Street Boys (28 page)

The boys in the hole applauded, Claudio pumped a small fist into the dusty air and the mastiff barked his approval. Dante shifted a lever and pressed two buttons, checking the levels on each of the gauges, smiling when the tank jolted forward. Pepe stepped in alongside Claudio, grabbed hold of the two arms of a rotating machine gun. He peered down through the opening, jammed his fingers along the trigger points and opened fire. Claudio shoved a fresh shell into the hole, slammed it shut and waited for the signal to launch.

The street boys had the Nazis bottled inside the square.

From the tower, Maldini launched his grenade attack. From the rear, Connors and Nunzia fired on the soldiers, directing the boys against the tanks, utilizing the flame throwers, mines and kerosene cocktails at their disposal. Angela worked the sewers, moving from opening to opening like a frenzied rabbit, tossing out bags of grenades and fused cylinders, dragging down wounded boys and those low on ammo. Vincenzo and his captured Panzer moved into the square, its fiery turret shelling the three remaining tanks, the battle raging at its fullest and angriest, boys, girls, women and soldiers all fighting for a piece of a now-demolished square.

Connors looked up and saw flames shoot out of the rear tracks of the Nazi tank. Three of its soldiers jumped out of the smoky hole and ran down one of the empty side streets. The few remaining soldiers were now frantically searching for a way out of the inferno they had initiated. Connors turned to Nunzia, put a hand on her shoulder and yelled out, “They’ve had enough. Call everybody back.”

Nunzia jumped to the fountain in the center of the square and fired her gun into the air, waving one arm in a circular pattern. Within minutes, the street boys disappeared as quickly as they had appeared, slipping back into the safety of the sewers, side streets and alleys. The Nazi tanks were abandoned. Dead soldiers lined the large square, many of them as young as the oldest of the boys. Connors walked among them, his head down, his machine gun at rest by his side. “Win or lose,” he told Nunzia, now walking next to him, “you always end up with that same empty feeling. Wanting to burn down abandoned buildings and houses isn’t a good enough cause to die over.”

He and Nunzia turned when they saw the tank approach, Vincenzo and Fabrizio waving at them from the open hull. Fabrizio jumped down from the moving tank, the mastiff fast on his step, and ran toward them. He stopped when he reached Connors, who reached down and picked the boy up. “What the hell were you and the dog doing inside that tank?” he asked.

“I was the second in command,” Fabrizio said, smiling. “I would pass Vincenzo’s orders down to Claudio. Without me, victory would have been much more difficult.”

Vincenzo, Claudio and Pepe stepped out of the tank and stared at the bodies and the fires that filled the square. Maldini, Frederico and Giovanni were fast behind them, coming down from the steps of the demolished aquarium. “The Nazis came here expecting to find Naples,” Maldini said, gazing up at the flames and smoke. “And instead they found a pocket of hell.”

“Let’s go,” Nunzia said in a low voice, walking between Connors and Maldini, an arm under each. “We’ve all seen enough blood for one day.”

The mastiff ran ahead of them, stopping in front of a deserted tank, fire billowing out of its back and sides, a German pith helmet resting next to it. The dog began to bark and claw at the ground, trying to wedge his body under the tracks, reaching his head in, his large jaw swinging from side to side. “What the hell’s he doing?” Connors asked, running toward the mastiff, his machine gun cocked and ready.

Connors stood above the dog and glanced down. The mastiff had a soldier’s hand in his mouth, its fingers curled around a semiautomatic handgun. He heard a low muffled scream coming out from under the tank. Connors reached down and yanked the gun out of the soldier’s hand, then dragged him out from under the front end. The mastiff was inches from the Nazi’s face, white foam dripping along his jaws, his foul breath hot on the soldier’s neck. Connors pulled the German to his feet. He was much younger than Connors and stood shaking and shivering despite the horrid heat. Connors took two steps back and aimed his gun at the German’s stomach, the others circling around them, each looking into the face of the enemy.

“You speak English?” Connors asked.

The soldier nodded. “I lived in England for six months.” His voice was shaky. “On a student exchange.”

