We Were Soldiers

76. New Friends

Judging by state of the bus, Steve had expected the worst of the training facility at Pirbright, but the camp was in surprisingly good condition. The roads and paths were paved or chipped, bushes were trimmed into orderly arrangements, and the grounds were spotless. Camp Lehigh had been dry and dusty, but he suspected this place would have the opposite problem.

The bus deposited the new recruits at one of the empty barracks, and Rushford instructed them to unpack and get settled in. The group seemed to have designated Tiberius as their unofficial leader; they waited until he and Steve entered the barracks before following.

The beds were uniform metal frames with lumpy old mattresses. Steve picked what looked like the cleanest of the mattresses and began unpacking his gear. First he took out his clothes and made sure they were still folded neatly, then he unloaded the few books he'd brought with him, a few Army pocket-book editions of stories he enjoyed or hadn't yet read.

As they unpacked and waited for further instruction, the talk turned to civvy life, and what they'd all done—or hoped to do—before being drafted. As Steve listened, he heard everything from chemists to labourers, from bankers to farmers. Then, one of them shouted out, "What about you, Sammie? How'd you end up with us?"

"Me?" Steve kept his focus on shelving his books, and tried to decide how honest to be right out of the gate. "Same as anyone else, really. I signed up to do my bit for the free world."

"We sure could've used a bunch of Sammies doing their bit for the free world back when the free world was a lot bigger. Before we lost half of Europe to the Krauts."

"Come on, now," Tiberius countered. "It's not fair to blame Steve for decisions made by his country's politicians. We've all got to work together."

"Spoken like someone who thinks we ought to be kissing up to the Yanks for finally deciding to get their hands dirty."

Steve stood up and looked for the speaker. The man was young, probably no older than twenty, and his face was etched into a frown. Whatever chip he was carrying on his shoulder, it didn't seem like a new one. Steve wasn't sure if he could change the guy's opinion of him, but he had to try.

"Look, I'm not here to make enemies: I think we have quite enough of them out there on the front lines. And maybe we could've been here before now, but that wasn't my call. I signed up as soon as I could, and all I want is to put a few bullies in their places. Hopefully make a difference in the world."

The man rolled his eyes and scoffed. "If it weren't for the Japs kicking you in the family jewels, you wouldn't even be here."

"I'm not going to waste time speculating about what might or might not have happened in the past, or even what might happen in the future. I've come to fight, and I plan to do that, one battle at a time. I'm sorry if you have a problem with that."

Before the guy could respond, another camp sergeant appeared with instructions for them to follow him to the mess hall for lunch. Tiberius joined Steve as the group filed out the door.

"Ignore that fellow," he said. "Some people just don't understand how the world works."

Steve nodded, but said nothing. Half of him agreed with what the guy had said. It was all well and good the U.S. being in the war now, but France had fallen and half of Europe was already occupied by the Nazis. If the U.S. had committed earlier, could that have been avoided? If the Japs hadn't attacked Pearl Harbor, would the President have joined the war?

He shook his head. He just didn't know. But one thing was for sure: he wouldn't help win this war with his head full of what-ifs. He put aside the guy's accusations and resolved to focus on becoming the best he could be. Somebody his parents could be proud of.

There were some… interesting… smells coming from the mess hall, and even those who didn't have super-sensitive olfactory senses commented on it. The scent tickled at something in Steve's memory, something familiar… perhaps from his childhood. What was it?

The inside of the mess was as clean as the rest of the camp, with orderly rows of benches and chairs, and was very much like the mess back at Camp Lehigh. Steve grabbed one of the metal trays from the stack near the serving counter, and the rest of the recruits formed an orderly line behind him. If there was one thing you could say about the English, it was that they were good at forming lines.

"What's on the menu for today?" Tiberius asked one of the guys behind the counter.

The cook grabbed a large, deep metal cooking tray and dumped it heavily down. The contents were the source of the familiar smell, and were topped with some sort of pastry crust. "Pie."

"What kind of pie?" Steve asked.

"Meat."

Tiberius shot a skeptical look in Steve's direction, and asked, "What kind of meat?"

"General meat," came the response, followed by a ladle-full of the pale crust being deposited on their trays with something sloppy and brown. Tiberius pulled an unimpressed face, but Steve had learnt to be less discerning. Growing up during the Great Depression, you didn't turn your nose up at food, no matter what it was or where it came from. His mom had been extremely gifted when it came to turning scraps and left-overs into edible meals.

