We Were Soldiers
123. The Waking Dream
Marcus Castella was a grizzled loner who spoke no English, a smattering of French, and only a fraction more Italian. So far as Danny could tell, the guy had been raised by bears, despite Matteo's assurance that there were no bears in Italy. His 'house' was not so much a house as a cabin, a wooden thing with four square walls and not much else going for it. But it was safe. It was warm, it was dry, and it was not a German prison cell. Or an American prison cell. So there was that.
It hadn't been easy to spot the cabin from the road, so Danny had almost missed it as he passed it. Only the faint smell of woodsmoke had drawn his attention to the fact that civilisation was near. He'd survived the two-day trek by eating wizened fruit and singing shanties to himself. A year ago, if anyone had told him that he'd be semi-insane and singing to himself in northern Italy, he would've punched them. Now, he could only wonder at the really weird turns his life had taken lately.
It had been three days since his arrival at Marcus Castella's house, armed with the letter Rosa had written for him asking for aid. The biggest surprise of all was that Marcus could read. Bears normally couldn't. The second biggest surprise was that Marcus was the central point of contact for a number of foreign and local resistance groups. The guy's idea of technology was a hole dug into the ground to keep food cool, and he clearly did not believe in beer. Yet somehow, it worked. A regular flow of messengers came to and from Marcus' home by bicycle and by horse, yet the Nazis overlooked it because it was a primitive wood cabin without electricity or communications, and because Marcus looked like the sort of man that museums might base their Neanderthal exhibits on.
He woke in his blankets on the hard wood floor and rolled over with a yawn. Marcus' bed was already empty. The guy could move pretty quiet for a hulking Neanderthal. Danny had yet to wake before him, or even hear him leave, but he knew what would be waiting for him on the small dining table; a crusty bread roll, small amount of butter, slice of cheese, and a cup of luke-warm honeyed water. Marcus believed very strongly in drinking boiled water sweetened with honey. He was definitely a bear.
He sat up, ran his hand over his chin, and tried to work the knots out of his hair. There was no denying it; he was in desperate need of a shave and a haircut. On the other hand, the whole unkempt look added an air of authenticity to his civilian disguise. Soldiers were sticklers for personal hygiene, and he clearly was not.
The smell of honey roused him from the floor, and he wandered over to partake of this morning's breakfast. It was food for the belly, not the eyes, though it was considerably better than most of what the army cooks had served. At least it was identifiable. And edible. The bread wasn't stale and the cheese wasn't mouldy. A couple of eggs would've improved it massively, but as the saying went, beggars could not be choosers.
After polishing off the bread and licking his fingers clean, he took his luke-warm honey water to his blankets and plopped back down. What was he gonna to do? Right now, Marcus was working on getting him new papers, because the ones Matteo had picked up in Treviso would not stand up to scrutiny. Amateurish, Marcus called them, before promptly throwing them in the fire. Sooner or later, the new papers would come, and he could move on again. Maybe even straight to an Allied camp. Before then, he needed a story to explain his absence, or he was looking at being tried as a deserter.
Oh sure, he'd been shot, but that was six months ago. Technically he ought to have tried to make his way back as soon as he was fit enough for travel. Or as soon as winter was over. Right now they were well into spring; he could've been on the move for over a month already. Could he maybe tell the brass that he'd chosen to stay where he was to try and organise some local resistance? Nah, that wouldn't fly. Both Phillips and Hawkswell knew that he wasn't the responsible, volunteer-for-stuff kinda guy. That was the kinda thing Barnes would do, not him. Maybe he'd just have to tell them he'd hit his head when he got shot, and developed temporary amnesia 'cos of the head trauma. Hopefully that wasn't something they could medically test for.
Desire to be out of the cramped, one-room house drove him to down his warm honey water, tug on his boots, and step outside into the back yard, aka the forest. All in all, it wasn't a bad thing Marcus had going here. Sure, the house needed some more rooms and better furnishings, and a bit of electricity wouldn't have hurt. But the area itself was peaceful, sheltered from the wind by two towering hills, and close enough to the river that fresh drinking water was not a problem.
He found the man splitting wood with an axe so big Danny doubted he could even have lifted it. After a moment of watching, he asked in Italian. "Need a hand?" He was as fluent in it as French, now. Locals would know he wasn't a native, but nobody else would. Especially not stupid Germans.
"No," the man grunted, swinging the axe and splitting another log.
"Okie dokie." He spied a fishing pole propped up against a tree, along with the usual fishing paraphernalia. Until recently, his knowledge of fishing consisted of everything PFC Davies had taught him—namely, throwing a grenade in a lake. Paolo had taught him how to do it properly. He was a good kid. "Do you mind if I take the pole and go do some fishing down at the river? Maybe if I get lucky, we can have something other than stew for dinner tonight." Rosa had made soup. Wonderful, aromatic, flavoursome soup. Marcus made stew. There was a considerable difference.