“Take a look around,” Connors said. “Look at what you did to this place. Then look at the people behind me. This was their home, the place where they lived and played and tried to make a life. You see it?”

The soldier’s eyes moved slowly around the burning square and then settled on the faces gathered behind Connors. “Yes,” he said, his voice choked by smoke and fumes.

“Maybe you’ll remember it then,” Connors said. “Unlock your ammo pack and let it drop to the floor. Then turn around and leave this place.”

The soldier swallowed hard and undid his belt, stepping aside as it fell on the ground. “If I’m to be shot,” the soldier said, “I’d rather be facing the one shooting me.”

“You might get that chance someday,” Connors said. “But not today. Now get out of my sight, before I let the dog rip you to shreds.”

Connors took a step back and watched as the soldier slowly lowered his hands and turned away, then sprinted toward one of the alleys closest to the tank. Connors bent down and patted the top of the mastiff’s head, running his hand down along his jawline. The dog lifted his front paws and leaned them on the soldier’s chest, his large tongue licking drool across the side of Connors’s face. Connors stood up and shook his head, wiping off the spittle with the sleeve of his uniform. “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said. “This dog is better at finding a Nazi than any of us can ever hope to be.”

“Of course he is,” Fabrizio said. “He’s a street dog. Just like us.”

THE THIRD DAY

25

PIAZZA GARIBALDI

Von Klaus slammed his fist down against the center of the map. The blow caused the thin wooden legs of the table to collapse and sent the paper flowing to the ground, the mild breeze setting it adrift along the parched grass. “They’re like deadly rodents,” he shouted to Kunnalt.

“It’s difficult to contain them in battle, sir,” Kunnalt said, making a feeble attempt at an explanation. “They come from all directions. They launch their attack, strip our men of their guns and grenades and then scatter. And they’ve been very good at utilizing the few weapons they have.”

“They took one of our
tanks
, Kunnalt,” Von Klaus said. “That makes them very good at utilizing one of the weapons
we
have. They’re using German bullets and artillery to kill our men. We’re not only fighting on their ground, we’re fighting on their terms.”

“We can alert high command and ask for air cover,” Kunnalt said. “The bombings might force them out of their hiding places and then the ground troops can take care of the rest.”

Von Klaus stared at Kunnalt, anger and frustration etched in every line of his face. “In its history, the Sixteenth Panzer Division has beaten the British in the deserts of Africa and pounded the Americans in the hills of Italy. It has marched victorious through Poland and eastern Europe and braved the brutality of the Russian front. But now it remains stalled, at the mercy of children in an empty city, in need of airpower to allow it to stake a claim to victory. If we can’t win this fight without air support against this kind of army, then we have betrayed the history of this division.”

Von Klaus had been convinced that the rebellion would be mild, easily quelled by his far-superior troops. But now an element of uncertainty had begun to creep into his thinking. And he was experienced enough as an officer to know that where there was doubt there lurked the seeds of defeat.

“How much use has our young traitor been to us?” Von Klaus asked.

“He doesn’t seem to have made any impact, sir,” Kunnalt said. “My guess would be that the Italians trust him about as much as we do.”

“Except the Italians didn’t pay for his help,” Von Klaus said. “We did. And I expect full worth for my money. Can we find him?”

“He’s camped in the hills,” Kunnalt said. “He claims he offered the street fighters his help and was rebuffed. Now he says he’s got enough boys behind him to go in and attack the ones fighting us.”

“So, he not only betrays his own kind,” Von Klaus said, “he’s even willing to kill them.”

“Sometime tomorrow is when he plans to make his move, sir,” Kunnalt said. “Providing we meet his two requests.”

“Which are what?” Von Klaus said, his voice coated with contempt.

“We supply him with the weapons needed to fight and defeat the boys,” Kunnalt said. “And we guarantee him safe passage out of Naples after it’s done.”

“Tell him I’ve accepted his terms,” Von Klaus said. “But also tell him I wish to speak to him prior to his attack. I want to go over his plan. Soldier to soldier.”

Kunnalt looked at Von Klaus and nodded. “How soon?”

“Now,” Von Klaus said.

