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*
There are no secrets on any Air Force base, and, even when there are,
there are no secrets in the Communications Squadron. The Comm Squadron
processes all incoming and outgoing messages for every unit on the base, and in
the days before email this meant that whenever anything happened someone in
the Comm Squadron knew about it. Which is how I knew, even before anyone
in the Services Squadron, that Jeremy was facing a court martial on charges of
homosexuality.
Of course he did not get the court martial, but he was taken into cus­
tody, and he did get an Article 15. An Article 15 is what they give you after they
threaten you with a court martial. The difference is that an Article 15 is adminis­
trative, there is no trial, there is no federal conviction, and they can have you off
the base and on a plane back to the civilian world in less than a week. They had
him off the island so fast he did not have time to say goodbye to anybody.
Anybody but me that is. We had time for one last night in the town of Comiso
before we said goodbye forever.
*
The sound of the Iron Curtain falling all across Europe woke me that
morning, and the clang of metal crashing to the ground echoed loudly in my
ears as I looked around and tried to remember. I was in a field behind a low
stone wall, and I knew exactly where I was, but not how I got there. I raised my
head from the dust and opened my eyes as wide as I dared, but I already knew
that Jeremy was gone. Gone. Off the island. Back to the real world. Beneath my
body the box of take-out was smashed flat and the leftover calzones were
squashed beyond all recognition. The bottles at my feet were empty, but when I
turned my head I could see a full bottle leaning against the wall.
The label on the bottle read "Bianco" but the wine inside was red, and
on the outside Jeremy had written "capelli del cane" (as if I could read Italian). I
dragged myself to a sitting position against the wall made from stone, brushed
the ants off the calzones, and opened the bottle of Vino Locale. I wasn't worried
about Jeremy. He would not miss the bus to the Navy base at Sigonella, or his
flight out. Jeremy was never late. He was always where he was supposed to be
when he was supposed to be. Always.
I looked around and could see bits and pieces of concrete littering the
ground and the events of the previous evening started to flood back into my
mind.
The Lancia was in the shop again, so we hitched a ride downtown
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