and cashed out at Monte Cassino. I’ve been reading his memoirs, shadowing his Bren carrier in my rental Opel on the autostrada. He made it to Pompeii and walked the lava lanes alone, unlike me, but he didn’t stroll out on the infinity terrace at Ravello. That’s where the scribes hid away, sipping limoncello in paradise. They weren’t dragging howitzers or brewing up tea composite in mess tins. I never guessed that Spike was a full-war soldier. He’s the real deal.