"I don't suppose there's sticky toffee pudding for dessert?" Tiberius asked. The only answer was stony silence.

They found themselves a table and tucked into their meals. The meat was… general. It was a pretty accurate description. It wasn't lamb, it wasn't beef, it wasn't pork or chicken. It was just meat, and a damn sight better than what they were eating on the front lines.

A few other young men joined them at the table and began pushing their pastry around their trays. Any grumbles were kept quiet enough that the cooks couldn't hear.

"I wonder what kind of animal this mystery meat used to be," one guy said.

"I think it used to be several kinds of animals," Tiberius said miserably.

The other guy paled and stared at Steve who was shovelling the stuff in his mouth. "How can you eat it like that?"

Steve offered a shrug. "It's not so bad. Believe it or not, I've had worse." And Bucky had already warned him about the food standards. Besides, it wasn't as if he could afford to skip meals. His metabolism burned faster the more physical exercise he did, and he already needed 5,000 calories per day just to maintain a resting weight. Luckily, Phillips had provided him with some high-calorie energy bars invented by Stark, which oughta keep him going for a couple of weeks. After that, Phillips would arrange to have more sent, and Steve could eat as many as he needed under the guise of them being for medicinal purposes.

Another of the recruits, a spectacled fella with an air of boredom about him, asked, "Any of you chaps read those old penny dreadful magazines? Specifically, the ones relating to Sweeney Todd?"

"Who's that?" Steve asked, swallowing a mouthful of pie. Swallowing without chewing made it go down a little easier.

The recruit leant forward, a nasty grin fixed on his face. "Sweeney Todd, the demon barber of Fleet Street. He killed his victims by slitting their throats, and their bodies were disposed of by his lady, Mrs. Lovett. She baked them into her pies and sold them to customers."

With a forkful of food halfway to his mouth, Steve froze. He'd just remembered what the smell reminded him of. The hospital where his mom had worked, and had later been a patient, possessed an old incinerator that was used for disposing of… parts. He knew, because he'd overheard two of the orderlies talking about how they hated being on disposal duty. Aged fifteen, and too curious for his own good, he'd followed them down to the incinerator and watched them toss unidentifiable organs into it. The smell of burning meat had made him vomit on the spot.

He looked down at his food. No. That was stupid. The recruit was just yankin' their chains. Nobody in their right minds would cook people.

Maybe it's dog.

"I'm full," he said, pushing his tray back. He would resort to one of his energy bars, and hope dinner was something less mystery.

Tiberius held his nose and gulped down a forkful of the meat. By the time he'd finished swallowing, his pallor was decidedly greener. "Maybe we should—I say, watch out!"

Steve didn't have time to glance over his shoulder at whatever Tiberius was warning about. He felt something hard and tray-like jabbed into his shoulder, and then something hot and damp seeping through his shirt. He didn't need his enhanced sense of smell to tell him what was now dripping down his back.

"Oops, guess I wasn't looking where I was going," sneered a familiar voice.

Turning, Steve found the hostile guy from the barracks staring down his nose at the group at the table, a couple of lackeys behind him.

Seriously? The old 'Oops I spilled my dinner on you' gag? Even Danny Cavanagh got tired of that one by fifth grade.

"Baloney!" Tiberius scoffed. "You clearly saw where you were going, you inbred Scouse halfwi—"

"It's fine," Steve said, as his antonagonist's scowl deepened. "Accidents happen. I used to be pretty clumsy, too."

"But, Steve—"

"What in God's name is going on over here?" somebody yelled. Yet another drill sergeant came marching over, and Steve could tell he was one of those drill sergeants who kept an eye out for any tiny infraction as an excuse to issue punishment. There had been a drill sergeant like that back at Camp LeHigh, too, though luckily he hadn't been the SSR's drill sergeant.

"Nothing, sir," Steve's new Hodge smirked. "Just a little accident, on account of my clumsiness."

"Private Briscoe, do you recall seeing a large field just within the boundary walls as you were bussed into camp?"

"Err, yes, sir."

"You'll now go to that field and run around it twenty times. Then you'll go straight to your barracks and wait until you're called for drill."

