Read And No Birds Sang for Free Online Page A

this is where you lose a bet!”
    Two crowded weeks aboard a troopship bound for an assault landing, without knowing where or when it would take place, except that it would probably be somewhere with a warm climate, had turned us all into betting men. Corporal Hill had bet we’d land in Greece. Everyone else in the platoon had his own opinion, ranging from Istanbul to French West Africa. I had staked my money on Italy—not because I was prescient but because I had earlier overheard one of the divisional staff officers hinting that a knowledge of “Wop lingo” might not come amiss.
    I threaded my way through the neat mounds of kitbags and packsacks occupying most of the deck space. As I reached the companionway Doc padded up to me. He wore his usual lopsided grin and was, as usual, unmilitarily familiar.
    “While you’re with the nobs, boss, pick us up some fags from the officers’ canteen, will yuh?” I nodded. It was a losing battle trying to make Doc observe army etiquette. One day, I thought to myself, the colonel’s going to hear you talk that way to an officer and he’ll have your bloody scalp.
    The lounge, which doubled as officers’ mess, was already crowded when I arrived. At the forward end a group of staff officers headed by a brigadier was clustered around a huge plaster relief map which had materialized overnight on top of the grand piano. The many small tables scattered about were clotted with officers of every rank and service. I elbowed past a group of British commandos, each sporting a long killing knife at his belt. Beyond them was a coterie of very correct, spiffily dressed officers from the ship’s military staff. A clutch of Desert Air Force pilots with silk scarves knotted under stubbled chins and “Thousand Hour Group” hats pushed nonchalantly to the backs of their heads lounged opposite a bunch of Navy sub-lieutenants looking very ill at ease in blue army-style battledress. There were even two flamboyantly attired American liaison officers. But all of these were as the plums and raisins in a pudding composed mainly of khaki-clad officers wearing the insignia of the infantry, artillery, tank, engineer, medical, signals, ordnance and service corps.
    Bulking huge as a Titan in that assembly, Alex Campbell, together with Al Park and Paddy Ryan, Able Company’s two other platoon commanders, were holding a chair for me. As I crowded in beside them, Al, with a prodigious wink, slipped me a mug of rum and lemon under the table. Alex saw him do it and a frown settled on his heavy face, for he was a vehement temperance man.
    The very pukka brigadier, who had been leaning over the plaster map, looked at his watch and held up a hand. The room became dead quiet.
    “Now, gentlemen... hrrumph... you will treat what I have to tell you as Most Secret information... is that clear?”
    He paused impressively while Al mumbled: “Pompous ass! Does he think there’s a Jerry spy with a wireless aboard this tub?”
    “The action in which we shall soon be engaged is called Operation Husky. Details will be issued at the Orders Group for unit commanders which will follow immediately. In the meantime, it is my great pleasure to inform you that at dawn, July 10th, you will land on the southwestern tip of Sicily where you will join battle with the enemy in this first dagger-thrust into Fortress Europe.”
    At the next table an artillery lieutenant slid his bunched fist in front of a companion and let fall a little pile of silver. Someone had guessed wrong.
    The brigadier beamed on us like a grandfather who has just presented a long-sought gift to a group of children, then majestically he left the room. The bar reopened and, during the hubbub that followed, I was momentarily alone with my own thoughts. Sicily! I knew next to nothing of the place. Vaguely I recalled something about it being the home of the Mafia, and images of Al Capone and the Saint Valentine’s Day massacre came to mind. Then Alex’s great hand