"I met Rocko too. When a paratroop officer came looking for men and supplies for Biazza Ridge, he vanished."
"Sounds like him. He was a rat, and someone finally caught up with him."
"I know," I said, letting it go at that.
"Anyway, Andrews had to go through Rocko for our requisitions.
Back in Tunisia, I noticed radios starting to go missing. They were marked down as lost or broken, but I knew we'd never gotten them."
"Rocko was selling them on the black market," I suggested.
"That would have been my bet, but I couldn't prove it. I think Rocko gave Andrews a big payoff and did all the work, to get him hooked." He ground out his cigarette and spit out a piece of stray tobacco.
"And then put the squeeze on him," I said.
"You got it, junior."
"But how did Hutton fit in?"
"Hutton was a genius with radios and telephones. He could repair any damn thing, using spare parts from German equipment if he had to." "But what would that mean to Rocko?"
"My guess is, it meant Rocko could communicate with anyone he wanted, anywhere."
"You mean anywhere you had wire strung, right?"
"Come with me. It's easier to show you," he said.
I followed him out to a smaller tent, about eight by ten feet, not far from Howard's office at the end of the Message Section tent. He pulled open the front flaps and tied them back. Except for a cot stuck in a corner, it looked like a warehouse for radio and telephone parts. A workbench at the far end was littered with tools, wire, tubes, and the guts of gadgets I couldn't identify. A switchboard sat next to an SCR-300 radio, and other electrical hardware encased in canvas or wood with U. S. Army markings stood stacked shoulder-high. I looked more closely at a device connected to the switchboard. It was a long wooden case with black dials set into it and connectors for a dozen or so wires along the top. The faceplate was marked in German.
"What the hell is all this?" I asked.
"Hutton was a loner, and he liked to tinker, so I gave him his own workshop. He came up with some ingenious stuff. This is a BD-72, our standard field switchboard. We can bring in twelve lines and route calls between them. But, like you said, it's only for calls on our wire. We can connect two of these and increase the capacity, but it's still a closed loop."
"But Hutton tinkered with it, right?"
"He sure did," Howard said, with a hint of pride as he tapped the unit next to the switchboard. "This has some god-awful long German name, which translates to something like Special Exchange Telephone Interface. See the line coming out of it?"
I nodded, following the black wire up and out the rear of the tent, where it was tied together with a bundle of other insulated wire.
"That line is spliced into the civilian telephone network. With this dialer, also German, you can call any number in Sicily."
"Who did Hutton talk to on this thing?" I was having a hard time imagining Aloysius Hutton as the kingpin of a Mafia conspiracy, huddled in here calling mobsters all over Sicily.
"I don't think he talked to anyone. He didn't speak Italian, and he wasn't much of a talker anyway."
"But he could make a call and route it to anyone connected through this switchboard?"
"Sure," Howard said. "Or anyone connected through any of our switchboards."
"Like the divisional Supply Company?"
"Definitely, along with division HQ, Corps HQ…"
"What about AMGOT?"
"Yep, we have them too, the Syracuse HQ and the Gela Civil Affairs Office," Howard said. "Connect this with our high-frequency radio, and I could give Ike himself a call in Algiers."
"Get much radio traffic between AMGOT and the 45th?"
"Fair amount. The Civil Affairs officers call in from towns all along our front."
"What about a Major Elliott?"
"Yeah, I've seen his name on a lot of messages. Some coded, some in the clear."
Now I knew why Rocko was so broken up to hear Hutton had been killed. Hutton was his way to contact Vito, Elliott, and whoever else was in on this.
"So Lieutenant Andrews arranged for Hutton to be assigned to Rocko at the supply depot, so he could keep an eye on him and have him make a call whenever he needed to," I said, spelling it out. "But Hutton was in your platoon-right?-not Andrews's. How come he was sent to work for Rocko?"
Howard answered, "I didn't have any choice about assigning Hutton. Orders came from division."
"From who, exactly?"
"Don't know. That's what Captain Stanton said. He wasn't too happy about it either. You figure something funny is going on here?"
"Rocko was killed. Murdered," I added, stressing the distinction.
"You think Hutton was mixed up in something illegal?"
"Hard to figure him for a crook."
"I agree. He was a good kid. You got any idea who's behind all this?" "I'm working on it."
"What a waste," Howard said as he looked at the contents of the tent, the tools lined up neatly on the workbench, dust starting to settle on the hardware.
"Just so you know, Hutton did OK up on Biazza Ridge. He stood his ground."
"Good for him. I hope he didn't suffer when he got it," Howard said.
"No," I said, remembering the hole in his forehead and how he had quietly slumped over his rifle. "I don't think he knew what hit him."
"Thanks. You seem OK for a headquarters louie."
"All depends on who you ask. Mind if I look around here a bit?"
"Knock yourself out, pal. Just don't make any long-distance calls."
Howard left and I began to search the tent. For what exactly, I had no idea. With so much funny business going on, there was sure to be some sign of something shady, if only I could recognize it when I saw it. There were technical manuals stacked everywhere, so I flipped through the pages, looking for notes or maybe Mussolini's phone number. A couple of well-read Popular Mechanics issues from 1940 had loose pages falling out. I lifted up every piece of equipment and looked underneath. Nothing but dust. Checked the few items of clothing that were left scattered around and felt under the cot frame. Nothing but a wad of chewing gum.
There weren't any of Hutton's personal effects; those must have been picked up to be shipped home. If there was anything out of place, Howard would probably have noticed. Which meant if Hutton had left anything, he'd had a hidey-hole. I tried to put myself in his place. A loner, he liked to tinker with things. I remembered his hands were smooth, with long tapering fingers. Perfect hands for working with tubes and connections in cramped spaces. He didn't talk much, didn't bunk with anyone, so he probably didn't have a lot of pals. Where would he place his trust? What would seem to be a safe place to him?
I picked up a thin screwdriver from the workbench and eyed the piles of equipment. There were a lot of screws holding these things together, and I tried to guess which one he'd pick. It had to be one he knew no one else would use. The BD-72? No, I'd seen half a dozen others in operation in the Message Section tent. Someone might need a replacement and take his. But no one would need German equipment, right? I got to work on the dialer and the exchange device, unscrewing a wooden side panel from each and looking inside. Nothing. I screwed the sides back on and decided Hutton would not have risked taking these things apart-too many things might go wrong.
I sat back in his chair and stared at the thing. A thin metal plaque was fixed to the side with a diagram of the circuits and a bunch of German writing. Howard had been right about the name- Umtauschtelefonschnittstelle-it was a mouthful. I found a flashlight on the workbench and shined it on the metal. Four small screws held it in place; two of them had very small scratches at the end of the slot. Of course. No need to take it apart at all.