Out of the corner of his eye, Driscoll saw Second Lieutenant Birdsong purse his lips, looking troubled. Driscoll turned to Birdsong.
“Didn't I see you in Pisa at the museum two weeks ago, speaking Italian?”
“Yes, sir. I grew up in South Jersey with plenty of Italians. I also studied German in college.”
“What did this man say?”
Birdsong replied, “He said something about a large number of German paratroopers planning to come through the Serchio Valley in ten days or so. Around Christmas. Through the Lama di Sotto ridge.”
Driscoll straightened in alarm. The Lama di Sotto ridge was in the aerial photograph he had just seen. “How many Germans?” he asked.
“Two or three regiments.”
“Companies or regiments?”
“Regiments.”
“Ask him that again. Two or three
companies
or
regiments
?” A company was two hundred men. A regiment was four thousand.
Birdsong asked the question.
“Regiments, sir,” he said.
“Where'd he hear that?”
“From some Italians in his village and a German he saw here.”
“A German he saw
here
?”
Lieutenant Birdsong directed Driscoll's question to the Italian, who responded.
“A German at the POW camp back at division headquarters,” Birdsong translated.
“There's two hundred German prisoners there,” Driscoll said dryly.
“That's what he said, sir.”
Captain Nokes shrugged. “It's a lot of story there, sir.”
Driscoll ignored Nokes. He had worked intelligence before. He had to consider the source. In his hand was a fuzzy photo taken from eleven thousand feet, of unknown origin. The man before him was a living source, a priest. Through Birdsong, he grilled the priest: Name. Birthplace. Parents' names. Dates, when and where he'd served. Birdsong translated flawlessly.
After half an hour, Driscoll had heard enough. He turned to Captain Nokes. “Who's your first lieutenant?”
“Huggs. He was killed this morning in the canal.”
Driscoll pointed to Birdsong. “This man speaks excellent Italian. How come he's not a first lieutenant?” Nokes's face took on the pallor of a man at a funeral. He was a short man with a downturned mouth, small, darting eyes, and lips the color of vealâa leather-skinned roughneck from Mississippi. The kind of officer, Driscoll noted wryly, that the division seemed constantly to attract, a reject and a transferâsomebody else's problem.
Nokes barked, “In fact, I've been keeping my eye on this man, Colonel, and was about to promote him.” Driscoll was willing to wager a month's pay that Nokes didn't even know Birdsong's name.
“Promote him now and have him take this priest down to the POW camp. Let him pick out the German he's talking about. Then let him write up the S-2 intelligence report and have it to me by fifteen hundred hours.”
It seemed like too much information for Nokes to process, and as his face twisted and contorted with the effort, Driscoll silently cursed the Army policy that dictated that only Southerners were qualified to lead colored men. Nokes's “Yes, sir” bounced off Driscoll's back like a rubber ball, as Driscoll had already turned and left the tent.
He went to his tent and lay on his cot, troubled by what the priest had said. The information the priest offered was days old and probably useless. It was not corroborated other than by the photo, the veracity of which he still doubted. Still, the whole business bothered him. It had to be checked out right away, even though nothing could be done about it. The colored division was spread too thin as it was, fifteen thousand men over a thirty-mile front five miles wide, with the Germans fighting from concrete bunkers that were impervious to small-arms fire, and a huge railroad gun in La Spezia that was kicking the shit out of them. The Germans, ingenious fighters that they were, had placed a ship's 406-millimeter cannon on a flatbed car, secured it, and wheeled it into a railroad tunnel. Anytime they wanted to, they rolled the cannon out, fired it, then wheeled it back in. The giant beast wreaked havoc, hurling shells weighing 560 pounds for thirty-eight miles. American bombers could not reach it. They needed a ship to float into the harbor and knock that goddamn thing out. But naval support cost money. Money meant politics. And politics, for a colored division? In Italy, which was poor and not strategically important? With the Negro press kicking their ass about the segregated Army's treatment of coloreds, and good white boys dying in Normandy under Patton and Marshall? With General Allman, who had the guts to tell his superiors what he really thought, who was about as politically correct as General MacArthur? Forget it. The gun stayed, and it kicked the shit out of them. One single goddamn gun, he thought bitterly.
