Blood alone bbwim-3 Page 5

  Rocko was in the tub, feet sprawled out over the sides, face up, eyes and mouth wide open, underwater. His hands were still tied, palms facing out, in that same supplicating gesture he'd made to me. The expression on his face was pure surprise. But it could also have been panic, when he realized his next breath was going to be of water. I'd seen drowned faces before, in that water scene that had flashed through my mind. Water, Harding, Punchy. I was building up quite a scrapbook of memories.

  Water puddled at my feet as I stared dully at Rocko. I knew I shouldn't be standing here. Something was very wrong, but with the strange images and hints of memory that were all I had, I couldn't think clearly. My one specific memory, of Harding, felt like a crack in an old wall; the others crowding behind it were building up pressure, ready to flood through. But not yet. I was confused and afraid. Afraid of what would come tumbling through that crack when it opened.

  Later, I told myself; now you've got to get out of here. You've been set up. As the idea took hold I got my feet to move. There were voices in the darkness outside, then inside the tent, advancing on me. There were two of them, and in a heartbeat, they'd reached the narrow passageway, blocking my only way out.

  "Hey, who the hell-" The first guy, a PFC, stopped in his tracks. The second, a lieutenant, almost knocked him over. The lieutenant had a. 45 automatic, but the unarmed PFC was between us.

  "Omigod, omigod," the PFC said, staring at Rocko in the tub, then at me, standing there, soaked to the shoulders. He backed away from me, maybe afraid I was going to grab him too and give him a bath. He bumped into the lieutenant, who started swearing, waving his pistol in my general direction. I knew I had about five seconds before he shot me or took me prisoner; it was no accident he'd come in with his weapon drawn. I put my shoulder down and ran forward, crashing into the wide-eyed PFC and knocking them both to the ground. I stepped on one body and heard a cry as I pushed off and ran as fast as I could out the front of the tent. I didn't have time to worry about who might be waiting out there or if they would follow me. Panic took over as I imagined the lieutenant steadying his aim and lining up the sights on my backbone. I kept going, digging my heels into the sand, keeping my head down, fleeing from the murder scene, my pursuers, and the growing crack in the wall that held back my memories.

  I ran onto the hard-packed road leading up from the beach, straight into a crowd of GIs. Some were coming up from the water, others running toward it from tents and bivouacs strung out along the coast road. They were yelling, pointing up toward the night sky over the Mediterranean.

  No one was chasing me; no one paid me any mind. I stopped running and fell in with the throng moving toward the beach, melting into the crowd of dogfaces. I felt oddly safe and secure in the midst of dozens of guys dressed exactly like me, cloaked by darkness, a formless mob, moving without orders or direction. We crossed the steel mesh laid down by the engineers, left the trees behind us, and got the first view of what the fury was all about.

  Our ships were letting loose on a group of German bombers. I couldn't see them, but tracers lit the night sky, reaching from the flat of the sea across the wide curve above. Steady booms and fainter rat-tat-tats echoed over the water as the faraway drone of aircraft engines came closer, growing louder and more ominous. I thought I saw a meteor, then realized it was a bomber going down, a trail of yellow flame glowing in its descent until it vanished suddenly into the dark water. An explosion ripped the sky, closer now, a huge fireball falling in a gentle arc, disintegrating into a thousand pieces, each drifting its own slow way down to the waiting sea.

  All the ships in the fleet must have been firing every weapon they had. Close to the horizon, the air was electric, bright white phosphorous tracers shining like neon lights on Main Street. Reflections from exploding and burning planes glowed in the awed, uplifted faces all around me. Except for involuntary gasps, everyone was silent. The firepower dancing across the star-drenched sky was too awesome, too catastrophic, too thick with death for words.

  I watched the antiaircraft fire and wondered why the German aircraft hadn't dropped any bombs. I didn't see a single explosion near our ships. The planes were headed our way, but why would they fly over the fleet if they were coming to bomb us? They would've come from the opposite direction anyway-north not south. They only thing south of us was more of the Mediterranean, then Tunisia.

  No, it couldn't be.

  "Look, look, look!"

