Street Boys Page 14

  “His fires didn’t burn the building down, either,” Connors said. They walked together along the darkened city streets, their eyes focused on all the activity around them. “You like the movie better or the book?”

  “I like them both,” Vincenzo said.

  “You get to go to many movies?” Connors asked.

  “Before the war, I would go every week,” Vincenzo said. “To the pidocchietto.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You see the movie outside,” Vincenzo said.

  “I get it,” Connors said. “Like a drive-in.”

  “Yes,” Vincenzo said. “Except in Naples, no cars. Only feet.”

  “Do you get yourself popcorn and a Coke when you watch a movie over here?” Connors asked. “Like we do.”

  “I love Coca-Cola,” Vincenzo said with a sweet smile. “But I don’t know about popcorn. Is it a candy?”

  “No, not really,” Connors said, walking past a row of bombed-out buildings. “It’s hard to explain. It’s just something you eat when you watch a movie. Some people even think it makes the movie better.”

  Vincenzo nodded, and glanced over at two boys placing makeshift bombs down an open sewer. “Do you think any of this will work?” he asked.

  “Probably not,” Connors said. “Do you?”

  “They need to think we’re everywhere,” Vincenzo said. “For every one of us they see, they must believe hundreds are hidden. They need to think they’re up against thousands, not handfuls. It’s our only chance.”

  They walked in silence for several moments, each lost in his own thoughts. They turned when they saw the pudgy boy from the soccer game approach from behind. He was short and squat and had thick brown hair that he gelled down and parted in the center. His face was a youthful mask of innocence, highlighted by a smile and a pair of watery brown eyes. “Is it all true?” he asked, nodding at Connors and patting the top of Vincenzo’s arm. “We are getting ready to fight Nazis?”

  Vincenzo hesitated and then shook his head. “Yes, Angelo,” he said. “It’s true.”

  “I want to help,” Angelo said, close to pleading. “I’ll do anything. Just tell me what you need.”

  “For the moment, nothing,” Vincenzo said, avoiding Connors’s concerned gaze. “But I’ll get word to you soon as I have something for you.”

  “What do I do until then?” Angelo asked.

  “Find a good place to hide,” Vincenzo said. “A place where no one can see you. Not the Germans and not even any of the other boys.”

  “What should I wear?” he asked. “In case you need me to fight.”

  “If that time comes,” Vincenzo said, “you dress for battle. But until then, you do nothing except hide.”

  Angelo smiled, took two steps back and gave them each a salute. “Don’t worry, Vincenzo,” he said, turning and heading back down the darkened street. “I’ll be the best-dressed soldier in your army.”

  Connors waited until the boy was out of earshot and then looked over at Vincenzo. “I don’t want to put a dent in your plans,” he said. “But if that’s the best you got, you might as well pack your shoes and some cheese and move up to the hills.”

  “Angelo is different from the others,” Vincenzo said. “He means well, but he’s slow. His brain is not right. Two years ago, the Fascists beat his parents to death and held him there to watch. Since that day, he has not been the same boy.”

  “I’m sorry,” Connors said, his eyes shifting to the ground. “Should have figured something wasn’t right from the way he talked. Will he be okay by himself?”

  “He means well and he has a good heart,” Vincenzo explained. “That’s something neither the Fascists nor the Nazis could take away. And he usually does what he’s told. So, if he hides, he should be safe, no matter how the battle turns out.”

  “Are there any more boys out there like him?” Connors said. “You know, that need looking after?”

  “We are all like him, American,” Vincenzo said.

  32

  PALAZZO DELLE POSTE E DEI TELEGRAFI, NAPLES

  SEPTEMBER 27, 1943

  Connors and Nunzia walked down the large stairwell, the two ground-floor halls spread out in front of them. The building complex had been one of the first monuments to be erected under Mussolini’s rule, an early symbol of his vision for a modern Italy. The designers broke ground in 1929 and the work was completed six years later, and despite the heavy aerial bombings, it had remained relatively intact.

