15
PORTO DI SANTA LUCIA, NAPLES
SEPTEMBER 26, 1943
An orange sun was resting on still water in the distance. A line of boys stood along the stone edges of the shore. In the middle of the bay, the four wooden boats lurched to starboard, pulled down by the weight of full nets. Around them, boys and girls bobbed above the waterline like buoys, each holding on to a square of netting or a chord of rope. Vincenzo stood in the center of the rear boat, staring down at the water and at the fishing nets he had helped pull to the surface, each holding thick piles of rifles and handguns. All around him there was a stunned and happy silence, as the boys, on shore and in the water, stared with amazement at their catch of weapons.
“Is this all of it?” Vincenzo asked Maldini. He reached an arm into an open lip of the net, pulled out a lupare and held it firmly in his grip.
“It is all you will need,” Maldini said. He was stretched out across three wooden planks, face up to the darkening sky.
“Thank you,” Vincenzo said.
Maldini raised his head and looked over at the boys swimming in the water. “Look at them,” he said. “They are so happy. They see the guns and believe that now they can fight the Germans. And most of them will die, each with one of those guns in his hands. You should curse me for that, Vincenzo. Not thank me.”
Maldini stared at Vincenzo for several moments, seeing in the boy’s brooding eyes the same burden of loss that he himself carried. He turned and looked around him at the joyful faces floating in the water and wished they could all be tossed back into another time and place, one that was miles removed from the death they had seen and the destruction that followed. But he knew it to be nothing more than a foolish whim. In time of war, Maldini had learned, life was broken down into a series of moments, each branded into memory. Most of those moments were etched in a horror that would forever be sealed inside the dark reaches of the mind. A few, a very precious few, brought a smile and along with them a sense of once again being alive and filled with hope. Maldini knew as he stared down at the boys and the arsenal of weapons they gleefully embraced that this was such a moment.
“Death will come when it chooses,” he said to Vincenzo. “But for today, we are alive, and for that we should celebrate.”
Franco looked out at the coastline, at a boat rowing slowly toward them, four small boys struggling with the weight of the oars. “Fresh fish roasted over an open fire would be a perfect way to start,” Franco said. “That is, if our little friends managed to catch something other than a chill.”
“Have the boys put the guns in the boats and row them to shore,” Vincenzo said to Maldini. “I’ll swim out and help bring in the fishermen before it turns dark.”
“No,” Maldini said. “I’ll go and help the little ones. You stay. You be the one to tell them to load the guns on board.”
“What difference does it make who tells them?” Vincenzo asked.
“The difference is not for now, but for later,” Maldini said with a smile. “They need not only to trust you, but listen to what you tell them to do. No matter what happens. The sooner that starts, the better.”
Maldini stood, patted Vincenzo on the shoulder and jumped into the cold water. He was halfway out to the lone rowboat when Vincenzo’s orders echoed across the waves. He stopped, turned and smiled when he heard the loud cheers from the boys that followed in its wake. He floated in the waves and relished the sight of happy faces and sounds of joyful laughter as the guns were tossed from net to boat.
That would be victory enough for this day.
16
45TH THUNDERBIRD INFANTRY DIVISION HEADQUARTERS SALERNO. SEPTEMBER 26, 1943
The three officers leaned over the edges of the map and studied the various pieces that were spread across it. Captain Ed Anders reached across the map and moved a tiny wooden tank farther south. “This is where we
should
be by now,” he said, frustration and anger edged in his voice. “We haven’t moved in over a week. And I still don’t have a goddamn idea why.”
“Montgomery,” Captain Jack Sanders said. He was thirty-five, five years older than Anders, standing off to his left, taller and with thinning blond hair and a thick white mustache. He was a career army man, joining up the day after he finished high school, leaving behind three sisters, a widowed mother and a small grocery store in Gainesville, Florida. “The man won’t make a move unless the odds guarantee a victory. He just can’t afford to lose a battle.”