"Sure."
He grabbed the pole, tackle box and bait bucket and set off for the river before Marcus could change his mind. The river was one of those typical mountain features that ran as a stream during winter and fall but widened considerably during spring and summer, when meltwater from the Alpine glaciers caused it to swell. Marcus was a shrewd man; knowing fish might struggle against the flow, he'd long ago constructed a sort of artificial harbour built up out of heavy rocks, a place that created a pool mostly sheltered from the current which allowed fish to congregate without being carried away. A heron was already taking advantage of the spot, and Danny threw a stone at it as he approached. But he threw with his bad arm, so he wouldn't actually hit the bird. He had nothing against them in principal, but it might steal a fish that was destined for his rod. The heron could come back later.
Another thing Marcus had done was bring over a long, sturdy log to serve as a seat by the river bank. Years, possibly decades, of use had worn the centre of the log down and polished it smooth, so that one of the best views in Italy also had one of the most comfortable chairs. Italians were all crazy, but they did have some good ideas.
He placed the tackle box and bait bucket by the log, and sat with the pole across his knees. First he tied on the hook, then investigated the bucket for today's bait options. It was worms; Marcus farmed them in a compost pile behind his house. Probably the lowliest type of farming in the world, but it saved him having to dig for bait every day. PFC Davies would've approved. Hell, maybe the guy had even had a worm compost farm of his own, back with the 107th. Before a mine collapsed on his head.
The fattest worm in the bucket was trying to wriggle its way down amongst the mass of wriggling pink, as if trying to avoid a fate it sensed approaching. Danny plucked it from the pile and held it up to examine it.
"Sorry buddy," he said. "It's nothing personal. I gotta sacrifice you to get what I need." He frowned at his own words. "It's a rough gig, being used like that. Killed because you're nothing more than a means to an end. Guess we've got a lot in common. We're just like worms, us soldiers, only we're probably more stupid because we volunteered for it. Dangled on hooks to entice Hitler and his cronies to send his armies where we want them to be. And you know what the real kicker is? This is still better than being back home."
He speared the worm on the hook before he could start feeling too much sympathy for the thing, then cast the line out into the pool while the heron circled the area then settled down to watch a little further downstream.
Die slowly, he thought to the worm. Entice a nice big fish for me. And if reincarnation is real, I hope you come back as something better in the next life. Me? I'm probably coming back as a worm for real next time.
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He woke in his blankets on the hard wood floor and rolled over with a yawn. Marcus' bed was already empty, but the smell of honeyed water saturated the air. He'd finally figured out that Marcus drank honeyed water to settle his stomach after all the food he made. Yesterday, Danny had only caught one fish, so Marcus had used it to make fish stew. Life was cruel like that.
The cabin door flew open and Marcus stepped inside. "Get dressed. We go."
A sliver of alarm chased away the last dregs of sleep. "What, now? Can't I at least eat my breakfast?"
"No. We go now."
"But—"
"No but. Go. Eat on the way."
He'd lived outta his bag for the past four days, rather than waste time unpacking. Not that Marcus' house had anywhere for him to store his few possessions had he actually unpacked anything. All he had to do to be travel-ready was change into a cleaner shirt and pull on his boots. On the way out, he grabbed the bread and cheese. They were better than nothing.
There seemed little point in probing Marcus for information; the guy made Matteo seem downright chatty. So Danny merely followed the guy into the forest, and on to the next stage of his journey back to worm-life. They walked in silence for a full hour as the morning sun rose above the treetops and made its presence known with unseasonal warmth. On the bright side, it was too early in the season for mosquitoes. And chiggers. Hopefully.
After well over an hour of travelling through the forest, of dodging around trees, climbing over fallen logs, and sometimes back-tracking where small land slips had made the way impassable, they reached a road. Marcus had set a firm and steady pace, and after six months of no forced marches, Danny was sweating like a pig. Much as he wanted to take his shirt off to cool down, the tiny paranoid voice in his head told him that a dozen Nazis would be waiting just around the next tree, ready to question him about the obvious gunshot wound to his shoulder. He had no bullshit to explain that away.
"Rest," said Marcus, as he took stock of the road and the forest on the other side. "We wait."
So Danny shouldered his bag and definitely did not sink into a gooey, sweaty pile on the floor. Jeez, how could he be so out of shape? He'd never got this tired while doing all his scouting and map-drawing near Rosa's place. Then again, he hadn't exactly been moving at a fast pace. Geriatrics could'a outrun him.
"What are we waiting for?" he asked, after a half-hour of resting had given him the chance to cool off and recover a little of his stamina.
