than a quarter of a million. Towns and villages bled into one another to form sprawling conurbations ripe for ruin, and while they had suffered terribly, the devastation had always remained localized.
In the end, though, it was the underground shelters—some of them huge, as big as barracks—that had kept the casualty rates so low. The Maltese simply descended into the earth at the first sign of danger, taking their prayers and a few prized possessions with them. Max liked to think of it as an inborn urge. The island was honeycombed with grottoes, caves, and catacombs where their ancestors had sought refuge in much the same way long before Christ walked the earth or the Egyptians raised their pyramids. The threat might now be of a different nature, but the impulse remained the same.
He could remember running this theory past Mitzi on their first meeting. And he could remember her response.
“Once a troglodyte, always a troglodyte.”
She had said it in that mildly mocking way of hers, which he had misread at the time as haughtiness.
“Have I offended you?” she asked.
“Not at all.”
“I’m sorry. It’s a lovely theory. I’ve always loved it.”
The subtext was plain: don’t think for a moment that you’re the first person to whom it has occurred.
He knew now that she had been sparring with him, playfully batting his pretentiousness straight back at him to see how he reacted. He had failed that first test, lapsing into silence, obliging her to end his suffering.
“But to tell you the truth, I’d love it more if I didn’t spring from a long line of Irish potato pickers.”
The memory of her words brought a smile to his face.
“We’re about to have seven kinds of shit knocked out of us, and you’re smiling?” Elliott remarked.
“I think we’re safe.”
Everyone else did too, judging from the number of people abandoning the garden for the grandstand view of the crow’s nest. Max spotted young Pemberton among the stream of souls pouring onto the roof. Too polite to question the behavior of the other guests, he nevertheless looked very ill at ease. Who could blame him? Common sense dictated that they all seek shelter. A year back they would have done so, but somehow they were beyond that now. Exhaustion had blunted their fear, replacing it with a kind of resigned apathy, a weary fatalism that you were aware of only when you saw it reflected back at you in the shifty expression of a newcomer.
Max caught Pemberton’s nervous eye and waved him over.
“Who’s that?” Freddie inquired.
“Our latest recruit, bound for Gib when we snapped him up.”
“Handsome bastard,” said Elliott. “There’ll be flutterings in the dovecote.”
“Go easy on him. He’s all right.”
“Sure thing,” said the American, not entirely convincingly.
Max made the introductions, with Pemberton saluting Freddie and Elliott in turn.
“So what’s the gen, Captain?” Elliott demanded with exaggerated martial authority.
“The gen, sir?”
“On the raid, Captain, the goddamn air raid.”
“I’m afraid I’m new here, sir.”
“New! What the hell good is new with Jerry and Johnny Eye-tie on the warpath?”
“Ignore him,” said Max. “He’s having you on.”
“Yank humor,” chipped in Freddie.
“And that’s the last time you salute him.”
Elliott stabbed a finger at his rank tabs. “Hey, these are the real deal.”
“Elliott’s a liaison officer with the American military,” Max explained. “Whatever that means.”
“None of us has ever figured out quite what it means.”
Tilting his head at Pemberton, Elliott said in a conspiratorial voice, “And if you do, be sure to let me know.”
Max’s laugh was laced with admiration, and maybe a touch of jealousy. Anyone who knew Elliott had felt the pull of his boisterous American charm. It was easy to think you’d been singled out for special attention, until you saw him work his effortless way into the affections of another.
“Freddie here’s a medical officer,” said Max.
“Never call him a doctor. He hates it when you call him a doctor,” Elliott put in.
“He spends his time stitching people like us back together.”
Freddie waggled his pink gin at Pemberton. “Well, not all my time.”
“Don’t be fooled by the handsome boyish looks. If you’re ever in need of a quick amputation, this is your man.” Elliott clamped a hand on Freddie’s shoulder. “Lieutenant Colonel Frederick Lambert, a whiz with both saw and scalpel. His motto: What’s an Arm or a Leg Between Friends?”
Freddie was used to Elliott presenting him as some medieval butcher, and he smiled indulgently, confident of his reputation, his renown.
Pemberton acquitted himself admirably during the brief interrogation that ensued. He judged his audience well, painting an