should the subject arise. Commander, I’m sure the navy issues Italian sisters to ensigns upon commissioning like you said, but as I say every day, to my great regret, I’m a soldier. Private Fratelli, thank you for offering, well, insisting, that you step in for me when it was evident that I let the team down. I’m sorry the DiRenzo girls suddenly had other plans. Uh . . . let’s see . . . who have I left out?”
“Me!” Perkin said.
Sam laughed and looked around the circle of his friends, “Yes. It’s hard to imagine, gentlemen, but my cousin stood up for me. Why, I don’t know, but he did. Hard to say which is was more shocking: the DiRenzo girls’ behavior or that, but this has been a night of firsts, I can tell you.”
Perkin snorted, “That’s the thanks I get? And why? I’ll tell ya why. Couple reasons. First, Maggie made me promise to protect you from the DiRenzo girls—or girls like ’em in any case—although I told her no one would be interested in you. I guess I was wrong—I certainly didn’t suspect a two-fer, that’s for sure. And second, I helped get ya outta that because I know you couldn’t navigate through a situation like that without embarrassing either yourself or the regiment—most likely both. You don’t appreciate the subtleties of delicate social situations like I do.” Perkin looked pensive for a moment, then nodded sagely. “Yes, it was just better this way.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “You remember the Three-Minute Vertical Berger Plan? That situation was proof you couldn’t handle somethin’ like this, but I could.”
Captain Finley-Jones jumped in, “The Three-Minute Vertical Berger Plan? What the devil’s that?”
Perkin started to explain, but Sam held his hand up like a king holding court.
“Silence, boy. This is my story. When Perk and I were home for the summer during our freshman year at college, our grandparents were traveling and Perk decided to throw a little party. Old Perkin has this beautiful old home on the bluff overlooking Corpus Bay, and . . .” Sam’s face grew sad for a moment as he got homesick, then the thought passed. “And Perk invited everyone he knew—including about ten girls that he’d dated in the past or was currently seeing. I think he was gamin’ the numbers . . . you know, invite ten in the hopes that one shows up. Since all ten knew that I was gonna be there, and they were just using Perk to get to me, all ten RSVP’d. So Studley here panics and goes into crisis mode ’cause if the girls get the notion that he’s not only datin’ more than one of them, but maybe all of them, well shoot, Perk might as well join the priesthood for the summer. As usual, he comes runnin’ to his older cousin—”
“By a week!” Perkin interjects.
“And don’t that just put a burr under his saddle? Anyways, he comes runnin’ to me for guidance, and I devise the Three-Minute Vertical Berger Plan—”
“You did not!”
“An ingenuous plan so breathtaking in its simplicity that I contemplated copyrightin’ the whole process and selling it to Charles Atlas. The key, as I saw it, was for Perkin not to sit down with any one girl all night long. He had to mingle. He could walk a girl out to a car or maybe down the block, but no holding hands or nothin’ forward like that. Laying down on one of the blankets with a girl was out of the question. In short, he had to remain vertical for the entire night.”
“And the three minutes, sir?” This was Private Fratelli’s first foray into the officers’ conversation.
“Ah, yes. He could only talk for three minutes before he “had” to get someone a drink or talk to this fella or somethin’ like that. As long as he was a host and in constant motion and supremely upright, he’d be fine.”
Perkin was preparing to tell his side of the story, which was that Sam’s only contribution to the Three-Minute Vertical Berger Plan was to call Perkin a dumbass for inviting all the girls in the first place, when the food finally arrived.
The owner of the restaurant, his sole waiter, and his two oldest teenage daughters brought over a large soup tureen and bowls for the soldiers on a metal cart that seemed to have four independent wheels, which caused it to go sideways when pushed through the lobby. As one daughter placed a cloth napkin into the lap of each soldier, the restaurateur watched as the other daughter carefully ladled a steaming, thick, orange-colored soup into the bowls. The waiter then ceremoniously handed a bowl and a spoon to each soldier.
“My lord, this is good!” exclaimed Sam. “What is this?”
Lieutenant Commander Cardosi spoke to the restaurateur, who answered and then bowed slightly to Sam. Cardosi then asked another question.
“It’s pumpkin soup—a house specialty. I asked him what the secondo, the next course, would be, but he said it’s a surprise.”
“I hope it’s as good as this,” said Perkin.
It was. Fifteen minutes later, the owner, his daughters, and the waiter returned. Sliced and buttered potatoes were carefully ladled onto the plates next to a meat dish, and they all stood by proudly to watch the soldiers’ first bites.
“That smells lovely,” said Finley-Jones. “What is it? Porcetta?”
“It smells like it,” Cardosi concurred. But as he took a bite, a slow smile spread across his face. “But it’s not. My grandmother used to make this. Any guesses?”
After pork, the guesses ranged from chicken to duck to goat but it was Private Kulis who had the right answer. “It ain’t pork, sir.” Kulis said with a wondrous look on his face. “It’s rabbit.”
“Rabbit?” Fratelli was surprised. “Are you sure?”
“I ate so much rabbit and squirrel during the Depression, I can’t be wrong. But I ain’t ever had it like this. Please tell him this is a damn sight better than my mom’s stewed rabbit, sir.”
The restaurateur beamed, bowed to an enthusiastic round of applause, and then they left the soldiers to their dinner.
2345 Hours
Santa Croce del Sannio, Italy
The dishes were cleared and the young enlisted soldiers departed to pursue what Private Kulis called the Three-Minute Horizontal Kulis Plan. Cigars were passed around and the hotelier had sold them a bottle of kruskovac—fiery pear brandy from Croatia. The fire was dying down, and the men simply enjoyed the warmth and comfort of a building and a fire more than they could possibly have ever imagined.
No one wanted to talk about the war, but inevitably, that’s where the conversation led. The peculiarities of old comrades from the Texas Division were discussed and, when necessary, explained to the British Army officer and the American naval officer. Finley-Jones reciprocated with a story of a fellow Welsh Guardsman in Tunisia who, upon walking into an operations briefing and seeing a chart pinned to the wall, wanted to know what the fuss was about casual ties.
“Casual ties?” asked Sam.
“Yes, casual ties,” said the Welsh officer with a smile.
“I don’t get it either, I guess.”
“The chart was a posting of casualties, not casual ties. Poor Captain Williams was exhausted, the old sod, and even when it was pointed out to him, he had a hard time reading it straight.”
Sam wrote the word out with his finger in the air, and then started laughing—a deep belly laugh that momentarily awakened the hotelier who had fallen asleep at the front desk.
“Speaking of reading,” Finley-Jones went on, “I understand that silly bugger Ebbins can’t read a compass. You need to watch him closely, Sam.”
“Oh . . . Waller, I know, but let’s not ruin a nice evening by bringing up Ebbins.”
“Fair enough, Sam.” Finley-Jones obviously wanted to say more on the subject of Captain Ebbins, but he let it pass.
“Gentlemen, I’m getting ready to hit my rack, but I want to ask you fellows: What’s next? Where