Street Boys (17 page)

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 winged 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.”

“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 clip, 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.