  “The main telegraph offices are off to the left,” Nunzia said, pointing just past a large marble column. “I doubt you’ll find any of the machines still in working order. The Germans made a point of cutting off all the lines of communication.”

  “It’s probably true,” Connors said. “But we might as well double check. They’ll be looking to set up a command center. The harder we make it for them to get word out, the better.”

  Nunzia held the banister and stopped, looking at Connors on the other end of the marble stairwell. “Thank you for letting them do this,” she said. “I know it was not your first choice.”

  “I’ve never been thanked for letting boys head off to die,” Connors said. “I don’t know if what I’m doing is right or not. Don’t even know why I’m doing it. It’s not the smart move and for sure it’s not a soldier’s move.”

  “Then maybe you’re more than just a soldier,” Nunzia said. “Soldiers follow rules and orders and listen only to what makes the most sense. They choose to ignore what’s in their hearts.”

  “And if I end up seeing a long line of dead kids after tomorrow, I’m going to wish I’d done the same,” Connors said.

  “They might surprise you. They’re a tougher bunch than they look to be. They’ve seen horrors most children are spared from. Maybe it’s not even fair to call them children.”

  “What about you?” Connors asked. “Are you tougher than you look?”

  “It depends on who is looking,” Nunzia answered.

  Connors stared back at her and nodded. “What happened to all the men in the city?” he asked. “I mean, I can understand it’s easier for kids and old people to hide and not have the Germans notice, but why didn’t some of the men stay behind to help?”

  “They had wives and daughters to worry about,” Nunzia said. “A son takes the place of a father.”

  “Which side does your father fall on?”

  “My father is a dreamer,” Nunzia said. “Most Italian men are, especially southern ones. And he had no son to leave behind. So it was left to me.”

  Connors stood and wiped the back of his pants and shook his head. “This could all turn out to be a suicide mission,” he said. “I’ve looked at it from a hundred different angles and they all point that way.”

  Nunzia walked across the steps and stood facing Connors, her hand on his arm, their eyes on each other. “It’s more than that,” she said. “You saw them out there, saw for yourself how they went about their tasks, acting more like men than boys. Their faces were bright and alive, as happy as I’ve ever seen them. Whatever else happens, it will be worth it just to let them have a day like today.”

  Connors leaned in closer to Nunzia, their faces separated by breath. After several long seconds, he closed his eyes and turned to pick up his gear. “We better finish what we came here to do,” he said. “Let’s go check on those telegraph machines, see if we can find at least one that’s of any use.”

  “And if we find one,” Nunzia said. “What then? Make contact with your soldiers in Salerno?”

  Connors started down the marble hall toward the telegraph office. “I’d love to try that,” he said over his shoulder, his voice a loud echo across the thick empty walls. “But it’d be too risky. The Nazis might pick it up as easy as my division. But at some point in this, we’re going to need to get word out to somebody. All I have to do is figure out how.”

  “Won’t that still be a risk?” she asked, walking toward him, thin leather shoes silent on the hard ti
le floors.

  “Starting tomorrow, Nunzia, taking risks is all that’s left for us to do,” Connors said. He turned and disappeared around a marble column, in search of a working telegraph machine.

  33

  45TH THUNDERBIRD INFANTRY DIVISION HEADQUARTERS SALERNO, ITALY. SEPTEMBER 27, 1943

  Captain Anders sucked on a hard cherry candy as he studied the coordinates on the map. He looked across the wooden table at a young officer standing on the other side and nodded. “The Germans are here,” he said, jabbing a finger on a stencil drawing of the Naples outskirts. “Should be in the city no later than sunup.” He moved his finger to the north. “Two of my boys were found dead right about here,” he said, “along with a couple of German soldiers. No jeep and no equipment left behind. So, what’s missing from my little puzzle?”

  “Corporal Connors,” the officer said. “We haven’t heard one word from him since he left on his mission.”

