For God and Country. Mark Bowlin

wasn’t born in the States, sir. He was born in the Fatherland.”

      The colonel sighed in exasperation. “Do I need to ask the question in English so you can understand?”

      “He was from Georgia, sir. In the South. But he was a German patriot who—”

      The Abwehr colonel interrupted again. “You were saying Georgia’s in the South, correct?”

      “Yes, sir. It’s in the areas called the Old South and the Deep South. They’re not exactly the same. You see—”

      “Is Texas also in the South?”

      “Yes, sir, but not completely in the cultural sense. Texas is unique because it’s so large. It’s bigger than prewar France and it’s part southern, part western, part Mexican, part cowboy, part redneck, part roughneck . . . and all loudmouth as far as my experience goes.”

      “Indeed. They both fought for the Confederacy in their Civil War?”

      “Yes, sir. Why?”

      “Does . . . I mean, did Captain Gerschoffer speak in a Southern accent?”

      Grossmann nodded. He wasn’t sure where the conversation was heading, but it inevitably wasn’t going to be down a good road.

      “Are the accents the same?”

      “No, sir. Texas has several regional accents but they’re similar to a Georgian tone in many respects. The two state accents would be distinct to a Southerner but maybe not to a Northerner. It’s the difference between a Philadelphia accent and a New York accent: they’d know the difference even if no one else did.”

      The colonel smiled again—a brief, cynical smile showing tobacco-stained yellow teeth. It was a singularly disagreeable smile, Grossmann thought.

      “I don’t care about Philadelphia, Major. Do you think the Southerners still have an affinity to one another?”

      “Yes, sir. Absolutely. Can you tell me why you’re asking this?”

      “Yes, of course. Did it occur to you that Gerschoffer’s not dead? That perhaps he defected to his fellow Southerners with the connivance of his lover, the Roman whore, who’s now poised to flee to Switzerland—with your assistance? That as we are speaking, your particular friend is being feted and debriefed by American intelligence about our military dispositions, about Abwehr operations, the state of the Fatherland, and the Führer? Answering questions about . . . you?”

      1015 Hours

      141st Infantry Regiment Headquarters, San Pietro, Italy

      The regiment had commandeered a small house on the edge of San Pietro. It was one of the few remaining houses left standing in the unfortunate village. A week before, all the roads and walkways through the village were nearly impassable, as the buildings had collapsed from the shelling and assault of the town. Now, defined trails led back to the church and a few standing homes, but in truth, San Pietro was all but destroyed and little more than a ghost town.

      The residents of San Pietro had been trucked away by the Italian authorities to displaced-persons camps, but many had already returned. Perkin had talked to many villagers, some of whom he had met in the caves before the assault, and they were still in shock and denial about their misfortune. Women sat in the rubble of their former homes and cried; children looked through the ruins searching for toys or food; the men were gone. They had been taken away by the Germans to build their defenses on the Gustav Line.

      Perkin leaned against the wall of the house and watched as one of his soldiers sat on a slab of stone and played a game of jacks with a girl from the village. He recognized the girl, Stefania Frattini. She had confidently led him by the hand through the passages of the caves into the village only a few weeks before. Then she had been starving and diminished, and in the dark, she looked as though she were eight or nine years old. Fed, washed, and in daylight, she seemed older—maybe thirteen or so—but she still seemed small for her age. Conversely, watching Private Edwin Kulis on the ground playing the child’s game, he somehow seemed younger to the captain than the calm, bookish killer that he knew. What the captain didn’t know was that Kulis was much younger—he had fraudulently enlisted at fifteen and had just turned seventeen during the Battle of Salerno.

      “Hello, Stefania Frattini!” Perkin waved from his wall.

      “Ciao, Perkin Berger!” She turned to Private Kulis and ordered, “Don’t cheat!” and then ran over to hug the tall Texan.

      “You’re looking as pretty as a peach today, Stefania. How are your mama and grandfather?

      “Good, good. How is Cugino Orso?” Stefania had met Sam once and she had thought that if she lived to be a hundred, she would never again meet a man so large.

      “Cousin Bear’s fine. Just this morning, I watched him eat a whole ham and two dozen eggs for breakfast.” He winced as soon as the words were out. The Frattinis didn’t have much to eat, and he wished he hadn’t made a joke about food.

      No harm was done. Her eyes widened slightly, “Really? No. You kid. You have the locket? Can I see the picture again?”

      The locket had been a present from Perkin’s Italian girlfriend, Gianina—an art restorer at the Neapolitan National Gallery. On the morning of her death in the terrorist bombing of the Naples Post Office, she had given Perkin a large rectangular locket. When he opened it, he saw a miniature depiction of Saint Michael subduing Satan. She had painted it onto a small ceramic tile and filed it to fit within the locket. Saint Michael, Gianina had told him, was the patron saint of soldiers and would protect Perkin. But the source of Stefania’s fascination was not just that Saint Michael was also a patron saint of San Pietro, nor the widely held belief among the ladies of the town that Perkin had been sent to San Pietro to do Saint Michael’s bidding—it was the face that was painted on Saint Michael’s muscular body. Gianina had crafted a remarkable depiction of Private Edwin Kulis, even down to his army-issued glasses.

      “That’s the man I plan to marry,” she said simply.

      Somewhat alarmed, Perkin muttered under his breath, “Be careful you don’t catch something.” Private Kulis had lost his virginity in an Italian brothel and had never looked back.

      “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

      “I said you’ll be quite a catch someday. Does he know?” Perkin grinned as he looked over at his soldier, who was practicing his skills at jacks.

      “Oh, no. I won’t tell him until I’m sixteen,” she said in a businesslike tone. “Mama won’t let me kiss a boy until then, and I can’t get married until I’m seventeen. The war will be over I’m sure, and then I can go to America.”

      “Don’t you think he’ll be a little old for you? By the time you’re old enough to date, he’ll be, I don’t know, in his mid-twenties.”

      “That doesn’t matter in Italia. Besides, he’s only a few years older than me. He’s maybe sixteen or seventeen at the most.”

      “No, Stefania. He’s twenty-two. Did he tell ya he’s a teenager?” Perkin’s alarm was beginning to mount again at the prospect that his rifleman was hustling a very young teenager.

      Stefania faced Perkin and rolled her eyes, her hands on her hips. “Capitano. We haven’t discussed these things other than agreeing to be pen pals. He knows nothing about nothing. But I can tell you as an Italian woman, I know how old he is!”

      “Is that a fact? I didn’t know that Italian women were so perspicacious.” He grinned again, relieved.

      Stefania wagged her finger at him, “You should not use words I don’t know. But if it means we are smart, we are. I tell many things just by looking at people.”

      “Really? What do you see in Eddie?” He nodded his head toward Private Kulis.

      “He’s small like me, and has good teeth, and he’s very, very