Blood Alone (16 page)
“No,” he said, shaking off my hand. Screams pierced through all the other sounds, and he started to stand, but I pulled him down again.
The awful shrieks and explosions continued, punctuated by the agonized calls of the wounded, until they were drowned out, perhaps ended, by the next round of shells. A series of smaller explosions marked a hit on the 20mm ammo, a column of flame coloring the darkening sky as the truck’s gasoline tank went up. One soldier unhurt, but with wide, panicked eyes, ran right through the shrubs, tripping on my legs as he barreled by. He rolled partway down the hill, then looked at me and screamed, running crazily away, weaving and nearly falling as he held his hands over his ears.
The shelling ended abruptly. Sciafani and I looked at each other, unsure what to make of the sudden silence. It took a few seconds for other sounds to be heard, the aftermath of a violent bombardment. The crackling of flames, moans of the wounded, the
pop, pop, pop
of rifle ammunition going off in the fire. We raised our heads and looked. It was nearly dark but the burning truck lit the scene with a flickering orange light. Craters filled the area where the positions had been, smoke curling up from the bottom of the ten-foot-wide holes. We stood. The machine-gun emplacement was simply gone, the men, heavy weapons, and sandbags erased from the landscape, replaced by overlapping circles of smoking dirt. The antiaircraft gun, a blackened heap of twisted metal, had been thrown ten yards from where it had been set up. I stepped over a severed leg.
“Here,” Sciafani said. “Help me.”He had a man by his arms, buried up to his chest in debris thrown up by the explosions. He didn’t seem to have a mark on him. I grabbed one arm and Sciafani took the other. We pulled and fell back, holding the top half of a man, cut through by shrapnel. The sailors who had loaded shells minutes before were probably drinking coffee by now.
We finally found someone alive, huddled in a crater where he had taken shelter after the first round of shells. He had shrapnel fragments in his back, which Sciafani picked out by the light of the fire with a knife he’d taken from the body of an officer, a sharp dagger that he sterilized in the flames before he worked the shrapnel out. The guy never blinked. He stared out into the night, his mouth open as if to speak, but he made no sound.
I searched for other wounded while Sciafani worked. I found a soldier, younger than me, younger than my kid brother, by the side of the road. He was crying as he lay in a pool of blood. I called for Sciafani as I knelt beside him. He looked at me with a question in his eyes that I didn’t want to answer as he held his hands clamped tight to his abdomen. I knew what shrapnel did. It was seldom clean. Blood seeped through his fingers. I didn’t know enough Italian to say anything and it didn’t seem right to speak to him in English.
“
Je suis désolé,
” I said as I smoothed the hair away from his forehead. I am sorry. “
Je suis désolé.
”
“
Mi dispiace
,” Sciafani said as he knelt next to me and put his hand on my shoulder. He took the boy’s hands to pull them away from his wound, but stopped as a raspy, jagged breath came out. With it, all movement ceased. The hands relaxed, and Sciafani placed them crossed on the boy’s chest.
“He is gone.”
I didn’t know what to say or feel. I didn’t want these guys firing into the GIs who might be swarming up this hill tomorrow, but I also didn’t want this kid to have to suffer and die. I put my head in my hands, and repeated Sciafani’s words as best I could.
“
Mi dispiace
,” I said.
“Look,” Sciafani said. “Look at me. His blood is on my hands.”
He held his hands out, palms up, coated in dark red blood. “These are the hands that did this. I did nothing to stop the Fascists, and now they are sending boys out to be killed for Mussolini. Do you know what Il Duce says about blood?”
“No.”
“Blood alone moves the wheels of history,” Sciafani quoted. “He said that in 1914. We had quite enough warning, don’t you think?
Blood alone.”
“DON’T SHOOT!” I HELD my hands up and stepped in front of the three bandaged Italians on the floor. I knew what a glimpse of an enemy uniform might mean to the GI who had stuck the snout of his Thompson submachine through the door, not to mention what it could mean for me. “I’m an American.”
“
Non sparare, non sparare,
” sobbed one of the wounded Italians. I guessed it was basically the same request.
