Death's Door (9 page)

“I don’t know if we need to worry, Billy,” Kaz said, in a very low whisper. “I think our papers are real. Have you studied them? The letters have Vatican watermarks.”

“Even so, my guess is those SS bastards are going to want to get back at these boys for being pushed around. When we get into Viterbo, I’d bet on a heavily armed reception committee. Watermarks or no, I don’t want to get caught up in that.”

“But we have someone to meet at the station,” Kaz said. “Trust in the Lord, Father Boyle,” he said in a louder voice as the conductor passed us by. The train moved slowly on switchbacks around a mountain, and then sped up on the downside. Kaz and I finished what food we had left, and watched the countryside slip by. We were running along a riverbed now, in a narrow valley with a parallel roadway. I watched the wounded, and was glad they were all well
enough to move and speak, even if in moans. I didn’t want to go through last rites again. It was one thing to kill an enemy soldier in combat—bad enough, but necessary. But Hans’s death came after the adrenaline of the fight, one more fatal aftermath, a passing that lingered for the living to witness longer than anyone wanted. I wished for death at a distance, if I had to deal in it at all. Not as close as Hans, with his wide blue eyes and wet tears, fooled in his last moments by another soldier in disguise.

“Jabos!”
one of the Germans yelled, his head out of the window, craned at the sky. I knew that much German.
Jagdebomber
was the word for fighter-bomber, the curse of anything moving, and this train was moving straight and slow. I looked out of my window and caught a glimpse of two single-engine aircraft banking away, probably getting set up for a run. They looked like P-47 Thunderbolts, and that was bad news. They carried rockets and bombs, along with eight .50-caliber machine guns, which could turn these cars into toothpicks within seconds. Voices rose into frantic screams as the word spread, a cacophony of German and Italian that didn’t need translation. The train seemed to pick up speed, the engineer probably pouring everything on, opening up the throttle and hoping to outrun the deadly planes. But where was there to go?

We rounded a curve and I could see what he was heading for. A bridge spanned the river we’d been following, and then the tracks entered a tunnel in the next hill. Plumes of white steam flowed from the locomotive; the
chug-chug
sound sped up, as the pistons drove the wheels faster. The engineer opened the steam whistle in one long, mournful note, for no reason I could see, except that I knew I’d do the same.

The snarl of the two P-47s grew louder, turning into a steady drone as they dove and then leveled off, setting up for a strafing run. “Get down,” I said to Kaz, throwing him to the floor between the seats and covering him with my body. I felt the train take the curve leading to the bridge, too fast maybe, but not too fast with death descending upon us. We slid against the wall as the car entered the turn, and heard the first bursts, the rapid chatter of the .50-caliber
rounds getting closer until the first ones hit home—shattering glass, splintering wood, flinging bodies into ripped and bloody pieces. It only lasted a second until a new sound assaulted my ears, a harsh metallic pinging as we reached the bridge and bullets pelted the steel girders, some hitting the train, others ricocheting away.

As fast as it began, the strafing stopped as the aircraft pulled away, their quarry out of reach. Darkness blanketed the chaos as the train took to the tunnel and the engineer hit the brakes, the squeal of metal on metal harsh and insistent as he struggled to stop before exiting cover and giving the
Jabos
another chance. Men fell, tumbling over each other in the dark. Cries came from the wounded, mixed in with the tinkling of glass as it fell from shattered windows. I helped Kaz up, and as lights came on, we did what we could to sort the living from the dead.

We carried the dead into the last car, and the medics treated the newly wounded—soldiers and civilians alike—as best they could. They seemed to be short on even the basics, and I didn’t see any sign of sulfa powder. I should have been glad, since it meant that some of the Krauts would undoubtedly die of infection, but it was hard to wish any more suffering on the poor devils riding this train. No one questioned my English, and I didn’t worry about our papers. Kaz translated for the Germans and Italians, as we checked the patch of sky ahead for
Jabos
. Funny how shared suffering and near-death turns
them
into
us
pretty damn quick.

