“The Nazis got in at sunup,” Anders said. “It’s barely noon and they’re already down six tanks and twenty men. Send some units down to beef up the advance teams and have them move closer to the city. I want them to stop any German units heading into or out of Naples.”
“Whoever he’s with, they’re armed and seem to have some idea what to do with the weapons,” Higgins said, gazing down at a map spread across a poker table. “But it’s not the Italian resistance. They haven’t been seen in Naples in weeks.”
“Some of the locals around here insist there are a few hundred kids scattered around the city,” Anders said. “It’s a stretch to think they could be causing all these problems, but until I get a better picture of what’s down there, that’s my only bet.”
“I saw the intelligence on the Sixteenth Panzer Division,” Higgins said. “They’re the best the Germans have. Why would they waste them on a search-and-destroy mission?”
“That’s their worry, not ours,” Anders said. “But you’re right, it doesn’t make much sense. Their tank commander, Von Klaus, is right up there next to Rommel. He can fight in the desert and in the cities. He’s strong on strategy and, as far as I’ve read, he hasn’t lost in any field of battle. I’m glad the generals sent him down there on garbage cleanup. I’d rather he aim his tank shells at empty buildings than at our infantry.”
“Do you want us to try to get word to Connors?”
Captain Anders relit his cigar and looked across the table at Higgins, a thin line of smoke forcing one of his eyes closed. “If you can track him down, then get a message out,” he said. “Meantime, let’s figure out what we can do to get him out of there without riling up Monty and the Brits.”
8
VIA MEDINA
The boy walked at a brisk pace, two German soldiers on either side, each with a tight grip on his elbows. The street was empty and silent except for a battery of soldiers pounding through doors and shooting stray bullets into abandoned rooms. There was a tank parked at an angle in the distance, five soldiers at rest under its shadow, enjoying a rare break and a canteen meal. The boy slowed his movements, forcing the soldiers to drag him down the center of the street. They had found him nestled under the desk of the bombed-out remains of an old school, the gun in his hand down to its final bullet.
The boy was fifteen and slight of build with long brown hair running down across his eyes. He had a long, choppy scar on the right side of his face, the result of a childhood bite from a horse. His legs were strong and athletic. His parents had been circus performers, high-wire gymnasts, performing their act throughout southern Italy prior to the war. They were killed by Fascist troops during a crowded late afternoon show in Reggio Calabria. He remembered holding his father’s head in his hands and the loud, dismissive laughter of the soldiers surrounding them. The tents and the equipment were burned and destroyed.
The soldiers dragged Pietro closer to the tank, both pleased with their first capture. The boy searched the rooftops for any sign of help, any indication that someone was watching. After several futile seconds, he lowered his head, resigned to whatever fate the Nazis had reserved for him. He kept his eyes on the ground, doing his best to ignore the tank and the soldiers, focusing instead on the ancient rocks and stones that made up the familiar street he had played on as a child. He turned his head to the left, caught a glint of the sun on his face and, for the first time in many weeks, allowed himself a smile.
The heavy iron manhole cover was off to his left, about a thirty-yard run from where he was being tugged along by the two soldiers. He saw the lip slide across and a boy’s head emerge just above its rim, waving for him to stop, pointing a finger across the street. Pietro glanced to his right and saw another boy wedged inside a small sewer opening, a grenade clutched in his right hand.
Pietro planted his legs on the ground, bringing the two soldiers to a sudden halt. He turned to each and wedged a hand on their shoulders and did a quick three-quarters backward flip, easily breaking their hold. The soldiers fell back, regained their composure and reached for their rifles. Pietro ran toward the now open manhole, prepared to use the skills he had honed since he was an infant. The two soldiers aimed their rifles at his back, ready to fire, when Pietro stopped, turned and faced them, his arms extended out. He crouched to his knees and did a massive flip backwards, landing within an inch of the open manhole. As Pietro lowered himself into the hole, he gave the two soldiers a gentle wave good-bye.
