James Benn - Blood alone

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.

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.