Marcus cocked his head at a distant sound. Was that… an engine? It had been an age since Danny had heard the sound of a car or a truck. This one was getting louder. Definitely approaching.
"Come," his guide said, leading him back into the forest, to a place where they could watch the road without being seen.
Danny was only a step behind him. They could be German forces on their way to somewhere or other, and Marcus' caution was infectious. Since his fake papers had been burned, he'd be in serious trouble if the Nazis found him.
The engine grew louder and louder, and had a sort of sputtering quality to it. Finally, Marcus grunted, and said, "Safe." He stepped out onto the road and waved his arms to flag the vehicle down. Apparently, Italians could recognise shoddy Italian engineering just by the sound of the engine. As Danny joined the big man on the road, the car sputtered to a halt. The driver kept the engine running while a man climbed out of the passenger seat and greeted Marcus with a smile and a firm handshake. Clearly, this man had never eaten the Marcus's stew.
After a brief exchange of greetings, the man handed some folded papers to Marcus, which he studied in great detail. Finally he nodded in satisfaction and handed them off to Danny. "Keep safe," he said, and there was no doubt he was talking about the papers.
"You will take this car," the stranger said, "and go with Antonio. He will help you reach an Allied camp."
"How can I ever thank you for all you've done for me?" Danny asked Marcus.
The big man shrugged. "Win war." And with that he turned and walked back into the forest. The stranger followed him.
Danny watched until the car driver pipped the horn and drew his attention back to his situation. This road was in good condition, which probably meant that it saw traffic. Not a place to be caught unaware.
He slipped the papers into his pack then slid into the front seat of the car and closed the door behind him. The man behind the wheel was tall and olive-skinned, and his dark brown hair was tinged with grey around the temples. He offered a hand and said, "Greetings, Pierre. I am Antonio."
"Nice to meet you," he said, accepting the handshake. "And thanks for helping me out."
"No thanks needed. We are all friends here, yes? We must work together to bring these Nazis to their knees. We'll show them what happens to those who think they can push us around. Just like Mussolini!" There was a murderous gleam in Antonio's eyes, as if he'd been directly involved in overthrowing the country's dictator. Maybe he had. Italians were all nuts.
"Where are we heading?" Danny asked, as they set off without changing direction.
"To the vineyard."
"The vineyard?"
"It is where the finest wine in all of Italy comes from!"
Wine. He could get on board with that. "Is there an Allied camp near it?"
"Not anywhere close," said Antonio. "But I must have a reason for leaving town, yes? And that reason is a trip to the vineyard to restock my supply of red wine. And with me comes my employee, Pierre."
"Your employee?"
"At my tavern! The finest tavern in all of Italy!"
"Uh… okay."
No doubt if Danny had asked him about the car, he would've proclaimed it the finest in all of Italy too. But it didn't matter. So long as he was willing to help, the guy could brag as much as he wanted. All that was important was getting back in one piece. Finding the 107th. Salving a friendship he might've completely destroyed with a stupid letter.
The vineyard was only an hour's journey down the road, and most of their time was spent with Antonio regaling Danny with tales from his home commune of Forno di Zoldo, which was, unsurprisingly, the finest commune in all of Italy. It had the best mountains, the best lakes, the best rivers, and of course, the best tavern with the best wine. People travelled for many miles to do recreational skiing there, which had been popular with rich tourists before the war. Since then, the skiing had stopped, and the locals had tightened their belts.
"Any idea where the nearest Allied base is?" he asked, when Antonio stopped to take a breath of what was undoubtedly the freshest air in Italy.
"Sì. At least, I knew where they were last week. Maybe they've gone, maybe they've stayed. I can take you most of the way, to within a few kilometers, but you will need to go the rest of the way on foot."
"Doesn't that mean I'll be stranded if they're gone? I'm not a huge fan of this plan. Maybe we should aim for Switzerland. It's still neutral, right?"
"Ehh." Antonio made a so-so hand motion. "Ever since the Russians started pushing the Eastern Front, Hitler has become less respectful of boundaries. And the Swiss, they are less welcoming of people approaching their borders. We could try, but I can't guarantee you wouldn't be shot on sight."
"I suddenly like the first plan better." What was the world coming to? If a guy couldn't trust the Swiss these days, who could he trust?
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"This way," said Antonio. "Mind the step. And watch your head."
His arms loaded with stacked crates of red wine, Danny tried to navigate the exact one place where the steepest step down into the cellar met the ceiling above, and had to affect a sort of sideways ducking crab motion to avoid giving himself a concussion. Although Antonio had lit a lamp, they mostly descended into darkness.
