Read Online Street Boys by Lorenzo Carcaterra - Free Book Online
Authors: Lorenzo Carcaterra
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move.”
“Got an aunt back home like you,” Willis said. “All worries and no smiles. I’ll meet you at the jeep.”
Willis jumped to his feet and ran for a large tree covered by a thick circle of shrubs. “Willis!” Connors shouted, watching as the medic stepped into the green patch, the area below his feet too dense for him to see the hidden mine. The explosion sent Willis flying back, his chest and face blown away. He lay there, still and dead, a young boy from Iowa who had promised his mother he would make it back home.
Connors lowered his head and took in several slow, deep breaths. “Damn it,” he said. “Goddamn it!”
He looked back up and saw that Taylor was now directly across from the German’s position. Taylor was well-hidden by the trees and took careful aim with his rifle, looking to shoot low and hit at the ground cover. He fired off three quick rounds and popped out an empty ammo clip. He reached behind him for a new eight-bullet clip, the smoke from his rifle drifting into the air and giving away his position.
Connors saw the German move away from his coverage and raised his rifle.
He had him in his scope lines when he saw Taylor move toward the soldier, firing off a steady stream of bullets. Connors held his aim until he had a sure shot and then both he and the German soldier squeezed their triggers at the same time. They both hit their target.
It took Scott Taylor the rest of that afternoon to die.
Connors lay there and held him in his arms. It was all that was left for him to do. He couldn’t radio back to headquarters for help, not that it would have been able to save Taylor’s life. The transmitter had been blown to bits along with Willis, but even if he still had it, he couldn’t risk giving away his position to any other Germans who were in the area. So, instead, Connors just sat and listened to a soldier he had never liked gasp and wheeze his final words. Taylor told him as much as he could about his life in the short hours he had left. Connors nodded and smiled when the words called for it, wiping the younger soldier’s brow and promising to let his family back home know how brave he had been.
“I never did want to come to Italy,” Taylor said, blood running in a thin line out of his mouth and down his neck. “Now I guess I’ll never leave.”
“You shouldn’t have moved,” Connors said. “I had him. All you needed to do was hold your position.”
“Can’t let you be the hero every time,” Taylor said, managing a snicker.
“It wouldn’t have killed you,” Connors said.
“Thanks for staying with me,” Taylor said.
“You’d have done the same,” Connors said.
“Don’t bet your life on it,” Taylor said, his eyes closing for a final time.
12
PORTO DI SANTA LUCIA, NAPLES
SEPTEMBER 26, 1943
Twelve rowboats, in rows of two with four to a boat, slowly made their way out from the shore of the bay.
Maldini and Vincenzo rode in the lead boat, the older man pulling on a set of wooden oars, gliding them through the calm waters. The boats were weighed down with massive fishing nets curled up and running along their centers. The hot sun was now at full boil, its scalding rays browning the backs of the rowers. They slapped hands full of seawater on their shoulders and arms, seeking a mild dose of relief.
“How will you know when to stop?” Vincenzo asked.
“My father fished these waters most of his life,” Maldini said. “He made sure his children knew the ways of the sea. The tide moves at its own pace, affected only by time and weather.”
“Which means what?” Vincenzo asked with unmasked impatience.
Maldini pulled his oars out of the water and rested them inside the boat. “Which means,” he said, “that we are here. Floating above the guns.”
“Should we drop the nets?” Vincenzo asked, standing on unsteady legs in the center of the boat.
“It’s what I would do,” Maldini said. “But then, I’m not the one in charge.”
Vincenzo
“Got an aunt back home like you,” Willis said. “All worries and no smiles. I’ll meet you at the jeep.”
Willis jumped to his feet and ran for a large tree covered by a thick circle of shrubs. “Willis!” Connors shouted, watching as the medic stepped into the green patch, the area below his feet too dense for him to see the hidden mine. The explosion sent Willis flying back, his chest and face blown away. He lay there, still and dead, a young boy from Iowa who had promised his mother he would make it back home.
Connors lowered his head and took in several slow, deep breaths. “Damn it,” he said. “Goddamn it!”
He looked back up and saw that Taylor was now directly across from the German’s position. Taylor was well-hidden by the trees and took careful aim with his rifle, looking to shoot low and hit at the ground cover. He fired off three quick rounds and popped out an empty ammo clip. He reached behind him for a new eight-bullet clip, the smoke from his rifle drifting into the air and giving away his position.
Connors saw the German move away from his coverage and raised his rifle.
He had him in his scope lines when he saw Taylor move toward the soldier, firing off a steady stream of bullets. Connors held his aim until he had a sure shot and then both he and the German soldier squeezed their triggers at the same time. They both hit their target.
It took Scott Taylor the rest of that afternoon to die.
Connors lay there and held him in his arms. It was all that was left for him to do. He couldn’t radio back to headquarters for help, not that it would have been able to save Taylor’s life. The transmitter had been blown to bits along with Willis, but even if he still had it, he couldn’t risk giving away his position to any other Germans who were in the area. So, instead, Connors just sat and listened to a soldier he had never liked gasp and wheeze his final words. Taylor told him as much as he could about his life in the short hours he had left. Connors nodded and smiled when the words called for it, wiping the younger soldier’s brow and promising to let his family back home know how brave he had been.
“I never did want to come to Italy,” Taylor said, blood running in a thin line out of his mouth and down his neck. “Now I guess I’ll never leave.”
“You shouldn’t have moved,” Connors said. “I had him. All you needed to do was hold your position.”
“Can’t let you be the hero every time,” Taylor said, managing a snicker.
“It wouldn’t have killed you,” Connors said.
“Thanks for staying with me,” Taylor said.
“You’d have done the same,” Connors said.
“Don’t bet your life on it,” Taylor said, his eyes closing for a final time.
12
PORTO DI SANTA LUCIA, NAPLES
SEPTEMBER 26, 1943
Twelve rowboats, in rows of two with four to a boat, slowly made their way out from the shore of the bay.
Maldini and Vincenzo rode in the lead boat, the older man pulling on a set of wooden oars, gliding them through the calm waters. The boats were weighed down with massive fishing nets curled up and running along their centers. The hot sun was now at full boil, its scalding rays browning the backs of the rowers. They slapped hands full of seawater on their shoulders and arms, seeking a mild dose of relief.
“How will you know when to stop?” Vincenzo asked.
“My father fished these waters most of his life,” Maldini said. “He made sure his children knew the ways of the sea. The tide moves at its own pace, affected only by time and weather.”
“Which means what?” Vincenzo asked with unmasked impatience.
Maldini pulled his oars out of the water and rested them inside the boat. “Which means,” he said, “that we are here. Floating above the guns.”
“Should we drop the nets?” Vincenzo asked, standing on unsteady legs in the center of the boat.
“It’s what I would do,” Maldini said. “But then, I’m not the one in charge.”
Vincenzo
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