A mile or so later, a signpost let us know we were in, then out, of the village of Cossira. It was hard to tell the difference. We came to a fork in the road, and Kaz traced the route we’d taken with his finger, looking around for a landmark or a sign. Drainage ditches, flat fields, and distant hills were all we saw. “This way,” he said, pointing to the right fork.
“It’s got to be a left,” Einsmann said, leaning over Kaz’s shoulder, tapping his finger on the map. “We want to be more north.”
I looked at the map, and then up at the sun, as if that might give me a clue. “We’ll go left,” I said. “We can always turn around if it looks wrong.”
“T
HE SIGN SAYS
Carano to the left,” I said. “That’s right where it should be.”
“Sounds right to me,” Einsmann said, turning the map around several times, viewing it from every possible angle. The jeep was idling at an intersection. Left was Carano, straight was Velletri, which I knew was up in the Alban Hills. To the right was nothing but emptiness, plowed fields, and damp gullies.
“We should turn around,” Kaz said in an exasperated tone. “I said so back at the last turn.”
“This feels right,” I said, gunning the jeep and taking a hard left. I hoped it was. The road narrowed and became a hard-packed dirt surface. We came to a fork in the road, one weathered sign pointing left to Carano. We went right, on my theory that keeping Carano to our left was the wisest course. It
was
left of Le Ferriere on the map, so logic was on my side. Kaz didn’t say a word, satisfying himself with switching off the safety on the Thompson. We drove farther and found another fork in the road. This time, the sign to Carano pointed back the way we’d come. Gianottola was to the left. I couldn’t find it on the map, so I went right, for no particular reason, the road curving around a slight rise.
“We should turn around,” Kaz said.
“Not yet,” I said, unwilling to admit what I was beginning to suspect. That we were lost.
“No, I mean look behind us.”
I pulled over and we craned our necks around. The view was stupendous. With all the twists and turns, I hadn’t noticed we were slowly climbing. In the distance, the sea shimmered with sunlight. The flat plain of the drained Pontine Marshes was laid out before us, straight roads and canals dividing the ground, stone farmhouses dotting the landscape.
“Okay, we’re lost,” I said.
“How far have we driven?” Einsmann asked.
“Twenty miles or so, but not in a straight line.”
“We haven’t seen a single German,” Kaz said. “I’m curious as to where they are.”
“I’m not so curious I want to find any of them,” I said. “Should we go back?”
“I think we should go on,” Einsmann said. “Until we hit a main road or town, so we know where we are. Then you can bring back some intelligence.”
“And you get an exclusive story, as the intrepid reporter behind the German lines.”
“Billy, I don’t think we’re behind the German lines,” Einsmann said. “I’d bet there’s no Germans between us and Rome. This could be the biggest story of the war, an invasion that achieves total surprise. Hell, it is a big story, no doubt about it.”
“He’s right, Billy,” Kaz said. “If I can make any sense of this map, we should come to Highway 7 soon.”
“The road to Rome, through the Alban Hills?”
“Yes. From the height here, I’d say we are already in the Alban Hills.”
“Okay, I’m in,” I said, studying the map Kaz was holding. “Velletri, that’s on Highway 7, and there was a signpost back a while ago.” I waited for one of them to talk me out of it, but Einsmann had an eager grin and Kaz simply nodded, folding the map and cradling the tommy gun like a Chicago gangster. I turned at the intersection headed for Velletri, high up in the Alban Hills, armed with one automatic pistol, a Thompson, and a typewriter.
We saw Velletri, a cluster of buildings on top of a hill, and found a side road to get around it. I didn’t want to get caught in a narrow roadway without a clear way out. We found a sign with the number seven, and in a few minutes were on a well-maintained double-lane road. Highway 7, the road to Rome. We were headed due west now, the wooded slopes of the Alban Hills above us and the view to the sea below. We passed small villages, seeing the occasional farm vehicle make its way slowly along the road. No one waved, or seemed to take notice. Perhaps they thought we were Germans and were deliberately ignoring us. Or maybe they knew we were heading into an ambush and couldn’t bear to look.
