, I saw GIs darting from cover and making quick dashes, staying low in the long early-morning shadows. The only sound was the rapid tread of boots and the slight clinking and clanking of gear as a platoon of heavily armed men moved swiftly around us, wraiths descending from the hills.
"What unit, and where's your weapon?" He eyed me with suspicion.
"Seventh Army HQ," I said, turning so he could see the patch on my shoulder. "We ran into some Germans and barely got away. All I have is this Beretta." I patted the pistol stuck into my belt.
"Hey, nice. Can I see it?"
"That's 'Hey, nice, Lieutenant.' Or has the army given up on that in the last couple of days?"
"I got no idea if you're a lieutenant, a deserter, or a Kraut. What I don't believe is that any headquarters punk got here ahead of Rangers." His eyes narrowed beneath the steel rim of his helmet as they studied me.
"Purely by accident, Sarge. We were trying to make our way back last night and got trapped up there when the Italians started setting up emplacements." I pointed to the top of the hill, the dark craters draped in shadows cast by the morning sun.
"Yeah, the navy blasted that for us yesterday." He turned and signaled to someone. His shoulder patch said First Battalion Rangers.
"You're Darby's Rangers, right?"
"That's right, Mac. You sure you don't want to trade for that Beretta?"
I knew he believed my story when he started hustling me for a souvenir. If he thought I was a deserter he would've taken it outright. If he really thought I was a Kraut, I'd be dead.
"No, Sarge, I might need it. You'll probably find a few more up ahead."
"OK, our medic will look at your wounded prisoners." A Ranger with a red cross on his helmet and armband ran up to us.
"Got some wounded Eyeties in here. Hang on, Doc, lemme check 'em for weapons."
He disappeared into the house, but it didn't take long. It was one long room, and the most badly wounded man was on the single bed, the others on the floor. We 'd washed their wounds as best we could and ripped up clothes and the single sheet for bandages. It wasn't much, but Sciafani said they'd live. I'd scrounged canteens and rations from the debris at the top of the hill, and even found some brandy in the house, but that had gone to the wounded.
"They're all yours, Doc. One looks pretty bad. There's a civilian who had this, said he was a doctor." The sergeant held the dagger Sciafani had picked up the previous night. The sheath had MVSN engraved on it and the Fascist symbol.
"Nice souvenir, Sarge, but he really is a doctor. He used that to dig shrapnel out of one of the wounded last night." I held out my hand for the dagger.
"If you say so," he said reluctantly, slapping the sheathed dagger into my hand. "Yeah, and I know, there'll be lots more up ahead."
The medic went in the house and I heard Sciafani talking with him, asking if he had sulfa, giving him an update on each patient.
"You headed into Agrigento, Sarge?"
"Well, I guess with that Beantown accent you ain't no Kraut spy," he said as he spat. "We're going around it, to take Porto Empedocle from the rear. Then the Third Division can move into Agrigento real easy. You seen any Germans around here?"
"None, just those Italians, Fascist militia. These are the only survivors," I said.
"Good." He flicked a finger close to his helmet in what might have been an attempt at a salute or a wave goodbye. I figured only a sucker wants to be given a salute when there's a chance of enemy snipers around, so I didn't make a big deal out of it.
"See ya in the funny papers, Sarge."
"Where?" Sciafani asked from the doorway of the house.
"It's just an expression. It means I think he's a funny guy, in a sarcastic sort of way."
"I did not think him amusing. We can leave now; the medic is setting up an aid station here. The men will receive good care."
It's odd, the things that divide men in a war. Sciafani had been talking with the medic like a colleague. He and I were getting along OK. But that one word, one comment from the sergeant about the bombardment last night: Good. It made all the sense in the world. Who knows how many of these Rangers would be dead or writhing in pain right now from machine-gun bullets or 20mm shells if the navy hadn't hit that position? It was logical. But Sciafani didn't see dead and wounded Americans. He saw his own people blown to pieces, and it was gnawing at him. Did he feel guilty for being alive and in the company of an American?
"Good," I said, studying his face. The word hung like a challenge in the air. I handed him the dagger and he tucked it into his belt.
"Come," was all he said, brushing by me, a brief look of disgust on his face. I followed, and thought about the leg I'd stepped over, and the boy clutching at his stomach, and I felt small, ashamed, and insignificant. Who was I to judge him or the sergeant or anybody else? The Ranger sergeant knew what he had to do, and so did Sciafani. Me, I was still following ghosts.
But the ghosts were getting closer.
I grabbed a full canteen and followed Sciafani. The Rangers veered off to the left, circumventing the hill in front of us that led up to the backside of Agrigento. The city ran along the crest of the hill and then descended the slope toward Porto Empedocle, a few kilometers away.
Between them was the Valley of the Temples, acres of ancient crumbling temples built by the Greeks and who the hell knows else.
From here, we could make out the tops of a few tall buildings, their orange tile roofs blazing in the hot morning sunlight. It was as if no one wanted to build anything out of sight of the sea or the ruins. We climbed up rough paths through stands of cactus and trees, waiting at one point for a goatherd to pass with his mangy flock. Following a streambed, we made it to the crest of the hill, taking a dirt path that emptied out into the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, according to Sciafani.
We passed a massive, rounded building set off by pink marble columns and a statue of heroic-looking Italian soldiers. It was from my dad's war, when the Italians were on our side. Two dogs slept on the stone steps beneath the statue, too lazy in the warm sun to take notice of us.
Otherwise, the plaza was empty.
After the steep hike in the growing heat, it was odd to suddenly find ourselves in a city, surrounded by green trees and neatly trimmed hedges. A fountain gushed from stone cherubs and we stuck our heads into the spray, the cool water cleansing us of dust and sweat.