“The general is doing a slow burn of his own,” Captain Frank Carey, the third officer in the tent, said. Carey was in his mid-twenties, stationed with the Thunderbirds’ sister division, the Texas, and was viewed by the other officers in both groups as a five-star in the making. His words carried a hint of his Macon County, Georgia, upbringing. “But there isn’t all that much he can do about it. Ike said to sit tight until Monty gives the word.”
“Any news from your recon team?” Sanders asked Anders.
“Not yet,” Anders answered, shaking his head. “But it’s still early. The trip down doesn’t look like a long one on a map. But the way the Nazis have those roads mined, it’s gonna take them a couple of days to get into the city.”
“You expecting them to find anything?” Sanders asked.
“Not really,” Anders said, standing away from the map. “My guess is the two operatives we had working with the Italians got out before the evacuation. But they can give us a better idea of what’s left down there. The Nazis know we’re going in there
someday
. My guess is they’ll be looking to rip apart everything they can.”
“They’ve been doing that since we got here in July,” Carey said, staring at the clear sky outside the tent flap. “You know, my wife always wanted to see Italy. We used to talk about it before the war. Now, it’s going to be a lot of years before I can bring her here and give her something to see.”
“How much help can we expect from this new guy in power, what’s his name again?” Sanders asked.
“Marshal Pietro Badoglio,” Anders said. “He’s a paper soldier, and if the reports we get are reliable, pretty much an idiot.”
“You figure the resistance leaders will listen to him or will they just fire on anybody that drives into the city?” Sanders asked.
“I wouldn’t count on much of anything from him or them,” Carey said. “The government Badoglio set up collapsed before we even got here. The people out there are on their own again. If you ask me, they’ve been that way since this war started, and frankly, they’re a lot better off.”
“We’re here to help them,” Anders said. “But by the time we’re through, we’re going to end up doing just as much damage as the Germans.”
“I’d end this damn war tomorrow if I could,” Frank Carey said. “And get everybody back to wherever the hell it is they belong.”
The three officers stepped out of the tent and walked down a narrow road toward their waiting jeeps. They walked in silence, each feeling at loose ends, uncomfortable with the lag in the regular battle patterns they had grown accustomed to as they led their troops through the center of the Italian heartland. They were in a rush to end their days of war and return life to a semblance of what it had once been. It was a dream everyone in and out of uniform hoped to turn into reality.
While they walked the grassy slopes of an Italian town newly conquered, they knew that back home in America, flour, fish, beef and cheese could only be bought with red ration stamps and the sale of sliced bread was banned. In Washington, D.C., the Jefferson Memorial was dedicated in a presidential ceremony and the Pentagon was completed and newly occupied. Movie theaters gave citizens looking for visions of better days Hollywood versions of war with the successful films
Guadalcanal Diary, Watch on the Rhine, Five Graves to Cairo
and Gary Cooper and Ingrid Bergman in
For Whom the Bell Tolls
. Count Fleet won the Kentucky Derby and Duke Ellington had yet another hit with “Do Nothin’ Till You Hear from Me.” Selman Abraham Waksman, a forty-three-year-old Rutgers University professor of microbiology, introduced the world to antibiotics, while penicillin powder was applied for the first time in the treatment of chronic disease. Race riots scarred Harlem in New York while soft-coal workers threatened to walk off the job, urged on by the president of the United Mine Workers union, John L. Lewis. And the New York Yankees won another World Series.
“I wonder what the winters are like around here,” Sanders said, looking to his left as he led the way down the road.
“At the rate Monty and the Brits are moving, we may find out,” Carey said.
“He’s going to have to move sooner than that,” Anders said. “Even his own men are starting to make fun of him. And he has to know that the longer he takes to move into Naples, the more time he gives Patton to move through Italy. To those two, it’s never been about wars and men. It’s about headlines.”
