“Sure, it started off fine,” Tony agreed. “But then we just sat for three weeks. Sure, we moved forward from one base to another as the ground troops went forward. But no fighting. No parachuting. Nothing. Then today we thought it had come at last. But it was nothing. Just a practice jump.”

“When we reach Tunisia,” Dick said, “we’ll run into some real fighting. By the way, Tony, I suppose you’ve thought some about how you’ll feel fighting Italians. Will you be so anxious to fight them?”

“Well, I’m an American,” Tony said. “I was born in America. I’m fighting for America. But my folks—they were Italian. And their friends, lots of ’em come from Italy. And I’ve got cousins and uncles and aunts there, even visited them once for almost a year when I was about sixteen. But it’s not them I’m fighting. They don’t want this war at all. They’re fightin’ just because somebody is makin’ ’em do it. That’s why they’ve been so lousy during this war. Some people think I must get upset when Italians always run away in battle. No—I like it. It doesn’t mean they’re cowards or bad soldiers. It just means they don’t want to fight this war.”

“Well—I don’t want to fight, really,” Dick said. “And neither do most Americans. What about that?”

“You don’t like to go to war,” Tony said. “Neither do I. But we know what we’re fightin’ for. We know our country’s worth fightin’ for. But what about these Italians—most of ’em? They haven’t got anything to fight for—against us. They love their country, but not their government. And they know they’ll get shot or starved to death, or their kids will get punished some way, if they don’t fight when the government tells them to. So they fight—but without any heart in it.”

“But you may be killing some of them,” Dick said. “Maybe even some of your relatives.”

“That’ll be too bad,” Tony said. “I don’t want to kill anybody, really. But if you’ve got to shoot a few guys, or even a few million, because some louse who wants to ruin the world has sold them a bill of goods or made ’em go out and try to kill you—then that’s just the only way to do what we’ve got to do. When I shoot at the enemy I’m not shootin’ at any one person. I’m just shootin’ at an idea I hate, an idea that will ruin the whole world if it isn’t stopped. If the other guys are supportin’ that idea with guns, then I’ve got to shoot ’em, that’s all. And it doesn’t make any difference if they’re Italians or not. It doesn’t make any difference if they’re Americans. If any Americans try to make our country like Germany, then I’ll shoot them too.”

Max Burckhardt had wandered up and joined them as they sat under the shade of a palm tree.

“Tony’s right,” the big private said. “But I’m itchin’ especially to get at some Germans, even if my folks were German. I won’t be shootin’ Germans—I’ll just be shootin’ the men who are tryin’ to force on me their way of living, a way I don’t like at all. Since the German Nazis did this more than anybody else, they’re the ones I want to get at more than anyone else.”

There was a moment’s pause.

Dick Donnelly sighed. “Well, you’ll have your chances soon,” he said. “Both of you. You’ll be fightin’ Germans and Italians before long.”

“Say—by the way,” Max said, “I found out what Lieutenant Scotti’s first name is.”

“Why, it’s Jerry, of course,” Dick said. “We’ve known that right along. I always call him Jerry, except when a lot of officers are around, and then I’ve got to use sir.”

“Well, Jerry’s just his nickname,” Max said.

“Don’t tell me it’s for Gerald,” Tony said. “It just wouldn’t fit that guy.”

“No—remember his last name,” Max said. “His folks—or at least his father—was Italian back a couple of generations. The name is Scotti. And his first name is Geronimo!”

“Geronimo!”

Both Dick and Tony cried out at once, and sat up, looking with disbelief at Max Burckhardt.

“You’re kidding!” Dick said, shaking his head. “Why, that’s what we yell when we jump—to overcome the sudden change in pressure against our ear drums. And just because the lieutenant’s a paratrooper somebody’s called him Geronimo as a gag.”

“No, it’s really official,” Max insisted. “I was over at headquarters gabbin’ with Joe Silcek while he pecked away at his typewriter. I saw it on an official list.”

“An official list?” Donnelly said, concern wrinkling his forehead.

“Sure—what’s wrong?” Max asked. “I wasn’t lookin’ at anything I shouldn’t. It was right there—everybody’s name on it in our company.”

“Oh, everybody’s,” Dick said, and was silent.

“What’s the matter, Sarge?” Tony Avella laughed. “You act as if you’d been caught travelin’ under a phony name and Max had found you out.”

“Me?” Donnelly tried to laugh it off. “What an idea! You couldn’t travel under a phony name in the Army.”

“Say, I’ve always wondered about that name of yours, anyway,” Max said. “Didn’t want to say anything until I knew you better. But you really look as Italian as Tony here, and I know you speak Italian like a native. How come the Irish name?”

“Well—it is an Irish name!” Dick said. “You see—my mother was Italian.”

“Oh, and your father was Irish?” Max asked.

But the sergeant just grinned. “I might as well come out with it,” he said. “No—my father was Italian, too.”

“Then—where did that name Dick Donnelly come from?”

“It really was Irish in the beginning,” the sergeant smiled. He looked out over the rolling hills and watched the heat waves rising from the flat lands. It was pleasant here under the tree, talking to his friends. The war seemed miles away, and yet the war had brought him friends like this, brought him a whole new life. And now that old life was going to come out. If they all hadn’t been so restless between battles, his old life could have stayed buried. It wasn’t that Donnelly was ashamed of it, but just that he wasn’t sure the others would understand.

