We sat in our chairs, letting the silence linger, the background noises of typewriters, static, chatter, and engines rising into it. The line of shade crept toward us as the harsh sun climbed in the sky.
"I gotta go to the latrine," Mike said.
"Hope you're not going to handcuff me," I said.
"We're brother cops; I draw the line at that," he said. Then he leaned back in his chair, turning his head slightly as a PFC rushed by, a stack of papers in his hand and a pencil stuck behind his ear. "Hey, Reynolds. Watch this guy, willya? Don't let him escape."
He said it in a low voice, winking at me as he did. When he got up, he took out his shield and held it up for me to see.
"Badge number 473. In case you ever make it out to Detroit. Ask for Big Mike."
And then he was gone.
A moment later, so was I.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I was on the run again. I could count on MPs and Major Elliott from AMGOT, Legs, and maybe some local muscle to be on my trail. Not that different from last time around, except now I knew the score. Elliott had to be the man I was after. Why else would he hotfoot it over to the Signals Company and have me held there? Maybe Stanton was in on it too, or maybe he thought he'd apprehended a dangerous criminal. The small fry didn't matter. I wanted Vito for questioning. I wanted Legs for the deaths of Roberto, Rocko, and even Aloysius Hutton, who would have been alive and tinkering in his tent if it hadn't been for this scheme to grab an army payroll. And Elliott for engineering it all, betraying his own side, and throwing me to the wolves.
I eased the jeep onto the main road, keeping my helmet tilted low and my head down. What I needed right now was a radio, so I could contact Harding and find out where Kaz and Harry were. Too bad I was persona non grata at the Signals Company. I had to find another unit with a radio fast, before the MPs issued an all-points on me.
I scanned the roadside for rear-area units as I drove east to Vittoria. With nothing else to go on, I figured it made sense to check out what Andrews had gone looking for. I passed a supply depot, but didn't see a telltale antenna. A hundred yards on, a hand-painted sign reading TWENTY-SIXTH RGT. MOTOR VEHICLE MAINTENANCE pointed to the left. I took it, following a wide, rough road of crushed stone and hard-packed dust, to an assembly of tents grouped under ancient gnarled, thick-trunked olive trees. Their shade was sparse but, supplemented by camouflage netting, provided defense against the sun, not to mention the Luftwaffe.
Trucks of all sizes, in various stages of dismemberment or repair littered the landscape. Thick logs had been set up in tripods, lashed together with heavy chains, to yank motors out of vehicles by greased pulleys. But what interested me was sticking up through the netting: a single antenna. I parked the jeep in the shade and ducked under the low-hanging net. The radio rested on a couple of empty crates in a tent half tied above to the trees to give full protection from the sun and the rain, if it ever came. A GI in an oil-stained shirt, his sergeant's stripes barely visible through the grime, sat in front of it, headphones on, writing intently with the stub of a pencil.
"OK, got it. Baker Seven out." I waited while he continued to scribble, stopping once to lick the tip of the pencil. He finished with a sigh and took the headphones off.
"Sarge, could I use your radio for a minute?"
"Jeez," he said, standing up as the chair fell over backward. "Don't sneak up on a guy like that. Lieutenant."
"Hey, sorry. I just need to radio my CO. Only take a minute."
He ripped off the top sheet of the pad he'd been writing on, and lifted the chair. "Knock yourself out, sir."
I sat at the SCR-510, a vehicle radio that had obviously been removed from a disabled jeep or tank. I set it for Harding's frequency and began to transmit.
"White Bishop, this is White Rook. Over."
Static blasted my eardrums. I tried again and heard a faint voice acknowledge.
"White Rook, this is-" Static again. I repeated my call sign and as I waited, picked up the pencil and began doodling on the pad. I drew Kilroy, then began filling in his face. I repeated the call sign again. "White Rook, this is White Bishop One. Come in." I recognized Harding's voice. As I held the pencil poised to write down a message, I could see the faint outline of a word beneath my drawing. I rubbed the pencil lightly over the pad.
"White Bishop One, this is White Rook. Do you have location of White Knight?" That was Kaz and Harry. Then I saw a name appear. "Boyle" showed clearly where the motor pool sergeant had written his message on the top sheet, along with the words "report" and "hold."
"Scoglitti, on the coast, southeast of Gela. Do you read? Over."
"Understood, White Bishop. Keep destination top secret. From all. Do you read? Over."
"Not surprised, White Rook. Out."
I changed the frequency and took the top sheet with me. I looked for the sergeant but didn't see him anywhere. Maybe he didn't waste much time on radio orders from MPs or AMGOT. I didn't go straight to the jeep. Instead, I walked around inside the netting, staying behind vehicles and supplies so I could get a good view of the road. I wanted to be sure there were no surprises waiting out there. I edged behind a deuce-and-a-half truck with the hood open and heard voices, the slap of cards, and laughter. Nowhere left to go, I walked around the truck and gave them a friendly grin.
"Hey, fellas, at ease," I said, as the first of the four mechanics spotted me. "I'm looking for your sergeant." They sat on crates around a broken table, its two missing legs supported by a stack of K rations.
"He went to the mess tent to fix himself a sandwich. That way," one of them said.
"All the Spam you want-help yourself, Lieutenant," another said, as the others laughed at his wit.
"Raise you ten," the first guy said, heeding my "at ease" and doing everything he could to comply. Then I noticed the pot. It was a stack of ten-dollar bills higher than a fist.
"How much is in that pot?" I asked, trying not to sound like an officer. "I usually play for nickels."
"Nothing, Lieutenant. Here, have one."
I took the ten-spot. It looked real, until I turned it over. On the back was a German eagle grasping a swastika and a message in Italian.
"Are they all the same?" I asked.
"Yeah, same serial number on all of them. We found a bunch blowing around in the field over there, then a whole box of the damn things."
"Anybody know what it says?" I asked, my curiosity keeping me there when I should have been driving off.
"Tony, tell the lieutenant what you figured out. Tony speaks the lingo pretty well," one of the players said proudly.
"Well, there's a whole bunch of stuff about how we killed plenty of women and children bombing Sicily. And bombed a hospital ship. Then about how all Italians should hate the Americans and the English for that, and that the blood of innocent victims cries out for revenge. Stuff like that."
"We do any of that stuff, Lieutenant?" the youngest of the card-players asked me.
"Can I keep this?" I asked.
"Sure," Tony said. "We play for nickels too. That's what each one's worth to us, in the game anyway. Otherwise they're only good for the latrine. Easier to play with paper, even if it's funny money."
The kid still wanted an answer.
"That's propaganda. Don't take it seriously."
"Sure. That's what I thought, sir. Thanks."
"Call."
I left as Tony won the pot with three jacks. I didn't know about any hospital ships, but I figured a fair share of the bombs we dropped on Sicily killed civilians, without regard to age or sex. Maybe Mussolini was right, that blood alone moves the wheels of history, but I didn't see any reason for a kid who didn't shave regularly to worry about that before he went to sleep each night. A little lie to soothe the conscience seemed right.