Street Boys (5 page)

11

IL CAMALDOLI, NAPLES
SEPTEMBER 26, 1943

Steve Connors lay prone in the warm grass and looked down at Naples. He rested his binoculars by his side and turned to gaze out across the bay, toward the islands of Ischia and Capri in the distance, and then back down to what had once been a city. The bullmastiff lay head first next to him, his face buried between two large legs, asleep. Taylor and Willis sat behind him, each picking at the contents of a small can of hash with the edges of a cracker.

Connors ran a hand across the stubble of his chin, his eyes burning from the hot sun and the difficult drive. He had come to Naples expecting to see ruin, the same as he had come across at every one of his stops in Europe. But he had not been prepared for the level of destruction that stretched out before him.

He lay there and stared at the devastation for nearly an hour. He had seen men die and had buried soldiers who had become friends in a short span of time. But those were losses sustained in the fiery heat of battle. What he saw now was affixed to a larger, even more frightening plateau. On that bluff, surrounded by pristine waters and lush islands, Steve Connors was made a witness to the price of war. There, during those long moments under the blazing Italian heat, the history of the most conquered city in Europe played itself out through the eyes of a tough young corporal from the small town of Covington, Kentucky.

Naples has known neither peace nor prosperity in its centuries by the sea.

It began as a Greek settlement, a port of rest for seamen coming in from Asia Minor, sometime in the fifth century. The Greeks named the town Neapolis, which translates to New City. Under their rule, Naples began to develop. An extensive roadway system modernized access into and out of the city, and its citizens were taught and encouraged to speak Latin. Soon, the Greeks were ousted and the remnants of the Roman Empire took their place, only to be supplanted by the Byzantines.

From that point on, Naples became the lethargic host to a revolving door of nations quick to conquer and just as eager to leave behind snatches of their culture and flee at the approach of the next enemy. The Normans were followed by the rule of the Swabians, who then fell to Charles of Anjou, who quickly branded the area surrounding the city as his own, crowning it the Kingdom of Naples. The Aragonese period, which began in 1441 and lasted until 1503, brought about cultural upheaval and the building of the great works of architecture, a few of which Steve Connors could still see from his post. Then came the arrival of the Spaniards, who ruled until the Austrian takeover in 1707, who then ceded the city to the Bourbons in 1734.

By the eighteenth century, Naples had grown into the most populated city in Europe, one to which other national leaders would point to as the urban ideal. This moment of glory was not to last, however, as the city was brought to its knees by two blood-drenched and bitter revolutions. The Parthenopean Revolt began as a battle between intellectuals and ended with the cream of Neapolitan culture hanging by their necks. The French arrived with yet another revolution, this one led by Napolean’s brother, Joseph Bonaparte. After the Bonapartes were handed their European walking papers, the city was delivered back into the hands of the Bourbons. It was under their rule that the Camorra, the Neapolitan Mafia, first began to organize, initially giving themselves the less-sinister-sounding name of the Fine Reformed Society. They built a steady network, one that would never relinquish its power, maintaining an iron grip on the city through every passing decade, regardless of what foreign powers entered its gates, bending only slightly to Mussolini’s rule. To this very day, the members of the Camorra remain the undeclared kings of Naples, immune even to the outbreak of war and the evacuation of its people.

Finally, on September 7, 1860, Giuseppe Garibaldi took control of the city, the first Italian to do so since the time of the Romans. It was to remain under the unsteady reign of Italian hands until the first of the Nazi bombs came crashing down.

The turbulence of its history has contributed to the complexity of the Neapolitan character. The men are, by nature, cynical and have little respect for authority. A close-knit group, they are distrustful of strangers. They look with dubious eyes at even the most benign acts, knowing that behind each kind gesture lurks the potential for betrayal. Within their own country they are disliked, dismissed as shiftless, lazy and brimming with criminal intent. They wear the stripes of national hatred as a badge of civic honor.