There was no ambush, not at Montecanino, Fontanaccio, or Frattocchie. No traffic either, now that we’d left farm country. The miles were easy, as if we were out for a Sunday drive. I couldn’t help but think about Diana, how tantalizingly close I was getting to her. Nothing but the German army somewhere between us.
“This is the old Appian Way,” Kaz said. “It was the most important road of the Roman Republic. There are places where the original paving stones can be seen.”
“Isn’t that the road where the Romans crucified Spartacus?” I asked.
“Yes, and thousands of the slaves who revolted along with him,” Kaz answered. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with Roman history.”
“I have a good memory for when the little guy takes it on the chin. Happens often enough.”
“Thousands?” Einsmann said.
“Six thousand, if I remember correctly,” Kaz said. “Look, Billy, pull over there.” He pointed to a circular stone ruin, close to the road. “It is the tomb of Cecilia Mettela.”
“Kaz, the history stuff is interesting, but we can’t stop for a tour.”
“What is noteworthy about this tomb is that it was built on the highest ground south of Rome. It is on a hill, and I’ve read that it provides a good view of the city.”
I pulled over. The place was huge, a wide tower about thirty feet tall atop a rectangular base of stonework twenty feet high. I saw the possibilities, and grabbed the binoculars. We climbed the stairs and reached the top. One side of the circular wall was crumbling, pieces of stone scattered on the ground below. But the walkway was sturdy enough, and I saw that Kaz had been right. The tomb was on a hill, and from this height, I could see all around us, south to the Alban Hills, and north to Rome. Where Diana was.
I looked through the binoculars, steadying myself against the wall. I could make out buildings, but I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. Then, beyond the sea of roofs, I spotted a white dome. St. Peter’s, that had to be it. On a hill across the Tiber River. The Vatican, a tiny piece of neutral ground, and most likely home to Diana. I could be there in an hour.
“Vehicle coming down the road,” Kaz said. I spotted a U.S. Army jeep, heading out of Rome. “It appears that we are not the first Allied tourists to visit the Eternal City.”
“Two of them in the jeep,” I said. “Let’s flag them down.”
We descended and stood in the street, each of us waving one hand and keeping the other on our weapon. The jeep slowed and stopped in front of us, and I could see that the lieutenant in the passenger’s seat had his carbine at the ready.
“Who the hell are you?” He looked at us warily, and I realized that we did look like an unlikely unit: one Brit, one Yank, and one war correspondent.
“Lieutenant William Boyle,” I answered. “Did you just come from Rome?”
“Damn near. Lieutenant John Cummings, 36th Engineers,” he said as he extended his hand. Everybody relaxed as it became apparent we were all on the same side. “What are you doing out here?”
“We got lost, and then decided to keep on going once we saw how close we were. Haven’t seen a German between Anzio and here.”
“There aren’t any. We got close enough to see a few military vehicles crossing a bridge over the Tiber, but it wasn’t much. A few trucks and staff cars.”
“We should get this news back to HQ,” I said, disappointed to hear that he had run across Germans. It would have been a swell surprise for Diana to see me show up for Mass at St. Peter’s.
“I was ordered to reconnoiter towards Rome this morning, and we just kept going once we realized no one was in front of us. The Italians didn’t even pay us any mind. I don’t think word of the invasion has gotten up here. It’s a total damn surprise. We’ve got to get back to report. Want to follow us?”
“That would be excellent,” Kaz said. “Otherwise we might get lost and end up in Berlin.”
We ate their dust all the way back to the beachhead. Einsmann commented on how quick the return trip was, compared to our back-road journey out. Kaz grinned, but kept his thoughts to himself as he swiveled in his seat, watching for phantom Krauts. It was hard to believe we had all this ground to ourselves.
We pulled into Corps HQ in Nettuno an hour later, parking the jeep in the courtyard of the seaside villa that VI Corps called home. The Piazza del Mercato was a pleasant little square with sycamore trees and a statue of Neptune dead center. Tattered posters of Mussolini fluttered in the breeze from the wall of a bank. A few civilians scuttled by, avoiding eye contact and getting clear of Americans as quickly as they could. I’d been in towns in Sicily and southern Italy where the locals cheered and threw flowers. Here, there was nothing but sullenness and the faded glory of Il Duce looking down at us.