The man's face fell. "But sir, what about lunch?"

"Unless you're willing to scrape it off Private Rogers' shirt, you'll forego lunch today. Maybe hunger will dull that clumsiness of yours. This is what Mr. Darwin calls survival of the fittest. If you haven't read his work, I suggest you use the next twelve weeks to do so. Now, hop to it! And don't think you can beg off with less than twenty; I'll be keeping count."

The man known as Briscoe slunk off, and the drill sergeant disappeared back to wherever those guys lived between shouting at recruits. The two young men who'd been following Briscoe picked a table at the opposite end of the mess and swallowed their meals in glowering silence.

"You know he wasn't really being clumsy, right?" Tiberius asked.

Steve snorted softly. "I wasn't born yesterday. I've seen plenty of bullies like him before. In fact, back at Camp Le… I mean, back in the States, I had guys like him lining up to use me as their punching bag."

Tiberius eyed Steve's broad shoulders. "It doesn't seem to have done you much ill."

"I heal pretty fast. Anyway, that was back in school. I'm an old man compared to most of you guys."

"Well, Old Man Steve," said the guy with the glasses, "I'm Anthony Tickle. Yes, the name's hilarious, please get the laughing and joking out of the way now, and try not to giggle like a school girl when the drill sergeants shout out 'Private Tickle'."

Everyone at the table laughed at that, Steve included. Poor guy—hopefully he wouldn't always be the butt of the army's jokes.

"What about you?" Tiberius asked the other young man at the table with them.

"Bartholomew Worthington-Price Esquire," the man said, offering a round of nods. Not a hair on his perfectly coiffed head was out of place, and he held himself with an awkward stiffness, as if unused to doing anything as informal as eating mystery pie in a communal dining area.

"I like how it just rolls off the tongue." Tiberius eyed him up. "I take it you'll be heading straight off for officer training, after Basic?"

"Of course. Father would have a fit if I began my service without a commission. The Worthington-Prices are leaders, not followers. No offence intended," he offered to the others.

"None taken. I'm bound for officer training myself," said Tiberius. "What about you, Tickle?"

"Not for me. My girl's old man was enlisted back in the Great War, and he doesn't trust officers as far as he can throw them. Told me if I come back with anything other than a field commission, I won't be marrying his daughter. Anyway, can you imagine how much I'd have the mick taken out of me if I was Major Tickle, and eventually General Tickle? Being Private Tickle is bad enough. Hopefully I'll make corporal once I've been deployed."

"What about you, Steve?" Tiberius asked. "What'll you do when you're through with Basic?"

"All I've ever wanted to do; fight. I don't care whether I'm giving the orders, or taking them. I just want to make a difference."

"What do your folks think about you being out here?" Tickle asked.

"Nothing much. My dad was killed in the Great War. He was a soldier, fighting in the trenches in France. Germans flooded his entire trench with mustard gas; nobody made it out. My mom passed away a few years ago. She was a nurse in a T.B. ward, until she caught it herself."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to open up old wounds."

Steve offered him a conciliatory smile. "You didn't." He brought out the locket his mom had given him, the one he still kept in his breast pocket. "This is all I have left of them, and it does me good to talk about them when I can. Their pictures are a bright spot in dark times."

The topic moved onto safer territory as everyone finished off their mystery pie. Tiberius moaned about the lack of sticky toffee pudding, and then they were sent back to their barracks to prepare for drill. As they passed by the exercise field, they saw a tiny figure at the far side of the track, flagging on its fifth or sixth lap.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"I like it here," said Gabe Jones.

Jim Morita glanced around the inside of the pub and offered a noncommittal shrug. "It's alright, but the ale isn't as good as the Fiddle's."

"No, I mean here," Jones elaborated, his arms open wide to indicate more than their current setting. Bucky looked around for something that made this place better than the last three pubs they'd visited. It had been Morita's idea, something he'd learnt from the British. A pub crawl. Walk the streets for as long as your legs could carry you, and have a drink in every pub, inn and tavern along the way.

Morita had invited all the occupants of their Krausberg cell along on the crawl, but Dugan wanted to stay at the Fiddle so he could flirt with Lizzy, and Falsworth was nursing the mother of all hangovers. Dernier claimed British alcohol was too foul to be consumed in large quantities, so had opted to stay at the Fiddle—one of the only pubs in London to still have a supply of Sauvignon Blanc—and sip wine with Dugan. With Steve off in British Boot Camp, that left Jones and Bucky himself to accompany Morita on his quest to involve every London pub in his campaign of inebriation.

