by Vicki Delany
It didn’t work out that way. The Germans fought for every inch of territory and reinforcements were arriving constantly.
I don’t remember the name of the town; you’d think that it would be burned into my brain, but I’ve forgotten, totally. A number of years ago my unit went on a reunion trip to Italy. Do you remember, Moira? The family encouraged me to go. But I had no wish to see it all again. I see it often enough, in my dreams.
It was just a dusty Italian village, one like so many others. Practically destroyed by the time we arrived. You couldn’t walk down the main street without picking your way through piles of rubble—all that remained of people’s homes and lives. The Germans were scarcely out of earshot before the civilians crept back. That was what upset me most of all. Watching those old women in their black shawls, dragging dirty-faced toddlers behind them. The entire population of Italy seemed to consist of nothing but bent old women and eerily quiet children. The women picked through the remains of their homes and businesses, sobbing and crying, and occasionally exploding with joy if they came across some remembered object still reasonably whole.
A few buildings were intact, not many, and a number were still standing despite missing a wall or two, a roof perhaps.
We thought the town was secure, the enemy long gone. We were over-confident and that error will follow me to my grave. And one far worse. Because it was my responsibility, and mine alone. I was in charge of a small platoon. We’d fought bitterly to get to this miserable village, almost certainly no more interesting alive than it was dead. I had lost three men. One dead, another wounded—he’d stepped on a landmine and lost most of his foot—the third assigned to take the wounded fellow back to the Field Surgical Unit we’d passed a few hours previously. Out of the dust and the rubble we saw the reflection of ourselves, another Canadian unit, also short-manned, also parched, frightened, and yet much too cocky.
We met in the town square with a good deal of backslapping and handshakes. The old women didn’t even look up although the children danced around, some trying to speak English, thanking us for saving them from the Germans and begging for candy and cigarettes at the same time.
The first bullet caught Corporal MacGregor right between the eyes. None of us knew what had happened for a few seconds. MacGregor’s face burst into a red fountain and he sort of crumpled to the ground. A German sniper, of course. We couldn’t see him, but another bullet hit the ground right behind Ralph, Lieutenant Madison, Moira’s brother, my friend, and the leader of the platoon we’d met in the ruined palazzo. The women were screaming and the children crying. I remember wanting to yell at them all to shut up. To give me peace and quiet in which to think.
But Ralph shouted that everyone was to go into the big house across the square. He called to the old women and the children and urged them to follow us. He yelled at them in French, which of course they didn’t understand. He grabbed at a little girl and dragged her by one skinny arm. Her grandmother followed. Maybe it was her mother, who could tell, the way the war had aged these women? And her companions followed her.
The house had once belonged to an influential family. The back wall was blown out and the interior stuffed with rubble, but there were still some fine pieces of furniture more or less intact and a couple of nice paintings on the remaining walls. I remember looking at those paintings. They might have been old masters, but what did I know? I was surprised that the Germans had left them behind. They took everything else that wasn’t nailed down. As well as a great deal that was, the bastards. There was an enormous black grand piano in the room, placed against the back wall that was no more. It looked to be in such perfect condition that it could have been placed directly onto the stage at Carnegie Hall or some such place. A light coating of dust, but otherwise the piano wasn’t touched. Not a scratch on it. Sunlight flooded in through the non-existent wall, and threw a beam of light against that damned piano, catching every particle of dust in a golden halo.
My wife loves piano music. I won’t allow one into our house. She begs me to take her to a concert, but I won’t go with her. So she goes with one of her sisters or a friend and they all laugh at what an uncultured boor I am. But I’ve never been able to look at a piano again, after that day.
Once we made it inside, the sniper stopped shooting. No need to waste bullets. We ran though the house to the back. There was a large garden, with a beautiful statue in the center of what had once been a fountain, now full of rubble instead of water. The rest of the garden was nothing but weeds, although I could make out the neatly laid rows of the formal flowerbeds, choked with more rubble. The garden was contained by high wall: a thick stone wall, six feet high or more, running completely around the back yard. Unbelievably, amongst all this destruction, that dammed wall didn’t have a mark on it. Private Turnbull laughed and said that if Hitler could get hold of that wall we would never get to Berlin. He was a good man, Turnbull. He would laugh at anything. He cheered the other men up no end.
Ralph Madison made an attempt to get to the wall. He stepped out into the garden. Nothing. He went a bit further, and then dashed across the ruined garden. A line of bullets followed him and the snipers forced him back into the house. There was more than one of them, and at least one was high up in the tower in the center of the town. The Italians have a name for that type of tower, but I don’t remember it now.
So there we were, two platoons, undermanned by a large margin, two old hags in black rags, moaning and making the sign of the cross over their chests, one younger woman we had at first taken to be older because she was dressed the same as the grandmas, and three filthy, frightened children.
Ralph sent a couple of his men upstairs to see what was there. Nothing, they reported back. Not even a roof.
So there we sat. In a luxurious Italian home that was only missing a roof, a back wall, and furniture to be a proper delight. With six Italian civilians who, judging by the look on their faces, regarded us as the source of all their problems.
