by Eric Flint
The speaker was a stone cutter. Thomas learned he'd been working on the new cathedral until a few hours ago. Three stone cutters, carrying a sizable letter of donation, had arrived in late morning. Preferment went to Catholic workers, so his services were no longer needed. They gave him a full day's pay, with complete assurances that his work was fully acceptable.
The cutter was a large man, a head above average and as broad as an ox through the shoulders as well as between the ears. Thomas listened to the man snarl.
"The stinking animals! They pray to statues and think they can buy their way into heaven. Their priests are perverts. Half the cardinals in Rome have mistresses and the rest like boys. A man should have a wife! Luther said so."
Thomas heard the whole tirade. Bored, he addressed the man. "So a man should have a wife?" Thomas waited for the drunk to focus. "Is it wrong to have two or three?"
"Of course it is."
Thomas happily provoked a fight. The cutter was a big man. Thomas didn't mind. Big men are slow. He liked the solid thud a big man made when he hit the floor. "Then you think Luther was wrong."
"What are you talking about?"
Thomas knew he had the man completely puzzled. "Luther approved of polygamy."
"Poly gamy? What's that got to do with anything? Is it some kind of bird?"
"It's having more than one wife at a time," Thomas said, "and Luther said it was all right."
The cutter roared. "You lying piece of Italian shit." He leaned over the bar, grabbed a wine bottle and made a round house swing.
Thomas, expecting it, ducked.
Carlo turned at the commotion. The wine bottle connected solidly across his nose. The impact threw him back even as the bottle broke, slicing his cheek to the bone, leaving a large flap of skin hanging and teeth showing. His eye collapsed like an empty wine skin. He hit the floor with a sharp crack.
The city guards arrived shortly. They demanded the stone cutter cease fighting in the name of peace. He charged. They clubbed him into submission and dragged him off.
Carlo lay on the floor, face bleeding into the filth, still as a statue.
The Americani bent over him. "He's still breathing." The up-timer looked at the wound. He let out a string of words Thomas didn't know and covered the wound with a handkerchief. "Help me get him to the infirmary."
Thomas grabbed Carlo's knees, the Americani took his armpits. They headed for the naval yard as quickly as they could. Admiral Simpson was coming out the gate as they arrived, and when he heard the name Rainaldi he turned about and followed them to the sick bay.
* * *
The corpsman pulled the handkerchief away.
"What are you doing?" Thomas demanded when Carlo started screaming.
"I've got to treat the wound. Now get your ass out of here. You, too, Admiral."
"Keep me posted," was all the admiral said as he left. The order went unacknowledged.
Dorrman turned to a corpsman. "Get the ether and a surgical kit."
* * *
Dorrman went to the headquarters building fully cognizant that he had just rudely thrown his boss, an admiral, out of the infirmary without even acknowledging an order. "Senior Chief Petty Officer Dorrman reporting as ordered, Admiral." Dorrman came to attention in front of the admiral's desk.
"At ease."
Relief swept over Dorrman. The admiral was not going to stand on technicalities.
"What is the prognosis?"
"Admiral, it doesn't look good. He's lost an eye and will be horribly scarred at the very least. I've done all I can. If we had penicillin I'd be a lot happier. I've cleaned the wound and treated it with chroralphenicol. It's good, but. . . . Sir, he'll live if it doesn't get infected or if he can throw it off. Even up-time in a hospital, losing him to an infection that close to the brain would be a real worry.
"He's still out from the ether. When he comes to, he'll be in a lot of pain. I'll have to break out some of the opiates." Opium was imported at some expense and Carlo was not in the military. Chief Dorrman had to account for the clinic's budget.
The admiral nodded. "Carlo went to work for the yard as of this morning. Log his care as a civilian employee.
Chief Doorman was taken aback a bit. He wondered if Carlo really had signed on but, he couldn't see Admiral Simpson bending the rules. "Aye, aye, sir. If there is anyone he needs to see, send for them. Tomorrow he could be out of his head."