“Come out where I can see you,” the owner of the Thompson barked. He still wasn’t showing more than the muzzle of his gun. Smart guy.
“Coming out,” I said, holding my hands palm up, slightly forward, so the first thing he’d see was that they were empty.
“Who the hell are you, Mac?” The guy eyeing me was a buck sergeant, and while he didn’t keep his Thompson leveled at my gut, he didn’t exactly practice firearms safety with it either.
“Lieutenant Billy Boyle. I got separated from my unit. There’s three wounded Italians in there,” I said, pointing to the abandoned house where Sciafani and I had taken the survivors from the night before.
Over his shoulder, I saw GIs darting from cover and making quick dashes, staying low in the long early-morning shadows. The only sound was the rapid tread of boots and the slight clinking and clanking of gear as a platoon of heavily armed men moved swiftly around us, wraiths descending from the hills.
“What unit, and where’s your weapon?” He eyed me with suspicion.
“Seventh Army HQ,” I said, turning so he could see the patch on my shoulder. “We ran into some Germans and barely got away. All I have is this Beretta.” I patted the pistol stuck into my belt.
“Hey, nice. Can I see it?”
“That’s ‘Hey, nice, Lieutenant.’ Or has the army given up on that in the last couple of days?”
“I got no idea if you’re a lieutenant, a deserter, or a Kraut. What I don’t believe is that any headquarters punk got here ahead of Rangers.” His eyes narrowed beneath the steel rim of his helmet as they studied me.
“Purely by accident, Sarge. We were trying to make our way back last night and got trapped up there when the Italians started setting up emplacements.” I pointed to the top of the hill, the dark craters draped in shadows cast by the morning sun.
“Yeah, the navy blasted that for us yesterday.” He turned and signaled to someone. His shoulder patch said First Battalion Rangers.
“You’re Darby’s Rangers, right?”
“That’s right, Mac. You sure you don’t want to trade for that Beretta?”
I knew he believed my story when he started hustling me for a souvenir. If he thought I was a deserter he would’ve taken it outright. If he really thought I was a Kraut, I’d be dead.
“No, Sarge, I might need it. You’ll probably find a few more up ahead.”
“OK, our medic will look at your wounded prisoners.” A Ranger with a red cross on his helmet and armband ran up to us.
“Got some wounded Eyeties in here. Hang on, Doc, lemme check ’em for weapons.”
He disappeared into the house, but it didn’t take long. It was one long room, and the most badly wounded man was on the single bed, the others on the floor. We ’d washed their wounds as best we could and ripped up clothes and the single sheet for bandages. It wasn’t much, but Sciafani said they’d live. I’d scrounged canteens and rations from the debris at the top of the hill, and even found some brandy in the house, but that had gone to the wounded.
“They’re all yours, Doc. One looks pretty bad. There’s a civilian who had this, said he was a doctor.” The sergeant held the dagger Sciafani had picked up the previous night. The sheath had MVSN engraved on it and the Fascist symbol.
“Nice souvenir, Sarge, but he really is a doctor. He used that to dig shrapnel out of one of the wounded last night.” I held out my hand for the dagger.
“If you say so,” he said reluctantly, slapping the sheathed dagger into my hand. “Yeah, and I know, there’ll be lots more up ahead.”
The medic went in the house and I heard Sciafani talking with him, asking if he had sulfa, giving him an update on each patient.
“You headed into Agrigento, Sarge?”
“Well, I guess with that Beantown accent you ain’t no Kraut spy,” he said as he spat. “We’re going around it, to take Porto Empedocle from the rear. Then the Third Division can move into Agrigento real easy. You seen any Germans around here?”
“None, just those Italians, Fascist militia. These are the only survivors,” I said.
“Good.” He flicked a finger close to his helmet in what might have been an attempt at a salute or a wave goodbye. I figured only a sucker wants to be given a salute when there’s a chance of enemy snipers around, so I didn’t make a big deal out of it.
“See ya in the funny papers, Sarge.”
“Where?” Sciafani asked from the doorway of the house.
