Miracle at St. Anna

by James McBride

  But this was different. For the first time, he had a stake in something. He never really cared about Old Man Parson’s mules back home, the cotton that his mother worked her fingers to the bone picking on her sharecropped land, the father he didn’t know, the old rickety shack that didn’t belong to them, the Army, the white man’s rules. None of it had mattered to him. They put a uniform on him and made him run around, and that was fine because he got forty-one dollars a month. For fifty-two Sundays a year for twenty-one years—his entire life—he’d learned that even his own life wasn’t his own. It belonged to God. Other than his mother and his grandmother, he had no stake in anyone, anyplace, any land, anything, except for this little somebody. In the boy, he saw land, lots of it, a farm in Mt. Gilead, North Carolina, where he would plow mules and pick the boy up at school and bring him home, and the boy would grow to be a man, a white man, and no one would tell him what to do, because he was white. In the density of Train’s own thick mind, the walls of impossibilities that loomed ahead never occurred to him, the centuries of granite, concrete, steel-strong prejudice that awaited him back in America. This boy was a miracle. He was an angel. An angel had no color. The boy was Santa Claus. Everybody said it. Everybody liked Santa Claus. The boy was like him. He was nobody. He was invisible.

  Train shifted as he stared out the window. “Nobody thinks he sees nuthin’, Hector. But he sees it all. Train knows.”

  “I know, champ.”

  “Y’think I’m gonna have to give him back?”

  “Don’t know, Diesel, but I gotta talk to him.”

  “G’wan.”

  Hector sat on the bed and reached into his pocket for a D bar. “Cioccolato?” he asked.

  The kid bounced up and down and ignored him.

  “Diesel, I need your help, man.”

  Train approached, sat on the bed, and the boy popped into his lap. Train tapped on his chest twice.

  “My name is Angelo,” the boy said to Hector in Italian.

  “Where are you from?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You remember the man in the uniform?”

  “There were a lot.”

  “The one just now. The one on the hill. The one who cried in the kitchen.”

  The little boy’s face darkened. “Sì.”

  “What did he tell you on the hill just now?”

  “He told me what he told me before.”

  “Before where?”

  “Before. At the church. At the fire.”

  “What fire?”

  “The fire at the church.”

  “Where’s your mama and papa?”

  The boy was silent.

  “Dove mama?”

  The boy curled into a little ball. Train waved Hector back. “Aw, Hec, leave him be.”

  “One more thing,” Hector said. “Stamps told me to ask him. Just one more thing.”

  Hector leaned down, his face close to the boy. “What did the soldier tell you on the hill just now?”

  “He told me what he told me before,” Angelo repeated.

  “What did he tell you before?”

  “He told me to run. He told me to run as fast as I can.”

  16

  SENDING NOKES

  Colonel Driscoll sat in his tent smoking a cigarette and staring at his reports under a candle’s flickering light. The report that the Germans were amassing four regiments near the Lama di Sotto ridge, eleven thousand men—plus four tank companies with 250 Italian civilians to carry ammo—was confirmed by a second British aircraft photo and a carabiniere from the area, though no German prisoners had trickled in. The Germans, apparently, were holding tight and not letting anybody clear, gathering steam, which is what he would do, too, if he were they. The prisoner they had in Bornacchi was important. Driscoll turned and ordered his staff sergeant, who was standing behind him awaiting orders, to have the prisoner taken straight to division HQ as soon as he arrived.

  “They can’t get him here,” the sergeant said.

  “Why not?”

  “Patrols between us and them, and the partisans who have him won’t release him.”

  “Get Nokes in here.”

  Driscoll had wanted to send Nokes earlier, but the old man, General Allman, had made him wait. “We gotta be sure it’s worth the risk,” Allman had said. “Why risk more men if we’re not sure the intelligence we have is clean?” But now they couldn’t wait.

