by Steve Libbey
~*~*~*~
Tenente Colonnello Abrognini did not take the news well. “We lost three men and possibly our one chance at driving the Americans away because you saw a ghost.”
Pirroni clutched the cup of rationed coffee in quaking hands. “Not a spirito, sir. This creature was real. I saw its eyes, as big around as this mug.”
“Absurd. What you saw was some scavenger hungry enough to risk a bullet for a tin of anchovies.”
“I have seen many of those in the last few months. This was quite different.” In the darkness, Pirroni listened for the breathing of his fellow soldiers, who would be able to protect him from the thing should it come for him. Somehow, he sensed it knew he had betrayed its existence to his masters, and it would demand revenge.
The Tenente Colonnello called Adriatico over to huddle with them. He evaded Pirroni’s gaze.
“You saw this man as well?”
Adriatico exhaled slowly. “Ah, you know, that’s funny. I was shooting at the enemy. Now, I did see something, a form... but not so well as the Capitano.” He spread his hands. “If he says he saw a ghost, I believe him.” For good measure, he crossed himself.
Abrognini cursed under his breath. It was no secret that the men looked to him for the leadership that the Colonnello had never truly provided. Pirroni respected the man and hated to be on his bad side. “Maybe – maybe I was fatigued and imagined it. I’m sorry.”
“Yes, well...” Abrognini rolled his head helplessly. Pirroni knew that war was a collection of opportunities. It was possible that he had lost their only chance for victory – and survival.
“What about the arm?” Adriatico said.
The Tenente Colonnello wearily turned to look at him. “Whose arm?”
“Talerico’s. It was gone.”
“A bullet. Or a shell fragment from a blast you didn’t notice in the fighting.”
Adriatico shook his head. “No, sir. This black thing I did not see, but poor Talerico I did see – without an arm. It was gone.” He pretended to chop at his own arm. “Missing.”
“The creature had it. That is what I saw.” Pirroni tried to visualize what had followed, but it made no sense to him; he could not put it into words.
A heavy presence joined their group. “Il Macabro,” Colonello Posca said. He leaned forward into the sliver of moonlight. “An old wives’ tale. Il Macabro, the Ghoulish One, who feasts on the recently dead. Mama would scare us boys with the story if we were caught playing in the cemetery.”
“Sir --” Abrognini began, but Posca cut him off.
“Il Macabro is a harbinger of disaster. You say he killed Talerico?”
Pirroni gulped and nodded.
“Then doom is but hours away.” Posca stood abruptly and walked back into the kitchen.
Abrognini swore again. “That’s all we need. I can’t wait to tell command that my men deserted because of a fairy tale. We’ll hang from Mussolini’s rafters.”
“Sir, let me assure you, I am not making this up as an excuse to desert.”
The Tenente Colonello grabbed his jacket. “It doesn’t matter. You and I both know Posca was on the fence. You just toppled him over.” He showed Pirroni the butt of his pistol. “This is our land. I’ll kill him before I let him give up. His blood will be on both of our hands, Capitano.”
Pirroni held his breath. At his side, Adriatico watched them with a guarded expression.
Abrognini chewed at his lip for a moment. “Listen, Pirroni. You and I are the only ones holding this squadron together. Everyone thinks they can just surrender to the Americans and sit the war out, but Patton is advancing too fast to take prisoners. We’ll be butchered. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
He released Pirroni’s collar and rocked back on his heels. “Bene. You and Adriatico take two men and find your Il Macabro. Put a bullet in his head and bring back proof I can use to keep Posca from destroying what little morale we have left. Remember, we fight with our hearts, not our hands.”
Pirroni recalled Talerico, dying one-handed. “You’re right. You can trust me.”
Open, honest relief showed on his superior’s face. “Grazi, grazi. We will make it through this, I promise. You’ll be back in front of students in no time.”
