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  "Are these Fascists good fighters?" I asked Sciafani. I was hoping they were nothing more than local militia who might skedaddle for home as soon as the first shots sounded.

  "I have seen a battalion of Blackshirts attack British tanks with hand grenades," he said. "I have seen others cower in their holes. Some Fascist units are very well trained, others less so. Most of the Blackshirts here are not from Sicily."

  "So they'll probably fight?"

  "It is a good position. I would say yes, they will fight."

  "We should get out of here." I stated the obvious while looking to our rear.

  "That will be difficult," Sciafani said. He was right. While we had cover between us and the militia, there was nothing but bare rocky ground behind us. Once we left the shrubs, we'd be in the open long enough for them to spot us, either going down the hill or back the way we had come.

  "We have to stay put until it gets dark," I said.

  "Yes, and pray one of them does not walk over here to see a man and his horse," Sciafani said. He had the basic idea, so I didn't correct him.

  We waited. The truck came back and more men got out. The truck was towing a 20mm antiaircraft gun, and the crew hustled to unhook it and set it up. As if to taunt them, a single aircraft zoomed out of the western sky, the sun at its back. I couldn't raise my head high enough to identify it, but the machine gun gave it a few ineffective bursts before it climbed out of sight. They moved the 20mm gun to the side of the road opposite the machine gun so their positions formed a semicircle, facing east. We'd have to move around to the right and hope there wasn't another unit doing the same thing on the other side of the hill. We waited some more, listening to the sound of digging and idle chatter that could have come from enlisted men in any army. Nervous laughter, jokes, complaints about the hard ground, bad food, and indifferent officers. I'd been in the army a little more than a year and already the rhythm of daily life in camp or at the front had become part of me. It was easy to recognize the sounds soldiers made, their ability to show contempt for the service while at the same time quietly demonstrating their bond to each other. The tone and tempo of the words didn't sound any different in Italian, and it almost made me homesick for life in a GI camp.

  Memories of North Africa flowed unbidden through my mind.

  Uncle Ike had his headquarters in a fancy villa. I was in a nice tent with a wood floor up off the sand. It wasn't as nice as the Hotel St. George, where Kaz had managed to get us a room when we first arrived in Algiers, but we weren't living in foxholes either. There were dinners and receptions at the villa, and once in a while Kaz and I would be invited, especially if the guest was a visiting congressman from a Polish or Irish ward. Uncle Ike didn't like having to entertain politicians, but when he did, he did it right. Harry Butcher would show them around, make sure they met some GIs from their district, take their pictures, bring them to a villa on the beach for a swim, then for a fancy dinner with the general, plenty of booze and cigars all around. There might even be one going on right now, I thought. Cocktails, maybe. Perhaps Diana was there, wearing her brown FANY uniform as if it were a gown, the wide leather belt polished to a gleam, the brass buttons sparkling like diamonds. She loved that uniform. It had been tailor-made for her, sent from England after she decided to accept the posting SOE had offered her in their North African operation. The first time she tried it on after her last mission, it hung off her thin frame, a wide gap between collar and neck. We both pretended not to notice.

  FANY, the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, was an outfit that provided the Brit army with women trained to operate switchboards, drive trucks, that sort of thing. It also was a source of agents for the Special Operations Executive. Diana had volunteered after she had served as a switchboard operator with the British Expeditionary Force in 1940, and made it out of France at Dunkirk. The destroyer she was on was sunk by Stukas, and by the time she had been picked up, she'd watched the wounded who had been on stretchers slide off the deck and disappear beneath the waves. Diana had told me about that the first day we met. She'd clung to me, crying her story out, reliving the helplessness she had felt watching everyone around her die.

  She'd been courting death ever since and almost caught up with it in Algeria. She was OK now, but I didn't know how we were. We'd fallen hard for each other, back in England. But after I pulled her out of that Vichy prison camp, drugged and half dead, I focused more on getting my revenge on the bastard responsible than on being with her. Not that she didn't want him dead too, but once that was taken care of, I should have stepped up and let her know I still loved her. But I'd been scared, unsure of myself, and she knew it and thought the worst: that I didn't want to be with her after all she had endured.

