The sides of the tents were rolled up to allow the sea breeze to provide ventilation. GIs scurried around tables piled high with communications gear, others sat at switchboards and radios, listening and transmitting with an intensity that was electric. Static crackled in the air.
"Can I help you, sir?"
I nearly jumped, but instead managed to turn and see who had surprised me. It was an MP, his white belt and painted helmet gleaming. I remembered all the things Dad and Uncle Dan had told me about the military police in the last war, but decided not to hold it against this guy.
"I'm looking for the officer in charge."
"And who might you be?"
I studied him for a moment while trying to perfect the kind of look Harding gave me when he wanted me to shake in my boots. He was a buck sergeant, a bit on the short side, which probably accounted for his chosen branch of service. As an MP, he could be a big guy, even at five foot two.
"I would be a lieutenant, looking for another officer, Sergeant," I said, leaning on his rank to make my point as obvious as possible.
"No problem, sir. I can take you to the CO, but my orders are to check out everyone entering the area. We 've had some trouble lately."
"What sort of trouble, Sergeant?" I looked over his shoulder and saw several other MPs patrolling the area. I picked up another one inside the main tent. This was more than a normal guard detail.
"If you don't mind, Lieutenant, tell me what you're doing here first."
"I'm Lieutenant Billy Boyle, attached to Seventh Army HQ." I turned to show him my worn shoulder patch. "I'm here to ask a few questions about Lieutenant Andrews."
"He bought it a few days ago, so he won't be able to help you, Lieutenant Boyle."
He started to walk away, dismissing me as if I were the enlisted man and he the officer. Not caring much for officers above the rank of second lieutenant-which meant all others-I would have admired his style if I hadn't clearly said I had questions about Andrews, not for him. I decided to try a little Harding out on him.
"Sergeant!" I barked, loud enough to draw stares and send privates scurrying out of my line of sight. "Stand at attention!"
"Yessir." He did, but without turning to face me. Well, my fault for not giving the order. I walked around him, taking my time and studying his uniform. It was clean, his boots were polished, and his haircut recent. He was braced, chin up, chest out, the perfect example of a tin soldier.
"Have you put in for transfer to a line company, Sergeant… what's your name?"
"Cerrito, sir. No, I haven't. I don't understand."
"You don't understand, what?" I linked my hands behind my back and marched back and forth in front of him, playing the martinet and enjoying it a bit too much.
"I don't understand, sir."
"Well, I'll explain, Sergeant Cerrito. I bet you've been itching to get up to the front lines. I bet Bouncing Betty mines and German 88s don't scare you one bit. But your CO can't do without you, right? So you figure to piss me off enough to get you transferred. You probably figured it out as soon as you saw my HQ patch."
"Bouncing Betty? Sir?"
"A mine, Sergeant. You set it off and it launches up about waist-high and explodes. Good news is that it hardly ever kills you."
"OK, sir. I don't need to hear the bad news, I get it." Cerrito was still at attention, but a line of sweat was working its way down his temples. He spoke through gritted teeth, and I knew he was as afraid of the other men's hearing him give in as he was of making Betty's acquaintance.
"Stand at ease, Sergeant Cerrito, and let's start over." I clapped him on the shoulder so everyone could see we were pals.
"You look like you could use a cup of joe, Lieutenant. How about we sit and talk?"
I must have had dog tired written all over my face. Coffee and a seat that wasn't in a vehicle driving on a bad road sounded fine.
"Lead the way, Sarge."
My new best friend crooked his finger at me and led me over tent pegs and lines drawn taut. Eyes from inside the tents glanced out from beneath canvas flaps and quickly looked away. Cerrito began to whistle a tune, showing how casual this all was. "Mister Five by Five," a song about a singer in Count Basie's band who was as wide as he was tall. I remembered that Mister Five by Five had quite a line of jive, and wondered what made Cerrito pick that tune.
He was a pretty good whistler, and I was humming the tune myself by the time we came to a long tent with all the flaps rolled up. I could tell it was a mess tent by the smell, which wasn't a compliment to the chef. Burnt toast, soapy water, and soggy eggs combined their odors into a single nauseating smell. A GI dumped a garbage can full of greasy water in front of us and we sidestepped the scummy remnants of a few hundred washed-out mess kits. Breakfast was over, and the cooks were cleaning up and preparing lunch. Dishing out army chow to GIs who had to wait in long lines for it was probably the most disheartening job on the island. No one had much good to say about dehydrated potatoes, eggs, and milk.
Cerrito nodded to a cook in a white T-shirt and apron who had the look of another noncom. The cook nodded back, ash from the cigarette hanging from his lips flavoring whatever was in the aluminum pot he was stirring.
"Hungry?" said Cerrito. "Sir?"
"Coffee will do," I said.
We poured steaming, thick coffee out of a pot scorched black from the embers of a dying fire. It smelled like wood smoke and eggshells. We sat on crates of U. S. Army Field Ration C under camouflage netting, the dappled shade a relief from the increasing heat.
"So who ordered you to give the cold shoulder to anyone asking questions?" I asked, blowing on the hot coffee.
"Just doing my job, Lieutenant," Cerrito said.
"Does your job include protecting a murderer?"
"Who said anything about murder? We're here to protect the equipment and personnel, that's all. That means limiting information about what goes on here."
"Who are you protecting them from?"
"Thieves, black marketeers, you name it. The Mafia is supposed to be active around here too," Cerrito said.
"Yeah, so I heard. Who told you all this? Who sent you here?"
"Listen, Lieutenant, you got me in a tough spot," Cerrito said, moving closer and leaning in as he glanced around to see if anyone was listening. "You're only a second louie, but you're from HQ, so maybe you could send me wherever you want. But it was a major who gave me my orders, and they were to keep everyone away from Signals Company, and not to answer any questions. I asked what the problem was, and he told me about thieves stealing communications gear, and how we had to keep a lid on things. That's all. If I spill more to you, then I'm in dutch with the major."
I drank the coffee. Cerrito was nervous, but not big-league nervous. That comment about the Mafia would not have come out so easily if he were involved in any of this. There was no tell, no flickering of the eyes, no rubbing the nose, no involuntary gesture to show he was concerned about how that statement would sound to me. I had to gamble that he was being straight with me and guilty of nothing more than being a pompous MP afraid of being sent to the front. That meant I had to scare him more than the major did.
"I don't think you need to worry about him, Sarge," I said, giving him a knowing smile. "Didn't you think it was odd that a major from AMGOT was giving orders to guard a Signals Company?"
"How did you know that?" Cerrito's eyes widened, as if I had guessed the card he'd picked out of a deck.
"You don't think I happened to stop by today, do you? You look too smart for that."
"I did think about it, but the army doesn't always make sense, does it?"