“It’s just an expression. It means I think he’s a funny guy, in a sarcastic sort of way.”
“I did not think him amusing. We can leave now; the medic is setting up an aid station here. The men will receive good care.”
It’s odd, the things that divide men in a war. Sciafani had been talking with the medic like a colleague. He and I were getting along OK. But that one word, one comment from the sergeant about the bombardment last night:
Good.
It made all the sense in the world. Who knows how many of these Rangers would be dead or writhing in pain right now from machine-gun bullets or 20mm shells if the navy hadn’t hit that position? It was logical. But Sciafani didn’t see dead and wounded Americans. He saw his own people blown to pieces, and it was gnawing at him. Did he feel guilty for being alive and in the company of an American?
“Good,” I said, studying his face. The word hung like a challenge in the air. I handed him the dagger and he tucked it into his belt.
“Come,” was all he said, brushing by me, a brief look of disgust on his face. I followed, and thought about the leg I’d stepped over, and the boy clutching at his stomach, and I felt small, ashamed, and insignificant. Who was I to judge him or the sergeant or anybody else? The Ranger sergeant knew what he had to do, and so did Sciafani. Me, I was still following ghosts.
But the ghosts were getting closer.
I grabbed a full canteen and followed Sciafani. The Rangers veered off to the left, circumventing the hill in front of us that led up to the backside of Agrigento. The city ran along the crest of the hill and then descended the slope toward Porto Empedocle, a few kilometers away.
Between them was the Valley of the Temples, acres of ancient crumbling temples built by the Greeks and who the hell knows else.
From here, we could make out the tops of a few tall buildings, their orange tile roofs blazing in the hot morning sunlight. It was as if no one wanted to build anything out of sight of the sea or the ruins. We climbed up rough paths through stands of cactus and trees, waiting at one point for a goatherd to pass with his mangy flock. Following a streambed, we made it to the crest of the hill, taking a dirt path that emptied out into the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, according to Sciafani.
We passed a massive, rounded building set off by pink marble columns and a statue of heroic-looking Italian soldiers. It was from my dad’s war, when the Italians were on our side. Two dogs slept on the stone steps beneath the statue, too lazy in the warm sun to take notice of us.
Otherwise, the plaza was empty.
After the steep hike in the growing heat, it was odd to suddenly find ourselves in a city, surrounded by green trees and neatly trimmed hedges. A fountain gushed from stone cherubs and we stuck our heads into the spray, the cool water cleansing us of dust and sweat.
Two old men walked into the park, identically dressed in black suits, vests, and collarless shirts. They stopped to look at us, their eyes wide in surprise, whether at my uniform or simply our general appearance, I couldn’t tell. The worn suit of the Ciccolos’ missing son hung like tattered rags on Sciafani’s thin frame. His once white shirt was filthy now with stains of dried blood across his chest. I didn’t know if the men knew I was an American, or cared. They scurried away, turning a corner and disappearing up narrow stone steps.
“This way,” Sciafani said, pointing to a plaque that read VIA ATE-NEA. It was a wide street, running straight into the center of town, large buildings with ornate facades on either side. Several of them were bombed out. The debris spilled out into the street, where only a lane wide enough for a single vehicle had been cleared. We walked quickly, not wanting to linger or attract attention by running. A window opened above us, and a frowning gray-haired woman looked down at us and slowly shook her head, as if she found the sight of us in her city pitiful. I felt eyes on us from all around—windows, doorways, alleyways, and rooftops. I shivered in the heat.
“There’s no traffic, no one up and going to work,” I said. I glanced at my wristwatch. Just past seven. “Is it Sunday?”
“No. I think word has spread. They know the Americans are coming.”
The eerie silence was broken by the growl of an engine echoing off the buildings. We eased back into a doorway, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. I heard the vehicle turn onto Via Atenea as the sound grew louder. A stream of shouts in Italian and the hard thuds of boots hitting pavement followed the squealing of ancient brakes. I chanced a quick glance from the doorway. The truck started up, coming toward us with men still in the open back. MVSN.
