Cryptonomicon

He and his Marines almost don't find their way back to the barn because it has been so well hidden by this point. The SAS have put up blackout shades over every opening, even the small chinks in the collapsed roof. On the inside, they have settled in comfortably to the pockets of usable space. With all of the litter (now enhanced with chicken feathers and bones, tonsorial trimmings and orange peels) it looks like they've been living there for a year, which, Shaftoe guesses, is the whole point.

Corporal Benjamin has about a third of the place to himself. The SAS blokes keep calling him a lucky sod. He has his transmitter set up now, the tubes glowing warmly, and he has an unbelievable amount of paperwork. Most of it's old and fake, just like the cigarette butts. But after dinner, when the sun is down not only here but in London, he begins tapping out the Morse code.

Shaftoe knows Morse code, like everyone else in the place. As the guys and the blokes sit around the table, anteing up for what promises to be an all-night Hearts marathon, they keep one ear cocked towards Corporal Benjamin's keying. What they hear is gibberish. Shaftoe goes and looks over Benjamin's shoulder at one point, just to verify that he isn't crazy, and sees he's right:

XYHEL ANAOG GFQPL TWPKI AOEUT

and so on and so forth, for pages and pages.

The next morning they dig a latrine and then proceed to fill it halfway with a couple of barrels of genuine U.S. Mil. Spec. General Issue 100% pure certified Shit. As per Chattan's instructions, they pour the shit in a dollop at a time, throwing in handfuls of crumpled Italian newspapers after each dollop to make it look like it got there naturally. With the possible exception of being interviewed by Lieutenant Reagan, this is the worst nonviolent job Shaftoe has ever had to do in the service of his country. He gives everyone the rest of the day off, except for Corporal Benjamin, who stays up until two in the morning banging out random gibberish.

The next day they make the observation post look good. They take turns marching up there and back, up and back, up and back, wearing a trail into the ground, and they scatter some cigarette butts and beverage containers up there along with some general issue shit and general issue piss. Flanagan and Kuehl hump a footlocker up there and hide it in the lee of a volcanic rock. The locker contains books of silhouettes of various Italian and German naval and merchant ships, and similar spotter's guides for airplanes, as well as some binoculars, telescopes, and camera equipment, empty notepads, and pencils.

Even though Sergeant Bobby Shaftoe is for the most part running this show, he finds it uncannily difficult to arrange a moment alone with Lieutenant Enoch Root. Root has been avoiding him ever since their eventful flight on the Dakota. Finally, on about the fifth day, Shaftoe tricks him; he and a small contingent leave Root alone at the observation point, then Shaftoe doubles back and traps him there.

Root is startled to see Shaftoe come back, but he doesn't get particularly upset. He lights up an Italian cigarette and offers Shaftoe one. Shaftoe finds, irritatingly enough, that he is the nervous one. Root's as cool as always.

"Okay," Shaftoe says, "what did you see? When you looked through the papers we planted on the dead butcher--what did you see?"

"They were all written in German," Root says.

"Shit!"

"Fortunately," Root continues, "I am somewhat familiar with the language."

"Oh, yeah--your mom was a Kraut, right?"

"Yes, a medical missionary," Root says, "in case that helps dispel any of your preconceptions about Germans."

"And your Dad was Dutch."

"That is correct."

"And they both ended up on Guadalcanal why?"

"To help those who were in need."

"Oh, yeah."

"I also learned some Italian along the way. There's a lot of it going around in the Church."

"Fuck me," Shaftoe exclaims.

"But my Italian is heavily informed by the Latin that my father insisted that I learn. So I would probably sound rather old-fashioned to the locals. In fact, I would probably sound like a seventeenth-century alchemist or something."

"Could you sound like a priest? They'd eat that up."

"If worse comes to worst," Root allows, "I will try hitting them with some God talk and we'll see what happens."

They both puff on their cigarettes and look out across the large body of water before them, which Shaftoe has learned is called the Bay of Naples. "Well anyway," Shaftoe says, "what did it say on those papers?"

"A lot of detailed information about military convoys between Palermo and Tunis. Evidently stolen from classified German sources," Root says.

"Old convoys, or..."

"Convoys that were still in the future," Root says calmly. Shaftoe finishes his cigarette, and does not speak for a while. Finally he says, "Fuckin' weird." He stands up and begins walking back towards the barn.

Chapter 25 THE CASTLE