At first light Rio is up and once more looking for Beebee—who the day before had been trapped into doing some paperwork for their prisoners. She resents it in the extreme and walks the beach muttering about having to babysit the green kid instead of getting back to the squad and doing her job.
The beach is still a madhouse of noisy activity. A big LCU with its bow doors open disgorges a tank; planes roar overhead; a mired howitzer is being dragged and pushed out of the surf; crates and pallets lie open, disgorging their contents of ammo and food and blankets; a flexible fuel pipe is being squared away at a pumping station; a gaggle of reporters sit typing and smoking under a tent.
From farther inland come the occasional sounds of artillery or German bombs. Rio wonders idly where the American bombers are, shouldn’t they be hammering the Krauts? But just then she spots a high formation, two big Vs of B-17s. She shades her eyes and imagines Strand up there in the cockpit of one. She imagines that he’s looking down and wondering whether Rio is somewhere down on that confusing beach.
Then, finally, she spots Beebee. She has to blink twice to make out what he’s doing, and even then she can’t quite believe it. Beebee is leading a donkey cart. The donkey is small, mangy, and minus half of one ear, which looks to have been chewed off. The cart is small, a ramshackle wooden thing on what can only be bicycle tire rims. As she draws close she sees that the cart is nearly full. There is a forty-pound wooden crate of rations and a half dozen small metal ammo boxes, but it appears these are mostly there as camouflage, piled strategically to conceal the true treasure behind them: two big number-ten cans of peaches, four bottles of Sicilian wine, and dozens of tiny packs of Old Gold cigarettes.
“Hey, Rio,” he says.
“You’ve been busy,” Rio says.
Beebee shrugs, but he’s obviously pleased with himself. “Also, I came across this.” He takes something from his pocket and hands it to her. It’s heavy for its size. “It’s a whetstone for your koummya. Happy belated eighteenth.”
“Well . . . that is very kind of you,” Rio says, and means it. Her irritation at him is significantly reduced. “I guess we’d best head back to the platoon.”
The donkey is reluctant to move and no threat or entreaty seems able to motivate him, but just then two ships open up, sending salvo after salvo over their heads, and the donkey seems to think that’s a signal to advance.
It is soon clear that a serious battle is taking place a couple miles up the road. A passing jeep driver yells something about the Hermann Göring Division and Kraut tanks. The name Hermann Göring vaguely rings a bell for Rio—a chubby, smiling Nazi, as she recalls from newsreel footage—but the word tanks conjures up a much more compelling picture and adds hesitation to her next few steps. A Spitfire goes tearing away toward the action, flying just above treetop level. And thousands of feet above them fly three more B-17s.
Rio and Beebee (and the donkey, now named General Patton) reach the barn they’d shot up earlier. They are stopped by an MP, a thirtyish woman with the suspicious, slightly predatory look of a shopkeeper who thinks she’s spotted a shoplifter. She warns them there is fighting up ahead.
“I think our unit’s up there. We’re part of the 119th.”
“The one-one-nine?” The MP looks perfectly blank, aside from darting glances at the loot in the cart. Beebee gives her two of the small packs of Old Golds and the MP’s memory suddenly improves. “The 119th have been pulled east, other side of Niscemi.”
“Aren’t the Canadians over that way?” Beebee asks. “I heard some officers talking.”
The MP lights one of her new cigarettes, takes a deep drag, and says, “Kid, in case you haven’t noticed, no one knows what the hell is going on.”
“SNAFU,” Rio mutters.
“Situation normal,” the MP agrees. She gives them directions, which involve going back down the road to take a left turn on a road that’s barely a line on the map.
“Great,” Rio says with a sigh. They set off, keeping the pace set by General Patton, who, unlike his namesake, cannot be hurried. The war is happening, but not right here and not right now to Rio or Beebee. Rio worries about Jenou, all on her own, but the fighting seems to be north and northeast, so she’s not worried enough to try and run. The sun is already hot, though it’s not even midmorning. She’s tempted to tell Beebee to leave the cart and release the donkey, but among the treasures on the cart is a five-gallon jerry can of water.
The road is more of a dirt track running between farm fields. They reach a watermelon patch that has clearly been trampled and despoiled, with rind and red fruit lying along the road for a quarter mile, evidence that at least someone has passed this way, even if it’s not their platoon. This is heartening: Rio feels extraordinarily exposed out in the middle of open fields.
They pass an ancient, wizened peasant sitting on a stool watching a man and two women at work in a field.
“Niscemi?” Rio asks, making a chopping motion in their direction of travel.
The peasant says nothing, despite repeated queries, until Beebee hands him a pack of cigarettes, at which point the man grins so widely they can count all four of his teeth. It seems they are heading in the general direction of Niscemi. Of course they’ve been warned to pass well to the south of the town, and as they top a low rise they can see why. To their north tanks are moving along a road that according to the map will cut their own a mile back.
A German plane passes overhead, but has no interest in them. They hear distant explosions, but whether they are naval gunfire, bombs, or artillery Rio doesn’t know. What she does know is that she’s feeling strangely alone with Beebee and a donkey, on an island she’d never heard of six months ago, while men and women are fighting to her west, north, and east, as well as out at sea and in the air above.
At last though, as afternoon wears on and the sun beats down mercilessly, they come upon a new MP, a man who informs them that yes, at least some elements of the 119th are ahead in a stand of picturesque trees.
“What the hell?” Geer says. He’s on guard.
“Aren’t you supposed to ask us the password?” Rio says wearily.
“I sure would if I remembered it,” Geer says.
“The password is Old and the response is Gold,” Beebee says, and tosses Geer a pack of Old Gold cigarettes.
“So it is, so it is,” Geer agrees.
The platoon is sprawled amid olive trees, staying to the shade. Jenou spots Rio, flashes an expression of profoundest relief, and says, “Back so soon?”