The locomotive pulled out of the tunnel, slowly at first, as if sensing a trick. It was late afternoon, and I hoped that all the P-47s in Italy were back at their bases, pilots safe in the officers’ clubs, drinking and telling tales of blowing up trains. It seemed they were, and as we picked up speed, the mood lightened, survivors glad to be alive, the dead stored away in the back car like a memory stuffed in the far corner of the mind. We stopped in a village as the sun was setting, a small castle tower at the top of the hill watching over the countryside. I hoped the Germans didn’t have troops up there; it would be a shame to destroy such an ancient and lovely thing, not to mention the village clustered below it. But it would make a perfect
observation post to call in artillery strikes on anyone within miles. Maybe I should make a mental note for the report I’d write up when this was over. Or maybe I’d pray the Germans took off when we finally broke out of Anzio and took Rome. Not very military of me, I know, but I was wearing the Roman collar, and I couldn’t help hoping for mercy and peace.

We stretched our legs and kept an eye out for the Gestapo, who harbored no such good wishes. The train whistle bellowed, and as the night sky lit up with stars, we pulled away from the village station for the final run to Viterbo and our rendezvous with an OSS operative and a load of produce bound for the Vatican. It was a simple plan, really, and stood a good chance of working, given that the agent was in place and could be trusted. The only problem was that no one had clued in the Royal Air Force.

We saw the glow in the sky, a distant smudge of light at first, every time the train took a curve and gave us a view to the south. Probably the pathfinders, dropping incendiaries. Then the searchlights came on, stabbing at the black sky, hoping to pin a bomber for the antiaircraft batteries. It looked like Viterbo was getting hit, and hit hard. As in most Italian towns, the rail line and the main roads likely went through the center, which is where the bombers would aim, going for the transportation hub surrounded by churches and homes, where generations lived close together, away from the threat of the open countryside. Little could they have known.

The train slowed, then stopped, the engine releasing great gusts of steam as if sighing at the destruction ahead. We felt the ground shake with explosions as the bombs fell, and covered our ears against the thunder of antiaircraft batteries until the noise receded, the fury of both sides spent, the silence stunning in its fullness. The train nudged itself forward, moving slowly and carefully in case of damage to the tracks. Smoke drifted through the broken windows, along with the acrid smell of burning fuel and rubber, the air punctuated by secondary explosions, the sign of another convoy caught in the conflagration. We neared the city center, bathed in the yellow light of flames rising from ruined buildings, licking the night sky. Firemen
worked a hand pump, sending a pitiful stream of water against a wall of fire and smoke. Trucks and armored vehicles lay in the road that ran alongside the tracks, broken and cast aside as if they were playthings. Soldiers stumbled around them, bleeding, burned, and in shock. We rolled on.

The train halted short of the station, which lay in ruins. No one said a word as they gathered their belongings, helped the wounded, and got off next to a piazza that somehow had not been badly damaged. The dead were left to fend for themselves.

“We need to search the station,” Kaz said, without much enthusiasm.

I was too tired to come up with anything else, so we held our suitcases over our heads, protection against the hot embers floating down from the burning city. We followed the tracks, working our way around a smoking crater, looking for the northbound platform. The smoke made it hard to see, and I tripped on a sign that had fallen from its post. In red letters, the word
Nord
stood out. North.

“We’re here,” I said, kicking at the sign, a laugh escaping my throat as I looked around at the collapsed walls and burning timbers.

“Look,” Kaz said, pointing to a figure stumbling through the wreckage in our direction. He wore a worker’s rough boots and a blue coat. His eyes were wide, darting everywhere, stunned and frightened. His hair was singed, his face black with soot. He held a hand up to shield his eyes from the bright light of the sparking flames, and stared at us, studying our faces, trying to fathom what had happened to his world and what we were doing in it. He blinked, a glimmer of awareness returning.

“Per l’amore di Dio, ha due sigarette? Per l’amore di Dio!
” Two cigarettes, for the love of God.

“No,” Kaz said. “
Sono troppo cari. Spiacente
.” Kaz gave the response Hamilton had fed us, and added his apologies. We each took an arm and let him lead us, hoping he knew where he was going, and that our train was still in one piece. With shuffling, stumbling steps, he took us down a siding, where three freight cars stood undamaged. A storehouse a few yards off was burning, and next to it a flatbed
truck lay on its side, oily black smoke roiling from the tires. He pointed to the middle car and fumbled with a set of keys. The smoke made it hard to see, and we all coughed as it got into our eyes and throats.

