Dick Donnelly of the Paratroops

by Marshall McClintock

  CHAPTER TWO

  A MAN WITH TWO NAMES

  As the days rolled by, the good-natured complaints grew in number andintensity. The men wanted to fight and they were not fighting.

  “When I volunteered for the paratroops,” young Tony, the radioman, saidone day, “I did it because I like action. I like excitement. I likethrills. Danger—it doesn’t mean much to me. Some day I’m gonna getkilled, that’s all. I’m sort of a fatalist, I guess. When my number’sup it’s up, and sitting around worryin’ about it won’t change it.Meanwhile, have a good time, get a kick out of things, and do yourdarnedest in anything you’ve got to do.”

  “I know what you mean,” Dick Donnelly said. “And I feel a little bitthe same way—but I don’t believe in not ducking when a shell’s comingover.”

  “Oh—I don’t invite death to come see me,” Tony said. “But, as I wassayin’, I thought the parachute troops would be wonderful. Andimportant, too. Droppin’ behind enemy lines, messin’ up theircommunications, blowin’ up a few bridges, takin’ an airfield—and allthis with the enemy all around you! It’s good tough stuff, and that’swhat I like. But what happened?”

  “Well, what _did_ happen?” Dick smiled.

  “I get into the parachute troops after my basic,” Tony said. “And then,first, they teach me how to fall down. As if I haven’t fallen downplenty of times when I was a kid. And from places just as high as theymade me jump off of, too. When you’re a kid duckin’ away from the gangfrom the next block, you know how to climb and dodge—and fall. Then thepractice jumps from the tower! What do they need a tower for? Why notjust get us up in a plane and toss us out? We’ll learn how to use a’chute fast enough that way, don’t you worry.”

  “But, Tony, you’ve got to remember,” Dick said, “that not everybody isas agile as you are. And they don’t have the same attitude as you. Theyfeel a little funny at first, jumping out of an airplane. And they’relikely to get mixed up and forget which side the ripcord is on. Somepeople tighten up and get panicky. They’ve got to learn things slowly,get used to them.”

  “What’s so hard about it?” Tony demanded. “You jump, and you don’t evenhave to worry about the ripcord. It’s hooked inside the plane.”

  “Well, they’ve got to teach you how to land right,” Dick countered.“Otherwise you might break a leg or get dragged half a mile by your’chute.”

  “Anybody knows he ought to roll when he falls,” Tony said. “And you cansee you have to spill the air out of your ’chute and slip out of theharness. It’s easy.”

  “For you, yes,” Dick said. “You could scramble up the side of a sheerwall twenty feet high, like a cat. You’d have made a wonderful bantamhalfback if you’d ever played football, Tony, the way you can duck anddodge and twist and go underneath or over anything that’s between youand where you want to go. Anyway—so paratroops training was easy foryou. Then what?”

  “One thing I did like,” the young corporal said, “and that was theconditioning. They decided paratroopers had to be tough and they put usthrough everything to make us tough. I like that. I like to be hard asnails and in perfect condition all the time. It makes me feel swell.And I liked the chance to learn radio. I’d fooled around a lot with itas a kid. The Army really taught me things about it.”

  “And you learned what they taught, too,” the sergeant said. “That’s whyyou’re a corporal so early in the game, and so young.”

  “I don’t care about that,” Tony said. “I want to get fighting. I don’tlike this sittin’ around. I thought this North African invasion wouldreally be the works. When we shipped out from home, I knew it wassomething big. But what have we done?”

  “Tough fight when we landed back of Casablanca,” Donnelly said. “Thatwas a good scrap.”

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  _“I Want to Get to Fighting,” Tony Said_]

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  “Sure, it started off fine,” Tony agreed. “But then we just sat forthree weeks. Sure, we moved forward from one base to another as theground troops went forward. But no fighting. No parachuting. Nothing.Then today we thought it had come at last. But it was nothing. Just apractice 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 feelfighting Italians. Will you be so anxious to fight them?”