  Hands pointed, heads swiveled, searching overhead to pick out what someone was yelling about in the midst of all the noise and explosions. I saw it, coming in low, less than a thousand feet off the water was my guess, a twin-engine plane trailing a long flame from its port engine. As it neared the shoreline, white parachutes blossomed behind it. Five, six, seven. Then, with the plane's engine on fire, the wing, folded up and broke off, pieces flying off wildly. The plane corkscrewed over our heads, spinning out of control as it vanished behind us. An explosion thundered in my ears, the sounds of steel hitting hard earth, and gas and ammo erupting, mingling into a horrible, unbelievable, wrenching sound.

  "German paratroopers," someone yelled. "There's Krauts landing all around us." The group scattered, the previously quiet spectators screaming and firing their weapons into the air, fear replacing their sideshow glee.

  "No!" I hollered, as loud as I could. "No, they're not Germans!"

  No one listened. Guys pushed past me, running for cover, sprinting off the beach to save their lives. I watched the parachutes descend over the water, their bright whiteness as clear as if they'd been lit from beneath. One by one the canopies flattened, floated on the surface, then disappeared, each pulled under by an American paratrooper carrying his body weight in gear, weapons, and ammo. We were slaughtering our own.

  I fell to my knees. I knew what this was. A reinforcement drop of the 82nd Airborne Division's 504th Regimental Combat Team, over two thousand men carried to the Gela Plain drop zone on C-47 transports. I ticked off the facts in my mind as if I were reading them from a report. I must have, before I came here. The navy was supposed to have been alerted. Whatever the plan was, it hadn't worked.

  The firing died down. The transport planes had either made it over, or been scattered or shot down. How many, I thought. How many dead? I pounded my fist in the sand, the thought of our guys killing our own men a poison inside me. My skin went clammy. I gasped as if the wind had been knocked out of me. I cradled my head in my hands and cried, gushing tears and sobs. A small voice in the back of my mind asked, What's the matter with me? I didn't have an answer. What I'd seen was terrible and tragic, but why was I doubled up in agony, bawling like a baby?

  That little voice didn't last long. I was sick to my stomach and vomited until dry heaves racked my body, while tears and snot ran down my face. I cried at the agony of useless death, then I cried for myself, scared I was losing my mind. I crawled off the beach, into a patch of scrubby brush, and curled up, hands tucked under my armpits. I was cold. I didn't want to think about it. I squeezed my eyes shut, but I couldn't hold it back. The wall was cracking, and names and faces flew at me. One of them was a friend of mine, I was sure, and I had killed him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I watched the dawn light the soft, fluffy clouds over the Mediterranean, slowly turning darkness into red-tinged daylight. Sitting on a crate of mortar rounds I drank coffee, cupping my hands around the aluminum cup to take in the warmth. I blew on it, but the hot rim still burned my lips.

  It had been cold last night when I left the beach and made my way up the road to find a place to sleep. A navy shore-party crew let me bunk in their tent, no questions asked. I fell asleep in a minute but an hour ago I'd awakened with a start, bolted upright, heart racing, not sure where I was, but certain I was being chased. A bad dream, I guess. I left before the swabbies woke up and thought of any embarrassing questions to ask me.

  There were always guys walking around the rear area. Some of them belonged, some didn't. I looked like I didn't belong anywhere
. No helmet, no weapon except my. 45, and no unit I could claim as my own. I pinched an M1, a bandolier of ammo, and a helmet, then walked into a mess tent for some joe, filled my cup, and took some hot biscuits. At least I looked like I was going somewhere.

  The sun was fully up. From behind me came the noises of a waking army-clanks, grunts, footsteps, curses, splashing water-rising in volume, accompanied by the sound of gear being buckled on, the soft tinkling and clinking of grenades and canteens and ammo clips that signaled a new dawn, an awakening to the possibility of death, maybe only one last day of life.

  Out at sea, ships still moved back and forth, ferrying supplies and men, breaking the waves with purpose, cutting across water where hours ago helpless paratroopers had drowned. That was yesterday, this is today. That much I remembered about war. That was then, and it was horrible. This is now: Get some hot chow while you can, you have a chance to live another day.

  There was something else I remembered but I was afraid to say it. Not actually say it, since I was alone. I mean even to think it. It lurked in the back of my mind like the aroma of a sweet strawberry ready to be eaten. I liked strawberries, especially when my mom served them with cream flavored with powdered sugar. At the kitchen table, in our home, in South Boston.