"I don't know of anyone," the admiral said. "I'm sure you'll do everything you can. See to it that I'm kept abreast of his progress."
"Aye, aye, sir."
* * *
Carlo's wound festered. Dorrman and his staff kept the wound drained, the patient warm and hydrated and the pain under control. Then they waited.
For days he tossed and turned and drifted in and out of fever dreams. Often, when he was out of it, he asked for Angelina. No one knew who Angelina was. This went on for a week and a half. Dorrman shook his head over Carlo's condition at least twice a day.
The admiral stopped in daily for an update. The news went from bad to worse. "I think his kidneys are shutting down," Dorrman reported. "When he's alert he's complaining about numbness in his legs and feet. He may have hurt his spine when he fell. That could cause the kidney failure. The infection could do it, too. If the kidney's are failing, that is. I've never seen it but the symptoms match what we were told to look for. There's nothing I can do for it anyway."
* * *
Angelina went straight to the building site. From there she was delivered with all practical haste to the front gate of the shipyard.
A young American guard barred her way. "Whoa there, little lady! You can't just come bargin' in here."
Angelina didn't understand him. Her escort from the building site didn't either. In a loud, demanding voice he started explaining just who it was the guard was holding up. At the same time Angelina, in Italian, at full volume, using very un-ladylike vocabulary, making threats and promises she had no way of keeping, demanded immediate entrance.
The guard picked up on just one word. He put two fingers in his mouth and let out a three-tone "I want a taxi" whistle. Angelina and her escort were startled into silence. Tom, the guard, filled it with a bellow of his own. "Angelina's here! I need some help!"
No one needed to ask "Angelina who?" Someone walked her to the infirmary. Someone else took the news to the main office. Without preamble, he announced "Angelina's here . . . and, boy, is she pregnant."
A staff member interrupted a conference. "Admiral Simpson, sir, Angelina has arrived."
"Gentlemen, you have just been reprieved. Get your numbers straightened out and be back here at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Dismissed."
* * *
Carlo was fading fast. Angelina wept quietly, tears running down her face while she kept holding his hand. From time to time she kissed his dry, hot cheek.
The Catholic and Lutheran chaplains were talking quietly in a corner of the room when the admiral entered. "Have you married them yet?" he demanded.
"No," the Catholic answered.
"Why not?"
The chaplain visibly flinched at the tone of the admiral's voice. "I can't."
The admiral's tone, against all odds, somehow became colder and harder. "Why not?"
"The banns—"
A normally polite man who conscientiously got all the information before he spoke cut the priest off. "Waive them!"
The chaplain cringed. "I can't." When Admiral Simpson glared at him, the man bucked up and explained. "She is not a member of this parish. I do not have the right to waive the banns for anyone who is not of my parish. I can perform the rite, Admiral, but the church is unlikely to recognize the marriage."
Simpson turned to the Lutheran chaplain. "Will you marry these two?"
"He's right," the chaplain said, nodding at the Catholic chaplain, "and they're Catholic. I don't think the Lutheran church will recognize . . ."
"This is bull shit!" Everyone in the room was
shocked. Admiral Simpson never used foul language. "How old is she?"
"Nineteen."
The admiral turned to the assistant corpsman. "Go to the recruiting office and get an enlistment form on the double." He addressed another corpsman. "Go get the notary."
The men answered, "Aye, aye, Admiral," and left at a run.
The admiral stood and stared at the chaplains. The only sound was Angelina's soft sobbing. No one dared move. The four and a half minutes it took the first corpsman to return were the longest minutes of the chaplains' lives.
The assistant handed the paper to the admiral. "Angelina, I need you to sign this." She looked up at her name but did not respond.
The Catholic chaplain explained. "She doesn't know German."
"Well, try Latin. Or Italian, if you know it. Whatever. Just get her signature on this form. Now!" Simpson barked.
The chaplain took the form and spoke softly to the girl. Dorrman dipped a brass-nibbed pen and handed it to her. She looked at him. He pointed to the right line. She signed it with a shaky hand, then the chaplain handed the form to the Admiral.
