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around my head would help to further disguise me. I backed up the jeep and pulled out into the road, cutting across their path. A plane droned in the distance and antiaircraft fire lit up the sky in front of me. I looked up and hoped they did too as I sped by. I waited for shouts or shots. Did those guys know me, I wondered? Or were they working from a picture? Where would it have been taken and how long ago? I doubted my bandaged, unshaven face resembled any photograph they might have. I drove into the smoke and left them behind me, fear choking me worse than the black smoke from a burning truck.
    Who was I running from? Was I a fugitive due for a court-martial? A deserter? A crook? A coward? Or worse? I could still see the men filling my sights, still feel the M1 steady in my hands, hear each shot, see the bodies drop, fold, crumple, spin, stumble, and fall. There were so many ways for a bullet to take a man down, and none of them had seemed to surprise me. God help me, what kind of man was I?
    I turned onto the beach road. Rocko’s empire of tents had grown, canvas and rope covering the ground along the shore. Camouflage netting covered it all, blocking out the stars that had begun to shine in the night sky. Wires ran from one tent and up the poles supporting the netting, then split off in different directions, draped on tree branches and makeshift poles. Antennas sprouted from another tent, reels of black wire stacked all around. Probably Hutton’s Signals outfit. I wished I could have stopped and told them about him, but this wasn’t the time. Beyond the Signals tent I drove the jeep behind a stack of wooden crates and hoped they held something nonexplosive.
    I tried to figure my next move as I headed for Rocko’s tent. I needed a place to rest, to eat and catch some shut-eye. And to think. Rocko was the only guy I knew on this island who could provide all that, barring a trip to the stockade, even though he seemed too interested in me by half, and had showed himself to be a real louse when he skipped out on the Biazza Ridge dragnet. It wasn’t a good combination, but what better hideout than a supply dump? Everything I needed within easy reach. Of course, that meant I’d be within easy reach of Rocko too. I slung my rifle over my shoulder and unholstered my .45. The pistol was better for close work if things didn’t go well.
    Close work? Where did I get that from? I seemed to know my weapons and the mechanics of killing. I gripped the automatic tightly, feeling the crosshatch marks on my palm. It felt familiar, and damn if it didn’t calm me right down.
    Light seeped out along the edges of the flaps of Rocko’s tent. I went down the side, stepping over taut ropes, listening. I stopped and concentrated. Snatches of conversation drifted in from the road. Cigarette smoke mingled with the salty smell of the beach and the odor of dead fish. Engines rumbled and gears grinded. No one saw me as I lay flat along the edge of the tent. I eased the canvas up, slow and silent, to peer inside. A row of wooden crates, stacked four high, blocked my view. I took off my helmet and rifle, laid them down, and rolled under the flap. Everything sounded loud—my canteen as it hit the gravelly soil, the crunch of stiff canvas as I held the tent flap up, my own breathing. I fought down panic, telling myself it really wasn’t that loud, it was my nerves. I heard voices from inside the tent but the blood was pounding so loudly in my temples that I couldn’t make them out. I reached for my helmet and pulled it in, then my rifle. There was about a foot of space between the stacked cartons and the tent flap. I gripped my .45 tightly as I strained to listen. I needed to know the lay of the land before I stood up and said hello to Rocko. I took a few silent, deep breaths, willing myself into a state of calm and quiet.
    Staring at the canvas above me, I saw water. It was as if I weren’t flat on my back in a tent in Sicily but walking on a