When my little brother Danny was in junior high school, he got a Mysto Magic Kit for his birthday. Practicing and reading up on magic and magicians, he quickly became a junior Houdini. He did magic shows for neighborhood kids, charging two cents apiece, and he'd usually end up with enough copper in his pocket to stock up on penny candy-when I could talk him into it. Otherwise, he preferred to save to buy more magic tricks. Or illusions, as he called them.
He got pretty good. He could pull off card tricks using the dovetail shuffle, pull a coin out of your ear, all that stuff. Once he got serious about magic, he refused to tell me what the secret was to each trick. The simple ones I could figure out, after insisting, in a big brotherly sort of way, on a hint or two. But otherwise, all he'd say was that it was based on distraction. What you saw was not the illusion; how he distracted you was the real trick.
I hit the brakes as I came to the main road and looked behind me. No sign of pursuit, but I was pretty sure a confirmed sighting of an AWOL lieutenant was being radioed back to Elliott, who would have concocted some sort of cover story-maybe the black market or simply desertion. Or could he have alleged something far more serious, a crime that would allow the MPs to shoot on sight? Yeah, that sounded right. Rocko's murder, maybe.
I had to hide in plain sight while getting to the coast road. I couldn't risk being spotted, but traffic was light. Solitary jeeps, ambulances, heavy trucks, and motorcycles passed by, and I slammed my fist against the steering wheel in frustration. Then the rumble of engines and a low, rolling cloud of dust came to my rescue. A convoy of trucks, big GMCs, some towing artillery pieces. Slow moving, tightly packed. I let the first four go by, then pulled out and accelerated, nosing the jeep between the snout of a 150mm gun and the cab of the next truck. The driver yelled something about my mother and I waved back, like a happy idiot who wanted to eat dust and grit in the noonday heat. I buttoned my collar and pulled on a pair of goggles. This wasn't going to be fun.
But it was safe. Thirty minutes later, a jeep with three MPs, traveling at top speed, passed the column. They didn't give me as much as a glance as they sped by, holding onto their helmets and shielding their eyes, eager to get ahead of the dust cloud.
I was keeping my lips tightly shut so the grit wouldn't work its way between my teeth, otherwise I would have cheered. Not at temporarily outwitting a few MPs, but at finally seeing what was so obvious. Nick had said it back in Villalba, but we were so focused on the payroll heist that it hadn't registered.
Say Elliott and his crew pulled off the theft. It was like I'd said to Don Calo-every GI and Sicilian who heard about it would be on the lookout for it. What could they do with it? As soon as anyone flashed a wad of occupation scrip, they'd be immediate suspects.
No, tempting as it was, the 45th Division payroll was not the real target. It was the distraction. While we were worrying about Nick's relatives and protecting the payroll, someone was pulling off the real theft. The German phony ten-dollar bills had got me thinking about it. When I found the remnants of paper in the burned-out truck things had finally clicked.
It was like Nick had said. AMGOT would need lots of occupation scrip to replace all the lire in Sicily. So much that they'd be printing most of it here, once they were established ashore and could get the printing presses rolling. Andrews had been heading to Vittoria with a supply of printing paper. I'd bet my Boston PD pension it was the same paper they used for the scrip back in North Africa. Supplied by Rocko, of course, before he flapped his lips too much for his own good.
If you had the right paper, running off extra scrip from AMGOT plates would be the opportunity of a lifetime. Especially doing it as soon as possible after the invasion, before things got too organized. He'd have the plates and all he'd need would be enough paper to run off sufficient high-denomination notes. He'd need to find printing presses and supplies, of course, but that would be normal procedure. AMGOT would take over the first print shop they came across. No one would ever be the wiser. A guy like Vito could launder the cash through enough banks and businesses that no one would ever guess the scrip was crooked. And it wouldn't be, that was the beauty of the whole deal. It would be official currency, not actually counterfeit.
