"Your supplies?"

"Quartermaster Company, 45th Division, kid. We got a captain, he ain't worth shit, and a lieutenant too, I don't pay him no mind. Rocko Walters, kid, that's who to ask for if you need bullets, beans, or blankets. They call me Rocko 'cause everyone depends on me. I'm the rock in this outfit, see, since the officers are total screwups. You ain't an officer, are you?"

I gave a little laugh and rolled my eyes, hoping he'd settle for that as an answer.

"So, Rocko, when was the first time you saw me?"

"Geez, it was yesterday, don't you remember?"

I raised my hand to the bandage around my head.

"Yeah, well, you was pretty banged up. That Italian who had you musta whacked you one good."

"What Italian?"

"How the fuck do I know, kiddo? The place is crawlin' with 'em. All I know is me and two other guys took off to Gela in a jeep to rustle up a couple trucks. We didn't get all the transport we was supposed to, so we figured to get us some civilian trucks. Right outside town, we see this Eyetie who's got you, and we holler at him to let you go. Louie speaks the lingo from his old neighborhood, enough to make himself understood. The Eyetie lets you go, but pulls a gun, so we hadda shoot him."

"You kill him?"

"Naw, Louie's a lousy shot. Creased his side, I think. Got his attention, though. He dropped the pistol, and we gave him to some GIs who were herding about a dozen POWs down to the holding area."

"How did I get here?"

"In a jeep. A medic heard the shooting and pulled over. When he saw the shape you were in he grabbed you and brought you here. I wanted to come visit you, but couldn't get out from under my asshole captain until now."

"And when did all this happen exactly?

"Yesterday morning, a few hours after my outfit landed. How long you been on the island anyway? And what's your name, kid? You must've lost your dog tags. They couldn't figure out your blood type or nothin'."