“By the time we were through it was way after curfew. On top of that a midnight convoy was crossing the street and stopped us up for at least five minutes. Marcus was riding shotgun. I was in the back behind the driver, a Mexican guy called Ernesto. This kid come up next to the car. He couldn’ta been no more than ten, eleven. He asked Marcus for a buck. That’s what he said, ‘Gives us a buck, Mistah Yankee. Gives us a buck . . .’ ”

Meanie stopped talking for a few seconds, his eyes piercing the veil of time. History unfolded before that gaze. It wasn’t good or bad, right or wrong—just a series of events that were as certain as if they had been carved in bone.

“When Marcus reached into his vest pocket, Lance, the guy to my right, said, ‘Don’t give that little gook shit, Marky. He probably . . .’ That’s when the kid slung this canvas bag he had through the air. It smacked down between Ernesto and Marcus. We all hollered. The kid was makin’ tracks. I saw a white light but didn’t hear the explosion, didn’t hear it, but all my friends were dead.”

That was the sole purpose of Little Anzio. Vets could tell their stories plainly without pity or disdain. They didn’t even have to hate anymore; just feel the ride and honor the sacrifice.

“How you like that schnapps, Mr. Rawlins?” Meanie asked.

“Tastes like springtime in Bavaria.”

Meanie grinned but that wasn’t the end of it. A story like he told was a gift and it was expected among our tribe to tell your tale—like throwing another log on an eternal flame.

“We were among the first soldiers to march into Auschwitz-Birkenau,” I said as if responding to a question. “My buddy was a black boy from Charleston, South Carolina, named Oliver Sams. That was at the end of the war and the army had been integrated by attrition. So many whites and blacks had been killed or wounded that we had to come together to make up our companies and squads. We filed past hundreds of living skeletons with the dead piled around them and lying at their feet. The smell of rotting human flesh was strong.

“After the victims we marched by the officers. The commandant was in a wheelchair. He was out of it. But his number two was in full SS dress uniform standing at attention. He was sneering at us dirty GIs. But what did we care? We’d already won the war.