  I'll admit, I didn't like thinking about it. So I tried, tried my best, and as the weeks passed, and she grew stronger, so did we. But I was never sure I had her full trust, and had no idea how to get it back.

  That's the way things had been when I left for this island voyage. We were still in love, I guess. Something was missing though, and I was man enough to understand it was something I didn't have, but not man enough to know what it was.

  Sciafani shifted his weight as he lifted his hands to put them under his arms. A rock rolled loose and started a noisy fall, dislodging gravel that flowed downhill after it, the stones hitting each other at the bottom with a sharp click-clack sound. We flattened ourselves even lower, not daring to look up to see if the soldiers heard.

  " Che cio e? " The sound of boots on gravel came scuffling across the ground, drawing closer, murmurs of cautious curiosity evident in the tone of the militiamen as they approached.

  A sound like a long sheet being ripped rose in a crescendo from the sky, too fast and fierce to allow for any response. The ground shook as one shell hit, thundered, and cracked on the hill. More shrieking sounds descended, explosions that spewed earth and fire around the Italian positions. Naval gunfire, I thought. That aircraft, a spotter, had caught a glimpse of the antiaircraft gun being unloaded. Right now, sailors miles offshore were reading coordinates and loading huge shells into the cannons of a cruiser's gun turret, while a few dozen Blackshirts were being blown to kingdom come. I pulled at Sciafani, motioning down the hill. We had to get out of here now, while we could, before a shell found us.

  "No," he said, shaking off my hand. Screams pierced through all the other sounds, and he started to stand, but I pulled him down again.

  The awful shrieks and explosions continued, punctuated by the agonized calls of the wounded, until they were drowned out, perhaps ended, by the next round of shells. A series of smaller explosions marked a hit on the 20mm ammo, a column of flame coloring the darkening sky as the truck's gasoline tank went up. One soldier unhurt, but with wide, panicked eyes, ran right through the shrubs, tripping on my legs as he barreled by. He rolled partway down the hill, then looked at me and screamed, running crazily away, weaving and nearly falling as he held his hands over his ears.

  The shelling ended abruptly. Sciafani and I looked at each other, unsure what to make of the sudden silence. It took a few seconds for other sounds to be heard, the aftermath of a violent bombardment. The crackling of flames, moans of the wounded, the pop, pop, pop of rifle ammunition going off in the fire. We raised our heads and looked. It was nearly dark but the burning truck lit the scene with a flickering orange light. Craters filled the area where the positions had been, smoke curling up from the bottom of the ten-foot-wide holes. We stood. The machine-gun emplacement was simply gone, the men, heavy weapons, and sandbags erased from the landscape, replaced by overlapping circles of smoking dirt. The antiaircraft gun, a blackened heap of twisted metal, had been thrown ten yards from where it had been set up. I stepped over a severed leg.

  "Here," Sciafani said. "Help me."He had a man by his arms, buried up to his chest in debris thrown up by the explosions. He didn't seem to have a mark on him. I grabbed one arm and Sciafani took the other. We pulled and fell back, holding the top half of a man, cut thro
ugh by shrapnel. The sailors who had loaded shells minutes before were probably drinking coffee by now.

  We finally found someone alive, huddled in a crater where he had taken shelter after the first round of shells. He had shrapnel fragments in his back, which Sciafani picked out by the light of the fire with a knife he'd taken from the body of an officer, a sharp dagger that he sterilized in the flames before he worked the shrapnel out. The guy never blinked. He stared out into the night, his mouth open as if to speak, but he made no sound.

  I searched for other wounded while Sciafani worked. I found a soldier, younger than me, younger than my kid brother, by the side of the road. He was crying as he lay in a pool of blood. I called for Sciafani as I knelt beside him. He looked at me with a question in his eyes that I didn't want to answer as he held his hands clamped tight to his abdomen. I knew what shrapnel did. It was seldom clean. Blood seeped through his fingers. I didn't know enough Italian to say anything and it didn't seem right to speak to him in English.

  " Je suis desole, " I said as I smoothed the hair away from his forehead. I am sorry. " Je suis desole.