Driscoll sat up and told his orderly to summon Captain Rudden. Rudden was from Maine. He was one of the few captains in the division whom Driscoll trusted.
Rangy and tall, with a slow, careful manner and dark eyes that sucked in everything around him like bilge pumps, Rudden entered, followed by his first lieutenant, a man named Wells, a stocky colored man with a huge head and bug eyes that stared blankly. Several white captains had tried to make Rudden get rid of Wellsâthey were scared of himâbut Rudden refused. “He's the best first lieutenant in the division,” he boasted, which is why Driscoll liked Rudden. Rudden knew a good soldier when he saw one.
“Sir?”
“I got a report that Germans are planning a push down the Serchio Valley, through Lama di Sotto ridge. Two or three regiments.”
Rudden's eyes widened. “Regiments?”
“You been running patrols back and forth over there. You hear anything about that?”
“No, sir. But G Company has a squad that's probably sitting right on that area, sir.”
“What's the state of G Company?”
“Shot to hell, sir. Twenty-four dead, forty-three wounded, plus they have a squad missing up in the Serchio Valley.”
“How many in it?”
“They went out as twelve, crossed the Cinquale Canal, and two came back, two wounded, four dead, and four missing, still on the other side of the canal. One of 'em's a lieutenant.”
“Who's the lieutenant?”
“Stamps is his name.”
Driscoll knew him. A good soldier. Cool and smart. Stamps had come out of the Army's Advanced Special Training Program, which sent the smartest coloreds to Howard University for special training. It was a program the Army had started to raise the intelligence tests of the division, which were low, since only 40 percent of the colored draftees were literate. Driscoll had seen Stamps back at training camp in Arizona. The kid knew his business.
“Radio contact?”
“Yeah. Captain Nokes got them on the SCI-536 when we pushed across the Cinquale. They were on the other side and got just beyond Hill Maine near Strettoia, at the enemy weak point. They called for artillery fire, which might've pushed the Krauts back and collapsed their hold on the canal, but Nokes didn't fire. Instead, he called them back.”
“Why the hell did he do that?”
“He couldn't see them and didn't believe they'd crossed, so they got hung up. I had F Company upstream about five hundred yards. It was pretty hot over there. There was a kid caught in crossfire. One of 'em grabbed the kid and ran up the mountain. Stamps and two others followed him. They're gone now.”
“You got their names? Maybe one of 'em speaks German. We need some German prisoners to confirm this report. We need them badly.”
Rudden produced a sheaf of papers from his pocket and circled four names. He handed the list to Driscoll.
Driscoll took the list and said, “Get Nokes over here, and tell him to bring a squad with him. He sent 'em. He'll get 'em.” He was furious at Nokes. The screwball had stayed back at the fire-control center to direct artillery while he sent his men into the canal. It was his choice, but a good captain like Rudden went with his men. Driscoll wished he'd been at the canal that morning instead of having to direct the attack from division headquarters. He would've pushed Nokes into the canal himself.
Rudden turned to leave just as General Allman entered. Driscoll flipped the report on his lap to the floor, rose, and saluted.
“Don't bother,” Allman said. He wore an air of resignation on his face. “Don't say a word. Don't mention Parks to me one time. He's a stupid bastard. He's going to run for senator once this war is over, that's all he thinks about. I told him we need more howitzers. I told him we need fire support. Trying to take a beach without securing the high ground above it! He did the same thing at the Rapido River and got the Thirty-sixth Infantry Division all shot up, and now he's killing my colored boys, too. Goddamn bastard.”
Driscoll was silent. He waited a moment before asking, “Any word on your son?”
Allman's face softened a moment, and Driscoll thought he saw a glint of despair shoot across the old man's brow. The kid had been missing nine days. Just as quickly, Allman's face straightened and he said, “None. Give me what you got on the canal.”
