That wasn't the only problem. The shelling had resumed again and was getting closer. The villagers refused to leave. Train was still in love with the kid. Bishop was off someplace as usual. The electric power had disappeared from Ludovico's house, and the radio was useless without it because the dead batteries would not hold a charge. They had to wait for Nokes. He'd better hurry the fuck up or we're gonna take our chances and walk home, Stamps thought. He hoped Nokes was bringing a lot of men. He'd have to. The whooshing noises he heard overheadâthe
woo, woo, woo
with the big smash at the endâmeant there was a lot of eighty-eight traffic out there. He could see smoke on the horizon and smell phosphorus in the air, which meant the Germans were using flamethrowers to clear forests, homes, and even people. They weren't bullshitting. This was not defensive fighting, which the Germans had been doing in his fifteen months there. This was offensive. They were coming, from all sides.
He could not determine exactly where the heaviest shelling was coming from, because as it grew louder, it echoed along both sides of the mountain, though it appeared to be from the east. He decided the Germans were heading west toward the coast. Well, we're going that way too, he thought bitterly. Regimental headquarters in Viareggio was southwest, and he figured if he and his men had to make a break, it would be in that directionâsouthwest, though there seemed to be a lot of traffic that way, too.
Hector, his ear wrapped in gauze and pieces of old sheets that the villagers had ripped up, was standing by the window watching the ridges. Stamps walked over to him.
“Hector, how long you think it takes to get from regimental headquarters in Viareggio to here?”
“Colored man'll make that run over those mountains in two hours. White man it'll take a day. Puerto Rican do it in five minutes.”
“Very funny.”
“Cool down. Nokes will bring a squad, then
adiós,
we're gone. The Germans are not close enough yet.”
“Well, who they dropping artillery on?”
“Who cares? It ain't us. Maybe it's the Brazilians. Or the Gurkhas. They're around here, too.”
“Great. That's just skippy.” Stamps couldn't stand the Brazilians. He'd visited their camp once. It was filthy. No latrines. They didn't even bother to bury their shit. The Gurkhas were even worse. They were psychotic, with their long robes and swords and screaming death cries. He heard they died by the dozens from tuberculosis because their bodies weren't used to the cold. If the Germans wanted to shell them, more power to them.
“Where's Bishop?” Stamps asked.
“He disappeared with one of those
signorina
s last night. I 'spect he's finishin' up.”
“Go get him.”
“If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not walk 'round here no more.”
“Shit, would you like me to call a cab?”
“Man, I was stabbed today! I don't know every nook of this place. I'll keep watch here.”
Stamps exited the house and marched through the piazza. A few villagers had gathered their meager belongings and were heading west down the road toward the coast, maybe to stay with relatives and friends or in American refugee camps. He noticed, however, that most villagers were going about their business as if nothing were happening. These people are crazy, he thought grimly. He supposed if he had to make a choice between his home and a crowded, dirty refugee camp, he'd stay home, too.
Home. What the fuck is that?
He turned a corner and was marching up a flight of stairs when the door to a pink house with only one shuttered window opened. A young child, carrying a bucket, emerged from the front door, followed by Bishop, buttoning his shirt. Bishop saw Stamps and frowned. Stamps approached.
“What?”
“We got a situation.”
“I ain't goin' no place.”
“The Italian partisan stabbed that German.”
“No shit. Is Nokes still coming?”
“He don't know, so he's still coming.”
“It don't matter then.”
It bothered Stamps that Bishop was so casual about the stabbing.
“While you was stokin' your little johnny, the kid was telling us the SS is 'round here; they killed a bunch of civilians up at the church we were at.”
Bishop shrugged and tucked in his shirt, taking deep breaths of the fresh mountain air. He looked like he had just finished taking a morning constitutional. “Imagine that. At a house of God, too.”
Stamps had an overwhelming urge to yank his Colt .45 out of its holster and part Bishop's face with it. He imagined Bishop's face being blasted into oblivion, looking like burnt oatmeal and metal. That's how Huggs had looked at Cinquale, his brain splattered over the hot tank. Stamps suddenly felt slightly nauseous, thinking of the charred pews, the outstretched arms of a baby, bayoneted. He wished he hadn't heard any of it.