The soldiers raced toward the manhole, watching the lid slide quickly across its open mouth. As they both scampered past the sewer, a grenade came flying out of the small opening, grazing one of them on the shin. They turned, looked down and caught the full force of the blast in their chests. They were sent sprawling to the ground, backs and legs covered in blood. A small boy emerged from the sewer hole, running for the abandoned rifles and gun belts, looking up at the tank soldiers coming his way, firing shots in his direction. He dragged his booty toward the sewer, dropped them all into the hole and slid back down, bullets whizzing past his legs.
“Forza!” the boy shouted to a friend waiting for him in the sewer, the rifles and ammo belts clutched in his arms. “Run as fast as you can. They’ll throw grenades as soon as they reach the opening.” The two boys scattered down the slippery path, lined with broken steam pipes, rotting water and old grease, turned a corner and disappeared. The force of the explosion behind them was enough to hurl them to the floor, rifles and ammo belts scattered by their sides. “Bravo, Eduardo,” the small boy said, helping up his younger friend. “We have both done well. Now the rest is up to them above us.”
“I want you to know I wasn’t scared,” Eduardo said. Mud and soot covered the seven-year-old from the top of his thick head of hair down to the cuts on his bare feet. “Not for one second.”
The boy patted Eduardo on the head and then gave him a playful nudge. “It’s good to know that one of us is brave, then,” he said, bending down to pick up the guns and the ammo. “I was so scared up there I don’t think I’ll ever feel my legs again.”
Eduardo put an arm around the older boy. “Don’t worry, Gio,” he said. “You’ll always have me to help you.”
“Let’s go,” Gio said, resting a rifle on his shoulder and draping an ammo belt around his neck, his eyes searching the muddy ground. “I’m afraid of rats, too.”
The manhole cover slid open again.
Pietro and two other boys emerged from the darkness. The five German soldiers were spread out across the sewer cover, one of them peering down into the smoke-filled opening. “You worry about the tank,” the oldest of the three, a light-skinned teenager, said to Pietro. “We’ll deal with the soldiers. Once you finish, head up toward Via Diaz. We’ll catch up to you later. And whatever you do, don’t drop the mine.”
Pietro slid out of the manhole and took the mine from the two boys. “Don’t look back,” one of them whispered. “Just go. You have the more important job.”
Pietro nodded, clutched the mine and turned away, walking carefully toward the tank. The two boys in the manhole opening lifted up two German machine guns and braced them against the concrete edge of the street. They turned to look at Pietro and then back to the soldiers, took deep breaths and opened fire.
Two of the soldiers fell to the ground dead, one with his head jammed in the sewer cavity. A third lay on the ground wounded, his rifle just beyond his reach. The remaining two spread out on the street and returned fire, their bullets clipping at the edges of the rocks and ground cover around the boys. One shot clipped the light-skinned boy in the shoulder, causing him to lose his grip and drop down into the sewer. “Tomasso!” the other boy called out.
“It’s my shoulder,” Tomasso said, watching the blood flow out of the wound, the sting of the bullet causing his eyes to tear.
“Stay down,” the other boy said. “Reload your gun and give it to me. I need to give Pietro more time.”
The wounded boy struggled to put in a fresh cli
p, then patted the other boy on the knee and handed it to him. “Bernardo, how many are left?” he asked, as the boy bent down to take the machine gun.
“There are two,” Bernardo said. “Both heading our way. I can handle it. You go and I’ll catch up.”
“We came together, my cousin,” Tomasso said, wiping at the blood flowing down from his wound. “And we leave together.”
“Then we’ll leave soon,” Bernardo said.
He jammed both machine guns into the crook of his arms and climbed back up to the top steps. He fired all his rounds, every bullet aimed in the direction of the German soldiers, not stopping until the clips were emptied. Then, sweat creasing his eyes, smoke littering a pocket of the street, he waited. Five German soldiers lay on the ground in front of him, facedown and dead. Bernardo dropped the hot machine guns on the street and turned to his left. He saw Pietro’s body slide under the center of the tank, as he gently placed the mine in its wheel base, turning it into an instant deathtrap for the next team of soldiers. He pulled himself up out of the sewer and walked across the street, taking the weapons and belts off the bodies of the dead Nazis.