26

MASCHIO ANGIOINO

Connors leaned against the side of a Corinthian column, staring out at the imposing thirteenth-century castle that came complete with a moat, five stone towers and a complex series of archways. “It’d be hard for the tanks to get up here,” Connors said, pointing out the black rock structures and the closed-in brick columns. “Most likely they’ll decide to fight us out by the grass, leaving their soldiers exposed.”

“Unless it can fly,” Maldini said, “a tank won’t be able to take the castle. Right now, it’s probably the safest place in all Naples. But things often change faster than we would like.”

“It’s like a small city in there,” Connors said. “You could hide a battalion behind those walls and no one would have a clue they were in there. The Nazis should have made this one of their early targets or turned it into their headquarters. They should’ve done whatever they needed to keep it out of our hands.”

“The Nazis might have been saving it for last, bring it down on their way out of the city,” Maldini said with a shrug. “Just before they left for Rome.”

“Maybe.” Connors lit a cigarette. “It looks to me like they’ve spread themselves out too wide. Even when they looked to take the city from the center and then branch out from there, they did it in chunks, not as a whole. The boys have been good fighters, better than I thought. And the plans have been solid, risky enough for the Nazis not to figure them out in advance. But even with all that, it just doesn’t feel right.”

“You’re just like Vincenzo,” Maldini said, arching his eyebrows over at Connors. “You both overthink every move and maneuver. You need to have reasons for every action taken. It’s because you’re a soldier and he wants to be one. You ask military questions and expect military answers. That’s not always the right place to stop.”

“Explain it to me, then,” Connors said. “Tell me why the second most decorated officer in the German command, running with the best tank division they have, can’t beat back an army of kids?”

Maldini stared at Connors for several seconds, his arms folded as he stood against a stone wall. “Because the Colonel has a stomach for battle but not for murder,” he said. “If these were American troops he was fighting, they would have already tasted the full power of that division. But they’re children. He sees it and he knows it. He’s a fighter who can’t give the order that will ensure his victory.”

“But he can’t allow himself to lose. He won’t be able to live with that either.”

“You’re right,” Maldini said. “That he cannot do. Which means, at some point, he will have to shove aside the concerns of the man and take on the demands of the soldier. Then it will take much more than surprise attacks and street cunning to run him out of Naples.”

“If that’s going to happen, it’s going to be soon. He’s not long on time and he’s low on fuel. He’s got to finish the job here and make a run for the north, ahead of the Brits and my guys.”

Maldini checked the sky for signs of an early-rising sun, his face and hair tilted toward the mild breeze. “It will be today, tomorrow at the latest. But for now, the sun still greets the morning as if the world were at peace.”

“When I first met you, back in the square,” Connors said, “I wasn’t expecting much. You seemed more interested in your wine than in the kids.”

“Don’t be fooled,” Maldini said. “I still prefer wine to children.”

“I’ve seen you fight,” Connors said. “And I saw how you helped Vincenzo and the others with the plans. That’s not something a drunk usually does.”

“My father was an engineer,” Maldini said. “He helped design many of the tunnels we now use to run from the Nazis. I used to watch him work. I loved to see how a pencil drawing he began on a thin sheet of paper in his little office would end up covering hundreds of miles of a city’s streets. And it was how I made my living, too.”

“That explains the planning,” Connors said. “But you’re also good with a gun. Not many engineers are.”

“This isn’t Italy’s first world war,” Maldini said. “And it’s not mine either.”

Connors patted Maldini on the arm and started to walk away. “I’m going to see if the boys need any help.”

“Are there any Italians in the rich city where you live?” Maldini asked, nodding his head toward the soldier.

“It’s not rich,” Connors said. “And there are no Italians. You’d probably have to drive to St. Louis to even find a family that serves anything with a red sauce on it that’s not barbecue.”

“You don’t have pasta as your
primo
?” Maldini’s manner was more curious than concerned.

“Only if macaroni and cheese counts. And then it’s your only course.”

“What do you put on the macaroni and cheese?”

“Salt,” Connors said. “Sometimes milk if it’s served too hot.”

“In Naples, not even a sick infant would put milk on his pasta,” Maldini said with pride. “We don’t even like to put milk in our coffee. And there, at least, you could understand its function.”

