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  "So, do we have a problem?" That was another voice. Smooth, relaxed, not like Rocko, who sounded like he was on edge.

  "No, no problem at all. It'll take some time for Andrews to sort through the Eyetie prisoners."

  "How long?"

  "I dunno. He can't leave the Signals section anytime he wants. And he's gotta get that German dialer workin' with the BD 72-"

  "I am disappointed in you and your Lieutenant Andrews. I did not expect this delay."

  "I can't help it that there's so goddamn many POWs! They're giving up by companies now. Includin' a couple hundred from the 207th, and they're about a hundred miles west of here, in Agrigento."

  Lieutenant? I might not remember things perfectly, but I knew noncoms did not talk to officers the way Rocko had spoken to Andrews. Unless, maybe, they had something on them.

  "I know where Agrigento is. The food there is almost as good as in Palermo." He said the names like a native, the syllables gently rolling off his tongue and sounding like a threat at the same time. His voice was deep and low, with a raw power to it.

  "What I don't know is why you didn't kill him when you had the chance," the man said, as if Rocko had forgotten to do the simplest of chores.

  "There never was a chance, honest! First the medic shows up, then at the field hospital there was always someone around. I tried searching him, but he woke up. There was a chaplain right next to us the whole time. I couldn't do a thing! So I brought him down here, where I figured it'd be easy. But then that paratroop officer came along and shanghaied him. I couldn't help it, really."

  "You have many excuses," the other voice said, with an icy edge of irritation.

  "Don't worry, I'll take care of things," said Rocko, a defensive whine creeping into his voice.

  "I do worry," the voice said and I heard a chair move. He spoke quietly, in a voice that carried authority. "I worry about finding this prisoner. I worry about our friend with the handkerchief on the loose. I worry that by now he may have found the note. I worry about our yegg. And I worry about you. Charlotte worries about you, too."

  Footsteps, the rustle of canvas, a jeep engine turning over, and he was gone. All I heard was Rocko's exhalation, as if he'd been holding his breath through that little speech.

  Charlotte? Who the hell was she? Yegg? Note? Did I have a note? Yeah, maybe I did. That web belt with the. 45 I had snagged was probably Rocko's. It held a couple of pouches with extra clips for the pistol and a first aid kit, besides the. 45 itself and a knife in a leather scabbard. I opened each pouch, praying the sound of the metal snap wouldn't carry. Nothing but what was supposed to be there. Nothing in the holster either. I couldn't maneuver quietly enough to check the canteen pouch. I lifted the helmet and checked inside. No note tucked away.

  Only one place left. Another metal snap, and I pulled the M3 knife from its sheath. A slip of wrinkled white paper was wrapped around the blade. It was soft and worn, but the penciled sentence was clear, printed out in shaky letters, as if the writer was very old or very young. To find happiness, you must twice pass through purgatory.

  What? I almost laughed. This was insane. Here I was, my memory shot, hiding in a tent from a supply sergeant, with a fancy silk handkerchief in one pocket, wondering what a yegg was, and holding a secret note telling me how to find happiness. The only trouble was, I would have to die twice. Unless this was purgatory, in which case I would only have to die once. Always look on the bright side. It was a great joke on me, and I was afraid I'd burst out laughing, or maybe cry hysterically. What the hell was next? Bob and Bing on The Road to Sicily?

  "Is that water ready yet?" Rocko bellowed. It sounded like he'd opened the tent flaps. I took the handkerchief out of my pocket and wrapped the note in it. Then I stuffed the handkerchief between two crates of grenades. I holstered the. 45, keeping the knife in my right hand. I rose to a crouch and eased my head above the top crate. Rocko was opening the flap for a private struggling with big pot of steaming water. I ducked down as they passed me, moving farther back into the tent. I heard the sound of water being poured.

  "You want anything else, Rocko?"

  "Yeah, you outta here, and no one else in. I been lookin' forward to this bath all day."

  The private left. I peered over the crates again, hearing Rocko move around. I stepped out from my hiding place and crept closer, knife at the ready. I heard a grunt as one boot struck the ground, then another. There was a break in the stacks of cartons to my left. The sounds came from in there, where Rocko had a private bath set up for himself. That clawfoot bathtub was filled with hot water this time, hold the olives.

  I took two steps into the gap in the wall of cartons. There was Rocko, in all his pink glory, his backside to me, pouring himself a drink from a table next to the tub. He took a swallow, put down the glass, and lifted one hairy leg into the tub. My knife was ready.