“There is
some
logic to what Monty’s doing,” Carey said. “Let the Germans go into Naples and let them go in strong. Once they’re in, they’ve got their backs to the sea. There’s no place else for them to go. We come in, close ranks on the roads out of town, and we got them.”
“Unless that’s what they want us to do,” Sanders said. “You guys know as well as I do, the Nazis mined every damn road from Rome to Naples and in between. They mined the bottom of the bay, which can cause our ships a lot of trouble. They mined the walkways and the hillsides. Hell, the bastards even mined their own dead soldiers. The way they have it set up, they can knock off a quarter of our troops without having to fire a single round.”
“You think that’s what’s holding Monty back?” Anders asked. They had reached the base of the road, their backs turned away from the bay. “He’s worried about getting through the mine traps?”
“I sure hope that’s not the case,” Sanders said. “If it is, then we
will
be here all winter, and we’ll need Patton to liberate
us
.”
“You look around and see the faces of these Italian people,” Frank Carey said. “They never wanted any part of this war, no matter whose side they were on. They want to farm, not fight. But when we leave here, they’re going to be left with nothing more than holes in the ground and dead bodies to put inside them.”
“What makes them so different from us?” Anders asked. “We’ll all have bodies to put away once we get home.”
“But we’ll still have a
home
,” Carey said. “Nobody bombed it or ransacked it. Nobody took our clothes and burned our property. It’ll all still be there, the way we left it. Might need some touching up, but it’ll be standing and our families will still all be there. The people who lived here lost that and I don’t know how you ever get something like that back.”
“It’s not our worry, Frank,” Sanders said. “We’re soldiers and nobody gives a good damn what we think or how we feel. We’re just here to take the land, call it a win and then call it quits. We didn’t ask to be here either, anymore than the Italians want us here. Believe me, I’d much rather die with my feet tucked under the sheets of my own bed than in a vineyard on a hill in Italy, no matter how beautiful it is. But I don’t worry about that, either. I’m here to fight, not fret.”
Carey looked at Sanders and winked at Anders. “I couldn’t help but notice that you Florida boys get a little testy when you’re standing under the sun too long,” he said to Sanders. “You’d think you’d be used to it by now.”
“It’s the swamp gators I miss,” Sanders told him with a smile. “Having those suckers floating along the sides of your boat usually has a soothing effect on a man’s tolerance for bullshit.”
“I’m going back to my troops,” Anders said. “See you guys at tomorrow’s briefing. Unless we get an order to move out. In which case, I’ll see you on the road to Naples.”
“Last division to reach the city gets clean-up duty,” Sanders said. “What do you say? You two up to it?”
“I’ll be on my third shower by the time you two come rolling in,” Carey said. “Count me in on that bet.”
“I’ve never seen the day when my Thunderbirds get bested by the Texas,” Anders said to Sanders. “Make sure your boys have plenty of cleaning supplies in their gear.”
“Brag all you will, boys,” Sanders said, starting to walk from the group. “But we’re the ones assigned to follow Monty. Which means we’ll be the first Americans in the city.”
“You’re forgetting something, Jack,” Anders said. “A minor detail, but a detail nonetheless.”
“What would that be?”
“While we’ve been up here shooting the shit, one of my recon teams has been heading for Naples,” he said. “That’s a
Thunderbirds
recon team. By this time tomorrow we’ll be the first ones in.”
“Looks like you got yourself hit with a sucker punch,” Carey said to Sanders. “Don’t matter all that much, though. Since you’re the unit following Monty, you may never get to see Naples at all.”
“That’s right,” Anders shouted out to them from the base of a ravine. “You know that saying, ‘See Naples and Die.’ It should really be ‘See Naples when
Monty
dies.’”
The loud laughter of the three captains echoed off the silent hills of the Italian coastline.
