Free Death's Door by James R. Benn Page A

tunnels carved out of rock.
    I figured any good priest might read the Bible, so I took the one out of my suitcase. I had my own back home, of course, but I’d never actually read it. I skipped all the begats and tried to find the stories, the kind I remembered from Sunday school, anything to pass the time and look the part. It was in Acts that I stumbled across the tale of the Apostle Paul, who came to Rome to preach the new religion.
And when we came to Rome, the centurion delivered the prisoners to the captain of the guard … after three days Paul called the chief of the Jews together: and when they were come together, he said unto them, Men and brethren, though I have committed nothing against the people, or customs of our fathers, yet was I delivered prisoner from Jerusalem into the hands of the Romans.
    “Kaz,” I said in a low voice. “Do you know what happened to Paul the Apostle?” He drew a finger across his throat. I shut the book and closed my eyes.
    As night fell, blackout curtains were drawn and the lights dimmed. We ate the bread and cheese that had been packed for us, and shared a bottle of wine with no label. The air in the car was thick with tobacco smoke, the smell of stale food, and unwashed bodies. I prayed for sleep, and awoke hours later with a stiff neck and Kaz asleep on my shoulder. The conductor walked through, unleashing a string of Italian in a bored monotone.
    “We are almost to Terni, Father Boyle,” Kaz said. “The train will stop for one hour.”
    “Shall we stretch our legs then, Father Dalakis?” I said, putting on the brogue. By this time, the two odd priests were old hat to the other travelers, and as we stood, one departing German soldier gave us an “Auf Wiedersehen.”
    In the station we found a bar serving coffee, and ordered “Due espressi, per favore.” As we sipped the bitter drink—no sugar to be had—two trucks pulled up outside and German soldiers piled out. For a moment I thought we were in trouble, but then I saw the medics, with their white helmets and big red crosses. They were unloading wounded, a few walking, most on stretchers. Kaz raised an eyebrow to let me know he was relieved as well. Some of the bandages were soaked with fresh blood; something had happened to these men not too far from here, and I hoped it wouldn’t stir up security. As we finished our espressos and left the bar, a German officer ran up to us. From the look on his face, it wasn’t to ask for our papers. His uniform was dark with soot, one arm bloodstained, and the blood didn’t seem to be his. He was wild-eyed, as if he might be in shock.
    “Bitte, Vater, werden Sie einem sterbenden Soldaten letzte Riten geben? Er ist katholisch.”
    “Letzte Riten? Ja, sicher,” Kaz said. “Father Boyle, one of his men requires last rites. Would you like to perform the sacrament? Er ist Irischer ,” he added, for the benefit of the officer, a captain.
    I understood from the look in Kaz’s eyes that he had no idea what to do. But I did, having seen police chaplains give emergency last rites to cops a couple of times, not that I was taking notes.
    “Yes, of course, Father Dalakis. Take me to the poor boy.” The captain looked confused for a moment, but recovered quickly. He nodded and we followed him to the sidewalk where the wounded were laid out. The dying soldier was obvious. A kid set apart from the others, a medic at his side, holding a bloody compress to his chest. The captain knelt by him.
    “Hans, Hans,” he said, squeezing the boy’s hand. Hans opened his eyes, his straw-colored hair splashed across his forehead. His eyes were crystal blue, and seemed to be looking at something far, far away. I didn’t want to do this, but I couldn’t say no. It didn’t seem right, since only a priest could perform the sacrament. But Hans was dying, and he’d never know the difference.
    “I have no holy oil,” I said to Kaz. I heard Kaz whispering to the captain, hopefully a story that would