  “Well, I’m an American,” Tony said. “I was born in America. I’mfighting for America. But my folks—they were Italian. And theirfriends, lots of ’em come from Italy. And I’ve got cousins and unclesand aunts there, even visited them once for almost a year when I wasabout sixteen. But it’s not them I’m fighting. They don’t want this warat 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 Imust 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 theydon’t want to fight _this_ war.”

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

  “You don’t like to go to war,” Tony said. “Neither do I. But we knowwhat we’re fightin’ for. We know our country’s worth fightin’ for. Butwhat about these Italians—most of ’em? They haven’t got anything tofight for—against us. They love their country, but not theirgovernment. And they know they’ll get shot or starved to death, ortheir kids will get punished some way, if they don’t fight when thegovernment 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 ofyour 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, becausesome louse who wants to ruin the world has sold them a bill of goods ormade ’em go out and try to kill _you_—then that’s just the only way todo what we’ve got to do. When I shoot at the enemy I’m not shootin’ atany one person. I’m just shootin’ at an idea I hate, an idea that willruin the whole world if it isn’t stopped. If the other guys aresupportin’ 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. Itdoesn’t make any difference if they’re Americans. If any Americans tryto make our country like Germany, then I’ll shoot them too.”

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

  “Tony’s right,” the big private said. “But I’m itchin’ especially toget 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 metheir way of living, a way I don’t like at all. Since the German Nazisdid this more than anybody else, they’re the ones I want to get at morethan 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 firstname 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, andthen 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 thatguy.”

  “No—remember his last name,” Max said. “His folks—or at least hisfather—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 withdisbelief at Max Burckhardt.

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

  “No, it’s really official,” Max insisted. “I was over at headquartersgabbin’ with Joe Silcek while he pecked away at his typewriter. I sawit 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 Ishouldn’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’dbeen caught travelin’ under a phony name and Max had found you out.”

  “Me?” Donnelly tried to laugh it off. “What an idea! You couldn’ttravel 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 reallylook as Italian as Tony here, and I know you speak Italian like anative. How come the Irish name?”

  “Well—it _is_ an Irish name!” Dick said. “You see—my mother wasItalian.”

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

  But the sergeant just grinned. “I might as well come out with it,” hesaid. “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 lookedout over the rolling hills and watched the heat waves rising from theflat lands. It was pleasant here under the tree, talking to hisfriends. The war seemed miles away, and yet the war had brought himfriends like this, brought him a whole new life. And now that old lifewas going to come out. If they all hadn’t been so restless betweenbattles, his old life could have stayed buried. It wasn’t that Donnellywas ashamed of it, but just that he wasn’t sure the others wouldunderstand.

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

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

  “Donnelly’s an Irish name, all right,” he said. “And that was myfamily’s name originally. You see, there were quite a few Irish settledin Italy a few hundred years ago and they just switched their names tothe 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 crazyabout it when they first came to America. They made up their minds tobecome as American as George Washington. So they changed the name backto its old original, Donnelly, because it sounded more like most namesin America.”

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

  “Dick Donnelly,” he murmured to himself. “Richard Donnelly!” And then alight dawned in his eyes and he smiled. “I get it now! I thought yourface 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 youreally—” 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 neverheard you sing a note!”

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

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

  “No, I haven’t really felt like it,” the sergeant said. “I startedgetting upset about this war long before we were in it. My folks hatedfascism since Mussolini first started spouting in Italy. I wanted tojoin the Loyalists in Spain but I was just getting started in mysinging career then, and felt I couldn’t do it, after working so hardfor the chance I finally got at the Met. I’ve been seeing it coming fora long time, and when I finally got a chance to fight I joined up andforgot everything else. I’m no Ricardo Donnelli any more. I’m DickDonnelly, 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 singingteachers, plenty of good music.”