The women are fiery and loud, ruling over their children and younger siblings with tightfisted control. They are passionate in both love and anger and are not afraid to display their emotions in public, unlike their more educated counterparts to the north. They love to sing; fine, textured voices bellowing out mournful words to typically sad, Neapolitan ballads from “Soli, Soli Nella Notte” to “Un Giorno Ti Diro.” Most of the songs are tearful reminders of loves lost and lives burdened by the weight of poverty and illness. Neapolitan women are stubborn, religious and superstitious, believing in the magical healing powers of both saints and sinners. They attend church and lay down a gypsy’s curse with equal abandon.

The complex genetic mix of so many different countries invading their city has given the women a distinct look, one that makes it possible for them to blend together as one on the streets of Naples and to stand out in a crowded marketplace in Milan. Their hair is dark and usually kept long, their eyes almond-shaped and the color of Greek olives. Their smile is wide and expressive and their laughter is as rich and textured as the red wine they are not shy about consuming. They grow old with comfort, wearing their age with as much pride as they would a rare new dress. Advancing years bring a firmer grip on their family rule, and they hold on to this control with dictatorial force. Their only known enemy is the one who blocks the path they have chosen.

Connors stepped back from the bluff and stuffed the small binoculars into the rear of his pack. “Never seen churches so big,” he said to Willis and Taylor, glancing over at the sleeping mastiff. “You could fit half of Covington inside any one of them. And there are so many. The people who lived on those streets must have given a lot of hours over to prayer.” He turned to take one more look down through the smoldering smoke and misty haze of the broken buildings below. “Didn’t seem to do them all that much good though, did it?”

“I never used to pray,” Willis said. “Not until I started eating army rations. Now I pray before every meal.”

“You think we’ll ever get a taste of that Italian food we hear the Dagos in our unit talk about?” Taylor asked, holding up his can of hash. “Or is this as good as it’s going to get?”

“I wouldn’t mind a nice cool glass of wine myself,” Connors said. “All we got in Covington is moonshine and watered-down beer.”

“From the looks of what’s left of that city down there,” Taylor said, “the only wine bottles we’re going to find are broken ones.”

The first shot rang out and bounced off a rock, missing Connors’s leg by less than an inch. The second one clipped the back of the tree where Taylor and Willis were eating their hash, sending both men scurrying for cover. “You see anything?” Taylor shouted out, rifle at the ready, as he braced himself against the side of a large boulder.

Connors looked at the mastiff and watched as the dog stood, his eyes staring up into the clearing to his right. “In the thick bushes,” he said. “About two o’clock.”

“How many you figure?” Willis asked. He was laying flat down, the tree his only cover.

Connors ran from the edge of the bluff and threw himself to the ground, seeking cover behind a small stone wall. Two bullets rang out, each nicking off a piece of rock. “So far, I figure it’s just the one,” he said. “But the others could be out there waiting for us to make a move.”

Taylor raised his rifle above the boulder and fired off two quick rounds into the bushes overhead. “Save your ammo,” Connors said. “Count on seeing him, not on luck.”

“If he’s in there, I’ll bring him out,” Taylor said, checking his ammo belt. “When I do, you take him.”

Connors nodded. “Willis, you any good with a gun?” he asked the medic.

“I’m better with wounds,” Willis said, his head still down.

“You figure Krauts or Dagos?” Taylor asked, his knees bent, waiting to make his move.

“Italians have no reason to shoot at us now,” Connors said. “My guess is a Nazi scout team.”

The mastiff’s bark forced Connors to turn to his left and he fired off two rounds as soon as he saw the glint of a rifle. The second bullet found its mark as he heard a loud grunt and saw a German soldier fall face forward into a row of hedges. Taylor looked over his shoulder and then waved across to Connors. “The medic covers me,” he said. “And you take out the other German.”

“He’s got the sun to his back,” Connors said. “You’re going to be shooting into glare. He’ll have clear sight on you. None of us will have it on him.”

“We can’t wait,” Taylor said. “There might be more than two or there might be more coming. Or he can radio back for help. I’m moving and I’m moving now. Back me.”

Connors took a deep breath and nodded. “Go,” he said.