  I let the words come, speaking them softly in my mind.

  I like strawberries. And my name is Billy Boyle.

  That was enough. There was other stuff, other memories, but they weren't from my mom's kitchen. I blinked and shut the door on them. I didn't want to know more, not yet. I drank some more coffee. It had gone cold.

  Three British Motor Torpedo Boats sped across the bay a few hundred yards offshore. Their engines were deep and throaty, their wakes high, white, and frothy. They cut across each other and sent angry foam lapping against the beach. My stomach knotted, and I closed my eyes, scrunching them up tight. I felt my hand shake as coffee spilled out over the rim of the cup. I dumped it into the sand and packed my gear, my back to the sea. The sea. Flashes of ocean water flitted across my mind. The dirty harbor. Bone-chilling cold water. Scrambling over sharp rocks to the shore. Hot sun, palm trees. Then nothing. Pieces of a story that still made no sense.

  Forget about it, I told myself. I knew I had to move on before some officer or sergeant starting asking questions or put me into a work detail. I had an idea; it wasn't much, but I had a couple of names. I had Harding, but somehow I knew he wasn't the first person I should approach. I listened to the MTBs in the distance, their motors growling low as they faded away. My thoughts were jumbled, and a wave of confusion and sweat broke over me. More images I couldn't make out flashed through my mind. Not water this time but a fire. Something about a fire, and an explosion.

  I couldn't think about it now. I had to focus. Focus on Harding, yeah, hard-ass Harding, the last guy I'd want to run into. Unless I was going to turn myself in. West Point, by the book, a professional soldier. Not one to cut corners, and I needed a lot of corners smoothed out for me. I had to have help, but it had to come from someone who didn't live by U. S. Army field manuals. I trudged up from the beach, head down, M1 slung over my shoulder. Another GI heading up to the front or on some chickenshit errand for an officer. I thought some more about Harding. He was a lifer, but he didn't enjoy lording it over the enlisted men either. OK, Harding was all right for an officer. But I still couldn't go to him. I was surprised by my own thought: I respected him too much to put him in that position. It was odd learning who I was in bits and pieces, through fragments of dreams, splintered memories, names bubbling to the surface. A lot of it worried me, some of it frightened me, but finally this was something worthwhile I could hang on to. Something that wasn't bound up in dirty water, fire, and death.

  Kaz. That name surfaced as quickly as I could say it. I could go to Kaz. I was amazed when I managed to remember his full name: Lieutenant-sometimes Baron-Piotr Augustus Kazimierz. Real Polish nobility, and there weren't many of them around anymore. I wasn't worried about putting Kaz in a tough spot. He didn't do things by the book, at least not anymore. Why was that?

  I knew Kaz had been studying languages at Oxford when the war broke out, and that his entire family had been butchered by the Nazis. He'd talked his way into a commission with the Polish Army in exile, despite his bad eyes and bum ticker. They'd given him a job as a translator with Eisenhower and somehow he'd ended up working with me. There were memories with cobwebs around them and others down a deep black hole I couldn't even get close to. Kaz still wore cobwebs, and the dark hole blotted out my vision whenever I thought too hard about him. But I knew I could count on him. We were close, closer than I would've ever thought I could be to a skinny little four-eyed Polack genius.

  I stopped. There it was. He was Polish. I was Irish, Boston Irish. I hadn't even thought about my family. Of course I was Irish, goddamn it! I kicked at a stone and kept going. Something in my head wasn't right. I kept thinking in circles, avoiding things, even the most obvious, natural facts of my own life. It felt like there was a barrier around some dark hole, filled with lost memories.

  Lost? Or terrible? I trembled, afraid of finding that dark hole filled with nightmares. Instead, I thought about strawberries and walked onto the shore road, picked a direction and started off at a brisk march, rifle slung, just another GI under orders. The heat reflected up from the road and shimmered ahead of me. A few yards away from the breeze off the water and I felt the sweat begin to soak my wool shirt. A convoy of deuce-and-a-half trucks thundered by, each towing an artillery piece. Tires kicked up dirt and the wheeled artillery bounced on the uneven road, creating a dust storm as they went by. I shielded my eyes and pressed my lips together as dry, chalky particles settled on me. Head bowed, I didn't notice a column of soldiers on the other side of the road, standing back and waiting for the trucks to pass. It was the Italian they spoke that drew my attention.