He stopped when he saw Pietro whistle toward him and wave and gave a nod as the boy turned and raced around a corner toward safety. Bernardo took a deep breath and looked around him at the familiar buildings and at the coral blue skyline. He took a final look down at the German soldiers.
“Welcome to Naples,” he said in a low voice.
Bernardo lowered himself back into the sewer, arms and shoulders bulging with weapons and bullets, and slid the manhole cover across the top, bringing darkness once again to his world.
9
PIAZZA TRIESTE E TRENTO
The room was on the second floor, the blinds drawn, a candle in the corner burned down to a low wick. Franco lay in the small bed, a thin sheet covering him to the waist, his eyes fluttered shut, a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his wounded shoulder. He heard the floorboards creak and opened his eyes. “Vincenzo,” he said. “Sei tu?”
The footsteps came closer and Franco could make out the image of a boy about his height and weight sulking toward his side of the bed. The boy sat on the edge of the spring mattress, the small of his back against Franco’s feet, resting a warm hand on top of the sheet.
“Who are you?” Franco asked, able to catch glimpses of the boy’s face in between tiny flickers of the candle flame.
“My name’s Carlo,” the boy said in a thick, harsh voice that Franco did not recognize. “And I can be a friend to you.”
“How did you find me?” Franco asked, wiping drops of fever sweat from his brow. “No one knows about this place.”
“It wasn’t hard,” Carlo said. “Nothing is if you know who to ask and where to look.”
Franco lifted himself higher in the bed, wincing at the sharp pain in his shoulder. The large, jagged wound had been slow to heal with medication being hard to come by and painkillers nonexistent. Connors had yanked the shank out and Nunzia had cleansed the cut, pulling out as many splinters as she could with a hot pair of tweezers. She then rubbed a boiled lemon and ground pepper paste on the edges of the wound and sealed it with a mixture of penicillin and hot wax before wrapping it with the boiled strands of a torn dress. Franco was running a high fever and his lower limbs were cold to the touch. He reached for the glass that was on the end table, next to the candle, and drank down the last drops of wine.
“You can start telling me what you want,” Franco said. “I’m not going anywhere for a few hours.”
“I want to help you and your friends fight the Nazis,” Carlo said. “Nothing more than that. I have a small group up in the hills that will come join me. We’re all very good and you’re going to need all the good people you can find.”
“Why are you waiting until now to help us?” Franco asked, still suspicious, trying to place both the face and the choppy sounds of the boy’s harsh dialect.
Carlo slid down the edge of the bed, closer to Franco, leaning across the sweaty sheets with a smile, exposing a mouthful of neglected teeth. “We followed what you all were doing, but from a distance. We wanted to make sure it was going to turn out to be more than just loud talk in empty piazzas. And we didn’t think you wanted any help from kids like us.”
“You’re from the children’s prison,” Franco said, a hint of recognition taking shape in his fever-fogged mind.
“That’s right,” Carlo admitted. “Me and everyone from my group. We’re the ones your parents always told you to stay away from. But that was before the war started. Now we’re the kind you really need.”
“Just because you were sent to jail doesn’t mean you can fight,” Franco said, his eyes on the older boy’s hands. “And it doesn’t mean we want you fighting with us.”
“We’ve been to prison and survived,” Carlo said, voice overrun with confidence. “The Nazis can do nothing to us worse than what’s already been done.”
“What were you in prison for?” Franco asked.
“That doesn’t matter,” Carlo said, shaking off the question. “We come in with you or we fight the Nazis out there on our own. I came here thinking that together would be better.”
“Why come to me?”
“The others are scattered and on the move,” Carlo said. “You’re going to be in this bed for a day or two. It just seemed easier.”