Willis and Connors fired into the hedges above them as Taylor made his way up the bluff, running from tree to tree, looking to gain leverage on the hidden soldier. The mastiff stood next to Connors, protected by the row of stones. “I’m just shooting blind rounds here,” Willis said. “I’m going to move to that tree to the right.”

“Stay put,” Connors said. “Let Taylor get to the top of the hill, then we both move.”

“Got an aunt back home like you,” Willis said. “All worries and no smiles. I’ll meet you at the jeep.”

Willis jumped to his feet and ran for a large tree covered by a thick circle of shrubs. “Willis!” Connors shouted, watching as the medic stepped into the green patch, the area below his feet too dense for him to see the hidden mine. The explosion sent Willis flying back, his chest and face blown away. He lay there, still and dead, a young boy from Iowa who had promised his mother he would make it back home.

Connors lowered his head and took in several slow, deep breaths. “Damn it,” he said. “Goddamn it!”

He looked back up and saw that Taylor was now directly across from the German’s position. Taylor was well-hidden by the trees and took careful aim with his rifle, looking to shoot low and hit at the ground cover. He fired off three quick rounds and popped out an empty ammo clip. He reached behind him for a new eight-bullet clip, the smoke from his rifle drifting into the air and giving away his position.

Connors saw the German move away from his coverage and raised his rifle.

He had him in his scope lines when he saw Taylor move toward the soldier, firing off a steady stream of bullets. Connors held his aim until he had a sure shot and then both he and the German soldier squeezed their triggers at the same time. They both hit their target.

It took Scott Taylor the rest of that afternoon to die.

Connors lay there and held him in his arms. It was all that was left for him to do. He couldn’t radio back to headquarters for help, not that it would have been able to save Taylor’s life. The transmitter had been blown to bits along with Willis, but even if he still had it, he couldn’t risk giving away his position to any other Germans who were in the area. So, instead, Connors just sat and listened to a soldier he had never liked gasp and wheeze his final words. Taylor told him as much as he could about his life in the short hours he had left. Connors nodded and smiled when the words called for it, wiping the younger soldier’s brow and promising to let his family back home know how brave he had been.

“I never did want to come to Italy,” Taylor said, blood running in a thin line out of his mouth and down his neck. “Now I guess I’ll never leave.”

“You shouldn’t have moved,” Connors said. “I had him. All you needed to do was hold your position.”

“Can’t let you be the hero every time,” Taylor said, managing a snicker.

“It wouldn’t have killed you,” Connors said.

“Thanks for staying with me,” Taylor said.

“You’d have done the same,” Connors said.

“Don’t bet your life on it,” Taylor said, his eyes closing for a final time.

12

PORTO DI SANTA LUCIA, NAPLES
SEPTEMBER 26, 1943

Twelve rowboats, in rows of two with four to a boat, slowly made their way out from the shore of the bay.

Maldini and Vincenzo rode in the lead boat, the older man pulling on a set of wooden oars, gliding them through the calm waters. The boats were weighed down with massive fishing nets curled up and running along their centers. The hot sun was now at full boil, its scalding rays browning the backs of the rowers. They slapped hands full of seawater on their shoulders and arms, seeking a mild dose of relief.

“How will you know when to stop?” Vincenzo asked.

“My father fished these waters most of his life,” Maldini said. “He made sure his children knew the ways of the sea. The tide moves at its own pace, affected only by time and weather.”

“Which means what?” Vincenzo asked with unmasked impatience.

Maldini pulled his oars out of the water and rested them inside the boat. “Which means,” he said, “that we are here. Floating above the guns.”

“Should we drop the nets?” Vincenzo asked, standing on unsteady legs in the center of the boat.

“It’s what I would do,” Maldini said. “But then, I’m not the one in charge.”

Vincenzo cupped his hands around his mouth, balancing himself against the bumps of the small waves. “Lift your nets,” he shouted to the boys in the other boats. “And hold them above your heads. Stand as steady as you can.”

The boys grunted and grimaced as they went about a task that normally required the girth and strength of grown men. They struggled with the nets as a few of the younger kids fell over the sides of the boats and one nearly capsized his small vessel. “Have them bend their legs,” Maldini told Vincenzo. “It will help steady their weight.”