“Fascists,” I said to Sciafani. “It looks like they’re going to drop men off at the other end and search the entire street.”
“Those old men must have informed,” Sciafani said. He put his hand on the doorknob to try to open it. As he did, the knob turned slowly and the door creaked open. The gray-haired lady who had looked at us so sadly from the window grabbed me by the sleeve, the strength of her grip a surprise.
“
Entri rapidamente
.” She pulled me in and Sciafani followed. She put a finger to her lips and shut the door slowly, holding the latch so it wouldn’t make a noise.
“
Bastardi di fascista
,” she whispered, cocking her head toward the street. Then she gave a wheezy little laugh, and her cheeks flushed red.
She liked this game.
“Bastards,” I said, pointing too. She laughed some more. The truck rumbled by and boots echoed on the empty street. She beckoned us to follow her to the rear of the apartment, and we ended up in her kitchen.
“Chicago?” she asked me.
“No. Boston,” I said, slow and clear. She shook her head and fired off some Italian to Sciafani.
“Her brother lives in Chicago. She wanted to know if you know him,” Sciafani translated.
I shook my head. She shrugged and opened a low wooden door that led out to steep, narrow steps in an alleyway. We nodded our thanks and she laughed again, shooing us out like troublesome neighborhood kids. I pulled the Beretta and kept my back against the wall as we edged up the stairs. The stone was cool against my palm, but soft, worn down by centuries of Sicilian hands.
“Is the church far?” I asked Sciafani.
“No.We must turn soon and that will take us into the Piazza del Purgatorio and the
chiesa.
We go into the church, out the side entrance, then up stairs much like these. They will take us to the Duomo.”
“The cathedral, where happiness awaits.”
“Let us hope so, my friend.”
Explosions sounded in the distance as we climbed the stairs. Soft, muffled sounds,
thump, thump, thump,
followed by ripples of small arms fire. At the top of the steps, I looked back between two buildings and saw plumes of black smoke billowing up from the direction of the harbor. Rangers at work.
Sciafani led us down a narrow street and up another set of stone steps between two buildings. Wash was hung out to dry on lines strung overhead and from balconies, the clothing limp in the hot early-morning stillness. On the next street, we saw a line of old women, their black shawls pulled tight over their shoulders, bowed heads and stooped shoulders leaning toward the
piazza
ahead of us. A large church on our right dominated a tiny square. Its great wooden doors were open, swallowing the tiny stream of worshippers.
“Welcome to purgatory,” Sciafani said. “La Chiesa del Purgatorio.”
The bell in the church tower began to ring, as if to announce our arrival. Two American fighter planes zoomed low over the town, the roar of their engines drowning out the bells for a moment, disappearing over rooftops as the bell tolled its last few rings. No one looked up. As I scanned the ornate facade of the church, I wondered why I didn’t remember it. Harry and I must have come through here with Nick. Built from blocks of light brown stone, it was decorated with white marble pillars and statues on either side. The bell tower ran up the left side, giving it an oddly unbalanced look. Why didn’t I remember it? I looked around the
piazza,
suddenly nervous. A nun came from a side street and hurried ahead of us; I nearly jumped a foot.
“Are you all right, Billy?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I said. “I don’t remember this, and I think I should.”
“Some memories take longer than others to return. Things that remind you of that incident may be the most difficult memories to recover.”
I stopped to lean against the corner of a building and watch the church entrance. I didn’t like this. I felt light-headed and dizzy. I wanted to slump down and close my eyes. Instead I kept them on Sciafani. Was he the one making me nervous?
“What happened to your parents?” I asked. The words came out without my thinking about them.
“What? Why do you want to know that now, even if it was any of your business?”
I licked my lips and looked around again. My mouth was dry and I could feel my heart pounding. Something wasn’t right and I had no idea what, so I had to work at the one wrong thing I knew about, and that was Sciafani’s story.
“You told me all about your family in Palermo, and lectured me on how you could only trust family, those closest to you. Then it comes out that your real parents were killed and you were adopted, but you don’t want to say anything more about it. Seems strange to me. What are you hiding?”