"This is it, Enrico." I stuck out my hand and we shook.
"Where are you going, Billy?"
"All depends. But you, my friend, are going to Boston. Massachusetts General." I took my dog tags off and put them around Sciafani's neck.
"What?"
"Don't ask any questions. Stand in line, get on the plane, don't talk to anyone." I handed him the file and a wad of greenbacks that I guessed would buy a train ticket from New Jersey to Boston.
"But this is a discharge for you."
"Bad timing. Busy right now. Get going before I change my mind."
The MP blew his whistle again.
"Get a move on. One of you on board, one of you out of here! Sir!"
I liked polite cops.
"Are you certain?" Sciafani asked.
"God help me, I am. Here, one more thing. When you get to Boston, go to this address." I handed him the envelope. "He's an old friend of mine. Alphonse DeAngelo. He 'll help you. I'd send you to my family, but I don't want them to know that I could have come home."
"If this is truly what you want, Billy, I will go."
"Go."
He grabbed his bag with the few belongings he had packed for the POW camp.
"Don't get hit in the head again, Billy. Promise me that."
"Odds are against it."
Sciafani waved, a grin lighting up his face. He ran to the line, showing his orders to a bored PFC who hooked his thumb toward the open door of the transport without looking up from his clipboard. I smiled, wheeled the jeep around and floored it, certain I had done the right thing for Sciafani, and for myself.
But that didn't mean I wanted to watch him fly away to the States. I didn't want to think about what I had given up. As I heard the engines cough and turn, I kept my eyes on the road stretching ahead of me.
I drove fast, the wind whipping my face, bringing tears to my stinging eyes. This is who I am.