Connors snickered and walked toward the older man. “What’s your favorite meal, Maldini? The one you would ask for if you could ask for anything?”

“I would begin with a fresh antipasto misto.” Maldini leaned his head against one of the columns, his eyes closed, his mind conjuring up favorable images. “A nice bottle of red wine and fresh bread just out of the oven. Then, a large bowl of linguini in a thick red sauce swimming with clams and mussels. After that, a steak pizzaiola with a green salad dressed in olive oil and lemon. Two cups of espresso and a long glass of Fernet Branca and maybe some crunchy biscotti if I still have room.”

“That’s pretty impressive,” Connors said. “Want to hear mine?”

“Will it depress me?”

“Yes,” Connors said. “But it won’t take as long.”

“Already I don’t like it. A great meal should take time, both to make and to eat.”

“You want me to feel like a king,” Connors said, “put me down in front of a large platter of sliced meat loaf swimming in mushroom gravy and ketchup, side helpings of twice-cooked potatoes, fresh corn on the cob and my aunt Jane’s oven-fresh rolls. Top it off with a thick slab of peach pie and a double scoop of vanilla ice cream. That’s close enough to heaven for me.”

Maldini shrugged his shoulders and stared out across the expansive green lawn that separated the castle from the main road. “There should be more than enough room in heaven for both. Do you at least drink wine with such a meal?”

“Afraid not,” Connors said with a laugh. “Milk usually or sometimes pop or maybe even a beer.”

“I’d rather go hungry than eat a meal without a glass of wine,” Maldini said.

“Why are you asking?” Connors asked. “Just curious or are you planning a move to the States?”

“Not me,” Maldini said, shaking his head. “Made in Naples, stay in Naples. But I have a daughter who’s always wanted to travel. So it’s nice to know about a place she might one day visit.”

The four boys had slept in the tunnels longer than they should have, running now toward the castle, hoping to get there before the tanks and soldiers arrived. In the distance behind them they heard the drone of the engines and could feel the trembling along the cracks on the street. One of the boys, the tallest and oldest, stopped and turned to look at the barren avenue behind him. “We should be okay,” he told the others. “They must be at least half a kilometer behind us. We can make the castle with time to spare.”

“Then why are we running?” the youngest of the quartet asked.

“In case I’m wrong,” the older one said, picking up his run and moving along at a faster pace.

The four turned a corner, saw the imposing castle on their left, a half-mile farther down the wide road. They turned and gave each other relieved glances and sighs, grateful to be so close to the next chosen sanctuary in their fight. “I told you not to worry,” the tall boy said, his breath coming out in hurried rushes. “We should be inside the castle in less than ten minutes.”

The youngest slowed his pace, arms folded against his chest, trying to ignore the burning feeling deep in his lungs. “We can walk the rest of the way and still get there before the Germans. And that’s what I’m going to do.”

“No reason to take any chances.” The tall boy held to his run and waved the others to follow. “We can all catch our breath and get some rest once we’re inside.”

“This wasn’t worth the extra twenty minutes of sleep,” one of the two silent boys said, his head down, his tired arms dangling against his sides.

They were within the shadows of the castle when the first bullet was fired.

It hit the younger boy in the fleshy part of his shoulder and sent him spiraling to the ground, blood from the wound mixing with scraped skin from the fall. The other three boys skidded to a stop and rushed to their knees to help their injured friend. Their eyes scanned the empty street for any signs of the shooter. “Don’t waste your time on me, Antonio,” the youngest boy said, his mouth dry, his eyes tearing up from the pain. “Get yourselves inside the castle. Don’t leave them any more targets.”

“Put your arms around my neck,” Antonio ordered him, shoving his own arms under the back and folded legs of the wounded boy. “We’re going to get behind those walls together.”

A second shot bounced off the edge of the pavement just to the left of the crouching boys, sending tiny fragments of rock bounding toward the sky. “Then we need to find that sniper,” one of the quiet boys said.

