says move, . . .”
Dottie joined Rachel on the other side, and they spoke in unison. “We move.”
Chapter 7
May 22
AS THE DAYS PASSED, Scott couldn’t wait for action. He took what other officers called jaunts around the countryside when he could, but when Miss Justice disappeared from her hotel with an assignment to a unit, he lost his guaranteed access to a jeep. Without her he had fewer tools to complete his mission. The inactivity made his days drag when he couldn’t talk his way out of Naples. He tried to contact her at the press office, but whatever they had her working on left her no time to respond because he never heard from her. For now the army needed her on another assignment.
As May drew to a close, he was left to his own devices. He rested in a netherworld between the “real” army, all of whom had dozens of tasks, and the occupation government, busy rebuilding Naples. They treated him like a civilian and resented his presence.
“What’s happening?” DeWald’s voice startled Scott from his depressed thoughts at his makeshift desk.
“Didn’t hear you.”
The man chuckled wryly. “Finishing work on your next assignment? There are a few details to organize.”
“So I hear.” Could he help the slight edge to his words? Not if he languished in the office another day.
“Snap out of it, Lindstrom, and get your head back in your task.” DeWald’s stare bored through Scott. “Lucky for you here comes the solution to your problems.” The head of the MFAA’s small band of men in Italy inclined his head toward a private on the other side of the room.
The man saluted when he reached them. “Rumor has it you need wheels, Lieutenant.”
Scott eyed the soldier in front of him. “I do.”
“And I have a jeep and orders to transport you.”
“Why?”
“Someone wants to keep your sorry carcass alive. Maybe they’re tired of your bellyaching. All I know is I have orders and the keys.” The man’s posture matched the arrogant tone of his words. DeWald hid a smirk behind his hand.
“Have a name, soldier?”
“Private Tyler Salmon. Sir.”
With the attitude and sneer, Scott could understand why DeWald would think it a great idea to dump a problem soldier in his lap. Scott couldn’t turn down a jeep when days could pass before another came his way. He hadn’t seen even a spare carburetor floating around, let alone a full vehicle. Supplies hadn’t been too happy after the one he’d used came back with dents and squirrelly alignment thanks to his foray into the countryside. “Your orders?”
The man eyed him from beneath overlong chestnut hair and reached into his inside jacket pocket, yanked them out, and plopped them on the desk.
Scott scanned them. Looked authentic. “All right. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”
“What do you want me to do now?”
“Roust up extra petrol. Once we’re out of Naples, getting more is next to impossible. I’d like to make it back.”
“Unlike last time?”
Scott stifled the urge to throttle Private Salmon. For all the ribbing he took, Scott wished he’d never let Captain Justice in his jeep. Sure he’d enjoyed the company, and she seemed to enjoy his—until the sun set and they got detained—but that had been out of his control . . . mostly. “It’s complicated.”
“War is.” The private retrieved his papers. “See ya in the a.m.”
“Be here at six.” He’d make sure they didn’t get caught at night.
“Yes, sir.” The man sauntered away.
Scott grabbed a few of the Frick maps the Army Air Force had prepared for the bombers. The maps were overloaded with landmarks but could help him identify where they needed to go. Reports had it streamlined maps were on the way, but he’d yet to see them. Navigators struggled to use the overcrowded maps as they sought to avoid monuments while hitting war targets. The current maps were bloated like everything else in the occupation forces. If something could be done in an
Dottie joined Rachel on the other side, and they spoke in unison. “We move.”
Chapter 7
May 22
AS THE DAYS PASSED, Scott couldn’t wait for action. He took what other officers called jaunts around the countryside when he could, but when Miss Justice disappeared from her hotel with an assignment to a unit, he lost his guaranteed access to a jeep. Without her he had fewer tools to complete his mission. The inactivity made his days drag when he couldn’t talk his way out of Naples. He tried to contact her at the press office, but whatever they had her working on left her no time to respond because he never heard from her. For now the army needed her on another assignment.
As May drew to a close, he was left to his own devices. He rested in a netherworld between the “real” army, all of whom had dozens of tasks, and the occupation government, busy rebuilding Naples. They treated him like a civilian and resented his presence.
“What’s happening?” DeWald’s voice startled Scott from his depressed thoughts at his makeshift desk.
“Didn’t hear you.”
The man chuckled wryly. “Finishing work on your next assignment? There are a few details to organize.”
“So I hear.” Could he help the slight edge to his words? Not if he languished in the office another day.
“Snap out of it, Lindstrom, and get your head back in your task.” DeWald’s stare bored through Scott. “Lucky for you here comes the solution to your problems.” The head of the MFAA’s small band of men in Italy inclined his head toward a private on the other side of the room.
The man saluted when he reached them. “Rumor has it you need wheels, Lieutenant.”
Scott eyed the soldier in front of him. “I do.”
“And I have a jeep and orders to transport you.”
“Why?”
“Someone wants to keep your sorry carcass alive. Maybe they’re tired of your bellyaching. All I know is I have orders and the keys.” The man’s posture matched the arrogant tone of his words. DeWald hid a smirk behind his hand.
“Have a name, soldier?”
“Private Tyler Salmon. Sir.”
With the attitude and sneer, Scott could understand why DeWald would think it a great idea to dump a problem soldier in his lap. Scott couldn’t turn down a jeep when days could pass before another came his way. He hadn’t seen even a spare carburetor floating around, let alone a full vehicle. Supplies hadn’t been too happy after the one he’d used came back with dents and squirrelly alignment thanks to his foray into the countryside. “Your orders?”
The man eyed him from beneath overlong chestnut hair and reached into his inside jacket pocket, yanked them out, and plopped them on the desk.
Scott scanned them. Looked authentic. “All right. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”
“What do you want me to do now?”
“Roust up extra petrol. Once we’re out of Naples, getting more is next to impossible. I’d like to make it back.”
“Unlike last time?”
Scott stifled the urge to throttle Private Salmon. For all the ribbing he took, Scott wished he’d never let Captain Justice in his jeep. Sure he’d enjoyed the company, and she seemed to enjoy his—until the sun set and they got detained—but that had been out of his control . . . mostly. “It’s complicated.”
“War is.” The private retrieved his papers. “See ya in the a.m.”
“Be here at six.” He’d make sure they didn’t get caught at night.
“Yes, sir.” The man sauntered away.
Scott grabbed a few of the Frick maps the Army Air Force had prepared for the bombers. The maps were overloaded with landmarks but could help him identify where they needed to go. Reports had it streamlined maps were on the way, but he’d yet to see them. Navigators struggled to use the overcrowded maps as they sought to avoid monuments while hitting war targets. The current maps were bloated like everything else in the occupation forces. If something could be done in an
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