“You don’t need permission to fight the Nazis,” Franco said, his shoulder aching, his eyes heavy from the fever and the heat in the stuffy room. “Just go out and disrupt their attack. If you do that, then we’ll know you and your friends are with us. Until then, there’s very little for us to say to each other.”
Carlo nodded, stretched his legs and stood, gazing down at Franco with cold, distant eyes. “You need what we have,” he said. “It’s something that will take many Nazi lives and help save some of the boys from being killed. To turn your back on it will be foolish.”
Franco rested his head against a feather pillow and stared at Carlo. He was tired and in pain and he wished Vincenzo was in the room to help sort through Carlo’s words and determine if they were truthful or a trap. “What is it you have?” he asked, his throat parched and raw.
“A tank,” Carlo said with genuine glee. “A Panzer tank. And enough shells to deal with an army of problems.”
Franco’s eyes widened at the news. “How did you get a tank?” he asked, intrigued by the possibilities such a weapon offered the street boys.
“The same way we get everything,” Carlo said. “We stole it. Two nights before the Nazis came into Naples.”
“You have to be trained to drive it,” Franco said.
“If you can drive a car, you can drive a tank. It comes down to the same thing, only without windows.”
Franco pulled aside the sheet and jumped from the bed, his movements startling Carlo, who took two slow steps back. He grabbed Carlo by the center of his white woolen shirt and dragged him to his side, leaving him close enough to smell the raw wound and see the blood draining through the bandage. “If you’re lying to me, thief,” Franco said, the strength back in his voice, his words fueled by the heat of anger, “if one word of what you just said is not true, I’ll find you and I will kill you.”
“You heal quick,” Carlo said, staring deep into Franco’s eyes. “That’s a good talent to have during a war.”
Franco released his grip and pushed Carlo away, the wounded boy walking the room in a tight circle, his fists clenched, his eyes never wavering from the convicted felon in his presence. “Where’s this tank now?” he asked.
“It’s wherever you want it to be,” Carlo said, slowly regaining his bravado. “You name the place and time and I’ll make sure it’s there.”
Franco bowed his head for a few brief moments, quickly glancing out the window at the bare street below. “Can you get it to Via Vicaria Vecchia without being spotted?”
“The Nazis will think it’s one of their own,” Carlo said. “We’re free to move anywhere
we want.”
“Have it there at noon tomorrow,” Franco said. “Park it along one of the alleys in Forcella.”
Carlo nodded and headed toward the door. “Noon it is. Who else will be with you?”
“I was going to ask you the same question,” Franco said.
“Then we should wait until tomorrow,” Carlo said. “This way, we’ll both be surprised.”
Franco stood in the center of the room, watching as Carlo closed the door behind him, leaving him shrouded in darkness. He ran his fingers along the sides of his bandage, his legs fatigued from the fever and the shock to his body. He grabbed for his pants, curled at the foot of the bed, and put them on. He found a torn shirt in the top drawer of a small bureau and pulled it over his head, wincing as it drew past the cut. Outside, heavy shells pounded at the buildings in a nearby square, the explosions causing puffs of sand to snake up through the floorboards.
Franco took a final look around the room and walked out, once again ready to do battle.
10
VIA SAN CARLO
The two tanks surrounded the three-story building, soldiers working the stone edges, pouring gasoline on its pink stucco facade. Inside, a dozen street boys huddled in corners, away from any open windows, all with guns and rifles in their hands. Two soldiers wielding heavy stone mallets bashed down the front door and stepped aside as the tank took dead aim at the ornate fireplace in the foyer. Flames rushed through the center hall, blasted out the three front windows and rocked the wooden floor above. Two of the boys began to cry while another stood and tried to leave the room. The oldest among them, Emilio Carbone, the fourteen-year-old son of a stone mason, stood in front of the door and blocked his path. Emilio put an arm around the smaller boy’s shoulders and walked him back toward the center of the room. “This isn’t a time for us to run,” he said in low, comforting tones. “We have to let the Nazis see our true face.”