Ralph assigned men to the windows, to make sure the Germans didn’t try to sneak up on us. “We’ll be out of here at nightfall,” he said. His voice was full of confidence. It always was. The women didn’t understand what he said, but his tone settled some of their anxiety.
One of the little street urchins in particular seemed to like Ralph. It was a girl, of course, and she climbed onto his lap and fingered his tunic buttons. He patted her dirty dark head and whispered soft words into her ear and after an initial objection her grandmother, if that was who one of the older women was, relaxed.
I’ve promised that I’ll give you an honest account of what happened that hot, dusty day in Italy. And so I will. You may have noticed that I have talked about what Ralph said, and Ralph did, but nothing of myself. And that is, simply, because I did nothing. I did nothing but sit in the corner, with my rifle clutched to my knees. I would let Ralph take care of everything. My men watched me out of the corner of their eyes, but I knew that everything would be all right. Because Ralph Madison was there. The men soon turned to him and started taking their orders from him, even my men, and I was glad to be left alone, in my corner. I found a cushion, soft, the color of fresh cream, and amazingly enough somewhat clean. A cushion that must have sat on a settee at one time, probably graced by the thin bottoms of beautiful Italian noble women. I clutched it to my chest, on top of my rifle, and let Ralph decide what we were to do.
We waited until nightfall. No one said much. One of the old women started to wail until the younger one snapped at her. Ralph let the child with the huge dark eyes play with his buttons and when she tired of that game he turned out his pockets and let her go through what she found there. The other children were two boys, a bit older than the girl. They were getting restless, wanting to explore the house, but held back by the sharp hiss of mother and grandmothers. We’d been told that the Germans left mines behind. Everywhere they’d been.
“Do you like my sister, Stoughton?” Ralph said. It was early dusk, the shadows le
ngthening outside the (empty) windows. Almost time to go.
“Miss Madison seems like a lovely young lady,” I replied. What else to say?
“She won’t have you, you know. She’s got you pegged for a gold digger. She’s very perceptive that way.”
I flushed and cuddled my pillow closer. The rifle was in the way and I pushed it aside. “I certainly don’t know what you mean.” The men were listening and not even pretending not to.
“I have two other sisters. Not as feisty as Moira, by any means. But one of them is somewhat pretty, they tell me. And a good deal more malleable.”
Private Turnbull laughed and nudged the man beside him. He was one of Ralph’s men, so I never did learn his name.
“I like ’em feisty, Lieutenant,” Turnbull said. “How’s about I meet your sister?”
Ralph laughed and the girl on his lap laughed also. She didn’t know what was funny, but if her hero laughed, so would she. “If you can charm her, you can have her, soldier. But she’ll take no nonsense. So you’ll have your work cut out for you.”
The younger woman swore at us in a stream of Italian. What brought that on, I didn’t know. Perhaps she understood a bit of English and didn’t like the way Ralph and the soldiers were talking. She sat down at the piano and fingered the keys. To the surprise of everyone the notes rang pure and clear. Her long, thin fingers danced expertly over a light scale. I closed my eyes and cuddled my pillow. My mother had played the piano. It reminded me so much of home. The sound echoed around the standing walls and flew through the open roof.
The black piano, so perfect it could have played at Carnegie Hall, exploded like the opening of the jaws of hell. Black and white keys flew everywhere, tiny bits of shrapnel in their own right. The woman didn’t move. She looked at her hands. Only they weren’t there.
She screamed, long and loud and piercing. The old women screamed, and the boys ran in circles screaming, and the girl screamed as she was bounced out of Ralph’s lap as he leapt to his feet and rushed to the woman’s side.
Mercifully, she took one look at her bloody stumps and fainted dead away.
As if they’d heard the booby trap going off, the Germans launched an artillery barrage moments after. The town was exploding all around us, and the remains of the back wall of the house burst into flames. Unfortunately there were still remnants of fine curtains handing in shreds over the garden windows. They caught fire in an instant.
Private Turnbull was the first out the door. He was struck down with one shot and collapsed on top of the rubble at the front door, the side of his head missing. He wouldn’t be courting Nursing Sister Moira Madison after all.
I have very little recall of what happened then. Ralph ripped scraps of fabric off a decaying tablecloth and wrapped the woman’s hands, the ones that were there no longer. Men ran for the back garden, but they were cut down quickly. The house was burning; the ancient timber and precious carpets left behind by the Nazis welcomed the greedy fire with enthusiasm.
The old women were still screaming, but trying to hide the children in their voluminous black dresses. Ralph’s little girlfriend clung to his leg, sobbing hysterically as he tried to gently pry her fingers off his pants and tend to the wounded woman at the same time.
That’s the one thing I remember well about that horrible few minutes. How calm Ralph Madison was. He didn’t upset the child any further by yelling at her, or pushing her away. An incredibly perfunctory job of bandaging done, he ran to the window, dragging the sobbing child behind.
