Nothing to distract him. He had no choice but to listen.
“Very good-looking,” Wade said. “Originally from Tyre, she fled after her brother killed her husband to get his money. She stopped in Cyprus, where she picked up all the local prostitutes as wives for her ship’s crew—”
The loader bellowed a laugh. “And here I thought history was boring! You hear that, Sergeant Killjoy? That Dido was a born leader, I tell you.”
“I’m taking notes here,” Austin deadpanned.
“Give me a good woman,” said Russo, warming to the conversation, “and I’ll fight the world. It’s in my Sicilian blood.”
“Is that what it takes?” Swanson mused. “’Cuz from what I hear, you Eye-talians can’t fight for shit.”
“One of these days, I’ll show you firsthand.”
“Haw, haw, haw,” the loader gloated.
“Actually, at one time, the Italians conquered most of the Western world,” Wade said. “And ruled it for five hundred years, fifteen hundred if you count the Byzantines. My story includes the Romans as well as Carthage.”
“See?” Russo said. “The Italians know how to fight. Please continue with your excellent lecture, Corporal. I’m all ears.”
“All nose is more like it,” Swanson muttered.
“Dido landed in North Africa, right where Tunis is now,” Wade said in a loud voice before Russo could respond about Swanson being all mouth. “She made a deal with a local ruler she’d take only enough land that an ox hide covered, then cut the hide into strips small enough to stake out an entire hill.”
“Ha!” Swanson chortled. “She sounds like some broads I know back home. They sure how know to turn an inch into a coupla yards.”
“On that hill, she built Carthage. If you believe the poet Virgil, she then welcomed Aeneas, who’d just escaped the sack of Troy. They fell in love, but divine intervention forced him to leave. In her grief, she said Carthage would henceforth and always hate the Trojans, climbed atop a funeral pyre, and fell on a sword. There, she burned while Aeneas went on his way to found Rome, which later fought three wars with Carthage and finally burned it to the ground.”
“This isn’t surprising to me,” Russo said. “That the girl killed herself, I mean.”
“Why?”
“Once you’ve been with an Italian man—”
The crew’s collective groans drowned him out. He grinned.
“Just remember, we might be fighting Italian men soon,” Austin said.
“Too bad for them, Boss.”
“I’m just saying—”
“I know what you’re saying. And if you think I’m going to let them kill me out of some loyalty to a country I’ve never been to, you’re crazy.”
After a long pause, the commander said, “Well. Okay, then.”
“Good,” said Russo, hoping that settled the matter once and for all.
The crew fell back into its stupor. The men had nothing to do but stare blankly at the countryside mile after mile. The tank passed adobe villages, gum tree farms, irrigation ditches, mule-drawn hay carts, shepherds tending their goatherds, and Algerian buses with wood- or charcoal-burning engines. Every mile, it seemed, they passed another broken-down tank or other vehicle awaiting help from the maintenance section or tank retrievers. A squadron of French hussars on black chargers trotted past, making better time than America’s mechanized finest.
“I’m so bored, I could go for another one of Wisenheimer’s stories,” Swanson complained. “We had it made in Oran.”
“Then he had to ruin it,” Russo said. “Next he’ll predict how the Germans are going to wreck us, and it’ll happen.”
“Now that you mention it, it isn’t going to be the cakewalk everybody thinks it’s going to be,” Wade said. “The Germans are going to be tough as nails.”
“See what I mean?” the driver crowed.
“Reservists, I hear,” Austin said. “Coastal defense types. Not their best.”
“My only worry is they’ll get away before we catch them,” Clay said.
Russo scowled. “Shut up, Eugene.”
“I joined up to fight the Germans. Stop yelling at me for wanting to do it.”
“We’re going to Berlin, and we haven’t even made it out of Africa,” the commander said. “You’ll get your chance, bog. No need to chomp at the bit.”
The sky dimmed as the sun sank behind them. At last, the platoon commander relayed a halt order. After a lengthy inspection, the crew tramped down the slope to the shoreline while Clay remained at the tank with the Thompson. There, they stripped down and jumped into the surf to wash off the day’s sweat and grime.
Russo gazed across the Mediterranean and wondered if he’d ever get to see the Old Country. Maybe after the war, he’d visit and look up extended family. He wondered how they’d see him, showing up in an American service uniform. He hoped they had no love for Mussolini, who was ruining their country. More than anything, Russo prayed a good Sicilian girl—a strong, big-breasted, dark-haired, fiery beauty—would fall in love with him, and he’d bring her back as his wife.
At last, Austin called out it was time to return to the tank and get chow. Russo lingered another few moments to enjoy the feel of sand under his feet, rollers breaking against his skin. He sensed there was some metaphor for life here. Life just kept hitting you, but if you stood strong and tall, you could take anything. Maybe there was always that one big wave that knocked you on your ass, but he hadn’t met it yet. Russo raised his fists and howled at the sea.
Swanson did a slow clap behind him. “Nothing more entertaining than seeing a buck naked runt barking at nothing. You should be in the USO.”
“Ha!” Russo hollered as he high-stepped out of the water. Considering everything this war was going to throw at him, Swanson was nothing. He didn’t even rate as a wave.
He dressed and filled Clay’s helmet so the bog could wash. Then he trudged back to Boomer. Clay had the little tanker stove going and was heating up their supper.
While they ate their corned beef hash, the commander said, “If you guys like history, I have a story for you.”
“The jury’s still out on whether we like it or not,” Swanson said.
“If it takes my mind off this dog food, I’m all ears,” Wade said.
“Does it have Italians in it?” said Russo, pure smartass.
The loader grinned. “Or girls?”
The commander growled, “Roll up your flaps and let me tell my story, all of you.” He reached into his pocket and opened a handkerchief to reveal a lump of lead. “This is the musket ball that nearly took my great-great-great granddad’s leg during the siege of Yorktown. And a German gave it to him.”
With wide eyes, Wade leaned to inspect the musket ball. “Amazing.”
“Bartholomew Austin was with George Washington through almost the whole shooting match. He ended up the rank of captain by Yorktown.”
“The last big land battle of the war,” the gunner said.
“That’s right. At Yorktown, the Americans and French worked together to squeeze Cornwallis. Late in the siege, the Americans dug a second line that allowed their guns to pound a key redoubt. All day, the guns fired at it, and that night, Bart charged with four hundred men under Alexander Hamilton. They took it with the bayonet. Just before the British surrendered, a Hessian mercenary plugged him in the leg.” The sergeant held up the piece of lead. “And this was the bullet.”
“Wow,” Clay said.
“Five days later, Cornwallis surrendered his eight thousand troops. They were the best in the world, but the Americans were better. The war ended soon after that, and America was born from it. That’s how I know we’re going to beat the Krauts and the Japs. Americans get the job done, no matter what it takes, even if we get slapped around a bit first.”