"The décor is pretty dated," Bucky said, nodding to the brass ornaments nailed to the wall. Lots of British pubs had brass ornaments nailed to their walls. Did they think people would steal them, if they weren't nailed down?

"Think about it," Jones elaborated. "Here we are, three Americans: a black, a Jap and a pasty white boy, and nobody's looking twice at us."

"Hey, I'm not pasty," Bucky shot back with a half-hearted glare.

"If we tried this in America, we'd all be lynched. Well, I would, at least."

"At least you blacks get to walk around free," Morita complained. "You wanna try living in one of the camps they stick Japanese Americans in."

"Are they really that bad?" Bucky asked. He'd heard that a lot of Japanese Americans had been 'secured' after Pearl Harbor, allegedly for their own safety as much as for national security, but he had no first-hand experience of it. In fact, he couldn't recall even meeting a Japanese American, before he'd rescued Captain James and his fellow Rangers from their bridge in Italy.

"Let's put it this way: they're not the sort of camps where you sit around a fire toasting marshmallows. Armed guards, limited facilities, seizure of possessions… it's only a gas chamber away from what the Nazis do to the Jews."

Bucky shifted uncomfortably on his seat. Knowing that Japanese Americans were interned in camps was one thing. Hearing about it from somebody who'd been there was something entirely different. He'd never questioned that his country and its leaders were right and just, but then, he'd grown up in a family that was pretty well off, and had a decent education in schools and colleges which catered almost exclusively to boys and men like him. It was easy to forget that not all Americans had the same privileges.

"Is that why you signed up?" asked Jones.

"No, I signed up to serve my country." Morita let out a disdainful snort, and took another large gulp of ale. "Being in the camps is only slightly better than being on the front lines, but those who have family members serving are given a little more respect than most. I got a little sister to watch out for, as well as my parents, and if me being here takes a little heat off them, it's a small price to pay."

"You got a sister?" Bucky asked. It seemed a lotta guys out here had family reasons for fighting. Dernier had joined the French Resistance to try and keep his brother and sister safe. Monty's entire family was embroiled in the war on both sides of the channel. Even Steve was looking to settle what his dad started twenty five years ago.

"Yeah, Lucy. And no, you can't date her."

"What? I don't wanna date her. I haven't even met her."

"If you met her, you'd wanna date her. And I'm telling you now, you can't."

"Fine. You can't date my sisters either," Bucky sniffed.

"Glad we understand each other."

"You got any sisters, Jones?"

"Only brothers. And neither of you can date them, either."

Bucky and Morita both laughed, whilst around them, local patrons failed to be scandalised by a white guy, a Jap and a black drinking together. As their glasses slowly emptied, Bucky decided it was a good time to get to know both men a little better.

"What'd you do before the war, Little Jim?" he asked Morita

"You mean, before I was forcibly relocated to California's swankiest internment camp? I worked for my Pa."

"Let me guess—sushi bar?"

"First, that's a stereotype," said Morita, holding up one finger. A second finger joined it. "Also, you're an asshole." He lifted a third finger. "Finally, I don't even like sushi. My dad was one of the most respected used car salesmen in Fresno. I worked mostly behind the scenes, fixing up cars and getting them ready for sale. Of course, that was before we were invited by the government to stay at a camp in the dump known as New Mexico. You ever been there?" Both Bucky and Jones shook their heads. "My advice: don't. Nothing to see but desert, and not even in a picturesque, John Wayne kinda way."

"Sounds horrible," Bucky agreed.

"It was. Now my dad will never sell cars again. Everything he had was seized and impounded by the IRS, and we were forced out so fast that he didn't have time to put his paperwork in order. Even if the camp closed tomorrow, he won't be able to prove that the stock was initially his. And that's the other reason I signed up; the pay is better than almost anything I could get back home right now, if I was even allowed to work. I put aside everything except what I need for essentials. When this is all over, I'm going to buy my dad a piece of land so he can retire in style, and next time nobody will be able to force him off the land, because he owns it. Of course, that's even if I can find someone in California who's willing to sell to a Jap."

