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Italian navy Lieutenant Antonio de Benedetto—a fifty-five-year-old Sicilian, five foot two and one-eighty, with a sun-baked complexion as coarse as that of the volcanic rock of nearby Mount Etna—had two months earlier been recalled to the Regina Marina and there assigned to serve as the chief naval aide and liaison—and, it was strongly suspected, chief spy—to the Messina SS provisional headquarters.
He of course had been neither requested nor needed, but the Italians insisted that they be allowed to properly serve their SS guests and comrades-in-arms. And so the squat Sicilian had become a fixture around the office.
The young ensign looked uneasy and avoided eye contact with Standartenführer Julius Schrader by looking five feet over his head, to a point on the high wall near the portrait of Hitler. He still held his salute, though now it was not quite so stiff.
“He is ill, Herr Standartenführer. I am Guardiamarina Mentesana. I was asked to take his desk today, as no one else was available.”
Christ! Kappler thought. They send us children and old men to fight a war!
“Guardiamarina Mentesana,” Standartenführer Julius Schrader said stiffly. “Did anyone, perhaps even Tentente de Benedetto, inform you that you are to wait to be admitted after you knock at the door? That you do not simply knock and then enter?”
Guardiamarina Mentesana’s eyes, still fixed on a point on the wall five feet above Standartenführer Schrader’s head, suddenly grew wider.
“No, Herr Standartenführer. I was not so informed.”
As if suddenly remembering he was still saluting, he quickly brought down his hand, then held out a folded sheet of paper as he walked to the desk.
“This message just came in, Herr Standartenführer. It is marked ‘Urgent’ for you. I thought I should deliver it immediately, and that is why—”
“Danke,” Standartenführer Schrader said, taking the paper. “That will be all.”
“Yes, Herr Standartenführer.”
Guardiamarina Mentesana saluted, turned on his heels, and marched back to the door, then went through it.
When the door was pulled closed,
Kappler said what he was thinking: “That’s what we can expect to repel the enemy? Children? It is bad enough that the Italian men are ill equipped and poorly trained. What can we possibly expect of their children?”
Schrader was unfolding the sheet of paper as he replied, “Never underestimate the effectiveness of youth, my friend. I seem to recall a young man at university who, time and again, rode polo ponies into battles.”
Kappler snorted.
“Battle?” he began. “I seem to recall that the teams were reasonably evenly matched, and that we shot wooden balls, not bullets.” When he saw Schrader’s expression change dramatically, he said, “What? What is that about?”
“It’s from Müller.”
“Müller? Why is he not messaging me?”
“He reports explosions from unknown causes,” Schrader said as he calmly refolded the sheet and held it out to Kappler, “and felt that I should be directly made aware of them. According to this, protocol would appear to be the least of our worries….”
As Kappler took the sheet, he muttered, “The bastard.”
He scanned the message.
“Schiest!”
He looked at Schrader, then said more softly, “The Tabun?”
Schrader nodded just perceptibly.
“Berlin won’t be pleased that we allowed this to happen,” Schrader said.
Kappler didn’t reply for a moment. Then he said: “Worse. If word gets out that we have a nerve agent, and thus there are plans to use it, Churchill may make good on his threat to retaliate in kind….”
“I believe it was the American President Roosevelt who said that,” Schrader offered.
“Churchill, Roosevelt—does it matter?”
