There had to be a connection between Elliott and Vito. That I could sort out later. It was obvious Rocko had been a key player, coordinating supplies and equipment. And Hutton, with his skills at radio and telephone communications, had been the link between them, communicating with AMGOT, Vito, and Lord knows who else. Using shortwave radio, civilian phone lines, whatever it took, he had been the linchpin. But now all the players were ashore, and the army was moving deep inland. And Elliott had arrived as planned from Algiers, the rear echelon following the first wave by a week or more.
I had to slam on my brake as I heard the squeal of protesting brakes ahead of me, followed by the sound of tires crunching gravel. As the column came to a halt, the dust from the road settled around me, coating the jeep with an even thicker layer of grit. I tried to spit, but my mouth was too dry. I drank warm water from my canteen and felt the grime wash away.
"Hey, Mac, now's your chance," the driver behind me motioned. He was right. No one in his right mind would pass up a chance to move ahead of a halted convoy. So I waved "so long, pal" and pulled out. I floored it, letting the hot wind blow away the road dust and fumes. Not ten minutes later, there was a fork in the road. Crudely painted signposts pointed to Vittoria, 4 miles; Scoglitti, 12 miles; and back the way I had come, New York City, 4,380 miles. No GI putting up road signs could resist the temptation to add the mileage to his hometown.
I took the right to Scoglitti and put another few miles between me and the Statue of Liberty. The lane narrowed, stands of cactus and tall grass crowding the roadway. I could smell the sea, the salt heavy in the heated air. I rummaged in the pack on the seat next to me, looking for a D Bar of chocolate from the K ration I'd brought along. As I looked down for the chocolate, I took the jeep around a curve. I was only distracted for a second or two, but when I looked up there were jeeps blocking the road ahead of me. Military police jeeps, both of them. One had a long whip antenna tied down in front. Damn, they'd probably been radioed to look for me. An MP faced me with his hands out, signaling for me to halt. I looked to both sides of the road. Tall stands of cactus stood like walls on either side. I couldn't turn or back up fast enough. So I stopped, smiled, and tried to think of a way out of this one.
"ID, Lieutenant?" the MP in the road asked. Two other guys sat in one of the jeeps, one of them holding a clipboard, the other a Thompson. "Lost my dog tags.
Took a hit to the head and woke up in a field hospital without 'em."
"You got orders?"
"Yeah, I got orders. I got a major waiting for me in Scoglitti who's pissed off because his jeep broke down. You want to let me through before he blows a fuse?"
"What's your name?" He didn't seem to care about an angry major.
"Dick Newsome." I had been thinking about the Red Sox for some reason, and Dick Newsome popped into my mind. At least I wasn't thinking about Pinky Woods. Worse name, worse pitcher.
"Hey, just like that pitcher for the Sox."
"Yeah, I get that all the time."
"What's the major's name?"
"Huh?"
"The name of the major what wants the jeep, Lieutenant."
"Oh, yeah." Don't think about baseball, I told myself. "Major Elliott. He gets pretty sore when he has to wait." I figured he might have run into Elliott and it made the story more plausible.
"Hey, that's funny too. We got a Major Elliott right here."
I'd run into some really smart MPs in this war and some dumb ones. This guy either had a real subtle sense of humor or he was on the deep end of dumb. The guy with the clipboard got out as his partner started the jeep.
"Major John Elliott, Lieutenant Boyle. We 've been looking all over for you."
He smiled, his mustache rising at the corners. He was a short, barrel-chested guy, dark haired and on the far side of thirty. He looked entirely too happy to have me in his paws.
"Miller," he said to the MP who was still trying to figure out if there really were two Major Elliotts. "You take this jeep. Boyle, you come with me."
"No," I said. I slammed the gear into reverse. I had to count on Miller being slow on the uptake and a lousy shot with the carbine that was slung over his shoulder. The other MP's hands were on the steering wheel, and Elliott hadn't made a move for the. 45 still snapped shut in his holster. It wasn't much, but it was all I had. I tried to figure my chances, but a distant sound hummed in my ears, growing louder and breaking my concentration.
"Don't do it!" Elliott yelled. Miller looked up, and so did Elliott. Two dark forms took shape in the air. Twin -engined Me110s, German fighter-bombers. They came from the direction of Gela, probably heading home from a raid on the harbor and looking for a few more Americans to strafe. They were so close to the ground I could see bright sunlight reflecting off the cockpit canopies.
Then came the sparkling of machine gun and cannon fire from the nose of each plane. The ground around us exploded as shells hit rocks, cactus, and the hard-packed earth. Elliott and the two MPs hit the dirt, making themselves as small as possible in the ditch running along the side of the road. I didn't even think about it. I jumped from my jeep, vaulted into the MP's jeep in front of me, and threw it into first, punched the accelerator, and kept my head down. Metallic tearing sounds and bright white lines surrounded me as phosphorescent tracer shells snapped at the vehicles. Twin explosions boomed behind me, not the sharp cracks of bombs, but the whump and whoosh of gas tanks igniting.
I chanced a look backward and saw the tail fins of the Me110s as the aircraft gained altitude and sped away. Three figures rose from the ditch, stumbling around the wrecked and burning jeeps, and I saw one shake his fist at me. God bless the Luftwaffe.
I kept my foot pressed to the floor. The wind whipped at my face as I outraced the swirling clouds of churning dust my tires kicked up. I smelled smoke and saw the charred hole in the passenger-seat cushion where a tracer had ignited the stuffing. There were two more holes in the floorboard. I'd gotten off pretty easy. I downshifted to take a sharp curve and felt an odd sensation in my right arm. I took my hand off the gearshift and watched rivulets of bright red blood trickle into my palm. It didn't hurt, but it surprised me. I looked at my arm, wincing as I drew it across my body. The cushion wasn't the only thing burning. I slapped at the smoldering black and glistening red above my elbow, trying to hold onto the wheel with my right hand, now sticky and slippery with blood. Oh damn. It started to hurt.
Good, I thought. If it hurts, it means I'm not going into shock. I think. I looked again at the big holes in the floor and realized that half an inch in the other direction and the slug would have taken my arm off. Of course, half an inch the other way, and I wouldn't have been breaking out in a cold clammy sweat. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. It was only a bad scratch. I got away from Elliott and was almost to Scoglitti. It wasn't so bad.
Then I laughed and pressed hard on the accelerator, picking up speed. I was bleeding, on the run from mobsters and MPs, and driving like a maniac to rendezvous with my friends in a stolen, shot-up jeep. I loved it. I had been wondering who I was only days ago. This was who: I was on the hunt, enjoying the chase, living by my wits. Living or dying. That sobered me up. Then I thought it was funny again and laughed, a mad cackle that ended as I coughed and hawked up road dust.
The next turn took me close to the beach, flat grassy land on either side, the wind bending the stalks across my path. A small peninsula jutted out from the town ahead, a church tower dominating it, shimmering against the deep blue sea beyond. The sun was at my back, illuminating the stark, bleached, almost blinding whiteness of the church. I didn't know what was going to happen next or who would be waiting for me and at that moment I didn't care. Not many people experienced a single moment of knowing exactly who they were and what they were made for. But now I knew. This was me. All the doubts about identity, guilt, and death were swept away in the gleaming sunlight.