For God and Country. Mark Bowlin
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and then said as if he were talking to a small child, “Let’s not tell them, Major.”
Ignoring the sarcasm, Grossmann pressed on. “And if they learn about our operation, whatever that might be?”
The colonel smiled a humorlessly. “Perhaps you can pretend to be General Wolff’s son again. Maybe that will help. But . . . perhaps it would be better to not come to their attention. So here’s your second objective. If you can confirm the existence of such an Allied network, you are to follow it to its logical and physical end. Penetrate the escape network and identify the personalities, transshipment points, safe houses, collaborators, et cetera, all the way back to Allied lines. When you are done, the Abwehr, not the SS, will expose the Vatican to the Führer, and we will shut down the Allied operation. Discretely and permanently.”
1025 Hours
141st Infantry Regiment Headquarters, San Pietro, Italy
Perkin pushed himself away from the farmhouse and said good-bye to Stefania. His meeting was about to start. He called out to Private Kulis to stand by in case he was needed, then walked around the corner of the building toward the front door.
Two soldiers who had been milling about in front of the farmhouse door saluted. Perkin automatically returned their salute, and as he glanced at the soldiers’ faces, he involuntarily exclaimed, “Jesus Christ!”
“No, sir.” One of the two second lieutenants responded, “Hiroshi Ozaki.”
Perkin laughed. “Thanks for clearin’ that up for me, Lieutenant. Y’all took me by surprise—I thought for a second we must’ve fought around the world. But,” Perkin looked around, “at second glance, it appears we’re in the same shitty valley we’ve been in for weeks.”
He offered a hand to the two lieutenants, then asked, “Y’all in the 100th, uh, Hiroshi?”
“Yes, sir. This is Scott Kawamoto, and usually Haole boys call me Craig, not Hiroshi.” He indicated the other soldier, who looked curiously at Perkin as if he were trying to divine what the tall Texan would do next.
“And what brings you here? Ain’t y’all attached to the 34th?”
Kawamoto spoke for the first time. “Yes, sir. I under-stand the Texas Division is coming off the line, and the 34th is relieving you. We don’t know if the 100th is moving or not, but we were sent to look over the terrain and get a head start on a turnover just in case.”
Perkin smiled widely and said, “That’s the best damn news I’ve heard all day. I gotta run, but it’s nice meetin’ you fellas. I’ll see ya around.”
Perkin walked into the small farmhouse, leaving the two Nisei soldiers behind. An orderly sitting at the door waved him to what was once a small living room. Today the furniture had been pushed aside to make room for a large map easel, and a dining table that had been set against a wall held stacked helmets, jackets, and weapons.
Colonel Robert Wranosky, Lieutenant Colonel Alvin Miller, and Major Bill Spaulding were standing by the map easel and as Perkin entered the room, Wranosky pointed to a coffee pot resting on a potbellied stove.
While Perkin was filling a tin cup with steaming hot coffee, he overheard Major Spaulding ask Colonel Miller, “So, no more than a week or so? That’s what you’re saying to me?” Miller was the division’s G2—the senior intelligence officer of the 36th.
“I can’t see it takin’ much longer than that. Depends on what the Limeys can wring outta him. Oh, hey, Perkin.”
Seeing Perkin with a cup of coffee in his hand, Colonel Wranosky said, “I meant for you to get me one, Professor. How’re things?”
“Another day in paradise, sir. How’re you these days?”
“Couldn’t be better. I take cream and sugar,” the thickset Alabaman said with a grin.
“Yes, sir. Would you like a back rub too?” Perkin exaggeratedly rolled his eyes, grinned, poured another cup of coffee, and added cream and sugar. As he was bringing it back to the regimental commander, he pretended to sneeze in the coffee and as he was handing the cup to Wranosky, he said, “Just like you like it, sir.”
“Thank you, Captain. The same level of quality control I’ve come to expect from you.” Wranosky was clearly in a good mood. “Perkin, Fifth Army has a good deal for you. You don’t deserve it, a’ course, but you’re gettin’ one anyway. I’ve talked to Bill, and we’re also gonna extend it to Sam as well.”
“Sir, I can’t go home on a war bond tour now,” Perkin said modestly. “Our work ain’t done here!”
“You know, sometimes I wonder what standards they have at the University of Texas that they saw fit to give you a PhD.” Wranosky shook his head in mock sadness.
“I traded ’em five box tops for it, sir. Same way I got my army commission.”
“And they both got the short end of the stick. No, the G2 at army wants you to go with their naval intelligence bubba to Eighth Army and brief them on what you know about this German intelligence officer and his outfit. Although I told ’em that Fifth Army might likely not survive without you, they indicated they were willing to accept the risk.”
“Gutsy move, sir.” Turning to Major Spaulding, Perkin asked, “Does that put you in a bind, sir?”
“No. We received notification this morning that we’re coming off the line by Thursday. Sergeant Taylor can manage your affairs here for the battalion for a few days, and if you want to take Privates Kulis and Fratelli for drivers that’s fine as well. The British expect officers to have a batman, but y’all have to share those boys.”
“Great. And what about Sam?”
Colonel Wranosky answered, “He goes too. Just for fun. General Walker’s arranged for a hotel in Naples for our officers to use for R&R, and Sam is at the top of the list of my boys to go, but Bill here says Sam’s not keen on Naples. So he can go with you and spend New Year’s celebrating with the British. Trust me. It’ll be a good time.”
“Thank you very much, sir. I got to admit, I’m looking forward to it.” Perkin was indeed pleased. There hadn’t been much time spent with Sam since the division went back on the line in mid-November. “What about uniforms? Orders?”
Spaulding replied, “We’re cuttin’ orders for you boys and the colonel wants Captain Finley-Jones to accompany you. He’ll grease the skids for you with their intel folks, and Colonel Miller has already done some of that. You’ll carry your weapons, of course, but y’all shouldn’t need them. We’re arranging to get you a hot shower and deloused before you go, and I’ve directed the quartermaster to draw clean combat uniforms and your service uniforms out of storage. The British can be kind of formal so you might want to get the stains outta your tie.”
Colonel Wranosky reached into his pocket and handed four three-inch pins to Perkin. “These are for your service uniforms.”
“What’s this, sir?” Perkin asked. He held one up to the light and looked it over—an infantry-blue rectangular box overlaid with a small metal musket and an oak leaf wreath.
“It’s the new Combat Infantryman’s Badge—it was authorized by the War Department about the time we started operations against San Pietro. A friend of mine on General Marshall’s staff sent me out a box of them for occasions like this before they were even authorized. There are two badges for infantrymen—the expert and the combat. As the name implies, this is for infantry soldiers—officers and men—who’ve been in combat. It helps people know who you are and where you’ve been, which is a dogface in shit up to his neck. You’ll wear it right above your service ribbons over your left pocket. Make sure they’re shined up before you talk to any Limeys.”
“Yes, sir. I thought the smell and the flat feet were all anyone needed to identify a rifleman, but thank you.” Perkin was oddly touched by the small piece of metal. It seemed the army’s infantry was getting little