"No," I agreed. "But in this case, you were on the right track. Who else knew about the orders?"
"Besides Major Elliott?"
Bingo.
"Yeah. Besides him," I said.
"Captain Stanton, CO of the Signals Company. No one else."
"OK, Sarge, that's a help. Now I want you to keep this conversation between us. Can you do that?"
"Sure I can, sir."
Damn straight he would. He was willing to let the officers fight it out among themselves.
"Good. I don't see any reason to include your name in my report. So far, anyway."
By the time I finished my coffee he was ready to give up his grandmother if it would get me out of his hair quicker. Cerrito even took my mess tin and washed it out for me. Major John Elliott, Civil Affairs Officer, had originally been with AMGOT HQ in Syracuse, but was now in Gela, as CAO in charge of the Agrigento and Caltanissetta provinces. It put him right in the thick of things. I listened to Cerrito whistle again as he walked away. This time it was "Shoo-Shoo Baby" by the Andrews Sisters, about a sailor saying goodbye to his girl. I couldn't read much into that one, but damned if he wasn't a good whistler.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
"I'm sorry, lieutenant, but you're not authorized to enter," the MP said. He held his carbine at port arms, blocking me from the tent. He was polite, none of Cerrito's initial insolence about him. I took him more seriously. Besides, he was bigger than me. A lot bigger.
"That's Captain Stanton in there, isn't it? I can see him from here," I said. A private had pointed him out to me moments before. Stanton had bright orange-red hair, a hard guy to miss with his helmet off.
"This is the Code Section, sir. Only authorized Signals personnel may enter. No exceptions, not even for lieutenants from headquarters."
I was sure that last part was sarcasm, but I let it go. He was a corporal, and I couldn't blame him for giving an officer a hard time when he could. And, like I said, he was big, a head taller than me and about twice as wide in the shoulders. The carbine looked like a peashooter in his massive hands.
"I'll come back later," I said. He wasn't interested in my plans for the day.
The next tent was larger than the code tent, and unguarded, so I decided to try my luck there. A crude sign painted on a plank of wood read MESSAGE SECTION. No one stopped me or even paid attention to me as I walked in. Despite the rolled-up canvas flaps, it was still hot inside. The tent was thirty feet long, with all sorts of tables lined up on either side-folding tables, a fancy dining-room table, a door on a couple of sawhorses-all holding communications equipment that crackled and buzzed with static. Wires and cables wound their way from one table to another, connecting to other cables that snaked out of the tent to the tall camouflaged antennas outside. A teletype machine clacked away while GIs sat at radios and switchboards, connected to someplace far more dangerous.
"Love Mike, this is Sugar Charlie. Over. Love Mike, this is Sugar Charlie. Over." The operator leaned over, pressing the headphones against his ear, straining to pick up a response. He slammed a pencil down on a blank pad, leaving a sharp mark like a ricochet.
"Words twice, Dog Victor, words twice," the guy next to him shouted, grimacing at the noises that made him ask for the transmission to be repeated. Mortars maybe?
Tension throbbed in the hot air trapped under the canvas roof, the smell of sweat, cigarette smoke, and stale coffee making me wish I hadn't come in.
"Anything from Love Mike?" A lieutenant, his sleeves rolled up above his elbows, leaned over the operator who had been listening for Love Mike's call sign.
"Nothing. Maybe their radio's out. Maybe."
"Dog Victor?" the officer asked the other GI.
"I couldn't make him out," he said, a weary sigh escaping his lips. "Explosions. Then gunfire. They're off the air."
"Where is all this going on?" I asked. The operators went back to their headphones as the lieutenant took notice of me for the first time.
"Gangi, north of Enna. Those call signs are the First and Second Battalions of the Sixteenth Regiment, and they're in trouble. Who the hell are you?"
"Billy Boyle, from Seventh Army HQ. I have a few questions about Lieutenant Andrews. You have a minute?"
"Sure," he said, extending his hand. "Frank Howard."
"You in charge here?"
"I have the Operations Platoon. We do most of the work here, except for coding. Captain Stanton takes care of that. Let's talk over here."
Howard was a second lieutenant, just like me, the lowest of the high. Close-cropped sandy hair, a sharp nose, and blue eyes with dark bags drooping below them. He had a distinct New York accent, the word "work" coming out "woik," the way the Three Stooges said it. I'd taken enough guff about my Boston accent that I didn't comment on it. I figured if he dropped a few r's, we added them in Boston, so it all worked out. Maybe we could argue baseball, though. That might be fun except that, last I heard, the Yankees were leading the division.
"You're from New York?"
"Neither of us can hide where we're from, can we?"
"You got that right. What did you do before the war?"
"Crane operator, mostly on the docks. My old man was in the union, so I got my card and managed to work fairly regular. How about you?"
"I was a cop. My dad too."
"Doesn't hurt to have connections, especially when times are tough." True enough. Plenty of guys without them got no work at all during the Depression. Depending on family connections might not be fair, but it sure beat standing in a soup line.
Howard stopped to talk to a noncom and went over a sheet of orders with him. He had a few years on me and seemed firmly in control of this operation. He finished with the noncom and I followed him to the end of the tent, where he had his office set up. An empty spool of communications wire on its side supported a field desk, one of those portable boxes that opened to show a variety of drawers and cubbyholes, big enough to hold all the forms, stamps, and red tape needed to run a company. A field telephone and tools rested on another upturned spool, and a wool blanket hung heavily from a line strung from the end pole, half hiding a cot stuck in the corner of the tent.
"All the comforts of home," I said, as he sat in a swivel chair that looked like it came from a lawyer's office. He pointed to a crate of rations, 10-in-1, for me to perch on.
"Nothing like you boys at HQ enjoy, I'm sure," Howard said, lighting up a Lucky without offering me one, and blowing blue smoke above my head. He eyed me with a studied wariness that told me he hadn't found lieutenants from headquarters of much use in this war.
"I've been too busy lately to check out the accommodations," I said, ignoring the jibe. "I've been looking into something that may involve Lieutenant Andrews. Did you know him well?"
"We went through training together at Camp Gordon. He had the Supply Platoon, and did a fine job. We weren't close, but friendly enough. Poker games, baseball, stuff like that."
"You don't seem surprised I'm asking about him," I said.
"I knew somebody would, sooner or later."
"Why?"
"Because of what he did to my corporal. He got him killed."
I tried not to jump out of my seat. This was more than a lead, it was a real clue. "Do you mean Hutton? Aloysius Hutton?"
"Yeah, Hutton. He didn't like his first name much."
"I thought it was a good solid name," I said, thinking about what it had been like to be without a name, when I gave Hutton's to Clancy and Joe, and how speaking it had felt like ashes in my mouth.
"You know what happened to him?" Howard asked.
"I was there when he died," I said. "But first, tell me what Andrews had to do with getting him killed."
"So they even shanghaied a headquarters louie up on Biazza Ridge?" He gave out a sad laugh as he shook his head in disbelief at the thought of a staff officer on the front line. "Andrews was in charge of our supplies, obviously. Rocko Walters was a sergeant who ran the division's Supply Company, and I mean ran it. His CO was a goof-off who left him in charge of the whole show."