Street Boys

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  “I’m not afraid,” Fabrizio said.

  “That’s good,” Maldini said. “Because I am.”

  Fabrizio nodded and moved the soccer ball from his knee back to the flat end of his right foot. He began a slow trot, kicking the ball from one foot to the other, his eyes on the soldiers and the tank officer. The Germans lowered their guns as they watched the boy maneuver around the front of the square, flipping the soccer ball over his shoulder and catching it with the front of his chest. Some of them laughed as he kicked the ball with his right heel and dropped to his knees as it landed on his forehead, always keeping the bounce steady. Maldini stood off to the side, his eyes on the mine positioned just to the right of the center tank, his right hand at his back, its fingers wrapped around the hard end of a revolver.

  Fabrizio was on his feet, the ball a blur from foot to chest to head to arm, his hands spread out in front of him, enjoying the nods of approval he was receiving from the relaxed soldiers. “Your boy is an excellent player,” the officer said to Maldini, his attention focused on Fabrizio. “One of the best I’ve ever seen.”

  “Would you care to see him shoot the ball?” Maldini said. “I swear on my mother’s very soul that you’ll never live to see a shot like his again.”

  The officer leaned back against the edge of the circular opening and glanced around at the happy faces of his men. He looked back to Maldini and nodded his approval.

  Fabrizio turned to Maldini, the ball floating in midair, his cherubic face gleaming with thin lines of sweat. “Score your goal, Fabrizio,” Maldini told him.

  The boy moved with stutter steps, his small feet a blur as he inched the ball closer toward the soldiers and the tanks. He flipped the ball up to his knees and began to run as he bounced it, looking up to gaze at his target, taking seconds to weigh the distance and the angle needed to make the shot. He was within twenty feet of the tank, a short reach away from a soldier’s grip, when he stopped, turned his back, trotted a dozen steps forward and placed the meat of the ball on the center of his right foot. He let it rest there for a fraction of a second, spread out his arms and slid to the hard ground. He extended his leg out, his body resting flat on the wet stones, and kicked the ball skyward toward the brick wall next to the main tank.

  The ball whizzed off Fabrizio’s foot, a white blur moving up and away from the reach of any soldier. The officer watched it go, the smile on his face doing a fast fade when he caught sight of the mine positioned to his side. The ball landed square in the center of the mine, sending large pieces of brick, stone and shredded glass cascading down on the tank and the soldiers, its loud blast rocking the piazza. A massive hot blanket of thick brown smoke engulfed Maldini as he ran toward Fabrizio, clutched the boy in his arms and sprinted toward the rear of the square and the open door that awaited them both. Bullets zinged past them as they ran, the boy clutched to Maldini like skin. “Was it a good shot?” the little boy asked as they headed toward Connors, frantically waving them on.

  “It was your best,” Maldini managed to say through gasps of breath as he and Fabrizio rushed past Connors into the immediate safety of the office building foyer. Connors stared past them, offering cover fire and assessing the damage made by the exploded mine. The tank in the central archway was shrouded in rubble, the officer bent over the open lid, seriously wounded. Three ground soldiers lay dead and scattered. The other two tanks had moved out of the gate entrances and were in the center of the square, raining waste on the empty buildings surrounding them. The soldiers had spread out and were firing down at his location, bullets nicking walls and shattering glass.

  Connors looked down at Fabrizio and winked at the little boy, the mastiff now alongside him, sniffing and licking at the sides of his face. “I guess you really are a great football player,” Connors said.

  Fabrizio patted the top of the mastiff’s head and smiled back at Connors. “But I won’t be able to practice anymore,” he said. “That was the only ball I had.”

  Nunzia came up behind Connors, resting a hand on the soldier’s back. “They’re ready,” she said in a low voice.

  A loud explosion rocked the second floor of the building, dropping plywood and cinder chips down on them. “So are they,” Connors said, staring out at the approaching tanks.