The vineyard had been a very fine one after all, though Danny didn't exactly have a wide frame of reference by which to judge it. The vineyard owners had greeted Antonio like an old friend, and given both their visitors a glass of one of their finest reds along with a light lunch of olives and cheese. Then there was a second glass, at which point Danny asked Antonio if he ought to be drinking so much when he had to navigate the mountain roads back to Forno di Zoldo. Si, si, it will be fine, was the response. Damn crazy Italians.
With the car's trunk loaded up, they'd headed back. Danny managed to nap briefly while Antonio drove, but the car was a little too loud and the roads a little too hairpin-bendy to find any real sleep. Antonio made sure to drive at a careful and respectable speed on the way back, to protect his precious cargo, but even careful driving couldn't eliminate all of the harsh turns required to navigate the roads.
His first view of Forno di Zoldo forced Danny to concede that Antonio was right; it really was a beautiful place. It may even have been the finest place in all of Italy. It was easy to see why so many rich foreigners would come here for recreation. "Do you know a man called Howard Stark?" Danny had asked as Antonio drove the last leg of the journey to the tavern. But Antonio's quizzical glance said that Stark had never been here. Those that had met him never forgot him, even if it was only once.
As they descended the steps, his eyes adjusted to the lower light levels, and he found himself in a wine cellar. The shelves were well-stocked for the most part, and a few large wooden casks stood stacked opposite the shelves, forming a corridor wide enough for two men to walk abreast between them. At the far end were a few sacks filled with vegetables, wheat, flour, and a couple of crates of eggs. They were white and large; probably duck or goose. Not chicken, for sure.
Antonio used his lamp to light two more lanterns, spreading golden warmth throughout the otherwise dark and musty cellar. "You can put those down there," he said, gesturing to an empty spot on one of the shelves. "Good good. Now, come see over here." He took Danny to the wooden casks, holding up his lamp to illuminate the area behind them. A small, rectangular space considerably narrower than the Monticello's tween deck. A few blankets had been laid on the ground there, with another blanket as a pillow. "You will sleep here," Antonio explained. "You may keep one lantern lit, and I'll bring more oil for it before nightfall. "When I enter the cellar, I will say, 'I cannot wait to open a new bottle of my favourite wine' if I am alone and it is safe for you to be seen. But if I say, 'The rats have been very active lately', it means there is someone with me that I may not trust, and you should immediately hide yourself behind the casks. When you fetch your bag from the car, make sure you keep it back here at all times."
"Wait, you expect me to stay in here the whole time? And sleep in here?"
"Yes. We see regular Nazi patrols. Your papers are a last resort; it would be safer if you were not seen at all."
His heart dipped down into his stomach, and he felt the unmistakable throbbing of his pulse in his temples. "I gotta tell ya, I don't do real well in small, dark spaces like this."
"But it is just for one day! Tomorrow I'll take you to your camp, yes? You have survived being shot, and being hunted by Nazis. You can survive one night in a cellar. It's not even winter, so you won't be cold!"
"If I have to stay here, I will go insane and kill someone. This is not hyperbole. It's not bullshit. I can't do it." The tween had been hard enough, but at least there he hadn't been alone. He'd had the 107th to make just as miserable as him, and he'd been able to bribe the ship's crew to let him up on deck more than he was supposed to be. And in the mine, the one that'd killed PFCs Franklin and Davies along with a handful of others, he'd had Barnes there with him, to talk to him and keep him sane throughout the ordeal. He couldn't've done it alone. Any of it. Not the tween and not the mine. And definitely not this. It was too much like the closet back home.
"Ahh, you Americans and your comforts!" bemoaned the guy who got to sleep in a comfy bed with a stunning view and drink the finest wine in Italy every night. "Fine, then this is what I'll do. I'll leave the cellar door open. I'll have our worker, Lorenzo, bring out all the empty wine crates and do some cleaning and dusting on the shelves around them. That way there will be more light and my cellar will be cleaner. In fact, I will send Lorenzo down with two brooms, and you can both clean."
Somehow, this day just kept going from bad to worse. But at least there would be more light. And he wouldn't be alone. Sweeping was nothing; he'd done a lot of that, for Rosa. Was practically a pro at it by now. If the Olympics ever decided to hold Competitive Sweeping, Danny would win hands down.
"That would be great. Thanks."
"The things I do for my country!" As if having his cellar cleaned was some huge inconvenience. "I will send dinner down for you after my lovely Maria has cooked, but we will have to close the door at night. Or if anybody potentially untrustworthy comes along. We cannot allow snooping!"
"I understand. Thanks again."
Just one night. He could do one night in a cold, dark, cramped space. This was not the closet back home. It wasn't the mine that'd caved in and killed a handful of men, some of whom he actually didn't hate. It wasn't the Monticello, that might've been torpedoed by U-boats at any moment. It was just a cellar. Nothing to be worried about. This place was completely and utterly safe.