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Von Ryan`s Express
 About the Book
About The Movie
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Preview
Chapter One
The small Italian sentry was lounging placidly in the plum coloured shade of the prison camp wall, his toylike carbine propped near his leg, when the new prisoner was brought in. The sentry had seen many American and British officers enter Campo Concentramento Prigionieri di Guerra 202 and had long since lost interest in them. He never noticed faces any more, only boots. The new one was Americano, the sentry noted through half-closed eyes. Americane boots, the kind the Americani called GI. He would gladly have given a month´s wine and tobacco ration for such a pair.
Then a scalding voice pinned him against the wall. The sentry shrank back, his elbows and shoulder blades grinding into the warm dun brick, his little carbine clattering to the baked earth. He did not understand the words but their tone was unmistakable.
´Don´t you salute officers in your army, soldier?´ the newcomer demanded in a hard voice. ´And pick up that popgun before you trip over it.´
The sentry gaped at the American officer, his eyes abulge and furtive.
´Jump to it, soldier!´ the American snapped.
´Colonnello,´ stammered the boyish Italian second lieutenant escorting him, ´he is not understand.´
´Then explain it to him,´ the American ordered.
The lieutenant shouted at the sentry, taking refuge in anger from the insecurity instilled by the American colonel. The sentry fumbled for his carbine, came rigidly to attention and, shaking, presented arms.
The American responded with a crisp salute, then studied the dusty weapon.
´Disgraceful,´ he said.
He turned to the lieutenant.
´Have him clean that piece.´
The lieutenant stared with brown fawn´s eyes, a look of anxious concentration on his smooth face.
´Have him clean that carbine,´ the American said. ´Not that Fm trying to help you run your war but I wouldn´t want anybody shot by a filthy carbine.´
´Si, colonnello,´ the lieutenant said hastily, wondering why he was taking orders when he should be giving them but unable to withstand the prisoner´s cold assurance. ´Domani. Tomorrow.´
´Domani,´ the American said. ´God knows how many times I´ve heard that word in the last six hours.´
He returned to his scrutiny of the squirming sentry.
´Ask him when he shaved last,´ he demanded, without taking his eyes from the man.
The lieutenant asked. The man answered sullenly and hung his head. The lieutenant snapped at him. The sentry snapped back. They argued with increasing heat.
´As you were!´ the American ordered.
They stopped immediately and looked at him as if awaiting instructions.
´Lieutenant,´ the American said with patient irony, ´no wonder you people are losing a war. An officer does not argue with an enlisted man. He tells him.´
´I know colonnello,´ the lieutenant said apologetically. ´But these imbecilli . . . Those who guard the prigionieri are, how you say, the dregess.´
´Dregs,´ the American corrected. ´You´re assigned to this prison camp, aren´t you, lieutenant?´
The lieutenant looked betrayed. He was perhaps twenty-two, with a sensitive, handsome face. His hair was dark and curly, his jaw firm, his lips full.
´While I´m on the subject,´ said the American, ´when was the last time you had a shave, lieutenant?´
´Only this morning,´ the lieutenant said eagerly, thrusting his face forward for closer inspection.
The American drew back distastefully.
´What do you use for after-shave lotion?´ he demanded. ´Chanel Number Five?´
Without another glance at the lieutenant or the sentry, he turned and strode toward the barricade of timbers and barbed wire separating the forecourt from the prison compound, where a jostling throng of prisoners waited. The lieutenant hurried after him
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