A Winter's Night by Valerio Massimo Manfredi, Christine Feddersen-Manfredi

even the officers knew what to do. The lines of communication were interrupted, the enemy artillery strafed roads, bridges and fords. It was like doomsday. Many tossed away their weapons, and thought that if the others did the same the war would be over.
    Floti retreated with the others in his unit but they all stayed together, without losing sight of one another. Captain Cavallotti knew what he was doing: he had had them collect all available ammunition and load the machine guns, gasoline jugs and provisions onto the trucks.
    â€œIf we stick together,” he said, “we can make it. If we split up we’re lost. The Austrians will capture us and send us off to rot in prison camps, off to die of hunger and hardship and humiliations. They hate us, because we were their servants and we had the courage to attack them, and they’ll make us pay dearly for it. There’s even worse: if the
carabinieri
catch up with you, they’ll put you in front of a firing squad for deserting. As long as you stay with me—as long as you have your uniforms, your insignia, your weapons and your commanders—you are a unit of the Italian army in retreat and any citizen is bound to provide you with aid and assistance. If we run into the enemy, we’ll take up position and show them who we are. If we’re stopped by our own, they’ll let us know where we have to go and what we have to do. Let’s get moving now. The Austrians could be upon us at any moment.”
    There wasn’t enough room for all the men on the trucks, so about one hundred of them had to walk, but every six hours, the captain halted the column and those who were marching switched places with their comrades on the trucks. This system eliminated the need for rest stops, and when you were riding you could even get a little shuteye.
    About four in the morning they saw a stronghold on their left with a unit of
Bersaglieri
who were taking heavy fire and Cavallotti said: “Those boys are going to lose their lives to allow us to pass and get to safety. Remember this when you’re out of harm’s way, and again when it’s time to prepare the counterattack.”
    Floti knew he would remember this, even though it seemed completely senseless to him. It was bedlam, a furnace that devoured everyone and everything, a storm of fire and sword with no way out for anyone.
    The boy sitting next to him on the truck was just a little over twenty. His arm was in a sling and his eyes were glazed over.
    â€œWhere are you from?” Floti asked.
    â€œFrom Feltre, province of Belluno,” he replied.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with your arm?”
    â€œA mortar fragment, two days ago.”
    â€œIs the bone all right or did it break?”
    â€œI don’t know. It hurts a lot.”
    â€œIf it’s broken maybe you can go home.”
    â€œLet’s hope,” said the boy with a wispy voice and fell back into silence.
    There was a Sicilian on the other side of him and two Sardinians opposite them. You couldn’t understand a word of what they were saying, worse even than the guys from Bergamo. They almost always advanced at a crawl because the road was jammed with vehicles and soldiers, and sometimes they didn’t move for hours, but the sound of the cannons never ceased. Instead of getting farther away it seemed closer and closer.
    When it was time for them to switch places, Floti went to the captain, who was sitting in front next to the driver. “Sir, there’s that boy from Feltre who’s wounded. Can’t he stay on the truck? I don’t think he’ll be able to walk for six hours in his condition. He’s white as a ghost and he can hardly get a word out.”
    â€œAll right,” replied the captain. “Let him stay on the truck.”
    One of those who’d been walking for six hours found himself without a ride and he began whining and complaining.
    â€œCut it out,” Floti told him.