  “Sure, but not the way it is in Italy,” Dick explained. “You see, inItaly there are little opera companies all over the place. Every townhas its own opera and its own orchestra. They’re not like the Met, ofcourse, 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 smallcompanies in my two years in Italy. And somebody noticed me and gave mea chance at La Scala in Milan, and there somebody from the Metropolitanheard me and signed me up. Of course, when I had come to Italy to studyand 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 isconcerned.”

  “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 concernedwith singing now, but fighting. I’m Dick Donnelly. And then if theyknew who I was, I’d always be asked to be singing here and there, atshows and camps and such. Then like as not I’d find myself transferredto some morale-building branch of the service just going aroundbuilding soldiers’ morale by singing operatic arias. And I’d get nofighting done at all. I got into this war to fight. I want to stamp outall the rotten government I saw in Italy when I was there—and its evenworse versions in Germany and Japan—and everywhere.”

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

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

  “I’ll keep my trap shut, too,” Max said. “If you want to be justSergeant Dick Donnelly, then you can be it. You see, I had an uncle andaunt in Germany that I loved a lot. They didn’t like Hitler and theysaid so. They were that kind. And they’re dead now—died in stinkingconcentration 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 tomake up for Uncle Max and Aunt Elsa.”

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

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  _“I Want to Stamp Out the Rotten Government.”_]

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  “The whole outfit’s goin’ nuts,” Tony said. “All anxious to get intothe thick of it. It seems as if our gang is just about theblood-thirstiest in the Army. That’s why they all joined up with theparachute troops—thought they’d get first crack at the enemy if theydropped behind their lines.”

  “We’ve got quite a cross-section in our own plane,” Dick said. “We’veall got special reasons, the three of us here, for wanting to fight andfight hard. I suppose most of the rest of them have too. There’sMonteau, the Frenchman. He doesn’t say much, but from the look in hiseye I’d hate to be a German meeting up with him. And there’s SteveMasjek. He’s a Czech, and you know what those boys think of theGermans. Barney Olson’s got relatives in Norway. And there’s a bunch ofjust plain Americans with no special ties to the old world who arepretty anxious to fight, and fight some more.”

  “But _when_? When?” cried Max. “I thought I was itchin’ to get at thoseNazis, but I guess we’ve got one gent in our outfit that’s more anxiousthan I am. Did you hear about Vince Salamone?”

  “No, what about the home-run king?” Tony asked. “And say—that makes methink, we’ve got a fair representation of boys whose families came fromItaly—the lieutenant, Scotti, and Salamone the baseball player, andmyself—and now you, Maestro Donnelli.”

  “Sure—the Army knows we’re going to invade Italy,” Dick said. “We’regoing to come in handy. But what about Vince?”

  “He got picked up trying to hitchhike to the front,” Max said. “Justflatly stated that he didn’t want to be a paratrooper any more ’causehe hadn’t had a real chance to fight yet and he had to have it. Otherboys were fightin’ up front, he said, and he aimed to help ’em outinstead of sittin’ around here waiting for an airplane ride.”

  “What did they do with him?” Dick asked.

  “Oh, the Major acted sore, of course,” Max said, “because he had to.But he really liked the guy’s spirit. And everybody likes Vince anyway,not just because he’s the best ball player in the world, but one of thenicest guys, too. He got three days in the guardhouse and no furloughfor a month, that’s all.”

  “Well, he won’t miss anything,” Tony said. “It’s no duller in theguardhouse than here, and there aren’t any furloughs these days,anyway.”

  “He’s going to miss _something_,” a voice said from behind the groupchatting in the shade of the tree. They all sat up and turned around tosee Lieutenant Scotti. Quickly they jumped to their feet and saluted.Scotti saluted in return and then ambled up to them amiably.

  “Yes, Salamone is going to miss a little action,” the lieutenant said,“and you guys who’ve been itching to get into action so badly have atlast got a chance to do a little fighting. And—this is for youespecially, Private Burckhardt—we’ll encounter a few Germans!”