"Harry, get Harding on that thing and let him know where we're headed, willya?"
"Aye aye," said Harry, and began fiddling with the dials.
"Billy, there's something else that bothers me," Kaz said.
"What?"
"We met Colonel Routh, the paymaster for the 45th Division. He showed us the orders that came through from II Corps Headquarters, ordering him to take the payroll ashore with the first wave of the invasion. He said such an order was completely unexpected."
"And?"
"No one at II Corps HQ had any idea about that order. He checked afterward. There was no name attached. It did say 'By order of Lieutenant General Omar N. Bradley,' but all Corps orders say that."
"Maybe AMGOT wanted to get the occupation scrip into circulation as soon as possible?"
"Yes, but no other unit had their payroll go ashore that early. It does not all add up, does it?"
"I don't know, Kaz. I hope we find some answers in Vittoria."
I took a right at another road sign pointing to Vittoria. Brooklyn was to the left. Same joker probably painted all the signs on this road. Forty-four hundred miles from home. Maybe it would be an even five thousand before the war was over.
"Harding left for Vittoria an hour ago." Harry spoke up from the rear. "He sent us a message to find you and bring you there."
"Anything else?"
"No, there's too much static."
"Message delivered," I said. "Harding's a day late and a dollar short. By the time he gets here we should have this all wrapped up."
"Piece of pie," Kaz said.
"Piece of cake, not pie."
"Thank you, Billy. American colloquialisms are so difficult to remember. They make little sense to begin with."
"Yes, why cake and not pie?" Harry asked.
"I would say cakes are harder to bake than pies," Kaz said.
"Right. One mistake with a cake and you've got a lopsided mess," Harry concurred. "With a pie you can simply cover it up with crust."
"How many cakes have you baked?" I asked them both.
"I've tasted quite a few," said Harry.
"I prefer pies. Tortes, actually," said Kaz.
I was still hungry, and this talk of food made me think of my favorites, all currently off the menu. I should have thought of my mom's cooking, which was great, but the picture I saw in my mind was a good old American hot dog, slathered in mustard, served up at Fenway Park with a cold beer. I hadn't thought about baseball since the last Stars and Stripes I'd read in Tunisia, and today it kept popping up. I hoped the Red Sox had climbed up in the standings and were ahead of the Yankees by now. It had been a long time since 1918.
We drove into the city proper. It was mostly intact with some shops open for business. The local Banco di Sicilia was open too, and I wondered if any phony money was already deposited in secret accounts there. Not actually phony, though, so there was no way to tell which was legit and which wasn't. GIs strolled down the street and a group of officers sat at an outdoor cafe, sipping glasses of red wine. I passed them by, a bit nervous about ranking officers right now. One of them could be an AMGOT pal of Elliott's.
The road got narrower, and after a few twists and turns it dumped us out into the central piazza. The usual church was at one end with a fountain in the center. A statue of a woman and a bunch of fish stood ready to spout water, but the basin was bone-dry. A group of GIs sat on the church steps, reading newspapers, their field packs and rifles scattered around them. As I got closer, I could see it was the 45th Division News. A clue, or at least a lead to a clue.
"Hey, fellas," I said as I stopped the car next to the fountain. "Do they print that paper around here?"
"Yeah, but they're gettin' ready to pull out," a corporal said, a cigarette dangling from his lips. "We're waitin' for transport ourselves."
"Where to?"
"Dunno," he said. "North, I guess. Followin' the division. The front's so far up this ain't even the rear of the rear no more. AMGOT took over the town yesterday."
"Where can we find them?" I asked.
"AMGOT?"
"No, the newspaper staff, the print shop."
"If they ain't moved out yet, head down the street to the left of that church. 'Bout a quarter mile or so there's some tin-roofed buildings. One of them has printing presses and that's where they been workin' outta."
"Do you chaps have an extra copy?" Harry asked.
"Sure," the corporal answered, signaling one of his squad to hand over a newspaper. He eyed me, with my undershirt and bandage for a uniform, then Kaz in his British field blouse with "Poland" stitched on the shoulder, and finally Harry, his bleached-out naval cap at a rakish angle, his blond hair flowing out from underneath. "What kinda outfit you boys with, anyway?"
"Would you believe General Eisenhower's staff?" I asked.
"You better git movin' before somebody comes along what ain't got a sense of humor," he said, flicking the ash off his butt and field-stripping it.
It was good advice. Taking the turn past the church, I drove slowly down a residential street, flowers and drying laundry decorating the small balconies three and four stories above us. People were going about their business-leaning out windows, laughing, arguing-much like you'd find in any neighborhood back home on any normal day.
But normal didn't mean good. Normal meant you let your guard down. I looked at the rooftops and balconies ahead. I took the first side road I could.
"Where are you going, Billy?" Kaz asked.
"I'm going to find the back way in, and then we walk."
"Why?"
"Because our sniper could be waiting, and I don't want to give him a second chance. We might even crawl."
"There's no Willie and Joe in this!" Harry said from the backseat, more upset at the absence of Mauldin's cartoon than the idea of a sniper.
"There's a war on," I said helpfully as I parked the car behind a roofless building.
This street had a dilapidated look, as if times had left it behind. A rusted motorcycle with two flat tires and no engine lay in the alley, probably right where it had fallen over a couple of years ago. A few small shops with iron bars on the windows were doorless, broken furniture and other debris marking the trail of looters. From the looks of things, they hadn't had heavy burdens. Down the road was an empty stretch, then the tin-roofed buildings the corporal had mentioned. It was as if people had simply used up all their luck here and moved on down the road to try again.
"What do we do now?" Kaz asked.
"Well, since we can't sit and read the funny papers, let's take a walk."
I got out and checked my. 45, worked the slide, and flicked the safety off. Harry had found a carbine in the back of the car, and Kaz had his Webley revolver. Not exactly heavy weapons, but they'd do the trick. All we had to do was get close.
We walked single file, keeping close to the empty buildings. The sound of our footsteps in the rubble was loud, rock and debris slipping and scraping beneath our boots. The same sound, softer, echoed from around the corner. I stopped at the last building, leaning against the crumbling brick, and listened to the footsteps headed our way. Pressing my back against the wall I motioned Kaz and Harry to halt. Two sets of heavy feet, no voices. I held up the. 45, the grip resting in the palm of my left hand. A curse sounded as one of them slipped, the tone and words familiar to me from North End neighborhoods.
"Porca l'oca!"
Two Italian soldiers, rifles slung from their shoulders, came into view. One was hopping on one leg, rubbing his ankle. The other was square in my sights, his mouth twisted open in shock, as if he wanted to scream but was lockjawed. The. 45 was cocked and locked, my finger against the trigger, only the slightest muscle tension needed for two quick head shots. My vision flickered across them, registering something odd about their uniforms, but I kept my eyeballs on those slung rifles. One move and they'd both be dead.