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By Root 2451 0

roar past. The sounds had come first, from far behind them, the rumbling of heavy steel and belching engines. As the column of tanks rolled by, the men endured the black smoke and the stink of exhaust swirling around them, watched as the steel tread churned the soft road. But there was surprise as well. These machines were nothing like the huge lumbering hulks that had led the way at the Soissons salient. These were smaller, much more compact, moving much faster than the men were walking. He heard someone, an officer, some mention of the name: Renault, someone else calling them Whippets. They had a turret, a round lump that protruded above the tapered body of the tank, one cannon barrel protruding forward. As the smaller tanks moved past, hatches had opened, men popping up from inside, the look of confidence and pride in their new machines, some giving the Marines a show, rotating the turrets, the aim of the cannon sweeping over them, the barrel itself moving up and down. There was another difference as well, another surprise that brought cheers from the Marines. This time, many of the tank crews were not French. They were American.

THE MAIL HAD FINALLY BEEN DELIVERED, FAT CANVAS BAGS, THE lieutenants standing guard while the letters were sorted by platoon. Temple sat a few feet from Scarabelli beside a large pond, muddy brown water spreading out between clusters of dead and broken trees. The camps were up above them, across the main road, spread out on a broad grassy hill.

“ ‘So, is it really as bad as they say?’ ”

“What?”

Scarabelli held the letter out toward Temple.

“That’s what she writes. My sister Maria. Another dumb question. She thinks we’re on vacation over here.” He read again, a high-pitched whining voice. “ ‘I hear the worst problem you have is a shortage of cigarettes.’ ”

He tossed the letter aside, opened another. Temple held his solitary letter in his hand, had waited to open it, knew it was from his mother. Scarabelli had a small stack of letters, the advantage of a large family. Temple looked down toward the water’s edge, saw Parker sitting alone, staring at the pages of a small book. Temple knew that when the big man wrote in his diary, he wanted solitude, would rarely talk about anything he wrote. Temple watched him for a minute, saw Parker slip the book into his shirt, then he stood, moved up toward them. Temple watched Scarabelli opening more of his mail, felt a tug of sadness as Parker moved closer. The big man had received nothing at all, did not seem surprised or particularly disappointed. But Temple knew the man well enough to know that Parker would find some excuse to go off by himself, would not participate in the enthusiasm of the others.

Scarabelli was still focused on his letters, had not seen Parker approaching. He read silently, then said, “My aunt Rosa. ‘When are you going to Italy? The Italians need your help.’ ” Scarabelli tossed that one aside as well. “That’s right, Aunt Rosa. I should go see Black Jack and tell him my family insists that the Second Division, no, the whole AEF, we go to Italy and protect my family from the Austrians. Ah, here’s one from my father.” He tore open the envelope, read for a few seconds, lowered the paper, shook his head, said, “Jesus.” Scarabelli tossed it aside as well, a frown on his face.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Gino, come on. Can I read it?”

“It’s in Italian, Farm Boy. They don’t speak a lot of English. Never mind. What’s yours say?”

“From my mama. ‘Everybody’s proud of our Marine. Cousin Ida Mae wants to send you a box of her pies.’ ” He read silently. “A lot of news. Our neighbor has ten new cows. Another one died of the . . . influenza. The whole town is scared of it, a bunch of people in Tallahassee have died from it. What the hell’s influenza?”

“It’s a disease. I heard the captain talking about it. Some of the German prisoners have it. They say it’s worse than getting wounded. Didn’t know it was back home too.” Scarabelli shuffled through his letters, opened another. “Yep. My cousin Eddie. He mentions it too. It’s in New York. Got