RUPERT BROOKE “Fragment” MID-AFTERNOON, JULY 1, 1943. The loudspeaker in Troopdeck B crackled as the precise Oxford accent of the ship’s adjutant summoned all officers to assemble in the main lounge. I jumped excitedly from my seat beside one of my section corporals on a pile of ammunition boxes. “It’s the tip-off, Hill! Have that quid handy when I get back ’cause this is where you lose a bet!” Two crowded weeks aboard a troopship bound for an assault landing, without knowing where or when it would take place, except that it would probably be somewhere with a warm climate, had turned us all into betting men. Corporal Hill had bet we’d land in Greece. Everyone else in the platoon had his own opinion, ranging from Istanbul to French West Africa. I had staked my money on Italy—not because I was prescient but because I had earlier overheard one of the divisional staff officers hinting that a knowledge of “Wop lingo”