"Ever thought about living somewhere out of California?"

Morita looked at him as if he was mad. "Why would I do that? It's home. Would you be happy living away from New York?"

"Probably not," Bucky admitted. He could do it, if he had to, but he'd prefer to go home after all this was done. Wasn't that what everybody wanted? To go home? "How about you, Jones? Were you a used car mechanic too?"

"Me? No, I'm still trying to figure out what I wanna be when I grow up." He gave them a white-toothed grin. "Still haven't decided. Truth is, guys like me don't got a lotta options. My folks farm, as does my older brother. My younger brother's still in high school. A college education doesn't open as many doors for blacks as it does for whites. For a while, I thought I might be a professional baseball player, but I had to abandon that plan."

"What changed your mind?"

"I'm terrible at baseball."

"Oh."

Bucky must've been looking sorry for Jones, because the guy reached out and patted his shoulder. "Don't worry, it'll all work out."

Morita downed the rest of his beer and belched loudly. "I don't know about you two, but all this share-our-feelings crap is making me thirsty. What say we hit the next pub? That is, if you two lightweights think you can handle it."

"Fighting words from a shortie," said Jones before quaffing what was left of his drink. "C'mon Barnes, you're not gonna let him get away with cheeking a sergeant, are you?"

"Definitely not," Bucky agreed. "And as punishment, I'm gonna drink you under the table. By the end of the evening you're not gonna know up from down."

They moved on to the next pub—the unfortunately named Cock and Bull—but their previous conversation weighed heavy on Bucky's mind. He remembered singing at school The Star-Spangled Banner when it became the national anthem in 1931, and how proud he'd felt when he belted out the last two lines of the first stanza.

O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

But right now, U.S. citizens were being held as prisoners by their own government, and Bucky did not feel particularly brave. When he got home, would he still find the star-spangled banner yet waving in greeting, or would America be so changed by the war that he'd no longer recognise the place he called home?

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The snow was deep and the wind was biting, but for the first time since winter began, Danny didn't care. He and Adalina waded through drifts towards the village, and he felt like a little kid being allowed to take the street car by himself for the first time. Rosa had finally decided Danny knew enough Italian to be trusted around others, and Danny could've kissed her for it. He'd heard of Cabin Fever, but he'd never truly understood it before, not even confined to the bowels of the Monticello en route to Europe. Now, though, he understood.

Rosa had mothered him in that special way she had before letting him leave the house with Adalina to act as his guide. Remember, you are Pierre, from France. When you butcher my language with your attempts to speak it, try to do so with a French accent, not an American one. If somebody lets an English word slip, do not respond. Do not engage people in conversation, and let Adalina steer the introductions. You may have one—ONE—glass of beer, because I know how loose men's tongues become once the drink starts flowing. It was as if she didn't trust him to be sensible! Clearly, she did not know him at all.

"Tell me about this place we're going," Danny shouted above the wind.

Adalina slowed her pace, to walk beside him and talk without the need to shout. "It is a place we go to meet. There are drinks and food for those who want."

"So… it's a bar?" Adalina shook her head. "A pub?" Another head shake. "Ritzy restaurant?"

"Rit-sey?"

"Yeah, you know…" He waved his left arm vaguely. "Swanky. Classy. Posh."

Adalina laughed. "Your words are funny." She put on her best impression of an American accent, which was atrocious. "Swan-key. Rit-sey."

"Glad I amuse."

The lights from the nearby village cast a warm glow in the valley engulfed by the twilight murk, and at the thought of something hot to eat and cold to drink, Danny picked up his pace. He regretted that decision seconds later, when he floundered in the deep slow and would have fallen on his face if Adalina hadn't reached out to grab him by his good shoulder and keep him upright.

"You so clumsy before you got shot?" she asked.

"No, I was as graceful as a cat."

"A clumsy cat?"

"Very funny," he said drily.

Adalina looped her arm through his before they continued down the hill. Danny told himself it was because he was being gentlemanly by escorting Adalina through the deep snow… and not the other way around. No doubt if his dad were here now, Danny would be getting all sorts of lectures about being weak and needing a woman's help. As he walked, he pulled Adalina a little closer. He was done being told what he could and couldn't do. What he could and couldn't be.

"You are shivering! Are you cold?" Adalina asked.