17
VIA TOLEDO, NAPLES
SEPTEMBER 26, 1943
Connors eased the jeep to a stop, gazing through his windshield at the two boys blocking his path, one of them resting a foot on top of a firm, round ball. They both looked to be about eight years old, wearing threadbare outfits grafted from the torn clothing left behind by adults. The smaller of the two smiled at Connors, his bare foot rolling the ball with the edges of his toes. He had golden brown hair and sea-colored eyes with a dark leather tan covering his mostly bare body.
“
Togliati da mezzo ragazzi
,” Dante said from his seat in the rear. “Move out of the way. He’s an American. Here to help us.”
“Are these two part of your outfit?” Connors asked, keeping his eyes on the smiling boy.
“Yes,” Gaspare said. “The big one is Roberto. He doesn’t trust
anyone
, not even us, and we are his best friends.”
“The other one is Fabrizio,” Dante said. “He likes everybody. He loves to play football and is very good at it. He not only looks like a little German, he plays like one, too. He may one day have a chance to play for Team Naples.”
“If there ever is a Team Naples again,” Claudio said.
Connors jumped from the jeep and stretched out his back and arms. “I didn’t even know they played football in Italy,” he said. “I always thought it was an American sport.”
“It is
all
we play in Italy,” Pepe said. “It is the national sport. Every city has a team and from there the best players are picked to represent Italy against all other countries.”
“You ever played against a team from America?” Connors asked.
“We have never
seen
a team from America,” Gaspare said. “But if there is one, Italy can beat it. You may be better at winning wars, but you can never beat an Italian in football.”
“You talking about college ball or professional?” Connors asked, watching as Fabrizio’s gaze moved from him to the mastiff, now standing by his side.
“Here, in Italy, a boy plays football from the day he takes his first step,” Dante said. “We don’t need someone to teach us or show us how. It’s just something we all know how to do.”
“And he’s the best player in your group?” Connors asked, pointing at Fabrizio as he walked toward him.
“No one is better,” Claudio said. “He can control the ball and the field. And when he runs, he is like a bird, impossible for anyone to catch.”
“That sounds to me like one helluva football player,” Connors said, standing across from Fabrizio. “Are you as good as your friends say?”
Fabrizio nodded, eyes shifting from the American to the mastiff and back. “Maybe one day we can play a game,” he said in a soft voice.
“That would be fun,” Connors said. “All we would need is a little time and a nice place to play. And one of you would need to bring a football.”
The boys in the jeep all laughed, while Fabrizio lowered his head and giggled. “The sun has played a
trucco
on your eyes, American,” Gaspare said. “The football is right in front of you. There, under Fabrizio’s foot.”
Fabrizio flipped the round white ball from his foot to his knee and then with his arms spread out, bounced the ball from one leg to the other, his eyes fixed on the bullmastiff, the smile glued to his handsome face. He then lifted the ball skyward with the front of his foot, bouncing it from his forehead to his upper thigh, keeping up the rhythmic beat without ever losing his balance. Connors took a step back and removed his helmet. “He’s pretty good,” he said to the boys behind him. “With a
beach
ball. How good he is with a football is a whole other question.”
“What are you saying, American?” Dante asked. He jumped out of the rear seat of the jeep, caught the ball off Fabrizio’s forehead and shoved it at Connors. “This is not a beach ball. It’s a football.”
“That’s not like any football I’ve ever seen,” Connors said, shaking his head. “Maybe what you guys play over here is a whole lot different from what we play back home. You wear pads and helmets when you play?”
“
Cose sono
pads?” Fabrizio asked.
“They protect your shoulders and legs,” Connors said.
“From what?” Dante asked, flipping the ball back to Fabrizio, who caught it with the flat of his knee and resumed his bouncing routine.
“So you don’t get hurt when you block on the line or tackle a player coming at you on either a run or a pass,” Connors said. “It prevents a lot of injuries.”
“In football, speed is all you need to stay safe,” Gaspare said. “These other things you talk about can only slow a player down.”
“What do you like about the football you play, American?” Fabrizio asked, resting the ball against the side of his ankle.
