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sidewalk, along the water. Then it was gone, replaced by the dull, dark green canvas, which was as blank as my mind. That had to have been a memory, though it felt real. I thought about today, about waking up, about Biazza Ridge, and all the things I’d done. Those scenes in my mind played out like that jaunt along the water. The water. It hadn’t been clean like at the beach. It must’ve been in a city, a harbor someplace. I tried to replay that vision and get myself to turn, to see what was behind me, but I couldn’t.
    The whir of a field telephone being cranked up brought me back from wherever that place was.
    “Lieutenant Andrews.” That was Rocko, asking for someone at the other end of the line. I heard a match flare and smelled cigar smoke. “Yeah, it’s me. You find that guinea prisoner yet? No? Well, I found out where he came from. The 207th Coastal Defense Division, based in Agrigento. We ain’t there yet, so there shouldn’t be too many—”
    I heard his fingers drumming on the table as he listened and filled the tent with blue smoke. “I don’t give a fuck if they’re giving up by the thousands! You find that wop and bring him to me!”
    He slammed the phone down. I knew of only one Italian POW Rocko would give a damn about—the guy who had been trying to shoot me when Rocko and his pals found me. At least, that was Rocko’s story. I decided to wait a few minutes so he wouldn’t think I had overheard his conversation.
    “So, do we have a problem?” That was another voice. Smooth, relaxed, not like Rocko, who sounded like he was on edge.
    “No, no problem at all. It’ll take some time for Andrews to sort through the Eyetie prisoners.”
    “How long?”
    “I dunno. He can’t leave the Signals section anytime he wants. And he’s gotta get that German dialer workin’ with the BD 72—”
    “I am disappointed in you and your Lieutenant Andrews. I did not expect this delay.”
    “I can’t help it that there’s so goddamn many POWs! They’re giving up by companies now. Includin’ a couple hundred from the 207th, and they’re about a hundred miles west of here, in Agrigento.”
    Lieutenant? I might not remember things perfectly, but I knew noncoms did not talk to officers the way Rocko had spoken to Andrews. Unless, maybe, they had something on them.
    “I know where Agrigento is. The food there is almost as good as in Palermo.” He said the names like a native, the syllables gently rolling off his tongue and sounding like a threat at the same time. His voice was deep and low, with a raw power to it.
    “What I don’t know is why you didn’t kill him when you had the chance,” the man said, as if Rocko had forgotten to do the simplest of chores.
    “There never was a chance, honest! First the medic shows up, then at the field hospital there was always someone around. I tried searching him, but he woke up. There was a chaplain right next to us the whole time. I couldn’t do a thing! So I brought him down here, where I figured it’d be easy. But then that paratroop officer came along and shanghaied him. I couldn’t help it, really.”
    “You have many excuses,” the other voice said, with an icy edge of irritation.
    “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of things,” said Rocko, a defensive whine creeping into his voice.
    “I do worry,” the voice said and I heard a chair move. He spoke quietly, in a voice that carried authority. “I worry about finding this prisoner. I worry about our friend with the handkerchief on the loose. I worry that by now he may have found the note. I worry about our yegg. And I worry about you. Charlotte worries about you, too.”
    Footsteps, the rustle of canvas, a jeep engine turning over, and he was gone. All I heard was Rocko’s exhalation, as if he’d been holding his breath through that little speech.
    Charlotte? Who the hell was she? Yegg? Note? Did I have a note? Yeah, maybe I did. That web belt with the .45 I had snagged was probably Rocko’s. It