Decker is the bookworm, the only one of us besides Caplan who ever made it to college, and he has been talking about seeing Rome since we landed on Anzio beachhead all those months ago.

“Hey,” he says to me, “Did you ever read Ben-Hur?”

“No,” I say.

“Quo Vadis?” he says.

“Nope,” I say.

“I read ’em when I was a kid,” he says. “Anything I could get my hands on. Always wanted to see Rome. You know how much history happened in Rome, Doc?”

We are in the open, a muddy road with broad brown fields on both sides. It rained a couple days ago and the mud is still ankle-deep, thick as molasses in January. It’s hell trying to walk through the stuff. It’s like walking with weights in your boots. The company is strung out in a ragged line along the road, far as the eye can see. We walk with our heads down. Even Decker’s head is down while he talks.

“Think about it, Doc,” he says. “Think about this road we’re walking on right here. Two thousand years ago maybe there was a Roman emperor riding down this road.”

“What does it mean?” I say.

“What?”

“I said what does it mean, quo vadis?”

“It’s Latin,” Deck says. “Means ‘where are you going?’”

Flynn speaks up and says, “Been wondering about that.”

“What?” says Deck.

“Been wondering what we’re doing going to Rome. Jerry ain’t in Rome.”

“You got a problem with that?”

“I’m just saying Jerry ain’t in Rome.”

Ahead of us Caplan says, “Clark isn’t worrying about Jerry at the moment. Clark is worrying about the Brits at the moment. That’s why we’re going to Rome.”

“Hey, the Captain knows,” says Deck.

“Caplan the Captain,” says Flynn.

“It’s got a nice ring,” says Deck.

Caplan takes it all in stride. He’s been Caplan the Captain for a week now.

It’s two more hours until we reach the city and by then I’m not thinking so much about everything Deck said as I’m thinking about getting a hot shower and maybe some hot food. We’re not the first ones into the city — Baker was in at ten o’ clock this morning — but there’s still bells clanging and people lining the streets for us. I’ve never seen so many happy people. None of us can speak the language but none of us need to. There’s no misunderstanding these people. They laugh and cheer and scream and throw their arms around us. There’s some guys ahead of us with a jeep and they’ve got three or four laughing girls riding around with them. It’s the craziest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. All I can do is stare. I’m not even looking at the buildings, all those ancient buildings Deck was talking about. I’m just looking at these people. Women and children and old people for the most part. I see some old guy crying, just standing there with tears rolling down his leathery wrinkled face. I don’t know what to think about that. I don’t know what to think about any of it.

They’ve got some of us bivouacked in a place near the city center, an old brick hotel called the Caprice, not too far from the river. I get a shower and then I sit on my bunk and try to clean the caked mud off of my boots. We’ve got a week of leave. Most of the guys are already out on the town. Hart comes in with an armful of long crusty bread and some grapes and a half-empty bottle of white wine tucked in the crook of his arm.

“Not too bad, Doc,” he says.

“Where’d you get all of that?”

“The natives. I gather they’re pretty happy to see us.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“You been out at all?”

“Not yet.”

“You should get out and see it. Pretty crazy out there.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m going.”

I don’t know what to do with a week’s leave. We haven’t had a week’s leave since Salerno. I go out. I wander through the crowds for a bit, smoking a cigarette. 3rd Infantry is still moving into the city. There’s a film crew on the street and the cameras are rolling. I keep walking. I don’t know where I’m going and I don’t really care. Every so often some old woman or somebody comes up to me and says something really fast and really happy in Italian and hugs me and I don’t know what to do so I just smile and nod and worm my way loose and keep walking. I wander all over that big beautiful city. The people never stop coming, more people than I’ve ever seen in my life. Sometimes there are gramophones set up and people dancing, GIs dancing with local girls, local folks dancing together. All the bars are packed. All the squares are packed. I walk past big old churches bursting out the seams with people. You can’t find a lonely place if you try.

The funny thing is I don’t feel anything for any of it. There’s just a big cold lump inside of me while I’m seeing all of this. All this happiness and laughter and dancing. I’m seeing this and all I’m thinking about is our guys dead in the mud at Anzio. I lost so many guys at Anzio. That’s all I can think about. I’m walking all over this big happy city and I can’t feel anything except a cold hard lump in my chest and a strange kind of distance from these people, like there are invisible walls between us, because they don’t know what I saw on the beach and it’s not something that I can explain.

It’s late by the time I get back to the Caprice. Most of the guys are in the lounge, smoking and playing cards — Flynn and Hart and Murray and Price. Deck is there too but he isn’t playing. I’ve never been any good at cards so I just sit down in a fat old armchair and light up another smoke.

“What do you think, Doc?” says Price to me.

“It’s a nice town,” I say. “Nice people.”

Deck speaks up and says, “Did you go down to Saint Peter’s?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I went all over.”

“I went down to Saint Peter’s,” Deck says. He’s got this funny look on his face. “Place was blown to hell. Guess Jerry bombed it back a couple months ago. They’re still cleaning it up.”

I don’t know what to say about that so I don’t say anything.

“You know what I think?” says Flynn after a while. “I’m thinking Clark should of let the Brits take this town. There ain’t nothing here. Jerry ain’t here.”

“You got a week of leave,” says Hart.

“What I’m trying to say is,” says Flynn, “what I’m trying to say is this place don’t mean nothing right now. I mean let me come here when the war’s over, fine, that’s all right. I’d come here any day when the war’s over. Not right now. It don’t mean nothing to me right now.”

Nobody says anything after that. Not even Deck says anything. Nobody is going to argue with the guy. Deep down I think we’re all feeling that way. Hell, I know I’m feeling that way. This city doesn’t mean anything to me. A place like Anzio means something to me. Salerno means something to me. This city doesn’t mean anything at all. Not now. Not while this war is going on. There isn’t room for a place like this while this war is going on.

Somehow that week goes by. The news comes in about the Normandy invasion. We have a couple more weeks in the city after that but most of it is spent drilling, getting ready to move out again. Rumor is we’ll be shipping out for Southern France and giving our guys support from the south — another boat ride to another beachhead that’ll be in the headlines a month from now, the history books in a couple years.