"This is it, kid. See what I mean?"

I took it from him and let it fall open. No insignia, no rank, no labels. The buttons were plain brass, tarnished and worn. It was rumpled and sweat-stained, the original color faded by the sun until only traces of dark khaki showed along the seams and under the pocket flaps. It could've been a German or Italian tropical jacket, maybe British. Or a U. S. Army field jacket, all insignia stripped off. Four buttons, four pockets. Your basic standard-issue design. Except everyone here was wearing brown wool. Dog-shit brown, someone had called it recently. Who was that? Words flashed through my mind- drop zone, Piano Lupo, dog shit, Licata-but they didn't connect. They were only words.

"You ever see an army uniform without all sorts of numbers and labels inside it, Rocko?"

"Never saw anything like this. No size, no serial number; you could never fill out a requisition for this rag. I'll check yer pockets, kid."

Rocko reached for the jacket, feeling around in the large lower pockets. He obviously had taken me under his wing. He'd probably saved my life. I realized he was the only guy on this goddamn island whose name I knew.

I dug my fingers into my shirt pocket, felt something soft and silky, and pulled out a handkerchief. Not plain white, not army-issue khaki cotton, but a silk handkerchief, the fabric a deep, rich yellow, almost gold. In the middle the letter L was stitched in black thread. It felt strange to hold this elegant item here, surrounded by dust, canvas, wool, and gauze. I had a strange urge to get rid of it, to distance myself from whatever that initial stood for. Unless it stood for my name? But then why did I feel like getting rid of it?

Harsh noises drove those thoughts away. Not the dull thunder of distant artillery but the crack of cannon fire.