Blue Madonna by James R. Benn Read Free Book Online

basic and hoped never to have to do again. Fortunately, it all came back to me. Others not so proficient were pulled out of line and made to do push-ups as guards screamed abuse at them.
    Then it was our turn to run with the packs. It wasn’t that the weight was tough, it was that the straps digging into my shoulders hurt. With every step—in unison, column of fours—the rocks jolted against my back. I tried to lose myself in the rhythm of the run, thinking about my days on the track team back in Boston. Catholic school, of course. My mother counted on the nuns to keep me in line and on Dad to serve as backup. When a ruler across the knuckles didn’t get the message across, Dad’s belt was ready to grace my backside. I learned fast.
    Which was the idea here, far as I could tell. Some guys were incorrigible; they’d be shipped home to Leavenworth. Others were redeemable and would be ready to do their part when the army needed them. With D-Day on the horizon, there would be a demand for infantry replacements. A big demand, even if they were small-time crooks.
    More whistles, and we dropped our packs and fell in again. Another count, and we were dismissed for chow. Reminders to keep moving, no talking, and eat everything came from guards who were waiting for anyone to disobey, eager for a break in the routine. A good thrashing made the time go faster.
    Lunch was shit on a shingle. Two pieces of toast with chipped beef in what the army called “creamy white sauce.” They were right about the color. I was hungry enough to eat it all without being prompted. There was a thirty-minute break after the midday meal, and I looked forward to sunning myself under the clearing skies.
    â€œBoyle,” Murphy called from across the parade ground, “they want you at the guards’ office.” So much for relaxing.
    I approached the door to the barracks hesitantly. I didn’t want another kidney whack for breaking a rule I didn’t know about. But the door opened, and a massive GI pulled me inside.
    Big Mike.
    â€œMove it,” he yelled in my ear. “See the clerk and get back here pronto!” He pointed with his billy club, a snarl curling his lips.
    Okay, I get it. We don’t know each other. I hustled over to the clerk and stood at attention.
    â€œBoyle, this is your stuff. Fatigue outfit, boots, the works. Your Uncle Sam takes care of you. Now get out and get cleaned up. You stink.” He pointed to a pile of clothes and a small box with a razor, soap, toothbrush, all the usual necessities. I grabbed everything, fumbling at the door with my hands full. Big Mike came along, cursing and yelling about what a low-life scum I was, and opened the door. He followed me into the courtyard, shoving me along with the billy club.
    â€œHow’s it going, Billy?” This came in a sideways whisper.
    â€œGot ’em right where I want ’em,” I said. “Or they have me, I’m not sure. Hammer arranged for me to bunk with them. They want my black market contacts.”
    â€œThen Sam’s plan worked,” he said. “They bought the package. You ought to be able to parlay that.”
    â€œTonight, I hope. Tomorrow you spring me. Now do me a favor,” I said, stopping to face him. “Hit me. Knock me down.”
    â€œAw, Billy, no.”
    â€œCome on, a good shove. Send me flying. We got a good audience.”
    We were on the parade ground, with dozens of guys hanging around, waiting for the next round. I was about to insult Big Mike to get him really mad, but I didn’t need to. He stepped into me, billy club jabbing at my chest, calling me all sorts of names, some of them in Polish. Big Mike had been a Detroit cop before the war, and he knew his way around a billy club. Next thing I knew, I was on my back and he was strolling around me, twirling that club like a pro.
    â€œNext time I tell you to hustle, you listen, you worthless piece of