  There were over fifty POWs, most of them complaining about the bastards who got to ride in trucks that left them covered in dust on a hot road. I couldn't understand their Italian words, but I didn't need to. The long-suffering tone of the infantryman was universal, along with the hand gestures offered to the trucks disappearing around a corner. Two dogfaces guarded them, one at the front, the other at the rear of the column.

  The Italian prisoners looked like a parade of happy hobos. With their lethal potential stripped away, they were nothing but a bunch of unshaven, smelly guys wearing all the clothes they owned. Some carried blankets or canvas bags, but most had nothing but the smiles on their faces. They were out of it. No more Germans at their backs, no more Americans gunning for them. They looked relieved as their two guards signaled them to move out.

  One of the Italians looked at me and gave a mock salute, shouting out, "Brooklyn!" at the top of his lungs. He and his pals laughed. Did he imagine he'd be joining a cousin or brother in Brooklyn? Or was it joy at his overwhelming luck at being safely in American hands?

  "Boston!" I yelled back. Someone whistled and more laughter rippled through the group. The tail end guard looked at me and shook his head, smiling wearily.

  "What a war," he said, running his sleeve across his face, vainly trying to clear the caked dirt and sweat away.

  The gesture nearly knocked me over. I envisaged another guy doing the same thing but in fading evening twilight. He was coated in grimy blackness and he drew his sleeve across his face just like this GI had. Except he was wearing an Italian uniform.

  "Hey, buddy, where're you taking these guys?" I asked as I trotted across the road. I was looking at the GI but seeing the Italian soldier leaning over me, helping me up.

  "POW center outside of Gela, place called Capo Soprano," he said. "They're givin' up faster than we can take 'em in."

  As he spoke, I could hear another voice, a voice I recalled from days earlier.

  "Come, my friend. I help you, yes? Come, my name is Roberto. Do not fear, I will take you back, then you help me get to America, yes?"

  Roberto Bellestri. Late of
the 207th Coastal Defense Division, a machine gunner who preferred dancing with American girls to killing American GIs. An Italian who chose to live rather than die for Mussolini. A deserter who was looking for safe passage to a POW cage at the first sign of invasion.

  Roberto had talked incessantly as he took me-where? "I like Americans very much, I talk with the American ladies in Firenze, which you call Florence, every day in the piazza. They teach me their English better than my teacher at school, yes?" I could feel my arm across his shoulder, I had been hanging on to him as he led me down steps, to a street. Where?

  "You OK?" The guard snapped his gum as he stared at me, concern, curiosity, and boredom mixed in his quizzical expression.

  "Sure, sure, been out in the sun too long, that's all," I said.

  "Ain't that the truth." He trudged off, his carbine, held loosely, pointing in the direction of his prisoners. They weren't high escape risks.

  Roberto. Who only wanted to go to America and dance with rich women and learn better English. I couldn't picture where he had picked me up, but I knew it was where I'd gotten hit on the head and cut up. We'd gone down a dirt path and onto a street. The next thing I remembered, Roberto was lifting me into a cart, tossing out cauliflowers to make room, hollering in Italian and waving a pistol at a short guy in a dirty shirt and black vest who obviously owned the cart. He'd reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out fistfuls of lire, throwing them at the cart owner, who stared in amazement at the shower of cash, pulling them out of the air with meaty fists. The gold handkerchief with the L had come out with the lire and lay in my lap. I'd known it was important, and that I shouldn't lose it. As I stuffed it back into my pocket, the Sicilian caught sight of it. This loosed a torrent of apologetic Italian, directed at me, with little bows and an abashed smile. His hands, stuffed with lira notes, waved us off and he ended his outburst with the sign of the cross. Roberto climbed onto the seat and grabbed the reins, clucking at the donkey, who ambled off with a slow gait that led us away from his former owner, now richer than the donkey could have ever made him, but more frightened than he should have been by the sight of an ordinary silk handkerchief.