  “That’s right, Carlson,” Anders said. “We haven’t heard a damn thing. And how do you read all of that?”

  “My hunch is he’s either dead or captured, sir,” Carlson said with some assurance. “If not, we would have heard otherwise by now.”

  Anders shifted away from the map and glared up at Carlson. He was a sergeant, newly assigned to his division, transferred over to the Thunderbirds to help the unit cope with the massive losses sustained in the beach landing. He was in his mid-twenties and slight of build, with a thinning hairline and a warm face, his soft Boston accent in sharp contrast to the captain’s harsher tones. “If we were talking about most soldiers, I would agree with you,” Anders said. “But not Connors. I’ve seen him in action. He’s not one to let himself be captured and he sure as hell acts like he’s tough to kill. So I’m betting you’re wrong on all counts.”

  “Then where is he, sir?” Carlson asked.

  Anders spit out his candy, watching it land on the brown grass by his feet. “He’s in that city,” the captain said, running the back of his hand against his sticky lips. “And if something’s going on there, I’m betting he’s right in the middle of it.”

  “If that’s the case, sir, then whoever he’s with should have access to a radio of some kind,” Carlson said. “Why wouldn’t he have made contact?”

  “Hell, there isn’t anybody left this side of Rome that doesn’t know the Germans are right on the city limits,” Anders said. “Anything he’d send our way would just as quick be picked up by them.”

  “If he’s really still alive, we could try and send another team to get him out,” Carlson said. “It would be dangerous, but worth the effort.”

  “Not just yet.” Anders stepped away from the map and folded his arms across his chest. “Let’s give him a little time. Give him a chance to do some damage and get out on his own.”

  “What sort of damage, sir?” Carlson asked. “As you said, Connors is alone. And all the indications say that if there’s going to be any resistance at all to the Panzers, it’ll be minimal at best.”

  “Exactly,” Anders said. “The Nazis are going in expecting a little head butt here and there, nothing too serious. Now, if Connors is in there and he’s hooked up with anyone looking to cause some trouble, that could change the game. Not enough to beat them back, but enough to hold them a few extra hours more than they planned.”

  “How soon before we move the Thunderbirds into Naples, sir?” Carlson asked.

  Anders snorted out a laugh. “The army is nothing more than a series of jobs,” he said, reaching into his shirt pocket for another piece of hard candy. “Mine is to keep the troops rested and battle ready. It’s somebody else’s to tell me when to move them out. Soon as I know that, so will you.”

  “I’m not complaining, sir. The men can use the break. The squad’s pretty shot up and beat up. Even so, for some of them, waiting to fight is sometimes harder than the fight itself.”

  “Maybe,” Anders said with a shrug. “But it sure as shit won’t get them killed, will it? And after all the action this bunch has been through, dying of boredom should be the goal for every one of those grunts.”

  34

  CASTEL SANT’ELMO, NAPLES

  SEPTEMBER 27, 1943

  Connors stood facing the sea, the silent peaks of Mount Vesuvius off to his right, his foot resting on an embankment made of tufa stone. The castle had been built in 1329, its large enclosed walls designed to ward off any attack on the city. Through the centuries it had been a home to those who wanted to escape enemy detection and then, eventually, it was turned into an elaborate prison. Connors thought it a good place to station a few boys so they could follow the tank movements and positions. Below him, the entire city was spread out, from wide piazzas to narrow alleys, and from such a high vantage point, nothing could move undetected. He turned around when he heard Vincenzo step up beside him and sit on the edge of the embankment. “When the sun is up and the skies are clear,” Vincenzo told him, “it’s easy to see all the islands that surround Naples. Sometimes you can even see as far as Sardenia. But now with all the smoke and fire, you’re lucky if you can see the city.”

  “Seeing it’s the easy part,” Connors said, turning his back to the view and leaning against a stone wall.

  “What’s the hard?”

  “How do we get the boys up here to tell us what they see down there? They can’t scream it out and we don’t have any signal system set up.”

