Warburg pressed.
“Coughlin is a disgrace. The archbishop didn’t need me to tell him that.”
“And if you don’t mind my asking, Father, what’s so important in Rome that the archbishop has sent over his right-hand man?”
“Are you kidding? If Secretary Morgenthau can send across his Man Friday, why shouldn’t Spelly?”
“Spelly?”
Deane laughed. “What do you call Morgenthau when he’s not looking?”
“Mr. Secretary.”
Then they both laughed.
The plane halted, and in short order fore and aft hatches were thrown open. Bright light poured in at opposite ends of the cargo hold, with flotillas of dust motes dancing in the sunshine. Crewmen leapt aboard, ignoring the passengers, who were trying to gather their belongings as the offloading of crates began. It wasn’t until the pilot came from the cockpit and barked orders that the cargo handlers pulled back, and a roughly hewn lumber stairway was pushed up to the forward hatch so the passengers could get off. Warburg followed Deane out into the morning, each man with a single valise, both men over six feet tall. The priest and the Treasury official made a pair, although the priest appeared to be older by a decade or more.
Deane carried his prayer book under his arm. When he saw Warburg taking note of it again, he said, “The Roman breviary. Known to my kind as ‘the wife.’” He grimaced, and smiled.
Having left their plane behind, they crossed an open stretch of tarmac and soon found themselves in a man-high maze of stacked canned-goods crates and burlap sacks, and also of ammo boxes and pyramids of shells. The supplies had been successfully offloaded from dozens of planes like theirs, but there was no claimant in sight and no operations command. Clearly the only drill here was to empty out aircraft and get them gone. Unhelmeted soldiers hustled down the aisles of cargo with urgency but no evident purpose. The C-54 passengers were misfits in this corner of Ciampino. Ignored, they snaked in single file along the narrow lane of the open-air warehouse, following one another dumbly. Those in uniform—bars, brass leaves, and silver eagles on epaulets and collars—tossed salutes back at the occasional dull-eyed GI who’d bothered to salute first. These soldiers had been through hell, and looked it.
It was not a terminal to which the passengers were headed, but a massive hangar, the near corner of which had been converted into some kind of personnel processing center, with Army clerks behind counters fashioned of planks set across stacked crates. Forms were being stamped and queued soldiers coursed through successive lines. Compared to the apparent anarchy of the outdoor depot, the hangar scene exuded an air of relative order, and Warburg was drawn to it.
But as he, Deane, and the others were about to leave the tarmac, a large canvas-sided truck came wheeling in from behind the hangar, nearly running them down. A man and a woman leapt down from opposite sides of the truck cab—the woman being the driver—and all at once there was an outbreak of argument. A pair of clipboard-wielding NCOs pushed back against the truckers, and then MPs materialized. They, too, got rough with the pair, whose furious shouts fell strangely on Warburg’s ear until he realized that this was Italian. His Berlitz was useless.
Since the American soldiers patently had no idea what was being said, Monsignor Deane stepped in front of the MPs with upraised arms. “ Per favore! Per favore! Hold on, folks. Calm down! Calmi! Calmi! ” The easy authority of his intervention—his size, the striking black of his suit, his Roman collar, the rich tenor of his voice—had its effect, and the contretemps faded. All yielded to the priest. He engaged the two Italians. It was quickly apparent that the woman was in charge. After a set of rapid-fire exchanges, Deane turned to one of the Army clipboard holders, a sergeant. “They’re the Croce Rossa, the Red Cross.”
Only then did
“Coughlin is a disgrace. The archbishop didn’t need me to tell him that.”
“And if you don’t mind my asking, Father, what’s so important in Rome that the archbishop has sent over his right-hand man?”
“Are you kidding? If Secretary Morgenthau can send across his Man Friday, why shouldn’t Spelly?”
“Spelly?”
Deane laughed. “What do you call Morgenthau when he’s not looking?”
“Mr. Secretary.”
Then they both laughed.
The plane halted, and in short order fore and aft hatches were thrown open. Bright light poured in at opposite ends of the cargo hold, with flotillas of dust motes dancing in the sunshine. Crewmen leapt aboard, ignoring the passengers, who were trying to gather their belongings as the offloading of crates began. It wasn’t until the pilot came from the cockpit and barked orders that the cargo handlers pulled back, and a roughly hewn lumber stairway was pushed up to the forward hatch so the passengers could get off. Warburg followed Deane out into the morning, each man with a single valise, both men over six feet tall. The priest and the Treasury official made a pair, although the priest appeared to be older by a decade or more.
Deane carried his prayer book under his arm. When he saw Warburg taking note of it again, he said, “The Roman breviary. Known to my kind as ‘the wife.’” He grimaced, and smiled.
Having left their plane behind, they crossed an open stretch of tarmac and soon found themselves in a man-high maze of stacked canned-goods crates and burlap sacks, and also of ammo boxes and pyramids of shells. The supplies had been successfully offloaded from dozens of planes like theirs, but there was no claimant in sight and no operations command. Clearly the only drill here was to empty out aircraft and get them gone. Unhelmeted soldiers hustled down the aisles of cargo with urgency but no evident purpose. The C-54 passengers were misfits in this corner of Ciampino. Ignored, they snaked in single file along the narrow lane of the open-air warehouse, following one another dumbly. Those in uniform—bars, brass leaves, and silver eagles on epaulets and collars—tossed salutes back at the occasional dull-eyed GI who’d bothered to salute first. These soldiers had been through hell, and looked it.
It was not a terminal to which the passengers were headed, but a massive hangar, the near corner of which had been converted into some kind of personnel processing center, with Army clerks behind counters fashioned of planks set across stacked crates. Forms were being stamped and queued soldiers coursed through successive lines. Compared to the apparent anarchy of the outdoor depot, the hangar scene exuded an air of relative order, and Warburg was drawn to it.
But as he, Deane, and the others were about to leave the tarmac, a large canvas-sided truck came wheeling in from behind the hangar, nearly running them down. A man and a woman leapt down from opposite sides of the truck cab—the woman being the driver—and all at once there was an outbreak of argument. A pair of clipboard-wielding NCOs pushed back against the truckers, and then MPs materialized. They, too, got rough with the pair, whose furious shouts fell strangely on Warburg’s ear until he realized that this was Italian. His Berlitz was useless.
Since the American soldiers patently had no idea what was being said, Monsignor Deane stepped in front of the MPs with upraised arms. “ Per favore! Per favore! Hold on, folks. Calm down! Calmi! Calmi! ” The easy authority of his intervention—his size, the striking black of his suit, his Roman collar, the rich tenor of his voice—had its effect, and the contretemps faded. All yielded to the priest. He engaged the two Italians. It was quickly apparent that the woman was in charge. After a set of rapid-fire exchanges, Deane turned to one of the Army clipboard holders, a sergeant. “They’re the Croce Rossa, the Red Cross.”
Only then did
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