  "

  " Mi dispiace," Sciafani said as he knelt next to me and put his hand on my shoulder. He took the boy's hands to pull them away from his wound, but stopped as a raspy, jagged breath came out. With it, all movement ceased. The hands relaxed, and Sciafani placed them crossed on the boy's chest.

  "He is gone."

  I didn't know what to say or feel. I didn't want these guys firing into the GIs who might be swarming up this hill tomorrow, but I also didn't want this kid to have to suffer and die. I put my head in my hands, and repeated Sciafani's words as best I could.

  " Mi dispiace," I said.

  "Look," Sciafani said. "Look at me. His blood is on my hands."

  He held his hands out, palms up, coated in dark red blood. "These are the hands that did this. I did nothing to stop the Fascists, and now they are sending boys out to be killed for Mussolini. Do you know what Il Duce says about blood?"

  "No."

  "Blood alone moves the wheels of history," Sciafani quoted. "He said that in 1914. We had quite enough warning, don't you think?

  Blood alone."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  "Don't shoot!" I held my hands up and stepped in front of the three bandaged Italians on the floor. I knew what a glimpse of an enemy uniform might mean to the GI who had stuck the snout of his Thompson submachine through the door, not to mention what it could mean for me. "I'm an American."

  " Non sparare, non sparare, " sobbed one of the wounded Italians. I guessed it was basically the same request.

  "Come out where I can see you," the owner of the Thompson barked. He still wasn't showing more than the muzzle of his gun. Smart guy.

  "Coming out," I said, holding my hands palm up, slightly forward, so the first thing he'd see was that they were empty.

  "Who the hell are you, Mac?" The guy eyeing me was a buck sergeant, and while he didn't keep his Thompson leveled at my gut, he didn't exactly practice firearms safety with it either.

  "Lieutenant Billy Boyle. I got separated from my unit. There's three wounded Italians in there," I said, pointing to the abandoned house where Sciafani and I had taken the survivors from the night before.

  Over his shoulder, I saw GIs darting from cover and making quick dashes, staying low in the long early-morning shadows. The only sound was the rapid tread of boots and the slight clinking and clanking of gear as a platoon of heavily armed men moved swiftly around us, wraiths descending from the hills.

  "What unit, and where's your weapon?" He eyed me with suspicion.

  "Seventh Army HQ," I said, turning so he could see the patch on my shoulder. "We ran into some Germans and barely got away. All I have is this Beretta." I patted the pistol stuck into my belt.

  "Hey, nice. Can I see it?"

  "That's 'Hey, nice, Lieutenant.' Or has the army given up on that in the last couple of days?"

  "I got no idea if you're a lieutenant, a deserter, or a Kraut. What I don't believe is that any headquarters punk got here ahead of Rangers." His eyes narrowed beneath the steel rim of his helmet as they studied me.

  "Purely by accident, Sarge. We were trying to make our way back last night and got trapped up there when the Italians started setting up emplacements." I pointed to the top of the hill, the dark craters draped in shadows cast by the morning sun.

  "Yeah, the navy blasted that for us yesterday." He turned and signaled to someone. His shoulder patch said First Battalion Rangers.

  "You're Darby's Rangers, right?"

  "That's right, Mac. You sure you don't want to trade for that Beretta?"

  I knew he believed my story when he started hustling me for a souvenir. If he thought I was a deserter he would've taken it outright. If he really thought I was a Kraut, I'd be dead.

  "No, Sarge, I might need it. You'll probably find a few more up ahead."

  "OK, our medic will look at your wounded prisoners." A Ranger with a red cross on his helmet and armband ran up to us.

  "Got some wounded Eyeties in here. Hang on, Doc, lemme check 'em for weapons."

  He disappeared into the house, but it didn't take long. It was one long room, and the most badly wounded man was on the single bed, the others on the floor. We 'd washed their wounds as best we could and ripped up clothes and the single sheet for bandages. It wasn't much, but Sciafani said they'd live. I'd scrounged canteens and rations from the debris at the top of the hill, and even found some brandy in the house, but that had gone to the wounded.