  The two wooden carts were rolled into the shade of the archways, four mines in each, a heavy smell of kerosene coming off the old planks. Vincenzo bent down against the side of a wall and peeked out into the square, heavy gunfire and powerful explosions rocking the foundation of buildings built to last forever. He wiped his forehead with the torn sleeve of his shirt, took several deep breaths and closed his eyes. Next to him, crouched down and waiting with weapons cocked, six boys stood ready to move on his call. On the other end of the square, Franco waited with a similar group, all huddled in the same position. “When will we know to go out there?” one of the boys asked him, speaking in a whisper.

  “You’ll know,” Vincenzo assured him. “And remember, don’t use the carts as shelter. They’ll be the first to explode.”

  “I’ve never fired a rifle before,” the boy said, his voice unable to hide the frail nerves. “I hope I shoot something besides myself.”

  “Aim it at the ones wearing the uniforms,” Vincenzo said to him, patting his leg. “And keep pulling on the trigger. After that it’s as much luck as skill.”

  “I’ve never killed anyone, either,” the boy said.

  “You weren’t supposed to,” Vincenzo said, looking into his eyes. “Neither was I and neither were those Germans out there. But if they don’t fight, they’ll die. And so will we. My grandfather used to tell me that we don’t choose our life, we just live it.”

  The explosion sent them sprawling to the damp ground. It came from the other end of the square, the power of its blast centered in the building where Connors and the others had been positioned, its facade now crumbled, smoke billowing toward the clear sky, flames shooting out the second- and third-floor windows. The force of the hidden bomb had stretched out into the square, leaving four soldiers dead and a tank disabled, the tracks around its rear wheels shattered into pieces.

  Vincenzo stood and turned to the others. “It’s time,” he said. “Let’s show the Nazis that Naples is still alive.”

  They grouped around the back of the cart and pushed it into the open square, aiming it toward the last functioning tank. From the other end, Franco and his team did the same, their target the soldiers collecting themselves from the mine blast. Vincenzo caught Franco’s eye and nodded. “Scatter and fire,” he shouted to the boys behind him. “Leave the cart to me.”

  The boys ran from the cover of the cart, firing rifle rounds in the direction of the soldiers. A few threw themselves to the ground, a handful gathered around thin pine trees for shelter, pointing their rifles and blindly emptying their chambers. Vincenzo rolled the cart with all his might, the mines jiggling, the palms of his hands cut and bleeding from the pressure he was putting on the splintered old wood. Bullets zinged at him from all directions, a grenade blast exploding twenty feet to his left. He ducked down and gave the cart one final push, using the full force of his tired body, and then he rolled off toward a patch of grass to his left. Franco released his cart seconds later, diving behind a thick green bush.

  The two carts exploded at the same time, sending wood, brick, steel and chunks of concrete through the air. Vincenzo stood in the midst of all the smoke, waving his arms in a frantic motion, signaling the boys out of the square and back into the arches and the safety of the streets. He ran behind them, then turned to check on Franco. The boy was on his knees, a large shard of wood jabbed into the back of his right shoulder. The smoke around them was dense and the few German soldiers who were left were firing in the blind, bullets landing against walls and bouncing off cobblestones. Vincenzo ran toward Franco, lifted him to his feet and put an arm around his waist. “Can you run?” he asked him.

  “Faster than you,” Franco said.

  Vincen
zo gripped him tighter and both boys ran at full sprint out of the mangled Piazza Dante, leaving behind three ruined tanks and a dozen dead soldiers and a square erupting in flames. They ran under the archway and out into the clear sunlight, the marble statue of Dante greeting them both, his stiff arms spread out. Vincenzo and Franco stopped to catch their breath and glanced briefly up at the statue. “What better place to leave behind an inferno?” Vincenzo asked Franco.

  “That’s another book I didn’t read,” Franco said, between gasps for breath.

  Vincenzo laughed as the two then continued their run, quickly disappearing into the empty streets of their city.

  5

  PANZER DIVISION HEADQUARTERS, IL PALAZZO REALE

  Von Klaus tossed the map to the ground in anger. “They are only children!” he shouted. “I am losing men and tanks to children! We’ve been in Naples less than five hours and I’ve already lost more men than I did our first morning in North Africa. This is insanity!”

