James Benn: Blood alone

Dull booms echoed across the landscape, followed by a screeching sound high above us that made my new pal duck and put one hand up to steady his helmet. He was a buck sergeant, three stripes, silver on black against his brown wool shirt.

"Jesus," he said, "them cruisers sound like they're shootin' fuckin' freight trains at the Krauts."

"Where?"

"Where what?"

"Where are the Germans?"

"All over the goddamn place, that's where. Supposed to be nothin' but a bunch of guinea wops ready to give up, except for a few Kraut technicians, they told us. Well, they forgot to tell our paratroopers them technicians was all driving Tiger tanks. Nearly kicked our ass off Piano Lupo yesterday and made it down here. Can you imagine that, kid? The fuckin' Hermann Goring Panzer Division! If they'da made it down to the beaches, we would of been screwed, blued, and tattooed. And they'd be headed fer yours truly, lemme tell ya."

Piano Lupo, main drop zone for the 505th Paratroop Regiment. A hill mass seven miles northeast of Gela, landing area for the 45th Division. The words raced through my mind as if someone had turned on a radio. Clear as day, then nothing.

"Piano Lupo, right, Sarge?"

He was watching the padre, and it took him a second to pull his eyes away. He was nervous. Maybe he was thinking about a Holy Joe squatting over him, if those Tiger tanks made it to the beach.

"I knew you was a headquarters boy," he said, wagging his finger at me. "First time I saw you, I knew. Yeah, that was the fuckin' plan, but they all got scattered to hell and gone. Just a handful of boys ended up there, maybe a hundred instead of a full regiment. Stopped those goddamn Krauts, though, stopped 'em dead. Before they got to me and my supplies."

"Your supplies?"

"Quartermaster Company, 45th Division, kid. We got a captain, he ain't worth shit, and a lieutenant too, I don't pay him no mind. Rocko Walters, kid, that's who to ask for if you need bullets, beans, or blankets. They call me Rocko 'cause everyone depends on me. I'm the rock in this outfit, see, since the officers are total screwups. You ain't an officer, are you?"

I gave a little laugh and rolled my eyes, hoping he'd settle for that as an answer.

"So, Rocko, when was the first time you saw me?"

"Geez, it was yesterday, don't you remember?"

I raised my hand to the bandage around my head.

"Yeah, well, you was pretty banged up. That Italian who had you musta whacked you one good."

"What Italian?"

"How the fuck do I know, kiddo? The place is crawlin' with 'em. All I know is me and two other guys took off to Gela in a jeep to rustle up a couple trucks. We didn't get all the transport we was supposed to, so we figured to get us some civilian trucks. Right outside town, we see this Eyetie who's got you, and we holler at him to let you go. Louie speaks the lingo from his old neighborhood, enough to make himself understood. The Eyetie lets you go, but pulls a gun, so we hadda shoot him."

"You kill him?"

"Naw, Louie's a lousy shot. Creased his side, I think. Got his attention, though. He dropped the pistol, and we gave him to some GIs who were herding about a dozen POWs down to the holding area."

"How did I get here?"

"In a jeep. A medic heard the shooting and pulled over. When he saw the shape you were in he grabbed you and brought you here. I wanted to come visit you, but couldn't get out from under my asshole captain until now."

"And when did all this happen exactly?

"Yesterday morning, a few hours after my outfit landed. How long you been on the island anyway? And what's your name, kid? You must've lost your dog tags. They couldn't figure out your blood type or nothin'."

How long had I been here? I puzzled over that one so I wouldn't have to think about his other question.

"I don't know, Rocko. I really don't know."

"You dunno where you been or you dunno your name?"

He kept his eyes on me as I lay there, not answering his question. The longer he waited and stared at me, the harder it was not to answer. I felt the words form and rise up as if I had no control over them. Orderlies brought in more stretcher cases, transferring the wounded to cots and cutting away grimy blood-soaked bandages with practiced ease, revealing the awful truth of combat. The louder the artillery, the busier this place got. The chaplain moved around us, kneeling and praying with the wounded waiting for treatment.

I lowered my voice. "I have no idea where I've been or how I got here. I don't remember you or any Italian or anybody else, for that matter. I don't know my own name."

"No shit?"

"No shit, Rocko. Help me up, will you?"

Rocko grabbed an arm and I swiveled my legs off the cot. I pushed off with one hand and sat up straight. Everything whirled, then calmed down. Rocko was looking at me with a mixture of confusion and disbelief, his eyes darting over my clothes. My uniform, that was the word. "Nail." "Uniform." I wondered what else I'd remember.

"Jesus, kid," Rocko said, sitting down on the cot next to me. "You got any other ID on you? What about that jacket?"

"What jacket?" I said as I patted my empty pockets. My eye caught the shoulder patch on my shirt. Blue triangle with a yellow A, filled in with red. Seventh Army, I knew that much. So I was a headquarters guy.

"That funny jacket you was wearing. I almost thought you was a Kraut or maybe a Limey at first."

I tried to remember a jacket. A funny jacket. Maybe my next one would be a straitjacket. I saw Rocko reach his arm under the cot and feel around. He came up with a faded khaki jacket, neatly folded, where the medics had left it.

"This is it, kid. See what I mean?"

I took it from him and let it fall open. No insignia, no rank, no labels. The buttons were plain brass, tarnished and worn. It was rumpled and sweat-stained, the original color faded by the sun until only traces of dark khaki showed along the seams and under the pocket flaps. It could've been a German or Italian tropical jacket, maybe British. Or a U. S. Army field jacket, all insignia stripped off. Four buttons, four pockets. Your basic standard-issue design. Except everyone here was wearing brown wool. Dog-shit brown, someone had called it recently. Who was that? Words flashed through my mind- drop zone, Piano Lupo, dog shit, Licata-but they didn't connect. They were only words.

"You ever see an army uniform without all sorts of numbers and labels inside it, Rocko?"

"Never saw anything like this. No size, no serial number; you could never fill out a requisition for this rag. I'll check yer pockets, kid."

Rocko reached for the jacket, feeling around in the large lower pockets. He obviously had taken me under his wing. He'd probably saved my life. I realized he was the only guy on this goddamn island whose name I knew.

I dug my fingers into my shirt pocket, felt something soft and silky, and pulled out a handkerchief. Not plain white, not army-issue khaki cotton, but a silk handkerchief, the fabric a deep, rich yellow, almost gold. In the middle the letter L was stitched in black thread. It felt strange to hold this elegant item here, surrounded by dust, canvas, wool, and gauze. I had a strange urge to get rid of it, to distance myself from whatever that initial stood for. Unless it stood for my name? But then why did I feel like getting rid of it?

Harsh noises drove those thoughts away. Not the dull thunder of distant artillery but the crack of cannon fire. Tanks. The drumbeat of machine guns echoing off ridgelines. Not too close. Not yet. I wondered who was taking a beating out there, and I was startled to feel a pull on my hand as Rocko grasped the handkerchief. I looked at his face, and for just a second, I saw the golden silk reflected in his wide-open eyes. I snapped my hand back, stashing the handkerchief in my pocket, as Rocko looked away, glancing at the wounded, doctors, and orderlies crowding around us. More wounded came in, one guy screaming for his mother. Rocko looked nervous, and I can't say I blamed him.