  "They're all yours, Doc. One looks pretty bad. There's a civilian who had this, said he was a doctor." The sergeant held the dagger Sciafani had picked up the previous night. The sheath had MVSN engraved on it and the Fascist symbol.

  "Nice souvenir, Sarge, but he really is a doctor. He used that to dig shrapnel out of one of the wounded last night." I held out my hand for the dagger.

  "If you say so," he said reluctantly, slapping the sheathed dagger into my hand. "Yeah, and I know, there'll be lots more up ahead."

  The medic went in the house and I heard Sciafani talking with him, asking if he had sulfa, giving him an update on each patient.

  "You headed into Agrigento, Sarge?"

  "Well, I guess with that Beantown accent you ain't no Kraut spy," he said as he spat. "We're going around it, to take Porto Empedocle from the rear. Then the Third Division can move into Agrigento real easy. You seen any Germans around here?"

  "None, just those Italians, Fascist militia. These are the only survivors," I said.

  "Good." He flicked a finger close to his helmet in what might have been an attempt at a salute or a wave goodbye. I figured only a sucker wants to be given a salute when there's a chance of enemy snipers around, so I didn't make a big deal out of it.

  "See ya in the funny papers, Sarge."

  "Where?" Sciafani asked from the doorway of the house.

  "It's just an expression. It means I think he's a funny guy, in a sarcastic sort of way."

  "I did not think him amusing. We can leave now; the medic is setting up an aid station here. The men will receive good care."

  It's odd, the things that divide men in a war. Sciafani had been talking with the medic like a colleague. He and I were getting along OK. But that one word, one comment from the sergeant about the bombardment last night: Good. It made all the sense in the world. Who knows how many of these Rangers would be dead or writhing in pain right now from machine-gun bullets or 20mm shells if the navy hadn't hit that position? It was logical. But Sciafani didn't see dead and wounded Americans. He saw his own people blown to pieces, and it was gnawing at him. Did he feel guilty for being alive and in the company of an American?

  "Good," I said, studying his face. The word hung like a challenge in the air. I handed him the dagger and he tucked it into his belt.

  "Come," was all he said, brushing by me, a brief look of disgust on his face. I followed, and thought about the leg I'd stepped over, and th
e boy clutching at his stomach, and I felt small, ashamed, and insignificant. Who was I to judge him or the sergeant or anybody else? The Ranger sergeant knew what he had to do, and so did Sciafani. Me, I was still following ghosts.

  But the ghosts were getting closer.

  I grabbed a full canteen and followed Sciafani. The Rangers veered off to the left, circumventing the hill in front of us that led up to the backside of Agrigento. The city ran along the crest of the hill and then descended the slope toward Porto Empedocle, a few kilometers away.

  Between them was the Valley of the Temples, acres of ancient crumbling temples built by the Greeks and who the hell knows else.

  From here, we could make out the tops of a few tall buildings, their orange tile roofs blazing in the hot morning sunlight. It was as if no one wanted to build anything out of sight of the sea or the ruins. We climbed up rough paths through stands of cactus and trees, waiting at one point for a goatherd to pass with his mangy flock. Following a streambed, we made it to the crest of the hill, taking a dirt path that emptied out into the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, according to Sciafani.

  We passed a massive, rounded building set off by pink marble columns and a statue of heroic-looking Italian soldiers. It was from my dad's war, when the Italians were on our side. Two dogs slept on the stone steps beneath the statue, too lazy in the warm sun to take notice of us.

  Otherwise, the plaza was empty.

  After the steep hike in the growing heat, it was odd to suddenly find ourselves in a city, surrounded by green trees and neatly trimmed hedges. A fountain gushed from stone cherubs and we stuck our heads into the spray, the cool water cleansing us of dust and sweat.

  Two old men walked into the park, identically dressed in black suits, vests, and collarless shirts. They stopped to look at us, their eyes wide in surprise, whether at my uniform or simply our general appearance, I couldn't tell. The worn suit of the Ciccolos' missing son hung like tattered rags on Sciafani's thin frame. His once white shirt was filthy now with stains of dried blood across his chest. I didn't know if the men knew I was an American, or cared. They scurried away, turning a corner and disappearing up narrow stone steps.