“I don’t doubt it.” She hugged the blanket, but it did little to warm her.
“But you succeeded. The explosives blew the roof off.”
Thank goodness. She could remain at Dunnet Head, safe and free, and her eyes drifted shut in gratitude.
30
Lamb Holm, Orkney Islands
Monday, February 9, 1942
Inside the barbed-wire enclosure of Camp 60 on Lamb Holm, Italian prisoners of war milled about in a motley assortment of uniforms, their coats and trousers marked with large yellow circles to identify them as prisoners if they should escape.
Lachlan stood outside the gate with Lt.-Cdr. Bennett Blake whilst a British soldier escorted out a dark-haired man around Lachlan’s age with a loose, swaggering gait.
The prisoner saluted, and Lachlan and Blake returned his salute.
“Sergeant Joe Pizzuto, sir,” the prisoner said. “I’ve been appointed spokesman to negotiate with youse.”
An American accent? Lachlan’s eyebrows lifted.
Blake gaped at the man. “You’re American?”
“If only.” Pizzuto spread his hands wide and shrugged. “Should’ve obeyed Mama and taken my citizenship test. You see, me and my family immigrated from Italy to New Jersey when I was six. Grew up there. When I was eighteen, I visitedfamily in Italy and met the girl of my dreams. Mm, she is worth it though.”
Blake grumbled in his throat. The man didn’t suffer storytelling. “I’m Lt.-Cdr. Bennett Blake, and this is Lt. Lachlan Mackenzie. We’re with the Orkneys and Shetlands Command. Why are your men refusing to work?”
Pizzuto rubbed the dark stubble on his chin. “Hey, if it were up to me, sir, we’d be working, get the blood pumping, you know what I mean? How do youse stand it here? You must have ice water in your veins. I mean, we had some brutal winters in Jersey, but this wind cuts you in half.”
Aye, it did, and Lachlan suppressed a smile. The man was his enemy, and yet somehow likeable.
More rumbling issued from Blake’s throat. He did not share Lachlan’s sentiment. “Yet you indeed refuse to work.”
“Yes, sir. It’s our right to do so. Those Churchill Barriers—they’re defensive fortifications. Under the Geneva Conventions, prisoners of war are not required to construct defenses. Take it up with Geneva.” A grin cracked Pizzuto’s face. “Got anything else we can do? Maybe plant some trees to block this wind? I haven’t seen a single tree up here. That’s your problem.”
Blake’s lips pressed tight. “Are there any privileges we could offer in exchange for your cooperation?”
“Hey, I’d do it, sir. I ain’t a fan of Mussolini. But some of these fellas are.” Pizzuto gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. “They’ll never budge. Even if you convinced the lot of us those barriers were a civilian construction project, they’d still never budge. And no one messes around with those fellas, I tell you.”
A man in the enclosure shouted something in Italian.
“What did he say?” Blake asked.
“Oh no, sir. I refuse to translate. If I say those words, Mama will tan my hide.” Pizzuto jerked his head toward the offender.“That fella’s the ringleader. He and his pals, about a dozen of them. Loudmouths. But you know, they do have a point.”
They did, and Lachlan and Blake exchanged a glance.
Blake nodded to the guard, then to Pizzuto. “Good day, Sergeant.”
“Good day to you too, kind sirs,” Pizzuto said in a fake English accent. He saluted, doffed his cap, and bowed.
Lachlan and Blake returned the salute but not the bow. They climbed in the waiting staff car, which drove them half a mile south to the jetty on Lamb Holm.
“Typical Yankee impertinence.” Blake shook his head as they boarded the drifter. “But he’s correct.”
“Aye, sir.” The Admiralty had hoped the prisoners would be ignorant of the Geneva Conventions, a vain hope. “We’ll need to find another way to build those barriers. They’re necessary.”
“Indeed.” Blake called to the coxswain. “Lyness Pier.”