"She is now a recruit in the USE—" he looked down at the form "—Marine Corps?" He glanced at the assistant corpsman. The man turned beet red. "That makes her a legal resident. If she is a legal resident then she is a member of this parish. Carlo has been here long enough to establish residency." No one was going to dispute the point with the admiral. He turned to the Catholic chaplain. "Marry them!"
The chaplain smiled at a beautifully split hair. It established instant residency. True, it broke recruitment guidelines, but an admiral can do that.
The chaplain spoke so loudly the corpsmen later swore they heard echoes. "Carlo, Carlo?" The lad's eye left his lover and focused on the voice. "Do you, Carlo, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
Carlo whispered something inaudible to anyone but Angelina.
"He said yes." Tears ran down her face. "He said yes."
"Do you, Angelina, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
"The banns?"
The priest glared. "Answer the question, child."
"Ye-yes."
"Having given themselves to each other by the joining of hands and the exchange of vows, I pronounce them husband and wife. What God has joined together, let not man put asunder."
Angelina whispered. "Is this legal?"
The chaplain nodded at the admiral. "If he says it's legal, it's legal."
Angelina turned to the admiral. Her eyes pleading as the tears doubled in strength. "Can you do this?" The chaplain translated the question.
The admiral told the chaplain, "As soon as we've drawn up a writ of marriage and you've signed it as the officiating clergyman along with two witnesses—" he looked at the Lutheran chaplain "—you and me, then it's legal. Tell her that. Then help her fill out the enlistment form. I'll sign to cover the irregularities. The marriage will hold up in West Virginia. They'll see things our way here in Magdeburg, too."
He handed the form back to Angelina.
* * *
"What is this?" she asked.
"An enlistment application, my child. For the American military."
Baffled, Angelina asked, "I am in the army?"
The amused priest replied, "No. This is a Marine Corps application. And, no, you are not a Marine. Not yet. You must first finish boot camp. For now, you are a boot."
"And if I don't want to be a piece of footwear?"
"Then you are not a resident of the base, the banns are not waived and you are not married."
Angelina scrambled to fill out the paper work.
Before the writ was dry, Carlo quit breathing. Angelina cut loose with a wail that was loud enough to frighten a banshee. She was startled by the reaction brought on by her anguished cry. The men in the corner began to pray; the priest had given her lover, no, her husband, the last rites earlier. The physician stuck something in both his ears and put the other end on the breast of her beloved. Then he barked one harsh guttural word and started pounding on Carlo's chest. Why was he beating the dead? He left off and went to kissing and then back to the beating. Carlo's dead body gasped and then went back to breathing. Carlo was alive. Angelina almost swooned; she had often read of miracles but . . . to see one was something else again.
* * *
When he stepped back from a quietly-breathing patient, Dorrman found himself wondering why he was doing CPR. The man was done for. Five seconds later, Angelina let out a shriek of pain and fear far different from any previous weeping.
Dorrman looked at her. "Damn. Her water just broke. If she's seven months along, I'm the pope." He turned to the assistant corpsman. "Go get my wife!"
His assistant was completely baffled. "What?"
"She's a midwife. I need her."
The assistant corpsman took off at a run yet again and almost collided with a man who had walked in the door. The man was carrying a red chest with a white lid. On the top were three lines. The first was three words long "RUSH NAVAL YARD." The second line held two, "Carlo Rainaldi." The third said, "Open Immediately." There was no return address.
Dorrman recognized the picnic cooler before it was through the door. "What have you got there, sailor?"
"Sir, this arrived with the mail. The bargeman who brought it told me it was waiting at the post office in Grantville when they opened up. There was enough money to cover postage left with it, so here it is."
"What is it?" Dorrman asked.
"Mail. It's heavy and it sloshes is all I can tell you."
"Well, set it down."