He was silent, as he thought about it, and the others waited, knowing he was going to tell them something interesting about himself. Their relationship was not the ordinary one of sergeant and lesser ranks. In the parachute troops, men were often thrown closely together when they worked frequently from the same plane, always in the same group. Commissioned officers were more informal and friendlier with the men under them, too. Lieutenant Scotti and Dick Donnelly, for example, were very close friends. They kept to the formalities only in military matters, but in private they called each other “Jerry” and “Dick.”

Dick Donnelly liked Max Burckhardt and Tony Avella. He had been with them at training camp and ever since. They would be going through a lot more together. So it was natural that he should tell them about his other name, his other life.

“Donnelly’s an Irish name, all right,” he said. “And that was my family’s name originally. You see, there were quite a few Irish settled in Italy a few hundred years ago and they just switched their names to the nearest Italian equivalent. My Italian name is Donnelli, of course.”

“Why did you switch to Donnelly when you came in the Army?” Max asked.

“I didn’t switch then,” Dick replied. “You see, my folks were crazy about it when they first came to America. They made up their minds to become as American as George Washington. So they changed the name back to its old original, Donnelly, because it sounded more like most names in America.”

As Dick talked, Tony Avella was looking at him closely, with a puzzled expression on his face.

“Dick Donnelly,” he murmured to himself. “Richard Donnelly!” And then a light dawned in his eyes and he smiled. “I get it now! I thought your face looked a little familiar. Of course, I’ve seen pictures of you. I’ve seen you—and heard you, too!”

“What is all this?” Max Burckhardt demanded.

“Am I right?” Tony asked, smiling at his sergeant.

“Yes, you’re right, Tony,” Dick answered.

“Say, let me in on the secret,” Max blurted out.

“Sure, Max,” Tony said. “Just translate Richard Donnelly into Italian. Ricardo Donnelli.”

“Sure—sure—Ricardo Donnelli,” Max said impatiently. “That’s obvious, but what does—”

He stopped, and looked at Dick Donnelly in awe. “My golly, are you really—” he mumbled. “Are you the Ricardo Donnelli?”

“I guess I am,” Dick grinned. “I haven’t run into any others.”

“The famous Metropolitan opera star!” Tony cried. “And we’ve never heard you sing a note!”

“Well, I didn’t think many people in the Army would be very interested in the kind of stuff I sing,” Dick said.

“Say—I’ve stood back there with aching feet at the Met so often,” Tony said. “I’ve waited in line for those standing-room tickets just to hear you sing. And now I’ve been your pal for months and you’ve never even warbled!”

“No, I haven’t really felt like it,” the sergeant said. “I started getting upset about this war long before we were in it. My folks hated fascism since Mussolini first started spouting in Italy. I wanted to join the Loyalists in Spain but I was just getting started in my singing career then, and felt I couldn’t do it, after working so hard for the chance I finally got at the Met. I’ve been seeing it coming for a long time, and when I finally got a chance to fight I joined up and forgot everything else. I’m no Ricardo Donnelli any more. I’m Dick Donnelly, paratrooper in the United States Army!”

“You studied in Italy, didn’t you?” Max asked.

“Sure, everybody does if he gets a chance,” Dick said.

“Why is that?” Max asked. “America’s got plenty of good singing teachers, plenty of good music.”

“Sure, but not the way it is in Italy,” Dick explained. “You see, in Italy there are little opera companies all over the place. Every town has its own opera and its own orchestra. They’re not like the Met, of course, but there are dozens of them which give a newcomer, an unknown, a chance to sing. And that’s what counts—plenty of singing in public, on an actual stage, in a real performance. I sang in half a dozen small companies in my two years in Italy. And somebody noticed me and gave me a chance at La Scala in Milan, and there somebody from the Metropolitan heard me and signed me up. Of course, when I had come to Italy to study and sing, it was natural for me to go back to my old Italian name, Ricardo Donnelli. So I’ve stayed Ricardo Donnelli as far as singing is concerned.”

“Why didn’t you ever let on who you really were?” Tony asked.

“Well—several reasons,” Dick said. “As I told you, I’m not concerned with singing now, but fighting. I’m Dick Donnelly. And then if they knew who I was, I’d always be asked to be singing here and there, at shows and camps and such. Then like as not I’d find myself transferred to some morale-building branch of the service just going around building soldiers’ morale by singing operatic arias. And I’d get no fighting done at all. I got into this war to fight. I want to stamp out all the rotten government I saw in Italy when I was there—and its even worse versions in Germany and Japan—and everywhere.”

“I see,” Tony Avella replied. “I feel pretty much the same way, not thinking about anything but this job we’ve got to do. So I won’t go spouting around that you’re Ricardo Donnelli, the great singer. But if we’re ever alone out in the hills at night, will you sing Celeste AÏda some time?”

“I sure will, Tony,” Dick answered with a warm smile. “If I can still sing.”

“I’ll keep my trap shut, too,” Max said. “If you want to be just Sergeant Dick Donnelly, then you can be it. You see, I had an uncle and aunt in Germany that I loved a lot. They didn’t like Hitler and they said so. They were that kind. And they’re dead now—died in stinking concentration camps. So I’m not thinking much about anything, either, until I get even for them. It’s going to take a lot of dead Nazis to make up for Uncle Max and Aunt Elsa.”

“For a bunch of guys who say they want to fight so much,” Dick laughed, “we seem to be taking it pretty easy, sitting here in the shade on a nice afternoon.”