From the jagged rooftop of the castle, Vincenzo, Franco and Angela looked to their left and saw the advancing line of Nazi tanks and soldiers. It stretched more than a half-mile down the center road, the sea to its left, burning structures to its right. Farther down the road they saw the four street boys running toward the front gates of the castle, led by a tall, lanky teenager.

“That’s Antonio Murino and his friends.” Angela couldn’t hide her frustration. “They’ve never been on time once since I’ve known them. They can sleep through anything. If they could, they’d sleep through the rest of the war.”

“So would I,” Franco said with a shrug, looking across the stone wall at Vincenzo. “It’s all about the company you keep.”

The three of them jumped back when they heard the shot. They glanced over the edge of the wall, watching the four boys huddle together and Antonio try to lift the wounded one into his arms. Franco pointed across from the castle, down a side street hidden by shadows and ruin. “There’s smoke coming from that alley,” he said. “It was only one bullet, but I don’t think they’d risk a soldier out alone.”

Vincenzo braced himself against the side of the wall and waved an arm at Connors and Maldini. “One of the boys is down,” he yelled. “They’re close enough to make it, but they’ll need some help.”

“We’ll get them in,” Connors shouted back. “Meantime, try to spot that shooter and fire down on him when you do. Chances are you won’t hit him, but the cover fire will at least keep him clear of us.”

Connors checked the clips on his machine guns and looked over at Maldini. “You up for an early-morning run?”

“Only to keep you company,” Maldini said as he tossed his rifle across his shoulder. “If it were up to me, I’d sit here, have a coffee and watch the tides rise and fall.”

Connors and Maldini were halfway across the grassy field, heading for the open road and the four boys. The morning sun warmed their backs, the Nazi tanks and soldiers were closing in from the streets above. From the rooftop, Franco and Angela fired a stream of gunfire in the direction of the sheltered alley, hitting nothing but rocks and cracked glass.

“He may have pulled back,” Vincenzo said, moving along the castle walls, desperate for a better glimpse. “The question is why. He had four open targets and took only one. Why risk the exposure if you’re not going to make the move?”

Angela lowered her gun and stood up straight, her eyes betraying her concern. “Maybe it was a mistake,” she said.

Vincenzo pointed toward the center of the alley. “Someone ordered him to stop. I think there are tanks down those side streets.” He stared into the smoke-filled corners of the streets, his hands resting on the tops of the tower rocks, watching as Connors and Maldini closed in on the four boys. “One of you go and find Nunzia,” he said. “She should be in one of the rear rooms on the main floor. Have her get everyone ready. This battle’s going to start a little sooner than we thought.”

As Connors and Maldini ran toward the four boys, the Nazi tanks were now visible down the road behind them. Antonio was still holding the wounded boy in his arms. “The sniper’s off to the right,” he told Connors. “He fired twice and then stopped. Maybe he’s just waiting for us to run.”

Maldini reached over and checked on the wounded boy, lowering the bloody shirt and glancing at the gurgling bullet hole. “What’s his name?” he asked Antonio.

“He’s my cousin Aldo,” Antonio said. “The two behind me are Pietro and Giovanni.”

Maldini rubbed the top of Aldo’s head and walked over toward Pietro, the young boy shivering in the early-morning sun. He leaned down and wrapped his warm hands around his shoulders. “I need someone strong and brave to protect me when we make our run for the castle,” he told him. “Would you do that for me?”

Pietro stared back at him, his lower lip trembling, his olive eyes wide with fright, and nodded. “
Si
,” he said. “I will protect you.”

“Then I have nothing to fear,” Maldini said. He stood, keeping an arm across the boy’s shoulder. “For now I have you with me.”

“We’ll run on the sniper’s side of the road,” Connors announced. “If he’s still there, that’ll cut down on the angle of his shots, make it harder to hit any of us.” He looked at each of the four boys, the rumblings of the approaching tanks echoing in his ears, and gripped the two machine guns in his hands. “We don’t leave behind any of our wounded. If someone gets shot, those closest to him make the grab. Just like Antonio here did. But if one of us gets killed, the rest keep moving. Leave the dead where they fall.”

Maldini walked over and stood next to Connors. “Now that the American has put us all in such a happy mood,” he said. “What else is there to do but run?”