Tales of the Secret World War
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Il Macabro
Steve Libbey
Copyright 2010 Steve Libbey
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It astounded Capitano Pirroni how his Sergente, Adriatico, could wisecrack in the midst of a firefight. Around the other officers he was the picture of etiquette; alone with Pirroni, a constant stream of sardonic commentary flowed from his mouth like the Rubicon itself, daring any listener to challenge him.
“I can’t decide who’s worse,” Adriatico said as he reloaded his Carcano carbine. “Montgomery or Patton. Killed by the English or the Americans. You know what’s funny?” This was his usual tag line for disseminating information. Pirroni could have written the man’s biography by now, with an obvious title.
Pirroni huddled down against the battered garden wall and sighed. Would that he had, just for a moment, some peace and quiet. He would have settled for just the American 45th shooting at me without the yammering of his man. “Tell me what’s funny.”
“I have family in both countries!” Adriatico burst out laughing, stood, aimed and shot, and ducked back before a volley of American bullets could find him. “At any moment I could shoot my cousin.”
“If we can chase them off Sicily, you won’t have to worry.”
“Ha!” Adriatico leaned out to get a look down the street. “Here’s my strategy: we all surrender and kill the Germans as a peace offering.”
“Mama mia, Sergente, will you shut up with such talk?”
“Oh, who will hear me? The Yankees? There’s a line to surrender to them. The Germans might shoot me as a traitor if they hadn’t all fled to the mountains. We Italians can do what we want now.”
“Then we’ll push the Americans out of Caltanissetta and back to the sea. Sergente, have you actually hit anyone yet?”
“Not today. I just shoot so they stay under cover. If they advance I have to kill Americans, and then my aunt will kill me.” He chuckled at his joke. “She’s terrifying. Hairy arms like a gorilla, I tell you.”
Pirroni edged closer to the corner of the garden and peeked through a hole in the wall. The American troops dodged sporadic fire to fill the homes on the other side of the intersection. Caltanissetta had escaped the carpet bombing that ravaged Palermo and Messina, yet the relatively intact buildings only served to provide the invaders with more cover as they advanced through his country. Well organized, well armed, well trained, these Americans had made mincemeat of the Fascist forces. The brutal irony was as Adriatico had put it: Italians were commonplace in America, and many of the American troops were fighting on their ancestral lands. Those comrades who had managed to surrender to the Italian speaking troops were rumored to be treated like long-lost family. Small wonder that the Germans fought their way east to try to get off Sicily with as few losses as they could manage.
In a way, Pirroni didn’t mind the German betrayal. Sicily was Italian, meant for Italians to defend. Should they lose, it would be by their own devices, not as puppets of Der Fuhrer.
Cursing the Teutonic lunatic, Pirroni put a bullet in an American’s exposed leg. The man howled in pain.
“Nice shot! We’d better run.” Adriatico ducked low and looked for a bolt hole. Pirroni slid another round into the chamber of his rifle until a stunning volley of bullets shredded the wall by his head. He yelped and went prone.
The two of them crawled away from the rain of death into a crawlspace under the nearby villa. Rats nipped at their legs and spiders explored under their shirtsleeves. Both men groaned with disgust, but the sound of gunfire faded. They kicked open a grate and dashed down a street held by Fascist forces.
Dusk had fallen. For a petrifying moment, Pirroni thought they had chosen a street taken by Americans; all the faces looked the same, tanned skin under a layer of mud and dust and blood. Then a voice cried out “how many?” in proper Italian.
“Too many!” he called back as he and Adriatico ducked into a bakery. He had recognized the thick beard of the Tenente Colonnello, Abrognini. He didn’t bother to salute – the man’s steely look demanded immediate information.
“They have the entire north side of the street,” he said breathlessly. “Behind the line they’re throwing up barricades.”
“Porca miseria!” Abrognini shook his head. “We should just charge them rent. After that mess at Fonduto, we have too few to stop them. I can barely keep the men from deserting when I turn my back.”
Adriatico looked away.
“Come on,” the Tenente Colonnello said, taking Pirroni by his sleeve and getting mud on his hands. “The Colonnello should hear this.”
Colonnello Posca stood at the oven in the bakery’s kitchen, stirring a pot of spaghetti. Pirroni caught his breath. The man’s posture was utterly casual, at odds with imminent doom just a few blocks away. The rich smell of the cooking pasta made Pirroni long to surrender, and in that instant he knew why the Colonnello looked so unconcerned.
“Pirroni,” he said, a smile flickering his once chubby face before vanishing. “What news?”
In two minutes, Pirroni summarized everything he and Adriatico had seen in their reconnaissance, leaving out the deaths of the three privates accompanying them. The Colonnello stirred his pasta and nodded sagely, like the Mafioso it was said were his distant relatives.
“Sir, what shall we do?”
Posca smiled to himself. “They gather together in our living rooms? Good. We’ll make a fire.” He gave Abrognini a meaningful look.
“Si, Colonnello!” The Tenente Colonnello strode from the room, shouting orders for deployment.
Pirroni watched him disappear into the shadows of the unlit bakery, then asked his commanding officer: “Make a fire?”
The Colonnello turned his head to share his little smile. “German mortars, found in a bunker. If they want to take our fair maiden of a city, they won’t have her womanhood. We’ll cut them both like an angry father.”
“Shall I...?”
“Take Adriatico and six men, including Talerico. Make sure he has a radio and guard him as he spots.”
His heart sank like a stone. Had he been wishing for orders to surrender, or was Adriatico’s talk getting to him? “Si, Colonnello! At once.”
“Avanti Sicilia.” Posca spoke the rallying cry in somber, low tones, his face back in shadows.
Pirroni saluted and fled the aromatic kitchen.