Miracle at St. Anna (Movie Tie-in) by James McBride Read Free Book Online Page B

had ever seen on any human being. He said something frantically. Driscoll had been raised in the Roman Catholic Church and knew Latin fairly well, but his Italian, he had to admit, was terrible.
    He looked at Captain Nokes. “What does he want, food?”
    â€œNo. He said something about a church and a fight between the Germans and the Italian partisans. We’ll check it out, sir.”
    Out of the corner of his eye, Driscoll saw Second Lieutenant Birdsong purse his lips, looking troubled. Driscoll turned to Birdsong.
    â€œDidn’t I see you in Pisa at the museum two weeks ago, speaking Italian?”
    â€œYes, sir. I grew up in South Jersey with plenty of Italians. I also studied German in college.”
    â€œWhat did this man say?”
    Birdsong replied, “He said something about a large number of German paratroopers planning to come through the Serchio Valley in ten days or so. Around Christmas. Through the Lama di Sotto ridge.”
    Driscoll straightened in alarm. The Lama di Sotto ridge was in the aerial photograph he had just seen. “How many Germans?” he asked.
    â€œTwo or three regiments.”
    â€œCompanies or regiments?”
    â€œRegiments.”
    â€œAsk him that again. Two or three companies or regiments ?” A company was two hundred men. A regiment was four thousand.
    Birdsong asked the question.
    â€œRegiments, sir,” he said.
    â€œWhere’d he hear that?”
    â€œFrom some Italians in his village and a German he saw here.”
    â€œA German he saw here ?”
    Lieutenant Birdsong directed Driscoll’s question to the Italian, who responded.
    â€œA German at the POW camp back at division headquarters,” Birdsong translated.
    â€œThere’s two hundred German prisoners there,” Driscoll said dryly.
    â€œThat’s what he said, sir.”
    Captain Nokes shrugged. “It’s a lot of story there, sir.”
    Driscoll ignored Nokes. He had worked intelligence before. He had to consider the source. In his hand was a fuzzy photo taken from eleven thousand feet, of unknown origin. The man before him was a living source, a priest. Through Birdsong, he grilled the priest: Name. Birthplace. Parents’ names. Dates, when and where he’d served. Birdsong translated flawlessly.
    After half an hour, Driscoll had heard enough. He turned to Captain Nokes. “Who’s your first lieutenant?”
    â€œHuggs. He was killed this morning in the canal.”
    Driscoll pointed to Birdsong. “This man speaks excellent Italian. How come he’s not a first lieutenant?” Nokes’s face took on the pallor of a man at a funeral. He was a short man with a downturned mouth, small, darting eyes, and lips the color of veal—a leather-skinned roughneck from Mississippi. The kind of officer, Driscoll noted wryly, that the division seemed constantly to attract, a reject and a transfer—somebody else’s problem.
    Nokes barked, “In fact, I’ve been keeping my eye on this man, Colonel, and was about to promote him.” Driscoll was willing to wager a month’s pay that Nokes didn’t even know Birdsong’s name.
    â€œPromote him now and have him take this priest down to the POW camp. Let him pick out the German he’s talking about. Then let him write up the S-2 intelligence report and have it to me by fifteen hundred hours.”
    It seemed like too much information for Nokes to process, and as his face twisted and contorted with the effort, Driscoll silently cursed the Army policy that dictated that only Southerners were qualified to lead colored men. Nokes’s “Yes, sir” bounced off Driscoll’s back like a rubber ball, as Driscoll had already turned and left the tent.
    He went to his tent and lay on his cot, troubled by what the priest had said. The information the priest offered was days old and probably useless. It was not corroborated other than by the photo, the veracity