Vincenzo shouted out the new instructions and then looked back at Maldini. “How far do the nets need to be tossed?” he asked.

“Enough to stretch them out,” Maldini said. “Fifteen feet would be a decent throw. Even ten feet would be acceptable. Anything less, we would pull up nothing but sand and shells.”

“They’re not strong enough to make that long a throw,” Vincenzo said, sitting back down in the boat, his hands resting on Maldini’s knees.

Maldini stared at Vincenzo, the stubble on his face glistening from the spray mist of the waves. He then turned to look back at the boys struggling with the nets. “Grab that rope from the bow,” he ordered. “Run it through the ring behind me and then go boat to boat and link them together. It will keep us in tight formation. I’ll meet up with you and Franco in the last boat.”

Vincenzo tore off his shirt, ran the thick chord through the circular ring at the nose of the boat and dove into the sea. He swam with one hand, holding the rope above his head with the other, pulling it toward the extended arms of a curly-haired twelve-year-old. “Give it back to me at the other end,” Vincenzo told him, “then jump into the water. It will be easier for you to empty the nets from there.”

Maldini was in the water, swimming toward the last boat on the line. He stopped and turned back toward Vincenzo. “Have the youngest child swim to shore,” he called out. “We need more boys. As many as can be found. It will take many hands to lift the nets from the bottom.”

Franco and Angela helped pull Maldini into the last boat.

The older man was winded and had swallowed enough water to give his throat a salt burn. “Do you think the apostles had as much trouble with
their
nets?” Franco asked.

“Probably not,” Maldini said, still gasping. “But they had Jesus on their side. You’re stuck with me.”

The boats were lined up and tied together, bobbing in unison to the splashing beat of the waves.

More than seventy-five boys, heads floating above the rising tide, swam on either side of the small crafts. Maldini stood in bare feet, square in the center of the first boat, the edge of a rolled-up fishing net gripped in his hands. Vincenzo, Franco and Angela flanked his sides, each holding the same net, waiting for Maldini to give the order. “The higher we throw it, the farther out it will go,” he shouted. “It should float up and out, unfurl like an old flag. Angela, you tell us when.”

Angela steadied her feet and tightened her grip. She looked down at the water to make sure none of the boys were close enough to get trapped in its pull. “
Forza, Italia!
” she yelled as she reached up with all her strength and, along with the three others, fell back as they let the net go. They sat in the boat and watched the net float in the air, gently spread out and cover the water as if it were a crisply ironed tablecloth.

“Did we do it?” Franco asked. “Is it out far enough?”

Maldini rubbed the top of the boy’s head, both of them watching as the net sank slowly to the bottom of the bay. “You did well, Franco,” he said. He turned to face the others. “You all did. But we still have four nets left to throw. And after that comes the hard part. Pulling them up.”

“We only have three more nets for the guns,” Angela said as she glanced down the side of the boats.

“That’s right,” Maldini said. “But I asked two of the younger boys to bring out another boat, take it past us to the point and drop their net out there. With what they’re going to get they don’t need to throw it far or wait very long.”

“What are they getting?” she asked.

“I can only pray that they come back with enough fish to feed us all,” Maldini said. “We’ll have a hungry group on our hands at the end of the day.”

“I guess now you could
really
use some help from Jesus,” Franco said. “He did some of his best work with fish.”

“Jesus never fished in the Bay of Naples,” Maldini said. “In our waters, the fish fit a man’s net like a well-made pair of shoes.”

“Keep the knots in your hand and the rope wrapped around your arm,” Vincenzo yelled to four boys swimming around the edges of the boat. “If you lose those, we won’t be able to bring the net and the guns to the surface.”

“I’m holding it as tight as I can,” a cheery-faced seven-year-old said. “And I will pull them up by myself if I have to.”

“How could Italy lose a war with a man like you on its side, Lucca?” Vincenzo said.

“Because we always let the ones without heart lead us,” Maldini said, leaning over the boat and splashing cool water on his face. “The ones with heart are left to die.”