  “Our men are like anyone else, sir,” Kunnalt said, trying to bring calm to the situation. “When they see a child, they tend to let their guard down.”

  “They’ve done more than let their guard down, Kunnalt,” Von Klaus said, his steel composure slowly seeping back. “They’ve allowed themselves to be duped, made fools of by an army of babies.”

  “Do you want to issue a shoot-on-sight order regarding children, sir?” Kunnalt asked.

  Von Klaus looked at the junior officer and held his gaze for several seconds, his breath returning to normal. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “We have yet to reach that point. And, for whatever it matters, I hope we never do.”

  “They will be difficult to flush out, sir,” Kunnalt said. “We have very little intelligence on them, other than what we received from that prison escapee, Petroni. They’re scattered and hidden throughout the city. It will take time to roust them out, time that will be taken away from the mission.”

  “We don’t need them all found,” Von Klaus said. “One will do. He is the only professional among the group.”

  “We could make use of Petroni,” Kunnalt said. “He’s betrayed them once for money. He might be willing to do so again, for even more money.”

  Von Klaus nodded. “An internal struggle would benefit us,” he said. “It might help eliminate the problem without the men having to gun children down in the streets. Find this Petroni and deal with him.”

  Kunnalt stood next to Von Klaus, both staring down at a map, their hands resting on top of the thin sheet of paper.

  “Spread the tanks out and increase the frequency of the attacks,” the colonel said. “They might be able to stop one or two tanks, but they can’t stop all of them. Despite their efforts, this city will be destroyed.”

  “Any other change in orders, sir?”

  “Free up some of the men,” Von Klaus said. “Break them into squads of six and have them work in advance of the tanks. See if they can spot these traps before we drive into them. I also want the attacks to run through the night. The men can go for long stretches without sleep, so it won’t hinder their abilities. But I don’t want to give these children any break from the battle they’ve chosen to start.”

  “If any are found, do you want them taken as prisoners, sir?” Kunnalt asked.

  “Yes,” Von Klaus said. “House them in one of the castles by the bay.”

  “And if fired upon, the men are free to return fire at will?” Kunnalt asked.

  “An enemy is an enemy, Kunnalt,” Von Klaus said. “Regardless of age.”

  6

  SAN GREGORIO ARMENO

  The two barefoot boys ran down a steep hill and turned a corner, both soaked in sweat and gulping for fresh air. Two German soldiers, in full gear, followed, fast on their backs, firing bullets that landed on the stone street and dented rock walls in front of them. Two hundred yards farther up the hill, Connors and Nunzia gave chase, hoping to get to the Germans before they reached the boys. As they ran, Connors looked at the old gun in Nunzia’s right hand. “You any good with that?” he asked as they both jumped a huge crater in the middle of the street.

  “I never had to be,” she said. “Before.”

  The boys were now at the top of a small bridge, heading for the gated entrance to the church of Santa Patrizia, hoping to seek refuge within its halls. “Forza, Maurizio,” the older of the two shouted to his friend. “The Germans are getting closer.”

  “You keep running,” Maurizio answered, the burn in his chest clutching at his throat. “With or without me. There’s no use both of us dying.”

  The soldiers were less than a hundred yards away, firing bullets at a rapid pace, determined to bring down the two boys. Maurizio, his legs the weight of air and his stomach cramped, came to an abrupt stop just as he crossed the bridge, a short distance removed from the gilded gates of the church. “I can’t go anymore,” he gasped, waving meekly to the other boy. “Save yourself, Mario. The Nazis will be happy to have caught just one of us.”

  Mario skidded to a halt, his back to the gate. He saw the Germans come up the hill, one running, his handgun aimed at the slumped-over Maurizio. The other soldier came to rest against an embankment, dropped to one knee and brought his machine gun to chest level. Just behind them, on the far end of the bridge, he could see Nunzia and the American. Mario stared over at Maurizio, their eyes locking, both resigned. The German with the handgun was over the bridge and close enough for the boys to make out his face beneath the shield of his helmet. He stopped, took a breath and aimed his weapon at the older boy’s back. Maurizio glanced at him over his shoulder, rows of sweat clouding his vision, his body trembling, his throat holding back the urge to vomit.