Finally, he got the right key and unlocked the padlock that secured the latch on the sliding door. He pulled it back, the metal screeching in protest. As the door opened, we all turned as another sound came from behind us. Footsteps.

A figure slowly emerged out of the inky smoke, his face blackened and bloody. One arm hung limp at his side, wisps of smoke curling up from the torn fabric.

“La santa madre di Dio,”
our guide said, imploring the holy mother of God.

“Aiutame,”
the man croaked, asking for help. Kaz stepped toward him, supporting him by his good arm, reassuring him in Italian as he brushed the dirt and dust from the man’s uniform, which was almost unrecognizable. Almost, until we saw the dark-gray uniform jacket and black collar tabs. One of Mussolini’s RSI officers, part of the Fascist army that had rallied around the deposed dictator.

“Fascista,”
the railway man said with venom, the appearance of the RSI officer snapping him out of his shock. The officer gave him a quizzical look, as if he couldn’t understand the man’s insolence, his defiance of authority. His eyes flickered and squinted, trying to focus and take in the scene before him: the open railcar door, two priests, the keys, the curse. I watched his eyes as he assembled the pieces of the puzzle, working through the fog of pain, smoke, and surprise. Maybe he was a security officer on duty, or maybe he was passing through and got caught in the air raid. But it didn’t matter. He was on to us, all of us, and he wasn’t on our side.

His hand went to the leather holster at his belt, but Kaz still had a grip on his good arm. He twisted it behind his back with a savage thrust, and the officer gasped as Kaz threw him to the ground, then fell on him, trying to keep his hand from getting to the pistol. The officer slammed his injured arm at Kaz, loosening his grip. In a second, the Beretta was in his hand, his face contorted in pain from
using his bloodied arm. I gave that arm a kick, and he screamed, his mouth round and his eyes wide with animal fear and pain. The pistol was still in his hand, and I dropped on it, pinning his good arm to the ground. Kaz was next to me, and his hands grasped the officer’s neck, choking him, desperate to silence the threat. The guy was strong and his legs thrashed, shiny black leather boots pinwheeling behind us. His neck bulged as he gasped for air, and I wondered if Kaz was strong enough to do the job.

I wrenched the pistol from the guy’s hand and hit him with the butt. Hard, twice. His legs stopped moving and he went limp, his face still showing the rage he’d fought us with. It was the last emotion he’d ever show. Kaz rose from the body, clenching and unclenching his hands.

“There couldn’t be a witness,” I said, tossing the pistol on the ground.

“No,” Kaz said, shaking his head as he brushed himself off. “He would have gotten us all killed.”

Our guide felt no need to justify what had been done. He spat on the body and dragged it by the heels to the burning truck, leaving the RSI officer crumpled on the ground, an obvious victim of the bombs. He trotted back, full of energy now, motioning for us to climb in, impatient to get away. The car was packed with supplies, crates of food, barrels of wine—a month of feasts. He led us down a narrow passage to the back of the car and pushed against the rear wall. There was a click, and the wooden slates moved, enough for them to slide sideways and allow Kaz and me to squeeze inside. The door closed and we were in total darkness. We heard the railcar door shut and the latch lock in place. Then nothing.

I lit a match and we surveyed the space. A couple of blankets. Space enough for the two of us to sit on the floor facing each other. Not much else to see.

“I wonder if this compartment opens from inside,” Kaz said.

“Let’s hope we don’t have to find out,” I said. Engine sounds drew closer, and I could feel the vibration coming up from the tracks.
A thump announced that a locomotive had hooked up with the cars, and seconds later we lurched forward.

“Rome, next stop,” Kaz said, trying a bit hard to be the life of the party.

“We had to do it,” I said.

“Yes. There was no alternative.”

I should have felt bad. I’d helped kill a wounded man. I’d been shot at, bombed, and I’d sent a poor soul on his way with ersatz last rites. But the only thing I really felt was tired. Bone tired from too little sleep. Tired of disguises, lies, and the kind of war where bashing an injured man in the head was the only logical thing to do. I fell asleep against the rough wood planks, but not before a tiny voice in my head, a dream perhaps, told me that my body might rest, but my soul would be grievously tired for a long, long time.