He glared at Bishop and said, “Man, what is your problem?”
“None of this is my problem. I ain't gettin' all tongue-tied over white folks killin' each other. When's Nokes coming?”
“I want you to get all our gear, the Italians' mules, radio, everything, and get it over to old man Loody's house on the double. If you hadn't sent that doofus over that ridge, we wouldn't be here.”
“I didn't send that dense nigger noplace.”
“Hell you did. Beat the guy out fourteen hundred bucks, then sent him over there. Stupid motherfucker. What were you thinking about?”
Stamps watched Bishop's breathing slow and a deep, burning anger descend upon his face. Bishop's eyelids drooped heavily. Stamps realized, for the first time, how dangerous Bishop was. He could feel it. The man had power. He'd always thought of Bishop as a sheep in wolf's clothing, a two-bit hustler. But now he could see itâcould see what Train saw. The man had power. The power of the devil.
“You like it here, don't you?” Bishop said softly. “Out here, the law is what you say it is. You just like the white man. Keep changing the law so it fits you. You said before we're gonna get Train. Then you say we gotta get a German. Then we get the German, and you fucked around playin' âAmerica the Beautiful' for these honey drips here, and now the German's dead and we're stuck here with them, waiting for the real white man to show up while the Krauts is fittin' to throw us in the chicken fryer. So you changed up, you got to live with it. Not me.”
Bishop was standing on the top steps leading to the front door of the house as he spoke. The door behind Bishop opened and Renata emerged, wearing a red dress and holding a pack of American cigarettes, no doubt a gift from Bishop. She took a quick look at Stamps and departed swiftly.
Bishop watched her go, then smiled slightly at Stamps.
“And I grilled that ass, too. She sucked my roscoe and everything.”
Stamps leaped on Bishop and grabbed his throat. The two crashed through the doorway of the house and fell inside the darkened quarters, smashing tables, chairs, and rolling toward the open brick hearth. Spoons, ladles, and wooden bowls flew about. Bishop was pummeling him, but Stamps could feel nothing. He choked Bishop until Bishop's eyes bulged and he began to strike desperately with more force. He struck Stamps's head again and again, granite-hard blows that did nothing to weaken Stamps's grip. Then Stamps felt a blow on the other side of his head. His arms were ripped from Bishop's throat, and he was pulled back, gasping and sweating.
Hector stood between them, his chest heaving.
“Jesus!” Hector said, his head swiveling as he looked back and forth at Bishop and Stamps. “Settle up on your own fuckin' time. C'mon, get your shit together, man! Nokes is here.”
20
NOKES ARRIVES
The boy felt himself slipping off the edge of the world, floating in a sea of black and white with the strange sound of the accordion guiding him, so he shut his mind and looked for Arturo. It wasn't as hard to do as it once had been, but now Arturo didn't come as often. The boy squeezed his eyes tight, until the outside sounds were gone. Everything disappeared inside him, and there was only blank space and no beginning, end, or middle, and after a few moments Arturo appeared.
“You don't come easy like you used to,” Angelo said.
Arturo shrugged.
“I saw the one from the church,” Angelo said.
“We agreed not to talk about it,” Arturo said.
“I'm afraid of him,” Angelo said.
“That's why the chocolate man came to you.”
“He's run out of chocolate, though. I even checked the pocket where he keeps it. There's no more.”
“There's plenty more. You'll see.”
Arturo disappeared, and Angelo opened his eyes and saw two jeeps in the distance, rumbling and bouncing up the mountain road. A Negro and a white man rode in the first jeep, followed by four colored men in the second jeep, one manning a fifty-caliber machine gun mounted atop the rear. Train placed the boy on the ground and stood at attention. Stamps, followed by Bishop and Hector, stepped in front of him as the jeeps approached.
The vehicles slammed to a halt, and Captain Nokes leaped out.
