"You-you look familiar to me," I lied. "I know you, right?"

Dull booms echoed across the landscape, followed by a screeching sound high above us that made my new pal duck and put one hand up to steady his helmet. He was a buck sergeant, three stripes, silver on black against his brown wool shirt.

"Jesus," he said, "them cruisers sound like they're shootin' fuckin' freight trains at the Krauts."

"Where?"

"Where what?"

"Where are the Germans?"

"All over the goddamn place, that's where. Supposed to be nothin' but a bunch of guinea wops ready to give up, except for a few Kraut technicians, they told us. Well, they forgot to tell our paratroopers them technicians was all driving Tiger tanks. Nearly kicked our ass off Piano Lupo yesterday and made it down here. Can you imagine that, kid? The fuckin' Hermann Goring Panzer Division! If they'da made it down to the beaches, we would of been screwed, blued, and tattooed. And they'd be headed fer yours truly, lemme tell ya."

Piano Lupo, main drop zone for the 505th Paratroop Regiment. A hill mass seven miles northeast of Gela, landing area for the 45th Division. The words raced through my mind as if someone had turned on a radio. Clear as day, then nothing.

"Piano Lupo, right, Sarge?"

He was watching the padre, and it took him a second to pull his eyes away. He was nervous. Maybe he was thinking about a Holy Joe squatting over him, if those Tiger tanks made it to the beach.

"I knew you was a headquarters boy," he said, wagging his finger at me. "First time I saw you, I knew. Yeah, that was the fuckin' plan, but they all got scattered to hell and gone. Just a handful of boys ended up there, maybe a hundred instead of a full regiment. Stopped those goddamn Krauts, though, stopped 'em dead. Before they got to me and my supplies."