There had to be a connection between Elliott and Vito. That I could sort out later. It was obvious Rocko had been a key player, coordinating supplies and equipment. And Hutton, with his skills at radio and telephone communications, had been the link between them, communicating with AMGOT, Vito, and Lord knows who else. Using shortwave radio, civilian phone lines, whatever it took, he had been the linchpin. But now all the players were ashore, and the army was moving deep inland. And Elliott had arrived as planned from Algiers, the rear echelon following the first wave by a week or more.
I had to slam on my brake as I heard the squeal of protesting brakes ahead of me, followed by the sound of tires crunching gravel. As the column came to a halt, the dust from the road settled around me, coating the jeep with an even thicker layer of grit. I tried to spit, but my mouth was too dry. I drank warm water from my canteen and felt the grime wash away.
"Hey, Mac, now's your chance," the driver behind me motioned. He was right. No one in his right mind would pass up a chance to move ahead of a halted convoy. So I waved "so long, pal" and pulled out. I floored it, letting the hot wind blow away the road dust and fumes. Not ten minutes later, there was a fork in the road. Crudely painted signposts pointed to Vittoria, 4 miles; Scoglitti, 12 miles; and back the way I had come, New York City, 4,380 miles. No GI putting up road signs could resist the temptation to add the mileage to his hometown.
I took the right to Scoglitti and put another few miles between me and the Statue of Liberty. The lane narrowed, stands of cactus and tall grass crowding the roadway. I could smell the sea, the salt heavy in the heated air. I rummaged in the pack on the seat next to me, looking for a D Bar of chocolate from the K ration I'd brought along. As I looked down for the chocolate, I took the jeep around a curve. I was only distracted for a second or two, but when I looked up there were jeeps blocking the road ahead of me. Military police jeeps, both of them. One had a long whip antenna tied down in front. Damn, they'd probably been radioed to look for me. An MP faced me with his hands out, signaling for me to halt. I looked to both sides of the road. Tall stands of cactus stood like walls on either side. I couldn't turn or back up fast enough. So I stopped, smiled, and tried to think of a way out of this one.
"ID, Lieutenant?" the MP in the road asked. Two other guys sat in one of the jeeps, one of them holding a clipboard, the other a Thompson. "Lost my dog tags.
Took a hit to the head and woke up in a field hospital without 'em."
"You got orders?"
"Yeah, I got orders. I got a major waiting for me in Scoglitti who's pissed off because his jeep broke down. You want to let me through before he blows a fuse?"
"What's your name?" He didn't seem to care about an angry major.
"Dick Newsome." I had been thinking about the Red Sox for some reason, and Dick Newsome popped into my mind. At least I wasn't thinking about Pinky Woods. Worse name, worse pitcher.
"Hey, just like that pitcher for the Sox."
"Yeah, I get that all the time."
"What's the major's name?"
"Huh?"
"The name of the major what wants the jeep, Lieutenant."
"Oh, yeah." Don't think about baseball, I told myself. "Major Elliott. He gets pretty sore when he has to wait." I figured he might have run into Elliott and it made the story more plausible.
"Hey, that's funny too. We got a Major Elliott right here."
I'd run into some really smart MPs in this war and some dumb ones. This guy either had a real subtle sense of humor or he was on the deep end of dumb. The guy with the clipboard got out as his partner started the jeep.
"Major John Elliott, Lieutenant Boyle. We 've been looking all over for you."
He smiled, his mustache rising at the corners. He was a short, barrel-chested guy, dark haired and on the far side of thirty. He looked entirely too happy to have me in his paws.
"Miller," he said to the MP who was still trying to figure out if there really were two Major Elliotts. "You take this jeep. Boyle, you come with me."
"No," I said. I slammed the gear into reverse. I had to count on Miller being slow on the uptake and a lousy shot with the carbine that was slung over his shoulder. The other MP's hands were on the steering wheel, and Elliott hadn't made a move for the. 45 still snapped shut in his holster. It wasn't much, but it was all I had. I tried to figure my chances, but a distant sound hummed in my ears, growing louder and breaking my concentration.
