How long had I been here? I puzzled over that one so I wouldn't have to think about his other question.

"I don't know, Rocko. I really don't know."

"You dunno where you been or you dunno your name?"

He kept his eyes on me as I lay there, not answering his question. The longer he waited and stared at me, the harder it was not to answer. I felt the words form and rise up as if I had no control over them. Orderlies brought in more stretcher cases, transferring the wounded to cots and cutting away grimy blood-soaked bandages with practiced ease, revealing the awful truth of combat. The louder the artillery, the busier this place got. The chaplain moved around us, kneeling and praying with the wounded waiting for treatment.

I lowered my voice. "I have no idea where I've been or how I got here. I don't remember you or any Italian or anybody else, for that matter. I don't know my own name."

"No shit?"

"No shit, Rocko. Help me up, will you?"

Rocko grabbed an arm and I swiveled my legs off the cot. I pushed off with one hand and sat up straight. Everything whirled, then calmed down. Rocko was looking at me with a mixture of confusion and disbelief, his eyes darting over my clothes. My uniform, that was the word. "Nail." "Uniform." I wondered what else I'd remember.

"Jesus, kid," Rocko said, sitting down on the cot next to me. "You got any other ID on you? What about that jacket?"

"What jacket?" I said as I patted my empty pockets. My eye caught the shoulder patch on my shirt. Blue triangle with a yellow A, filled in with red. Seventh Army, I knew that much. So I was a headquarters guy.

"That funny jacket you was wearing. I almost thought you was a Kraut or maybe a Limey at first."

I tried to remember a jacket. A funny jacket. Maybe my next one would be a straitjacket. I saw Rocko reach his arm under the cot and feel around. He came up with a faded khaki jacket, neatly folded, where the medics had left it.