“How the fuck did you get all the way up here?” he asked, charging up to Stamps, who stood with his legs spread, hands on his hips, his clothing disheveled, still sweating. Stamps didn't bother to answer. He gave a half salute, then turned away and picked up his helmet, gear, rifle, and other belongings and walked toward the second jeep. He wasn't going to ride back with Nokes in the lead jeep. The hell with it.
Nokes watched him, furious. “Where's the German?” he said.
Stamps pointed in the direction of Ludovico's house. “In there.”
Nokes glared at him. He didn't like the attitude. He was exhausted. It had taken fourteen hours to get around Ruosina, mostly with Italian alpine mules pulling the jeeps through mud and snow, with the shelling getting heavier every minute. How these four Negroes had ended up twenty-three kilometers from base, deep on the wrong side of the Serchio Valley, was something he simply could not fathom.
Nokes barked at Birdsong, who was behind the wheel of the lead jeep. “Find out what his problem is while I get the prisoner.” He glared at Stamps. “You got two minutes to button your men up.” Bishop and Hector glumly gathered their helmets and moved slowly toward the second jeep, too. They had no plans on riding back with Nokes either. Nokes started toward Ludovico's house, then noticed Train standing with the statue head dangling from his waist, holding the boy in one arm. “And get rid of that kid,” he said.
“Been trying to, suh,” Train said, “but I guess he won't let me go. He's a nice little fella.” He held Angelo, wrapped him in a blanket. “Take a look.”
“Get rid of him.”
“I don't know what to do with him, suh. I can't leave him here, so I figured to bring him along. He don't talk much, but he do tap. See? Watch this here. One tap meanâ”
Nokes took a step toward Train. “What is the matter with you?”
Train straightened and saluted again. “Nothing, boss. I'm just saying that, see, this young'un here, he don't . . .”
He stopped in fear as Nokes took two long strides at him, closing the distance between them, facing him with such rage that the big man leaned backward. Nokes's eyes blazed like fireballs. His jaw reached Train's chest, and he stood so close to him with his face thrust forward that his spit flew into Train's face. “What the fuck is wrong with you, soldier?”
Train tried to stammer a reply but could not. “I . . .”
“We spent two days risking our asses getting here for you! Good men are dying for you! Good white men, your commanders, are holding back the attack for you! And you're telling me about some kid?”
“I . . . I feels sorry for him, suh.”
“
You
feel sorry for
him. You
feel sorry for
him
?”
Nokes realized his error as soon as he said it. Talking to a nigger that way with four armed niggers in the jeep, four more in front of him. The kid began to cry.
Nokes lowered his voice to an even pitch, trying to keep a tone of command in it. “Button up and get in the jeep and let's get outta here, soldier.”
Train didn't move. A slow rage began to creep into his face.
“Ain't no cause for that kind of talk in front of no child. You ain't got to make him cry now, suh.”
Stamps stepped forward. “Cool it, Diesel.”
“Naw. Ain't no way to talk to no child, making him cry 'n' all, cussin' and carryin' on.”
Stamps faced Nokes. “He don't understand, sir. He's slow in his mind. It was my idea to bring the kid. We got 'im down at the Cinquale. We was trying to find out where he belonged. He won't leave us, is all. I told Train here to take 'im. It was my idea.”
The four black soldiers in the second jeep stared silently as Captain Nokes hesitated. He'd always dreaded a moment like this: alone, out in the open, within easy reach of German artillery and rifle fire, with eight Negroes and ten Italian peasants looking on and no white American in sight. He wanted to beat the crap out of Colonel Driscoll, that Mr. Hoo-ray Yankee bastard, acting like this was just another white outfit fighting the Germans. These Negroes were screwing white womenâhe'd seen that himself back in Naples. They'd have to be reeducated once they got home. Nobody considered that, he thought bitterly. Every fiber of his being felt violated. He wasn't even supposed to be here. He was supposed to be with the 10th Mountain Division, good white men who were on the other side of the Apennines, but he had no pull at division. Now he was stuck here on Christmas Eve with a bunch of chicken guzzlers on a hill in who-knows-where-goddamn-Italy. He couldn't believe it.