“Forget the canal for a minute. I just got a report from an Italian priest who says the Germans have two or three regiments on the other side of the Serchio Valley and are planning a push in ten days, at Christmas.”
Driscoll watched Allman's eyes widen, then harden. The old man, Driscoll had to admit, was a tough old bastard. “Where is the priest now?” Allman asked.
“Sent him down to S-2 intelligence.”
“We got any corroboration?”
“Nothing. An aerial photo that looks pretty inconclusive. But a squad from G Company Three-seventy-one was over there and hasn't come back. We had radio contact and lost it.” Driscoll said nothing about Captain Nokes's not sending artillery fire behind the squad at the Cinquale. If Allman booted Nokes, he might get replaced by someone worse. If he had to continue protecting lizards like Nokes, Driscoll thought bitterly, the 92nd would never take central Italy, no matter how worn-out the Germans were.
Allman waved his hand. “If we listened to every report from the Italians, we'd still be back at Anzio. You sent a squad for 'em?”
“Done.”
“Try to raise 'em on the radio and tell 'em to get a German prisoner. Meanwhile we'll gather tomorrow morning at oh-seven-thirty and lick our wounds. Let's get some replacement officers so we can stay in position. We got boys up there melting away like butter. You see Miller's report yesterday? They had ten guys heading back to the aid station helping one wounded who'd been shot in the foot. The next soldier doing that is court-martialed, understand?”
Driscoll nodded.
Allman turned on his heel. “I'm sick of it,” he muttered. “Sick of this melting-away crap. Bunch of sissies.” He walked out of Driscoll's tent, so mad he forgot to take the report with him.
Driscoll decided not to press it on him. It could wait. Instead, he sat down and lit another cigarette, thinking of the aerial photo and the priest's information. He wasn't going to worry about another crisis, he decided. Intelligence wasn't his job. Yet the photo bothered him, like an itch that can't be scratched. The steady supply of German prisoners who were turning themselves in had suddenly diminishedâgone down to zeroâand that was a bad sign. If Driscoll was planning a big push, he'd do the same thing, make sure nobody got through to spread word to the enemy. They needed a German prisoner, badly. He looked over the list of names of the squad in the Serchio Valley:
Negron, Cummings, Stamps, Train.
His finger stopped at the last name. He did not know every draftee in the division, but he damn sure knew this one. This was the biggest Negro he'd ever seen in his life. He couldn't forget him. He'd met him his first day at training camp, back at Fort Huachuca, Arizona.
It seemed like a million years ago. It was July, hot as hell, desert hot. Driscoll was standing in front of division headquarters and ordered the huge colored soldier standing nearby to take the supply truck parked out front over to the post quartermaster to draw rations for the newly arriving troops.
The giant Negro got into the two-and-a-half-ton truck, started it, and drove it directly into the building where Driscoll was standing. He damn near knocked it off its moorings.
Driscoll stormed out of the building, cussing the man up and down, ending with, “Where the hell did you learn to drive?”
The man looked apologetic. “I'm no driver,” he said. “I never drove nothing but a mule.”
Driscoll told the guy to move over, got in the truck, and drove it to the quartermaster's himself. En route, he asked, “What's your name, soldier?”
“Train.”
“First name or last?”
“My ma calls me Orange 'cause I likes oranges, but most calls me Train.”
Driscoll marveled at the man's size. He was so big he had to crouch to fit into the cab of the truck. His hands looked like meat cleavers. They were clasped nervously in front of him. “You ready to say hello to Italy, Private Train?”
The huge man's face crinkled. “Who's Italy?”
Driscoll thought Train was joking, until he looked over and saw the man's face was dead serious.
“I ain't fussy 'bout meetin' folks,” Train said nervously. “I never met no woman, though. Not for dating and jook joints and the like. Never had no girlfriend. If Italy's a woman, maybe you could tell me what to say to her.”
Driscoll was astounded.
“Haven't you seen a map of the world, soldier?” he asked.
The giant looked out the window as the barracks spun past him, building after building, and beyond it hot, white desert. “The world is a big place,” Train said softly. “It seem too big to fit on one piece of paper.”