Dorrman opened it with a dozen curious eyes peering over his shoulder. The cooler was full of melting ice. It held one tin box which read, "For Veterinary uses only." Inside were six little bottle-shaped holes formed in thin plastic. Three held little glass bottles. The other three were empty, but the box held a syringe. He shuddered at the thought of using a dirty needle, then looked at the date on the penicillin. Someone had been hoarding it on the very edge of freezing. He found himself praying. It should have been thrown out long ago.
Up-time he could and should go to jail for what he was about to do.
NCIS:
Lies, Truths and Consequences
By Jose J. Clavell
"You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free."
John 8:32
Naval Headquarters
Magdeburg Navy Yard
Magdeburg, USE 0900 Hours Local
In the charming vernacular of his time, the admiral was ready to have kittens. The tension in his office was thick enough to cut with a dagger and if I'd had my druthers, I wouldn't be here in spite of my supposedly princely salary. But then, I suspect that neither would any of the rest of the people in the office. Most especially, the quietly sobbing young woman sitting in front of his desk.
My name is Gunther Schlosser and as the up-timers put it . . . I'm a cop.
Actually, I'm the Senior-Agent-in-Charge, Magdeburg as well as the Director, Naval Criminal Investigative Service. And although the titles sound impressive, the reality is that I have less than fifty men and women under my command . . . and most of them are involved in bodyguard and security work through the USE. Still, that makes me the navy's top law enforcer and Admiral John Calhoun Simpson my boss. Like the bard says, the policeman's lot isn't a happy one and this was a case in point. The sobbing, pretty, young woman was Marine Private Angelina Rainaldi, a recruit with a seriously ill husband, a new baby and too much baggage, physical and otherwise. Her baby was the reason that we were meeting this morning.
Rather, the failed kidnapping attempt of said baby right out of her mother's quarters in the barracks, was the reason for the meeting. The attempt led to the murder of the floor duty firewatcher, radio-operator Edwina Haas, and to NCIS official attention. Luckily for all concerned, the perpetrator had met his just reward and the child was rescued unharmed, thanks to the quick actions of an off-duty military policewoman, Annalise Sch
uhmacher. I'd met her three months earlier during another murder investigation, our first. At that time, she had provided me with the critical clue that led to solving the murder. I'd decided that I was going to keep close tabs on her and her partner, Hans Leiss' careers. NCIS is always looking for good people and, as her actions demonstrated, my interest in Schuhmacher hadn't been misplaced.
But that still left us with two dead bodies and one of them was ours. Those of us in the navy take a dim view of those who harm our people. So, Rainaldi had been summoned to the admiral's office to answer some very pointed questions. She hadn't come alone. Lieutenant Colonel Friedrich Von Brockenholz, her battalion commander, escorted her. Some up-timers had compared him with an Archibald Henderson, whoever he was. His top kick, Charles 'Duke' Hudson, another up-timer, stood at her back.
I think there are a lot of children in Magdeburg—and not a few Marine privates—who go to bed early under the threat of a midnight visit from Sergeant Major Hudson. Truthfully, he is one of the good guys and the top architect and founder of the new Marine Corps. However, he's not what you could call Rainaldi's number one admirer. But then, the way she became a Marine was one for the books.
I can surely say, without it being an understatement, that the pucker factor was decisively high that day.
Young Angelina was sworn-in as a recruit in the United States Marine Corps—not the navy, as everyone expected—and immediately thereafter married to a barely resuscitated groom. At the last possible moment, a supply of a powerful up-time drug had been secured, and Carlo's life saved, although he lost an eye in the process. Angelina delivered a healthy and beautiful baby daughter shortly after the wedding. A storybook ending, right? Well . . . not quite.
It didn't take long for our community's little old ladies—of both sexes—to start to count backwards in their fingers and, possibly, toes. It became painfully obvious that unless Carlo had some hitherto unknown magical power that allowed him to be with his beloved at the right time—or that Angelina suffered from a case of immaculate conception—the baby girl was probably not his. Nevertheless, Carlo, still recovering at the infirmary, stepped forward to do the right thing and accepted her as his own. That won him a lot of extra brownie points with the whole naval community and lost her just as many. The subject was still very touchy for the Corps, especially the servicewomen.
