For God and Country. Mark Bowlin
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December 28, 1943
1100 Hours
Highway 6, North of Caserta, Italy
The Italian countryside bore the evidence of fighting, although the respective armies had passed by nearly two months before. Little stone farmhouses and villages were destroyed from the intense combat as the Fifth Army pushed the Germans to the winter line, and stone walls that had marked smallholdings and town boundaries since the day of the Roman Empire had been crushed by the tracks of armored vehicles. Cemeteries marked the tragedy with newly dug graves.
While the British liaison officer, Captain Waller Finley-Jones, slept uncomfortably in the back of the jeep, Sam took it all in with deep sorrow. He had no particular love for the Italian people, but most of his exposure to the nation came with his few interactions with the Neapolitans—and Naples was in a very rough state these days. If he had been given the choice of staying with the platoon and working, or going to Naples on R&R, he likely would have chosen the work.
Although he didn’t know the country Italians, the rancher in him shared in their loss. Little farms of water buffalo, cattle, and swine had been stripped of their livestock, barns had been shelled, and the orchards, olive groves, and vineyards had been scarred by the passing of the warriors. Mile after mile of burned-out buildings, destroyed tanks, and dismantled trucks marked their passage, and Sam felt himself wishing he’d stayed with the company.
As Perkin drove, Sam pointed out the features of the land—the rock of the mountains, the fertile soil of the valley, the trees, and the few animals that he saw. But even that experience was ruined by the army. They were stuck in a southbound convoy of trucks headed to the port cities of Naples and Salerno—the trucks that would bring back food and ammunition for General Clark’s polyglot army. The trucks moved at a snail’s pace—or at least, so it seemed to the impatient soldiers—and the sight of the unshaven and weary soldiers in the trucks also struck Sam as sad.
Whenever Perkin got the chance to pass, he pushed the jeep to its limits and seemingly flew past the heavy transporters and the ubiquitous two-and-a-half-ton trucks. He had long ago lost the other jeep, which contained Privates Kulis and Fratelli. They knew where they were to rendezvous in Caserta, so Perkin didn’t seem to worry, but Sam was concerned that they would have trouble finding each other on the palace compound.
In truth, Perkin looked the happiest that Sam had seen him since Gianina’s death six weeks before. Sam had initially thought that it was the release from responsibility that was the source of his happiness—the knowledge that the fight on the winter line was not his burden for a week or more. But the more Sam studied his cousin, the more he began to recognize an old look: Perkin had done something ornery, and he was chomping at the bit to tell Sam about it.
“What’d you do?” Sam asked.
“What?”
“What’d you do?” he repeated. “You got that look.” He had to raise his voice as they passed a line of field ambulances.
Perkin looked innocently at his cousin. “What look’s that?”
“It’s the same look as when you set off the smoke bombs in the school on graduation day. I know that look. What’d you do?”
Perkin laughed out loud—a good, strong laugh. It was infectious, and Sam began to grin in anticipation.
Sam asked again, “What? Was it Ebbins?”
Perkin’s grin widened. He nodded.
“Did ya get him back for screwing with the Japs?”
“Uh-huh.”
Sam felt a momentary pang of alarm, then decided he didn’t care what happened to Ebbins. “What’d you do? Cut the brake lines on his jeep?”
Perkin slammed his fist down on the steering wheel. “Damn!” he cried out in mock anger. “I didn’t think of that!”
“Come on,” Sam protested.
“OK. I was showin’ off my combat infantryman’s badge this morning to B. G. E. Beams, and Ronnnn-allld walks by and wants to know what it is. So I tell him about it, and I could see he’s interested, so I made sure he knew he’s eligible. You could almost see the weight coming off his shoulders, cause he ain’t done any actual fighting, but this is tangible proof for back home that he was there. Know what I mean?”
Sam nodded. “Oh yeah, I know what you mean.”
“Anyway, as we both know that the only thing Ronnnn-allld likes more than undeserved laurels is money, so I’m showin’ it off and playin’ it up, and when he ain’t lookin’ I wink at B. G. E. And then I tell Ebbins, ‘Of course, you could always take the cash option.’ Without missin’ a beat, B. G. E. says, ‘That’s what I’m gonna do. I need the money.’ So Ebbins goes, ‘Whaddya mean cash option?’ and I tell him you get a choice of $500 cash or the CIB in recognition of your services. All you gotta do is get approval from the regimental commander.”
Sam started laughing, “Oh no . . . you didn’t. Besides, he’s not that gullible.”
“Oh, the hell he ain’t. Greed trumps all, you know. Besides, Beams played it up real straight: he told him, ‘You gotta let the commander know before the awards ceremony,’ which he heard was comin’ up as soon as we were off the line. I swear, Ebbins was almost running over to Colonel Wranosky’s headquarters to ask for his money. When he left, Beams told me, ‘B. G. E. stands for Beams Gigged Ebbins,’ and then he fell over laughing. I swear his platoon’ll get the point for the rest of the war, but I don’t think he cares.”
The thought of Ebbins explaining to the explosive Wranosky that he would prefer money to the Combat Infantryman’s Badge made Sam double over with laughter. “He’ll get his head taken off!”
“Who? Beams or Ebbins?”
“They both will. Wranosky will shit all over Ebbins, and then it’ll flow downhill onto Beams. But he’s an old Aggie too. He can take it.” Sam laughed again. He was beginning to enjoy the drive.
“I hadn’t known that until he said he gigged Ebbins. Was he there with you?”
“Naw. He was there before me, and he left to join the Houston PD after they cancelled his major during his sophomore year.”
“Really? What was that?”
Struggling to remember the word exactly, Sam replied, “Phrenology . . . or something like that. But he said it helped him a lot in his job in Houston.”
“I don’t doubt it. So, he’s gotta be in his thirties, then.”
“Yeah . . . I’d reckon so. Pretty old to be a platoon leader.”
“I don’t know how he gets up in the morning. So, let me tell you about the history of that town we just went through. Although we’re in the ancient land of the Samnites, who fought several wars with the Roman Republic in the fourth century BC, the interesting thing about Capua was its sacking by Mohammedans in the ninth century AD. You see . . .”
1145 Hours
Fifth Army Headquarters, Caserta, Italy
Sam’s freshly restored good mood continued for the rest of the drive despite Perkin’s history lesson about the sacking of Capua. Saracens were less interesting to Sam than the emerging sun and the warming temperature, and although the wind through the jeep was brisk, Sam found himself beginning to relax. He was on vacation.
Even the drive onto the Fifth Army compound didn’t bring him back to the darkness of earlier. Sam disliked the army, in particular the unnecessary rules and regulations and pomp that accompanied all of the army save the frontline units. As they drove up Sam woke Captain Finley-Jones, and they all straightened their ties and garrison caps to regulation standards. MPs were reportedly stopping even officers for not wearing ties, and the offending soldier was fined on the spot. Sam was sure that money went straight into the MP’s pocket.
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