  Connors and Nunzia reached the bridge. The American stopped and aimed his rifle at the soldier closest to him, the one with the machine gun. “I can only get one of them from here,” he said to Nunzia. “And it’s going to be the wrong one. The one with the gun is past my range. If I take out his friend on the right, it might be enough to break his balance.”

  Connors fell to one knee and peered through his scope. Nunzia kept running, honing in closer to the German with the handgun. The boys held their position, frozen in place. The Nazi with the machine gun took aim at Mario, his movements slow and deliberate, confident he had all the time he needed to take out the boy shivering under the hot glare of the sun.

  The gate to the church door swung open.

  An old woman, short and squat, dressed in a heavy woolen black dress, a knitted shawl wrapped around her shoulders, moved out into the street. Her hands were hidden behind the stained white apron wrapped around her waist. The German soldier lowered his gun as soon as he saw her, waving the butt end at her, a silent warning to stay away. Mario and Maurizio glanced over, watching as she moved past them, her feet covered in wool socks and hand-made wooden house slippers. “Signora, no,” Mario warned her to no avail. “Questo posto non e per te.”

  The old woman stopped, her steel gray eyes focused on the soldier with the gun, her jaw clenched tight, the cheeks sagged and wrinkled. She freed her hands from behind the apron and pulled out a twelve-inch butcher’s knife, the one Neapolitan women often used to cut thick mounds of fresh provolone cheese. She reared her right arm back, fingers gripping the tip blade of the knife, planted her feet and squared her body. She released the knife with full force and a hard grunt, watching as it whizzed through the air and landed in the center of the soldier’s chest. The German dropped his gun, his two hands clutched around the wooden handle of the knife, his eyes opened wide, his mouth spilling blood and foam, his knees buckling. He fell backwards, landing with a quiet thud on the hard street.

  The soldier with the machine gun stood and turned his weapon on the old woman. She looked back at him, her elderly face free of fear. The boys gazed beyond her, staring at Connors in the center of the bridge, down on one knee, taking dead aim at the Nazi. The German caught their look and turned his head.

  The first shot from Connors win
ged him in the shoulder and spun him around, the machine gun falling to the ground. The second caught him in the forehead and sent him crumpling against the brown rock embankment, his legs folded off to the side. Mario and Maurizio stared down at the two dead soldiers and then turned away and ran toward the old woman who eagerly returned their warm embrace. “Grazia mille, signora,” Mario muttered. The old woman didn’t speak, content to rub the sweaty backs of the two boys with her gnarled fingers.

  She smiled at Connors and Nunzia as they approached. Nunzia leaned over and kissed the old woman on the cheek. “Ask her if she wants to come stay with us,” Connors said to Nunzia. “We’ll make sure to keep her safe.”

  The old woman looked at the soldier sprawled at the base of the bridge with a knife jutting out of his chest. Then she looked at Connors and smiled a toothless grin. “That’s what I was going to ask you,” she said.

  7

  45TH INFANTRY THUNDERBIRD DIVISION HEADQUARTERS SALERNO

  Captain Anders crumpled up the report he had just finished reading for a second time and shook his head, the flat end of a cigar clutched between his teeth. “Looks like there’s somebody down there not too happy about having the Nazis back in Naples. And I got me a damn pretty good idea who that somebody is.”

  “Connors may be involved, sir,” Higgins, a young junior officer said. “But he couldn’t have done the kind of damage that’s in that report by himself.”

  “No, I suppose that would be too much to ask of anyone,” Anders said. “Even a wild match like Connors. But whatever is going on down there, he’s smack in the middle of it. That’s a damn sure safe bet.”

  “We could easily send down a few units, sir.” He was barely out of his teens, a tall and lanky young man from Arlington, Virginia, with a hard voice and a soft manner. “Even out the odds some. There’s a full division down there. Help or not, he’s going to run into thick trouble sometime soon.”