He issued orders quickly. Two men took up positions at the window and tried to get the German snipers in their sights. The others were sent to fight the fire, one to continue tending the injured woman and drag her away from the approaching inferno. The back half of the house, as well as the staircase, was in flames. One of the Italian boys grabbed my pillow and used it to beat at the fire. Little fool. Couldn’t he see that we were all doomed?
They were making some progress. The fire was retreating against the combined onslaught of our men and the old women and children. One of the men yelled in victory as he hit a sniper concealed in the remains of an upper floor of the building across the town square at the moment the German settled for a direct shot.
We would have made it. Ralph Madison and the remains of his (and my) platoon, two elderly black-clad Italian women with all the energy and hatred of demons direct from hell, a group of children, and a woman out cold. We would have made it to safety, had the Germans not decided this would be a good time to recapture the town.
One of my men, I don’t remember his name now, pulled me to my feet. “For God’s sake,” he hissed, his eyes as dark and thin as those of a serpent. “Be a man, Lieutenant. Hell’s waiting for us all, but there’s a special level reserved down there for cowards.”
I looked at him. He was a huge, ugly farm boy. Tiny black eyes, nose as long as a carrot, arms and legs that wandered all over the place when he walked. He never could stay in formation on parade.
He spat in my face.
He picked up my rifle from where it had fallen and shoved it into my arms. I wiped the spit off my cheek and straightened up, trying to pretend I had some measure of dignity. “No need to be insulting, soldier. Time to teach these Jerries a lesson, eh?”
He spat again, fortunately this time aiming at my feet.
One of the Italian boys, Christ, he couldn’t have been more than ten, had skipped out into the enemy fire and scooped up Turnbull’s rifle. He lugged it back into the building and smiled at me, muttering incomprehensible words as he brandished the weapon, trying—and failing—to look fierce.
Oh, God, I thought. The damned fool of a boy expects me to do something.
The fire was gaining on us. The back way was impassable. The roar of the flames and stifling smoke filled our world. The old women alternately prayed and howled in terror, the injured woman moaned softly as she struggled towards consciousness, the boys screamed their defiance, and the girl looked at Ralph with wide-eyed awe. Our men were ready, balancing their rifles, waiting for Ralph to give the word. No one paid any attention to me.
“We have to go,” Ralph said, his voice low and steady. He spoke in French to the boy with the rifle. Of course he didn’t understand the words, but the child knew their intent. “Keep firing as we move,” Ralph said. “Make them keep their heads, and their guns, down. You there, what’s your name?”
“Jones, sir.
“I want you to carry the injured woman, Jones. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you can, try to keep something covering her wounds. But don’t stop to do it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“McNeill, Watson, and Kowalski. Surround the women and kids. Drag them out of here if you have to. And protect Jones. I’ll be in front. The rest of you spread out behind us. Are we ready?” He looked at each one of us in turn, as if the strength of his will alone was enough to carry us through the gates of hell.
The old women clutched their shawls and murmured prayers under their breath, but they knew what was happening and by the tilt of their heads and thrust of their chins I knew they’d follow Ralph Madison right past those gates.
He pried the girl’s fingers off his pants and passed her hand to one of the women. A real man doesn’t go into battle with an undernourished five-year-old female clinging to his leg.
The heat from the fire was all around us. Another portion of the ceiling collapsed in an inferno of screaming wood and howling flames. We had to leave by the front door, and leave now, if we were to leave at all.
Ralph and some of the unassigned soldiers went first, followed by his phalanx: three solders surrounding the women and children, Private Jones carrying the woman with no hands as if she were a huge rag doll, and the boy, gripping the unfamiliar rifle, about to be inaugurated as a man. Last, and most certainly least—me.
There were more of them than we’d expected. Many more, coming at us from all sides. As well as the snipers w
e knew about, a new group had burrowed into the rubble across the street.
A bullet caught Ralph full in the chest. He went down. His girlfriend wrenched herself out of her grandmother’s grip and collapsed to her knees at his side, keening like generations uncounted of women before her.
I screamed in terror. If Ralph was dead, what hope remained for the rest of us? I fell, collapsing onto the two black-shrouded women as I went down. One of them was stretching out her hand towards the girl.
The men stood their ground, some through sheer bravery, some because what else could they do—the building behind them was completely enveloped in flames. They might have made it, had they not gone back for the old women and the children, overcome by paralyzing terror. The boy had thrown away his rifle, and like the child he was he cried his fear into his grandmother’s chest.
The girl caught a bullet in her arm. Open mouthed, she stared at the blossoming red stain. Watson scooped her up. But he stood immobile, the sobbing body gasping in his arms. He didn’t know where to go.
Jones made a break for the right, still carrying the wounded woman. The Germans let them go.
I heard the rapid rattle of gunfire and then I saw the blessed sight of a group of Canadians advancing towards us. Moving cautiously, they crouched in the shelter of blasted buildings and mountains of rubble, but kept up a continual stream of fire against the German in the tower.
The sniper must have been leaning over, trying to get a good shot—heroic idiot—when the bullet found him. He drifted to the ground, turning over and over as he passed through the air, only to hit the ground with a dull, boring thud. The life force exited his broken body with a sigh and a whoosh.