  Nokes arrived. Driscoll, looking at Nokes’s leathery neck and grizzled hair, decided he would have preferred to send Captain Rudden, because Rudden got the job done, but he didn’t want to risk losing the best white captain he had. Plus, Lieutenant Birdsong was Nokes’s second, and Birdsong was pretty good. He had sense. It didn’t escape Driscoll, the irony of it, that he was dependent on the colored second-in-command to pull off this rescue mission. The war, he decided, was teaching him all sorts of new tricks. He briefly considered promoting Birdsong to captain, then decided against it. It would cause too many ripples, especially with General Allman, who didn’t want coloreds commanding blacks, let alone whites.

  “Take Lieutenant Birdsong and a squad of four in two jeeps, and bring back that squad and their prisoner,” Driscoll said.

  He watched fear climb into Nokes’s face. “Can’t we just get the information by radio, sir? Until the weather clears at least? Birdsong speaks German.”

  “You want me to put Birdsong on the radio with the German prisoner so he can have a friendly chat and tell the enemy what we know? Is that your thinking?”

  Driscoll could see Nokes didn’t like the situation. Too goddamn bad, he thought. The division was short. There were not enough replacements. The Army hadn’t figured on the colored getting all shot up. They’d underestimated the Germans’ strength in Italy. There were no more colored troops available to replace the ones they’d lost, except the 366th Regiment, a tough, smart National Guard outfit, but they had taken heavy losses and were demoralized. Their commander, Colonel King, had quit in frustration—a disgrace as far as Driscoll was concerned—because, King said, Allman didn’t want colored commanders. Well, this was war, no one had time to deal with the Negro’s claims. And besides, Nokes had screwed up. He would have to make it up on his end. They needed to know where to place their strongest regiments when the Germans came. Otherwise, they could be beaten back or even overrun.

  Driscoll saw Nokes eyeing the snow-filled sky outside the tent, fretting. He said calmly, “Those four men been up there nine days, with short supply and ammo. They made it okay. You can make it with six.”

  Nokes saluted, turned on his heel, and left.

  Colonel Driscoll sat at his desk glaring at the candle as it burned. He had a bigger problem, a personal problem that was nearly as bad, in the form of a telegram that had arrived on his desk that morning, telling him that General Allman’s only son had been killed in action in France.

  Driscoll placed the telegram in front of him on the desk and tried to think clearly. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this moment. A devout Roman Catholic, he had a sudden urge to confess his sins and seek absolution, because he loved Allman, racist or not. He had to admit it to himself, even though they were polar opposites. He was a Yankee, Allman a Southerner. He was a West Point grad. Allman was a VMI grad, five feet two inches of blue-eyed, two-fisted fury. Driscoll was constantly putting out fires between Allman and the colored, whose hatred of Allman was not without cause. He was demanding. He was harsh. He did not spare their feelings. He did not care about their racial pride, and, in fact, was against it. He took risks with them. His training marches were hell. He disapproved of black officers. Any disobedience was punished severely. He made it clear that on the battlefield he would put a bullet into the head of any man who showed cowardice, colored or white.

  Yet he loved and defended the coloreds, even as he despised them. How could you love a group of people and hate them at the same time? Driscoll had seen Allman at night, alone, reading over the high casualty figures, desp
ondent, sipping brandy, roaring with rage about the Negro press, Eleanor Roosevelt, the lack of naval firepower to support the 92nd, and General Park, his superior, who commanded the Fifth Army, who was unlike Allman in every way. Park had political aspirations that reached beyond the war, aspirations that seemed more important than the lives of Allman’s men, his “boys,” Allman called them. Allman hated politicians almost as much as he hated the cowards among his troops. “Scared niggers,” he scoffed. But the brave ones he loved. He honored. He wrote letters to their families even as he muttered that their families probably couldn’t read them. He attended the bodies of the dead himself at times. He would have demoted Nokes instantly if he’d found out about that little number he’d pulled at the Cinquale Canal, hanging his men out to dry, which is why Driscoll didn’t tell him and gave strict orders that anyone who did would be court-martialed, because behind Nokes there were ten other white captains just like him, and what was the point?

