James Benn: Rag and Bone

Church. She’d gone to church with me on Sunday. I had written my mother, telling her I went to Mass whenever I could. Knowing she’d ask about it in her next letter, I made sure to go at least once in Naples. Diana came too, which surprised me. She’s not Catholic, not even close. Church of England, minor aristocracy, stiff upper lip. Everything the Boyles are not. We yell, holler, cross ourselves, curse God, and beg the saints for forgiveness. Diana had asked me about confession, communion, being an altar boy, and all the other rituals of the Catholic faith as practiced at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross in Boston.

“Turn around,” I said. She did, her service cap pulled down tight on her forehead, her stiff wool collar held against her cheeks as protection against the wind. It was a familiar look, her face framed by a uniform.

“Who was that nun you were talking with after Mass? When you left me with that gasbag colonel, remember?”

“Sister Justina? She’s from Brindisi, as it turned out. She knew about the twelfth-century mosaics in the cathedral there. We had a nice chat.”

“Oh,” I said. Diana had been to Brindisi several times. The SOE had a station there. It was a good location, easy access by sea and air to Yugoslavia, Greece, Crete, and Italy north of our lines. It was also the seat of Italian government, at least the one now allied with us. “How was her English?”

“Poor. We spoke Italian. Why?”

“No reason, just curious. Could you understand her? I thought they spoke some sort of dialect down there.”

“Salentino, I believe it’s called. Yes, it sounded a bit different, probably much like the Sicilian you’ve heard. But anyone who speaks Italian can understand it, even if the words sound a bit different. Why the sudden interest?”

“I’m interested in whatever you’re interested in.”

“I’m interested in climbing Mount Vesuvius with you, and enjoying the whole week ahead of us.”

“Me, too,” I said, keeping my thoughts to myself. I wanted nothing more than to spend the few days ahead with Diana, climbing volcanoes if need be. But another part of me couldn’t stop trying to figure out what she was up to, and I wasn’t smart enough to listen to that distant, small voice in the back of my mind, telling me to leave well enough alone.

I didn’t. Brindisi was well south of our lines, a safe place for an SOE agent to claim to be from. It made sense that Diana would want to pick up some local dialect, to solidify her cover. Her Italian was fluent, but it was classroom Italian, and she’d want to sound like a native when she spoke it. It was only when I saw her face framed as it would be in a nun’s habit that her trip to church with me made sense. She was going as a nun, a sister from Brindisi. Maybe she’d even taken the name Justina, if they hadn’t picked one out for her yet. There were nuns all over Italy, but there was only one place the SOE was likely to send an agent disguised as one.

“The Vatican,” I whispered to her. “You’re going as a nun.”

Her eyes widened for a moment, and then anger narrowed them. She moved away from me, gripping the rail with both hands. Her knuckles went white.

“It isn’t a game, Billy. You should know that.”

“You said I should figure it out, Diana.”

“Yes, let’s see how smart Billy Boyle is. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?” With that, she stalked off, heading into a gaggle of naval officers, surrounding herself with them, sealing me off behind a wall of white hats and gold braid.

I’d gotten it wrong. Well, I’d gotten it right, but that was the problem. It wasn’t a guessing game, it was life or death. And something beyond that for Diana. It was what she needed to do to prove herself worthy of living. So many people had died around her that she needed to face death all over again to understand why it hadn’t taken her. I shouldn’t have cheapened that with my guess. But I had to know where she was going, in case she needed me. Knowing might allow me to pretend, at least to myself, that I could protect her. Things got complicated when it came to women; I wasn’t good at complicated.

I walked back toward the bridge, where the newly promoted Colonel Sam Harding was installed, monitoring radio traffic from headquarters at Caserta, in case a communication needed the general’s attention. Harding was another one of the joyous crowd today, having received his promotion along with me yesterday. He was now a lieutenant colonel, and I knew he was happy about it because he hadn’t frowned once all day. That was riotous joy for Sam Harding, regular army, West Pointer, and my immediate boss.

Before I came to the bridge, I joined Uncle Ike and Kay as the destroyer changed course to starboard and the craggy white cliffs of Capri came into view. The sun sparkled on the dolomite rock formations and the villas dotting the beaches and hills. Kay pointed to one of the largest homes, blinding white with an orange roof, remarking on its stark beauty.

“Whose villa is that?” Uncle Ike asked of a naval aide at his side.

“Why, that’s your villa, General,” the aide said. “Captain Butcher assigned it to you.”

The general lost his smile. He stepped away from Kay and pointed to an even larger villa. “And that one?”

General Spaatz, sir.”

“Damn it, that’s not my villa! And that’s not General Spaatz’s villa!” Uncle Ike exploded, turning on the naval aide and forcing him back a step. His face was red with anger. “None of those will belong to any general as long as I’m boss around here. This is supposed to be a rest center for combat men, not a playground for the brass.”

“All the other villas on Capri have been requisitioned by the Army Air Force, sir, orders of General Spaatz. General Clark reserved Sorrento for army officers.”

“And what does that leave for the GIs coming off the line? The gutters of Naples, goddamn it?”

“Yes, sir. I mean no, sir,” the navy officer said, backpedaling as fast as he could. He looked like he’d enjoyed spilling the dirt on air force and army brass, but both barrels of Uncle Ike’s anger were still pointed at him.

“Kay!” Uncle Ike barked sharply. “Get ahold of Captain Butcher. Tell him to contact General Spaatz immediately and clear his officers out of there. His action was contrary to my policy. It must cease at once.”

“Yes, General,” Kay said. “I can call him at Caserta when we get back-”

“Now, damn it. Right now!” Kay stood alone, the clutch of officers staring at her, each thankful he’d kept his mouth shut. No one offered the general a light. Kay lifted a hand to her mouth, for a second. Then she was all business again, the general’s faithful secretary off to do his bidding.

The deck became quiet. Uncle Ike drew on his cigarette as if it might calm him. He exhaled a long plume of blue smoke into the wind and caught my eye. “William, sometimes you’d be surprised how hard it is to get something done, no matter how much authority you have. Jesus Christ on the mountain, you’d think it would be common sense to give the fighting men a decent place to rest up.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, moving to his side. We watched the magnificent coastline drift by. Sometimes my job was to be someone Uncle Ike could blow off steam with. We were actually related to Aunt Mamie through my mother’s family. But he was an older guy, and when we were in private, sometimes I’d call him Uncle Ike. Today wasn’t one of those days. He flicked his butt into the water and turned up his collar. Colonel Harding climbed down from the bridge and joined us. If he’d taken in any of the drama on deck, he didn’t show it.

“General,” Harding said, handing him a teletype. “Message from London.”