"Don't do it!" Elliott yelled. Miller looked up, and so did Elliott. Two dark forms took shape in the air. Twin -engined Me110s, German fighter-bombers. They came from the direction of Gela, probably heading home from a raid on the harbor and looking for a few more Americans to strafe. They were so close to the ground I could see bright sunlight reflecting off the cockpit canopies.
Then came the sparkling of machine gun and cannon fire from the nose of each plane. The ground around us exploded as shells hit rocks, cactus, and the hard-packed earth. Elliott and the two MPs hit the dirt, making themselves as small as possible in the ditch running along the side of the road. I didn't even think about it. I jumped from my jeep, vaulted into the MP's jeep in front of me, and threw it into first, punched the accelerator, and kept my head down. Metallic tearing sounds and bright white lines surrounded me as phosphorescent tracer shells snapped at the vehicles. Twin explosions boomed behind me, not the sharp cracks of bombs, but the whump and whoosh of gas tanks igniting.
I chanced a look backward and saw the tail fins of the Me110s as the aircraft gained altitude and sped away. Three figures rose from the ditch, stumbling around the wrecked and burning jeeps, and I saw one shake his fist at me. God bless the Luftwaffe.
I kept my foot pressed to the floor. The wind whipped at my face as I outraced the swirling clouds of churning dust my tires kicked up. I smelled smoke and saw the charred hole in the passenger-seat cushion where a tracer had ignited the stuffing. There were two more holes in the floorboard. I'd gotten off pretty easy. I downshifted to take a sharp curve and felt an odd sensation in my right arm. I took my hand off the gearshift and watched rivulets of bright red blood trickle into my palm. It didn't hurt, but it surprised me. I looked at my arm, wincing as I drew it across my body. The cushion wasn't the only thing burning. I slapped at the smoldering black and glistening red above my elbow, trying to hold onto the wheel with my right hand, now sticky and slippery with blood. Oh damn. It started to hurt.
Good, I thought. If it hurts, it means I'm not going into shock. I think. I looked again at the big holes in the floor and realized that half an inch in the other direction and the slug would have taken my arm off. Of course, half an inch the other way, and I wouldn't have been breaking out in a cold clammy sweat. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. It was only a bad scratch. I got away from Elliott and was almost to Scoglitti. It wasn't so bad.
Then I laughed and pressed hard on the accelerator, picking up speed. I was bleeding, on the run from mobsters and MPs, and driving like a maniac to rendezvous with my friends in a stolen, shot-up jeep. I loved it. I had been wondering who I was only days ago. This was who: I was on the hunt, enjoying the chase, living by my wits. Living or dying. That sobered me up. Then I thought it was funny again and laughed, a mad cackle that ended as I coughed and hawked up road dust.
The next turn took me close to the beach, flat grassy land on either side, the wind bending the stalks across my path. A small peninsula jutted out from the town ahead, a church tower dominating it, shimmering against the deep blue sea beyond. The sun was at my back, illuminating the stark, bleached, almost blinding whiteness of the church. I didn't know what was going to happen next or who would be waiting for me and at that moment I didn't care. Not many people experienced a single moment of knowing exactly who they were and what they were made for. But now I knew. This was me. All the doubts about identity, guilt, and death were swept away in the gleaming sunlight.
I was the guy who did what had to be done. I might suffer for it, I might wonder what it had done to my soul, but while the Rockos of this world ran and hid from the fight, God help me, I couldn't. I saw the wounded paratrooper drop his sling in the road while his buddy limped along with him to the sound of gunfire on Biazza Ridge. I saw Villard, a look of surprise in his dying eyes, and knew I'd paid the price, and that I'd pay it again. I heard Dad telling me to remember who I was, and understood that as long as that voice echoed in my head, I would never forget, no matter what sins priests demanded I confess.