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held a couple of pouches with extra clips for the pistol and a first aid kit, besides the .45 itself and a knife in a leather scabbard. I opened each pouch, praying the sound of the metal snap wouldn’t carry. Nothing but what was supposed to be there. Nothing in the holster either. I couldn’t maneuver quietly enough to check the canteen pouch. I lifted the helmet and checked inside. No note tucked away.
    Only one place left. Another metal snap, and I pulled the M3 knife from its sheath. A slip of wrinkled white paper was wrapped around the blade. It was soft and worn, but the penciled sentence was clear, printed out in shaky letters, as if the writer was very old or very young. To find happiness, you must twice pass through purgatory.
    What? I almost laughed. This was insane. Here I was, my memory shot, hiding in a tent from a supply sergeant, with a fancy silk handkerchief in one pocket, wondering what a yegg was, and holding a secret note telling me how to find happiness. The only trouble was, I would have to die twice. Unless this was purgatory, in which case I would only have to die once. Always look on the bright side. It was a great joke on me, and I was afraid I’d burst out laughing, or maybe cry hysterically. What the hell was next? Bob and Bing on The Road to Sicily?
    “Is that water ready yet?” Rocko bellowed. It sounded like he’d opened the tent flaps. I took the handkerchief out of my pocket and wrapped the note in it. Then I stuffed the handkerchief between two crates of grenades. I holstered the .45, keeping the knife in my right hand. I rose to a crouch and eased my head above the top crate. Rocko was opening the flap for a private struggling with big pot of steaming water. I ducked down as they passed me, moving farther back into the tent. I heard the sound of water being poured.
    “You want anything else, Rocko?”
    “Yeah, you outta here, and no one else in. I been lookin’ forward to this bath all day.”
    The private left. I peered over the crates again, hearing Rocko move around. I stepped out from my hiding place and crept closer, knife at the ready. I heard a grunt as one boot struck the ground, then another. There was a break in the stacks of cartons to my left. The sounds came from in there, where Rocko had a private bath set up for himself. That clawfoot bathtub was filled with hot water this time, hold the olives.
    I took two steps into the gap in the wall of cartons. There was Rocko, in all his pink glory, his backside to me, pouring himself a drink from a table next to the tub. He took a swallow, put down the glass, and lifted one hairy leg into the tub. My knife was ready.
    I stepped up to him, lifted my arm, and brought down the butt end of the hilt against his skull. It was all in the wrist, a quick snap. You didn’t want to follow through—that could kill a guy. You had to hit him just right, hard enough to knock him out, not hard enough to crack his skull. Funny how some things came to me right when I needed them. Not funny that they all had to do with killing or hurting people.
    Rocko crumpled, thankfully not into the tub. That was for me.

CHAPTER • FOUR
    ROCKO LOOKED GOOD tied up. I was pretty sure he didn’t feel so good, but the khaki undershirt I’d gagged him with was keeping him from complaining. It was my undershirt, and as I began to pay attention to my own personal hygiene, I felt bad about that. The truth of the matter was I stunk, and so did that shirt stuck in his yap.
    Even after the fresh delivery of hot water, the bath was lukewarm. I guessed his visitor had been more important than a hot bath. Which was saying something, because as hot as it was during the day, at night the mercury plummeted. I poured some more scotch in the glass—real glass, no aluminum cup for Rocko—and decided it was OK but probably not my first choice. Rocko’s eyes bulged out at me as he strained against the rough rope I’d bound him with. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but it was