  None of them, white or colored, understood Allman. He lived and died for battle. He’d risk the life of his white soldiers, too. He sent Driscoll, his own chief of staff, out on patrols several times. He was willing to risk Driscoll’s life, and even his own, riding up to the front lines in a jeep with two red flags on it, which might as well have had a sign “Shoot Me” plastered on the side of it. The German artillery gunners in the ridges above them, who regularly blasted to pieces any American who wasn’t hidden behind a rock or tree, must have thought they were dreaming when they saw an American jeep with two red flags on it and a white man sitting in front barreling up Highway 88 outside Seravezza. The Germans weren’t stupid. They knew the whites were the commanders. They blew the jeep to pieces. Allman’s driver was killed, but Allman was thrown into a ditch, unhurt. Driscoll heard that several colored soldiers had cheered when they heard about it. He was furious and sought the culprits, but when he inquired, he was met with blank stares and shrugging shoulders. The coloreds did not understand Allman. He was unstoppable when it came to battle. It was in his blood. It had nothing to do with race. He was a warrior, and he expected everyone around him to be one, too.

  And now Driscoll had to tell the old man that his greatest warrior, his greatest pride, was dead.

  Driscoll placed the telegram on his desk and tried to think clearly. There was no easy way to handle this. The kid could have had any command post he wanted—Allman’s brother-in-law was General Marshall, after all—but he’d gone with his father’s wishes. They’d talked about it several times. “To be a commander, you cannot be a humble man,” Allman always said. “If you are a humble man, making decisions that cost the lives of your subordinates is an almost insupportable burden. You have to have ego, pride, confidence, detachment to send any man into harm’s way and be able to handle the casualties that occur. That’s why I want my son to serve as a lieutenant in rifle infantry first. I want him to know the full spectrum of battle before he moves to a higher level. It’ll make him a better commander.”

  Now that better commander was no more, Driscoll thought bitterly, and I get to deliver the news. Seated at his desk, he picked up the telegram, folded it, tucked it in his breast pocket, and marched out to Allman’s green command van, which was parked under a grove of trees just a short distance from the division headquarters tent. He knocked softly, then entered.

  Allman was seated at his desk, four maps before him, and the colonels of the 370th and 365th regiments peering over his shoulder. Driscoll asked if he could speak to him privately about an urgent matter.

  Allman looked up from the desk, and his hard blue gaze struck Driscoll like bullets. “We’re planning an attack here,” he grunted.

  “It’s urgent,” Driscoll insisted.

  Allman dismissed the colonels from the van. Driscoll waited until the door was closed, then handed Allman the telegram. Allman opened it and held it under the table lamp amid the maps.

  The general’s stern face, weathered by a thousand battles and a million disastrous combat reports, crumpled in utter disbelief and despair for just a moment as his eyes sped across the page, then righted itself. He sat at his desk, holding the paper aloft under the lamp, staring at it, motionless.

  “Does my wife know?” he asked.

  “Yes. Your daughter as well.”

  Allman was silent, frozen, still holding the telegram.

  “Do you want me to call the doctor to give you something?” Driscoll asked gently.

  Allman stared ahead for several long moments, his face illuminated by the table lamp. Then he placed his hands over his forehead as if he were trying to peer into the distance.

  “No. I want to sleep for a while. No disturbances till tomorrow morning.”

  Driscoll swayed, the tension in his forehead tightening to a knot.

  “It’s December twenty-second. We have roughly fourteen hours before the Germans plan their charge. If we mount our attack, we have six hours. I can get Brigadier General Birch to handle it if you want,” Driscoll said. He knew Allman did not trust Birch. Birch was an odd man, a bachelor, and second-rate. He was a god-awful strategist. His claim to fame was that he ran a singing platoon. Driscoll knew what Allman would say.