Danny shook his head. Thoughts of home still did that, sometimes. The child in him remembered too many long, dark hours spent in the cupboard. Too many strappings, too many nights lying hungry because deprivation was a punishment when the strappings and the cupboard failed. Here he was, half a world away from home, freer than he'd ever been, yet still a prisoner of his own memory, still haunted by the demons of the past. Would he ever grow out of his fear?

Adalina helping him wasn't the only thing his father would've disapproved of. The kitchen is a place for a woman, and no son of mine is going to grow up doing a woman's chores, his father had said, when seven year old Danny had asked his mom if he could help her make apple pie for Independence Day. In truth, he'd hoped he could talk his mom into making him a birthday cake, after the apple pie. An afternoon spent in the cupboard had put paid to that idea.

Since being saved by the Bianchi family, Danny had spent more time with Rosa and Adalina, helping them cook and clean and milk the goats, than he had doing proper manly jobs. No doubt Danny's father would expect to be waited on hand and foot, in his place, but Danny wasn't going to be that guy—ever. In fact, he was actually enjoying the work. Cooking was a science, one that challenged him mentally whilst his failing body slowly mended itself.

"Remember," Adalina said, chanelling her mother as the lights of Castello Lavazzo drew closer, "you must be very careful what you say."

"Don't worry, I'm an accomplished actor," he assured her. He was starting to hate pretending to be all the things he wasn't—fine, happy, well-adjusted—but at least he was good at it. A lifetime of practise had given him that much, at least.

The paths through the town had been swept, snow piled up in small mountain chains which bordered the roads and walkways. A few people were out, as well wrapped up as Danny and Adalina, and they called out greetings which Adalina returned. He realised Castello Lavazzo was going to be one of those places where everyone knew everybody else. As a stranger, he would stick out like a sore thumb. No wonder Rosa had kept him hidden until now.

Adalina led him past several buildings and up a flight of icy steps. The steps terminated in an alley so narrow he had to squeeze through sideways, made more difficult by how he held his injured arm. As he tried not to balk at the close darkness of the alley, he wondered if Rosa had told her to bring him via this route on purpose, to curb his enthusiasm for leaving the house.

The alley opened up into a courtyard, and he could tell by the trails left in the deep snow that several people had already come this way, and recently. Adalina made a beeline for the door the other trails led to, and Danny caught his reflection in a window that'd been cleared of snow and ice. He still looked gaunt, but no longer sick. His hair had grown so long it was almost in his eyes, and he'd given up trying to shave with his left hand after he'd almost bled to death for the third time. His beard was past that 'itchy' stage, and in true Irish fashion, was growing wild and unruly. He didn't look like the Danny Wells he'd known all his life, and he wasn't sure whether that was a good thing, or bad.

Light and warmth raced out of the open door to greet the newcomers. Adalina knocked her boots against the door jamb, loosening the snow that clung to them, and Danny copied her. When they stepped into the upper section of the large room, a few heads turned. Adalina unravelled the headscarf covering her hair and waved at a few of the men and women at their tables. The curious stares at Danny continued as they walked through the room and down several steps to what turned out to be a more informal seating area. Adalina led him towards a group of three men and a woman who were sharing drinks around a small table upon a motley assortment of wooden chairs.

"Good evening, everyone," Adalina said in Italian. "I'd like to introduce you to my second cousin, Pierre. He has come from France, to stay with us after his family were killed in the fighting."

They greeted him, and made appropriate sounds of sympathy. Then, Adalina gestured to them in turn.

"Pierre, this is my best friend, Lucianna, her brother Ludovico, and his friends, Benito and Antonio, who are brothers."

For the first time in his life, Danny felt old. Adalina's friends where all between Hawkins-aged and Carrot-aged; fresh-faced kids just starting out with their lives. Like Adalina, Lucianna was a pretty girl, with big brown eyes framed by dark lashes. With her pouty lips and glossy brown braid of hair, Danny suspected she'd be one of those women who'd break hearts with a single look. Luckily, she wouldn't be breaking his.

Ludovico was a wide-shouldered, wide-armed young man with a mane of brown hair even more unruly than Danny's. He had that same smell about him as Matteo, the smell of soot and sweat and having spent all day in a forge. This was Matteo's apprentice, no doubt.