  I stepped up to him, lifted my arm, and brought down the butt end of the hilt against his skull. It was all in the wrist, a quick snap. You didn't want to follow through-that could kill a guy. You had to hit him just right, hard enough to knock him out, not hard enough to crack his skull. Funny how some things came to me right when I needed them. Not funny that they all had to do with killing or hurting people.

  Rocko crumpled, thankfully not into the tub. That was for me.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Rocko looked good tied up. I was pretty sure he didn't feel so good, but the khaki undershirt I'd gagged him with was keeping him from complaining. It was my undershirt, and as I began to pay attention to my own personal hygiene, I felt bad about that. The truth of the matter was I stunk, and so did that shirt stuck in his yap.

  Even after the fresh delivery of hot water, the bath was lukewarm. I guessed his visitor had been more important than a hot bath. Which was saying something, because as hot as it was during the day, at night the mercury plummeted. I poured some more scotch in the glass-real glass, no aluminum cup for Rocko-and decided it was OK but probably not my first choice. Rocko's eyes bulged out at me as he strained against the rough rope I'd bound him with. It wasn't a pretty sight, but it was satisfying.

  "Calm down, Rocko," I said. "Sorry about the tap, but you avoided much worse by running out on us. You might've ended up like Aloysius."

  Rocko's eyes bulged even farther out. He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, asking me a question.

  "Dead. Never knew what hit him," I told him.

  Rocko's head fell back. He looked shocked. I remembered how he had tried to protect Hutton from being shanghaied that morning. It didn't seem possible, but Rocko actually seemed to have cared about Hutton. Strange. I wondered what Hutton had done for him other than carry a clipboard.

  Leaving Rocko to his grief, I concentrated on getting clean. I scrubbed my face with soap and water and felt the hair on my chin. I looked at the pile of my discarded clothes. They had the crumpled, greasy look of garments worn for days. My entire body smelled like it was covered with layers of dried sweat. Every fold of skin revealed a thin line of grime, and I felt sorry for the private who'd brought the water in. It was probably his job to clean the tub.

  I might not know my name, but I did know my own whiskers. Something didn't add up. We 'd invaded yesterday, during the night and early morning. I'd awakened in the field hospital this morning. Now, it was maybe 2300 hours. Eleven o'clock, civilian time, I reminded myself automatically. Was that a habit of mine? It felt familiar. I liked that.

  Two days ago, paratroopers had just begun to drop over Sicily. Infantry was offshore, getting ready to load into landing craft. I rubbed my chin again, and had a vague recollection of being in a small boat, rolling on the waves. It was dark, and it was dangerous.

  That was it. Water! The things I remembered both had to do with water.

  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.

 
I grabbed my gear and squeezed behind the stacked cases of grenades, figuring the way I came in was the best way out. I lifted the canvas flap. The cool evening air washed over my face. It was quiet. I pushed my helmet, pack, and Thompson out under the flap, then slid myself out. On one knee, I blinked, trying to adjust to the darkness. I reached for the helmet. My hand felt the netting and the steel beneath it. With that touch, a name came to me. Harding. Major Harding. Sam Harding. He was the one who had told me about shiny helmets, and aimed fire, and…

  The surge of joy at recalling this name ended as a sharp stabbing pain erupted at the base of my skull. Then, darkness.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I awoke with a throbbing head and a name on my lips. Harding. I opened my eyes and found myself back inside the tent, face-down on the ground. I'd been hit by someone who knew what he was doing. It had been a sharp rap, the same as the one I'd given Rocko. All in the wrist, enough for lights out followed by a pretty good chance of waking up again.

  Harding. Sam Harding. Major Sam Harding. I saw his face, sharp angles and squinty eyes. Close-cropped dark hair, traces of gray flecked across the temples. I knew him. I remembered him.

  Great, but what was I doing here, and who'd given me that smack on the skull? And why? I pushed myself into a sitting position and rubbed my head. There was a bump behind my ear that hurt like blazes when I touched it. I had to stop getting hit in the head. That's what Punchy had always said. Punchy. Pauly Hawes, but we called him Punchy from the pounding he'd taken in the ring. I saw his face, broken nose and all, but that was it. I didn't know where he was from or where I'd seen him fight, but I knew he was a welterweight, and that I was right about those hits to the head.

  My arms were wet. Soaking wet, it dawned on me, as I felt my sleeves. Water dripped from the cuffs. I stood, trying to make sense of things and how I had gotten here. Here was in the back of the tent, near the opening in the wall of cartons that led to Rocko's secret bathtub. Steadying myself with one hand on a pile of crates, I took tentative steps around the corner. I was dizzy. I stumbled.