  Allman seemed far away. He sighed a moment, his head in his hands. “Give me an hour,” he said.

  Driscoll backed out of the van into the traffic and flow of the division busily clattering behind him. He stood with his face to the door for a few moments, then with a sigh turned to face the bustling tanks and men going every which way. From the top of the steps to Allman’s van, he saw a figure scurrying away, carrying a typewriter.

  “Captain Nokes!”

  Nokes turned and walked over and saluted. His leathery face wore the expression of a puppy dog caught chewing a pair of shoes.

  Driscoll nodded at the typewriter. “What’s that for?”

  “Need to requisition some new socks for the men before we leave. Trench foot, sir.”

  “Were you going to order out for a hamburger and malted milk, too?”

  Nokes’s face reddened. “No, sir.”

  “What the hell are you waiting for?”

  “Just thought it’d be okay to wait an hour or so for the weather to clear, sir.”

  Driscoll felt rage crawl into his face. “Drop that goddamn typewriter right now, form that squad, take two jeeps, and get your ass out there. Don’t come back here till you have bodies or dog tags or a German or all three.”

  The typewriter splattered the snowy mud as Nokes saluted, turned, and fled. Driscoll watched him go, stifling the urge to run after him and kick him in the ass.

  17

  HECTOR

  The booming artillery fire had died down, but Stamps knew the Germans were in pause mode. Whatever was coming was coming from both sides above the Serchio Valley. Another half day and the shelling that was threatening the ridges that surrounded them would land where they stood, and they would have to move because troops would not be far behind. He stood in the dead center of the village and watched the villagers moving back and forth listlessly.

  Since the firing was coming from above, crisscrossing, with them near the center, they would have to decide which leg of the X to run up. Which way to run? If only he knew the woods. He decided to take a chance and trust the partisans. Not all of them, he knew, were trustworthy. They were supposed to be approved by the Office of Strategic Services at headquarters and to carry papers stating that. Otherwise, they could be the Italian army, or spies, or Fascists, or simply bandits who went with whoever was running things, German or American, he’d seen that, too. But there was no time now. The Italian with the big ears was guarding the prisoner in front of Ludovico’s house. Stamps summoned him. “Go take a look up that ridge”—he pointed to the west—“and tell me if you see Germans over there.”

  Stamps’s order took several tries because the man did not speak English, but after a few more hand signals, the Italian nodded and took off, trotting for the ridge facing the village. Stamps watched the partisan’s
back as he climbed the mountain. Something about the guy was not right, he felt, but he had no time to think about it now.

  As he climbed the ridge, Rodolfo could feel the American’s eyes aimed at his back like a sniper’s scope. The American tenente was smart, he thought. He would have to be extra careful now. The Negro Americans had nearly ruined everything. And they had come by mistake, too! They were lost. That’s what the Spanish-speaking one said. Rodolfo cursed his luck. He wanted to scream, thinking about it. He paused a few seconds and breathed deeply to calm himself. Everything could still be salvaged. Then he leaped forward, climbing the ridge until the tenente was out of sight.

  Sporadic shelling still came from several ridges over to the west, landing on the cliffs opposite Rodolfo, but that didn’t bother him. He was in no danger. Still, he was cold. He headed upward to a wide chasm, forded it by walking carefully along an icy eighteen-inch ledge that took him around it, then scaled yet another ridge that led toward an uppermost peak, which he knew would afford him a view of the ridges directly across. Planting his feet into nooks and crannies, he hoisted himself up to the top of the cliff and lay on his stomach. From his position, he could see clear across the Serchio Valley, right into the eye of the Mountain of the Sleeping Man. He lay there motionless for several seconds, letting his eyes adjust to the sun, which shone directly in his face. He fully expected to see four or five advance squads of Germans making their way down Mt. Forato toward the Lama di Sotto ridge, with one or two cannon companies behind them. What he saw instead made his heart skip a beat, and he sucked in his breath.