  “I know a way,” Vincenzo said. He shifted his focus to the Thunderbird patch on Connors’s sleeve. “I just don’t know how well it will work.”

  “I think now would be a real good time to tell me,” Connors said, catching the boy’s stare.

  “We can use picciones,” Vincenzo said. “How do you say it in English? They are birds that fly from one place to another and bring you messages.”

  “Pigeons,” Connors said. “You have carrier pigeons?”

  “I don’t,” Vincenzo said. “But Franco does. Not as many as he had before the war, but enough to get word from the boys up here to us down there.”

  “Have you used them before?”

  “He used to race them.” Vincenzo pointed toward the darkening sky. “Run them in circles above our homes. Once or twice he would send a bird out with a note from his mamma to a sick old aunt who lived on the other side of the city. She always got the message.”

  “We put four boys up here, keep them low and in each corner, they get a full view of the battle,” Connors said, walking toward the center of the castle roof. “They’ll see the tanks before we do. We just have to hope the Germans are too busy with us to take notice of any pigeons.”

  “I’ll pick the boys and give them what they need,” Vincenzo said. “Franco will know if we have any in our group who have handled pigeons before. If we do, I’ll make sure they’re up here.”

  “You still want to go ahead with all this?” Connors asked. “There’s still time to get everybody out.”

  “We are where we belong,” Vincenzo said. “All of us. This is a time for Italians to fight.”

  Connors stepped closer to Vincenzo and stared down at the boy. “It’s everybody’s fight,” he said. “I left behind too many dead Americans on your dirt and beaches to think of it in any other way.”

  “Is that how you got that patch?” Vincenzo asked. “Fighting here in Italy?”

  Connors ran his fingers across the four square points of the Thunderbird. “This is the symbol of my division,” he said. “It’s a magic bird that American Indians believe in, brings rain, thunder and lightning down on any enemy.”

  “Do you believe that, too?”

  “Only when I have a division behind me,” Connors said. “Each of the squares in the patch represents one of the states that make up most of the ranks. New Mexico, Colorado, Arizona and Oklahoma.”

  “Is that where you’re from?” Vincenzo asked, looking closer at the patch.

  “No, I got drafted and was put into the division,” Connors said. “But a lot of the guys in the tro
op are from those parts of my country. Quite a few Indian tribes in it as well. There’s been a lot of different blood spilled on your land, not just yours.”

  “It’s a patch of honor, then,” Vincenzo said, running his fingers along the seams of the design. “You’re lucky to have it.”

  In the distance, the low moaning roar of a plane engine could be heard. Connors looked up but could see nothing beyond a cluster of evening clouds. “That’s not a sound you ever get used to hearing,” he said.

  Vincenzo shook his head. “No,” he said. “But you don’t fear it as much as you do the first time. You never welcome it, but you always expect it to come.”

  “I guess we should head for the tunnels.” Connors shoved his pith helmet on his head. “Make sure everybody else gets there, too.”

  Vincenzo walked over to an embankment and pointed down toward the streets, at a small huddle of boys scrambling for cover. “We’ve done this for a long time,” Vincenzo said. “Everyone has their special place to spend the night.”

  “Where’s yours?”

  “Most nights, the tunnels,” Vincenzo said. “It’s an old habit. I always used to beg my father to take me to the train station when I was a child. I loved to see them come in and go out on the different tracks, smoke running out of the stacks, whistles blowing, each filled with people going to or coming from places I’d never seen.”

  “What about tonight?” Connors asked.

  “I think I’ll stay here tonight,” Vincenzo said.

  “Why?”

  “It’s the last night,” Vincenzo said. “I won’t ever have the chance again. I want to see with my own eyes what they do to my city.”

  “You want to do it alone?” Connors asked. “Or would you mind some company?”

  Vincenzo looked at Connors and smiled. “It’s a big castle,” he said. “There’s enough room for two.”

  The two of them walked toward a distant embankment and sat down, shielded by its thick stone walls, and waited for the nightly destruction to begin.