Of the two brothers, Benito appeared the slightly older, and he had a rather serious look about him, as if he had little patience for nonsense. The twinkle in Antonio's brown eyes said he laughed easily and often. The resemblance between the two was strong, stronger than between Danny and his own brothers. These two both had the same light brown hair, dark brown eyes and chiselled jaw lines. Not only did they make Danny feel old, but they made him feel scruffy.

"Sit down, join us," said Ludovico. He stood up—he was a couple of inches taller than Danny—and pulled over two spare chairs from a nearby table. "Your father did not mention you had family staying with you, Adalina."

"Pierre only arrived a couple of days ago, and my father did not want to cause a fuss and start rumours," Adalina told him. "Besides, it has been a long journey from France, and Pierre has not been up to meeting others until now."

"It must have been very difficult, travelling so far in the snow, Pierre," said Benito.

Adalina gave a firm nod. "It was. Especially since he lost his identity papers along the way."

"Did he lose his tongue, as well?"

"His Italian is not very good," Adalina said, with an apologetic shrug.

"But not so bad that I can't speak at all," Danny interjected, aware that his Italian sounded broken and probably infantile.

"I was beginning to wonder if you had a voice," Ludovico grinned. "Tell me, what do you think of Italy so far?"

"Very beautiful," Danny offered. "Especially mountains."

"Our father has been to France several times," Benito offered. "He is especially fond of a café right by the Champs-Élysées, but I can't remember what he called it. Do you know the place?"

Danny shook his head. "I have never even been to Paris," he said, banking on the hope that nobody present knew what French regional dialects were supposed to sound like. Otherwise, he was done for. "My home village is called Aureille. We are renowned for two things: growing olives, and pretending the rest of the world does not exist."

"And of this we have only your word. Perhaps you are a German spy, or a member of the Gestapo come to determine our allegiance."

Adalina laughed aloud. "Do you really think I would bring a German spy here? Sit with him, and welcome him with open arms?"

Benito's expression softened, and Danny was left with a better idea of where Benito's hostility was coming from. He should'a seen it before. Pretty girl like Adalina would have dozens of admirers, back in New York. It stood to reason that, here, she'd have a few as well.

"No, of course not. Forgive me, Adalina, I spoke in haste."

"You are forgiven," she smiled. "Now, what gossip have I missed these past few days?"

If there was gossip, it went right over Danny's head in a rapid stream of largely unintelligible Italian. He caught an odd word here or there, but trying to keep track of three people speaking at once was a whole lot different than having conversation aimed directly, and steadily, at him. Content just to listen to what sounded like singing, he went largely unnoticed by the rest of the group—until, in a moment of forgetful habit, he reached for his drink with his right hand and winced as his muscles pulled painfully in his shoulder.

"You seem to be favouring your right arm," Ludovico spoke up. "Are you hurt?"

"A farming injury," Danny offered, fully realising just how lame it sounded. "It flares up from time to time."

"I did not realise farming olives was such a dangerous activity."

"It surprises everyone."

The comment earned a round of laughter, and another round of drinks. Unfortunately, Adalina had been listening to her mother a little too closely; she took Danny's second drink from him before he could even wet his tongue. She told the others that 'Pierre' had no head for alcohol, and gave the glass to Benito, who was only too happy to drink it.

Not long after that, Adalina declared it was time to leave. Lucianna begged her to stay a while longer, but Adalina reminded her friend of the long trek she and her 'cousin' had back to her father's house. She bade her friends good night, and Danny offered his own farewell.

When they stepped out into the courtyard, they found the snowfall had abated, leaving a clear, starry sky peeping from behind heavy grey clouds. Once more, Adalina took Danny's arm. "I think my friends like you," she said, as they waded towards the narrow alley.

"I think they believe I'm a member of the Gestapo regardless of what you told them."

"Pah! Nonsense. But mama said we should not speak English in the town."

"Scusi," he said, and she smiled.

The stars kept them company as they made their way back to Rosa's house. Were the stars shining wherever the 107th had made their camp tonight? Were the men huddled together in their sleeping bags? Had winter slowed their progress to a crawl? He hoped it had. He hoped they were snowed in as badly as he was. That way, as soon as the spring thaw set in, he could set off and find them again. Sure, he'd probably be sent home because of his injury, but a need was growing within him. A need to see Barnes just one more time. Not even talk to him, just to make sure he was okay.