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.
Capo Soprano, outside of Gela. I had to find it, and find Roberto. Because not only had I remembered all this, I remembered he’d been shot. Three GIs had come toward us, one of them pointing at me. Roberto had called to them from the cart, “Here, I save your wounded friend, Bill-lee Boyle from Boston, yes? Come help us.”
In response, one of the soldiers had raised his carbine and fired. Roberto had gone down, clutching his side, blood seeping through his fingers. “Why have you shot me? I am a friend, your friend, yes?” His eyes looked up to me, wide with shock and surprise. Then some other vehicles had arrived, and some GIs had taken Roberto away as medics bundled me into their jeep.
Next thing I knew, Rocko was hovering over me in the field hospital. And I realized it was Rocko who’d aimed his carbine and shot Roberto. I couldn’t remember the face of the guy who’d pointed at me first. But it told me something: Rocko and his pals had been out looking for me, and they’d known where to look. Since I was coming in from enemy territory, they had to have been in touch with someone behind enemy lines.
For that matter, the same went for me. I felt the handkerchief under my T-shirt and wondered at the power it had wielded over the fellow who had given up his cart so willingly, lire or no lire.
Yegg. A yegg is a safecracker. It came to me as easily as an apple from a grocery stand back on the beat in Boston. My memories were beginning to fall into place. A safecracker. The guy in Rocko’s tent, he’d wanted to find their safecracker. Why ? It didn’t make any sense.
Sure it did. A bank heist in the middle of a war. Who ’d notice?
CHAPTER • SEVEN
I’D HAD ENOUGH OF walking. When I came to a cluster of tents, I strolled into the vehicle park and found a jeep screened from view by a supply truck. In the back were a couple of packs, which I left on the ground in case the owners had anything personal in them. I’d been a policeman, that I could recall now. My father and uncle were on the job in South Boston, too. Being a cop was in my blood, which meant I’d steal a jeep, but not somebody’s letters from home or the souvenirs they’d scrounged or traded for. The army is impersonal, like an insurance company or the Boston Harbor Authority, so it didn’t matter.
I gunned the jeep out of there and soon passed my Italian friends, slogging it out on their way to Capo Soprano. I almost waved but figured they’d be cursing me because of my jeep, so I passed them with all the indifference military drivers show for the common foot soldier on either side.
Minutes later, I saw the familiar white-banded helmets of the military police at an intersection about one hundred yards ahead. I braked and found myself trapped in a slow line of traffic. No roads led off to either side, only pine trees and cactus to my left and a row of bombed-out buildings on my right, their faded red brick scorched by fire. The MPs were looking anxiously up the other road, letting vehicles through the intersection one at a time. It didn’t seem as if they were searching for stolen military property, but I knew they had a way of sniffing out suspicious characters. So I tried to play it as normal as I could when I approached the intersection.
“Hey, Sarge,” I yelled to one of the MPs standing apart, obviously in charge of the detail. “What’s the holdup? My captain’ll have my ass if I don’t get this jeep to him on time.”
“Tell him to complain to General Eisenhower,” the noncom growled back at me as the vehicle in
Capo Soprano, outside of Gela. I had to find it, and find Roberto. Because not only had I remembered all this, I remembered he’d been shot. Three GIs had come toward us, one of them pointing at me. Roberto had called to them from the cart, “Here, I save your wounded friend, Bill-lee Boyle from Boston, yes? Come help us.”
In response, one of the soldiers had raised his carbine and fired. Roberto had gone down, clutching his side, blood seeping through his fingers. “Why have you shot me? I am a friend, your friend, yes?” His eyes looked up to me, wide with shock and surprise. Then some other vehicles had arrived, and some GIs had taken Roberto away as medics bundled me into their jeep.
Next thing I knew, Rocko was hovering over me in the field hospital. And I realized it was Rocko who’d aimed his carbine and shot Roberto. I couldn’t remember the face of the guy who’d pointed at me first. But it told me something: Rocko and his pals had been out looking for me, and they’d known where to look. Since I was coming in from enemy territory, they had to have been in touch with someone behind enemy lines.
For that matter, the same went for me. I felt the handkerchief under my T-shirt and wondered at the power it had wielded over the fellow who had given up his cart so willingly, lire or no lire.
Yegg. A yegg is a safecracker. It came to me as easily as an apple from a grocery stand back on the beat in Boston. My memories were beginning to fall into place. A safecracker. The guy in Rocko’s tent, he’d wanted to find their safecracker. Why ? It didn’t make any sense.
Sure it did. A bank heist in the middle of a war. Who ’d notice?
CHAPTER • SEVEN
I’D HAD ENOUGH OF walking. When I came to a cluster of tents, I strolled into the vehicle park and found a jeep screened from view by a supply truck. In the back were a couple of packs, which I left on the ground in case the owners had anything personal in them. I’d been a policeman, that I could recall now. My father and uncle were on the job in South Boston, too. Being a cop was in my blood, which meant I’d steal a jeep, but not somebody’s letters from home or the souvenirs they’d scrounged or traded for. The army is impersonal, like an insurance company or the Boston Harbor Authority, so it didn’t matter.
I gunned the jeep out of there and soon passed my Italian friends, slogging it out on their way to Capo Soprano. I almost waved but figured they’d be cursing me because of my jeep, so I passed them with all the indifference military drivers show for the common foot soldier on either side.
Minutes later, I saw the familiar white-banded helmets of the military police at an intersection about one hundred yards ahead. I braked and found myself trapped in a slow line of traffic. No roads led off to either side, only pine trees and cactus to my left and a row of bombed-out buildings on my right, their faded red brick scorched by fire. The MPs were looking anxiously up the other road, letting vehicles through the intersection one at a time. It didn’t seem as if they were searching for stolen military property, but I knew they had a way of sniffing out suspicious characters. So I tried to play it as normal as I could when I approached the intersection.
“Hey, Sarge,” I yelled to one of the MPs standing apart, obviously in charge of the detail. “What’s the holdup? My captain’ll have my ass if I don’t get this jeep to him on time.”
“Tell him to complain to General Eisenhower,” the noncom growled back at me as the vehicle in
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