We hadn’t found the 3rd Platoon, but I figured we’d come up roses anyway. General Lucas himself would probably give up a colonel or two to find out there were no Germans between here and Rome. Einsmann left to type up his story and get it to the censor before he lost his exclusive. Cummings said he had to submit a report through his regiment, so he left to get it written up so it could work its way through the chain of command. It seemed like a slow process.
“Let’s find Major Kearns,” I said. “He can get us to Lucas right away.”
We entered through heavy wood doors into a spacious home, with tall windows facing the Mediterranean. It was perched up on a hillside, with a view to the north of Anzio and to the south toward crystal-blue water. The polished wood floors were already scuffed and scraped by countless boots as GIs brought in desks, files, radio gear, and all the other hardware a headquarters can’t do without, cases of Scotch included. The place was crawling with brass, and I thought we were about to be thrown out when I saw Kearns, heading down a staircase with General Lucas. The general gripped a corncob pipe in his mouth and held a cane in one hand. I had the uncomfortable thought that I was looking at a man not cut out for this work.
“Lieutenant Boyle,” Kearns said, taking notice of me. He explained to Lucas that I was the officer in charge of the Red Heart investigation. “Have you anything to report?”
“Not on the investigation. But we got lost trying to find Le Ferriere, and we ended up right outside of Rome.”
“Rome?” Lucas said. “You must really have been lost, Lieutenant. You couldn’t have gotten anywhere near Rome.”
“We were there, sir,” Kaz said. “At the tomb of Cecilia Mettela, on the Appian Way. Highway 7.”
“It’s true, General. We didn’t see a single live German the whole way. From the top of the tomb I could see the dome of St. Peter’s.”
“Impossible,” Lucas said. “We’re digging in for a counterattack right now. The old Hun is getting ready to have a go at me. It’s a miracle you got back in one piece.”
“General,” Kearns said, choosing his words carefully. “We haven’t seen much activity on our front. Maybe you have achieved total surprise.”
“I’m not going to endanger my command because two young lieutenants got lost and managed to drive around the German defenses. I’m glad you fellows had a good ride, but it’s hardly what I’d call credible intelligence. Now get some food, and then go out and find that killer. That’s your job, not reconnaissance.”
“General, we met up with Lieutenant Cummings, 36th Engineers, and drove back with him. He went farther than we did, and he’s writing up his report right now. Reconnaissance was his assignment.”
“Fine. Then G-2 will evaluate and report to me. Keep up the good work, boys.”
And with that, he turned his back on us, leaving a trail of tobacco smoke in his wake. Kearns followed him, and we were alone with the view. A light breeze stirred the curtains, a rich shade of burgundy. The color of blood.
A
FTER OUR
R
OMAN
adventure, we decided to wait until the morning to try for Le Ferriere again. The sun was about to set, and I didn’t want a repeat performance with the added bonus of being fired on by our own guys in the dark. So we drew gear and bedrolls from the beachhead supply depot, found a deserted house, and got ourselves a good night’s sleep. At first light, we were drinking scalding hot coffee and eating powdered eggs, thanks to the cooks who’d set up their feeding operation overnight. Say whatever you want to say about army food, but when you’ve got no other choices and the chow is hot, it’s a miracle of American ingenuity.
We followed a supply truck headed in our direction, and this time found Le Ferriere. It wasn’t much of a place. The ground sloped up slightly from the farmland all around it, and a small church, a factory building, and a few scattered homes made up the whole town. No civilians were in sight, but a battalion headquarters was set up in the factory, and they showed us the Third Platoon position, set up on the right flank, on the low ground a couple of hundred yards out.
We left the jeep and walked, not wanting to draw any attention in case the Germans had gotten observers up in the hills. As we walked over plowed earth already tamped down into a path by GI boots, I grew nervous about seeing Danny. I was worried about him being at the front, but it was the possibility that he was in the same unit as a murderer that really troubled me.
Just as driving a jeep and sending up a cloud of dust could forewarn the Germans and point out our position, my questioning anyone in this platoon could give away too much of a warning. It hit me that this visit was a lousy idea; if the killer thought we were onto him, he might take it out on Danny.
“Kaz,” I said as we neared the position. “We’re not here to question anyone. It’s just a visit, for me to see Danny. Follow my lead, okay?”