Connors placed a boot on the bumper of the jeep and pulled a cigarette from the front pocket of his uniform. “I like that we play it in the fall,” he said, lighting the cigarette and exhaling a drag, thin puffs of smoke clouding his face. “When the weather turns cold and the wind blows down heavy from the hills. I like the smell of the air and the feel of the breeze. I like running on hard ground, the ball held inside my arm, the other fellas rushing in to tackle me and keep me from getting too many yards. In lots of ways, it’s not so much the game itself for me. I like baseball a lot more and I’m much better at that. But I love the time of year football is played. People back home always seem happier in the fall, holidays closing in, days getting shorter, sitting around warm fires at night, close to your family, your friends. When you’re in the middle of it, you think you have nothing but a lifetime filled with days and nights like that to look forward to. Then a war comes along, shoves you in places you’ve never been before and you wonder if you’ll ever see another fall like the ones you remember.”
The boys moved around the sides of the jeep, their feet kicking at dirt and rocks, their heads bowed, an uneasy silence warming its way into their happy moods. “In Italy, football is played every day, no matter what month, no matter the weather,” Dante said. “But for all the boys here, the best day to play was Sunday. After mass and before the big family meal.”
“All the squares in the city and all the parks would be filled with people watching their children playing football,” Gaspare said. “Our mothers would pack baskets with fruit and cheese and wine. Our fathers would stand off together, cheering us on, smoking cigarettes, laughing and talking with their friends.”
“The city was so alive, so happy,” Claudio said. “I’d look away from the game and find my mother and father in the crowd, always with smiles on their faces. It was everyone’s happiest day.”
“Now Sunday is just another day,” Pepe said.
“Have you ever lost anyone, American?” Dante asked Connors. “Someone close to you?”
“Not the way all of you have,” Connors said, shaking his head. “The war hasn’t cost me family. The people back home have died the way they were meant to die. But you get close to people when you’re in the army, go through training with them, travel across an ocean together, fight a few battles next to one another. Then one day a bullet lands or a bomb explodes and those friends are gone. You have that happen enough times, you pull away. You learn that war isn’t the best time to go looking for a new batch of friends.”
Fabrizio stepped up to Connors and tugged at the back of his shirt. “I will be your friend,” he said to him. “And to your dog, too.”
Connors smiled and kneeled down in front of Fabrizio. He picked up the football and held it in his hands. “He’s not my dog,” Connors said, inching his head toward the bullmastiff. “We just travel together. But I think having you as a friend is something we both would like.”
“And I will teach you to play football,” Fabrizio said, taking the ball back from Connors. “I will make you the best American player in Naples.”
“Then something good might come out of this war after all,” Connors said, rubbing the top of Fabrizio’s head. He glanced over at Roberto. The boy had kept his head down and his eyes to the ground since Connors first pulled up and had yet to speak a word. “What about you?” he asked. “You going to try and make a football player out of me, too?”
“He doesn’t speak,” Dante said. “He listens, but never says a word.”
“He used to talk all the time,” Claudio said. “There were days when we wished he wouldn’t talk. But those days are in the past.”
“Why won’t he talk?” Connors asked.
“His father was anti-Mussolini,” Pepe said. “So was most of his family. When the Nazis first came into Naples, the Fascists pointed them out. They were branded as traitors to the cause.”
“The next day the Nazis went into their home,” Dante said. “Waited until the middle of the night to do it. Woke them from their sleep and killed everyone in the family. All except for Roberto. They left him alone, surrounded by the bodies of his mother, father, grandmother and two sisters. Pepe’s father found him there early that morning. From that day to this, he has not made a sound.”
“We look out for him,” Fabrizio said, putting a hand on the taller boy’s shoulder. “He is our friend. Just like you.”
Connors put out a hand to touch the boy, thought better of it and then turned and jumped back behind the wheel of the jeep. “Pile in, all of you,” he said in a low voice. “I think it’s time I got a good look at the rest of your squad.”