Never mind that now. I was a straight leg, right? So I hadn't jumped during the night. I must have come in by landing craft or small boat before dawn two days ago. D-day for Sicily. Operation Husky, scheduled for July 10, 1943. The code name and date popped into my head, another sudden revelation, followed by nothing.
I would've been clean shaven and wearing a fresh uniform. So why did I have a week's worth of beard? Not stubble but longer hair beginning to feel soft, like a beard growing in.
I must have arrived in Sicily before the invasion.
I scrubbed the dirt of days away, scouring my body, wishing the hopelessness I felt would fall away too. I lathered my face and shaved, using the small mirror and razor that had been set up next to the scotch. It was hard going, and I cut myself. Drops of blood fell into the dirty water, blossoming red and disappearing. I pressed my fingers against the cut and they came away wet and sticky. I stood and poured a pitcher of fresh water over me, rinsing off soap and lather and pale pink droplets. It was cold, but I didn't care.
I'd been here before the invasion.
The conclusion was plain but I didn't want to think about it. Mechanically, I dried off. Rocko made some noises but I picked up the knife and he quieted down. I gripped it in my palm, blade pointed at Rocko this time, as if I were about to stab him.
The knife. The knife in my hand was bloody, glistening wet. I felt it slide between someone's ribs, my hand twisting and cracking bone while a hand flapped uselessly against a holster, trying to draw a pistol, too late.
I gasped and dropped the knife. I blinked, half believing the man in uniform whom I had stabbed would be standing in front of me, breathing his last. There was no one but Rocko, though, naked and hog-tied, watching me with more fear than I'd yet seen in his eyes. I picked up the knife, felt the handle and looked for blood, scarcely able to believe it was clean and dry.
I'd been here before the invasion. And I was a killer.
I gathered up clothes and gear, leaving the M1 where it was and exchanging it for a Thompson. I liked the thought of a spray of. 45 slugs between me and trouble, and there was plenty of trouble on this goddamned island. Italian trouble, German trouble, and whatever brand of trouble I was in. I grabbed a M1928 field pack-oddly enough, I could remember all sorts of army nomenclature-and stuffed in socks, a shaving kit, anything I thought I might need for the next few days. I found an open carton of D rations and threw in some of the vitamin-fortified chocolate bars. Then I retrieved the handkerchief and the note from where I'd stashed them. I folded the handkerchief and stuck it under my T-shirt, against the small of my back. I located a sewing kit, picked up my shirt, and pulled a chair over in front of Rocko. I took out my knife. Rocko was shaking. I pulled the shirt from his mouth.
"Don't…," he started to say, then spit on the floor. "Don't kill me. You aren't gonna kill me, are you, kid? Jesus Christ!" He spit again, that last curse directed at the taste left in his mouth, not me. Not directly anyway.
I sat back and began cutting the stitches from my Seventh Army shoulder patch on the khaki shirt I'd been wearing. I figured it might come in handy to stay a Headquarters GI if I had to talk my way out of a fix. I got the patch off and pulled at the little threads, wondering if this was a clue to my identity or another subterfuge.
I didn't like the way things were going, and I needed to find out what I was involved in. So far, it all seemed suspicious. I mean, who would have been in Sicily prior to the invasion? Secret agents, maybe, but somehow I doubted I was one. Did secret agents let themselves be led around by Italians? Weren't they trained to remember things? I almost had to wonder if I was really an American. But outside of a few curse words in French and Italian, I couldn't come up with anything but English. So I was sure I was a genuine Yank. What did that tell me? Even if I was an agent, it didn't mean I was safe, not until I knew what my mission was.
"I heard some guy leave before I sneaked in here, Rocko," I said as I threaded the needle. "Who was he?"
"I dunno. Some officer who wanted a case of scotch."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Rocko, I think you were going to deliver me to someone dead or alive when you brought me down here this morning. I think I got out of here just in time."
"I dunno what you're talkin' about," Rocko said. "Say, what happened to Hutton? Is he really dead?"
"Yep," I said. "He a pal of yours?"
"Yeah, you could say that."
"Sorry for your loss."
"Fuck you, buddy," Rocko snarled. "You better untie me now! I could holler my head off-"
The knife blade was at his throat before he could finish. He didn't say another word.
"Rocko, the things I remember are all pretty nasty. I've killed before, up close, like this. I killed people today. It wouldn't bother me to add one more."
"Jesus, kid, we're on the same side!" He croaked out the words, his eyeballs swiveling down, trying to see the blade.
"If that were true, Rocko, you would've gotten in the jeep with us this morning."
"The captain, he ordered me-"
"No, no, no," I said, pressing the blade against his neck. "Don't lie to me, Rocko, don't do it. I'm on edge right now, and I really don't care if you leave this tent under your own power or toes up."
"OK, kid, geez, take it easy with that thing. I keep it pretty sharp, y'know."
I moved the flat of the blade away from his throat, leaving the tip resting just below his Adam's apple. A tremble scurried through the muscles of my arm and settled in my gut. Was I a killer? A close-in killer? Not like up on the line, where you did what you had to do to stay alive, following orders. No, not like that at all. Was I a killer who could lay the blade of a knife against a throat and use it like a professional? A remorseless killer. Was that who I was?
Had I been sent here to kill someone-not the unknown enemy but someone with a face and a name? Was I an assassin? Had I done my job?
My arm was tired. As I sheathed the knife my hand shook.
"Rocko, save us both a lot of trouble and tell me what the deal is," I said. "Why are you so interested in me? What's with the handkerchief? And who else is looking for me?"
"Everyone's looking for you, kid. But I haven't turned you in, have I?"
"Who's everyone?" I asked.
"The army, for one. And friends of the friends."
"I thought some MPs and officers might be looking for me. But what do you mean 'friends'? Whose friends?"
"Not yours, kid. If you're smart, you'll untie me and let me take care of everything. I can hide you until you get your senses back, then we'll set things right. You still got that fancy handkerchief? It could be your ticket out of this mess if you hand it over." He said it with a smile, his head cocked to the side, eyebrows up, oozing sincerity and concern. I had tied his arms tight at his waist, crossed over and knotted at the wrists. His hands stuck out and he twisted them, palms up, beseeching me to listen to reason for my own good.
"It's somewhere safe. I'm smart enough not to trust you. Now tell me who these friends of yours are."
"They ain't friends of mine, they're friends of the friends, know what I mean? Jesus, I told you too damn much already. Now untie me, willya?"
"No, I don't know what you mean! Who's Charlotte? Where is this Lieutenant Andrews?"
"I can't tell you anything, don't you understand? They'll kill me. Forget what I said. I got connections, kid. You can trust me. You gotta. Now be a pal and untie me." A desperate, pleading tone had crept into Rocko's voice. His hands clenched, then steepled into a parody of prayer. He was afraid of these friends of his, whoever they were. I wanted to trust someone, I needed to trust someone, but if this guy was my only choice, I'd take my chances alone.
"No thanks, Rocko. Sorry about this." I gagged him again with the T-shirt. He shook his head, making muffled, growling noises, then a low, resigned moaning. I felt sick at the sound, disgusted with Rocko and his naked pleading. The reality was that this was all I knew of my life: a petty thief and coward, mysteries of purgatory, and dangerous friends; the comfort of a knife in my hand, the practiced ease with which I'd held it, and the nightmare vision it cut across my brain. I had to leave.