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

“What are you moaning about? When it’s time to switch again, I’ll do a double shift walking.”
    And he started to march, careful to stay within calling distance because it was too dark to see. Three hours later, the truck had to stop because the road was blocked by a vehicle at the head of the column that had broken an axle and couldn’t go forward or backward. Floti went over to the boy in the truck and put a hand on his forehead: it was very hot. He went back to the commander.
    â€œSir, that kid’s burning up. A bad sign, from what I know.”
    â€œYes. It means there’s an infection.”
    â€œIsn’t there a hospital around here?”
    â€œA hospital? You’re joking. We won’t find one before Udine. And even if we manage to get that far, can you imagine how overrun they’ll be with casualties coming in from the front?”
    â€œThen there’s nothing we can do for that poor boy?”
    â€œWe can bury him, when it’s time, and write to his family; there’s nothing else we can do, Bruni. You can see that yourself.”
    He could see that himself.
    But he couldn’t believe it. There the kid was, sitting on the back of the truck, his face red with fever and his eyes glistening in the glow of the taillights. He was moving and thinking and breathing and yet in just a short time he would be nothing.
    Finally the column started up again and the trucks, with their retinue of foot soldiers, rolled forward. Fatigue was setting in with every step for the walkers, because the food they had was distributed very sparingly, just enough to keep them alive and moving. It was running out nonetheless and soon they’d have none left. In the middle of the night, when they had almost come within sight of the plains and the lights of distant convoys glittered in the darkness, there was a moment of near silence. Not a voice could be heard in the cold night. The truck had stopped once again and the engine was idling, when the still air was rent by the tolling of a bell, like hammer blows from the sky: one, two, three strokes, then two shorter, shriller ones. It was three thirty.
    â€œThere’s a town here,” said Floti. “What town, I wonder.”
    â€œWho knows?” replied the soldier closest to him, a young man with curly black hair and a Neapolitan accent.
    â€œAnyone live around here?” called out Floti a bit louder, turning around. A sergeant of about forty with reddish hair and whiskers stepped up.
    â€œWe heard the bells tolling: what town is near here?”
    â€œSant’Ilario? I might be wrong.”
    â€œIs there a hospital?”
    â€œIn Sant’Ilario? I doubt it,” replied the sergeant with a shrug.
    â€œWait, see those lights down in the valley? That looks like a big town.”
    The sergeant nodded. “That’s Cividale.”
    â€œIs there a hospital there?”
    Captain Cavallotti suddenly appeared out of nowhere. “Bruni, I know what you’re feeling. I’ve felt the same way myself many a time, but there’s nothing to be done. If you don’t resign yourself to that, you’ll go mad. We’re trying to break out of the Austro-Hungarian encirclement, and we can’t afford to stop. Set your heart at rest, boy: there are no hospitals, there are no doctors or medicines, there isn’t a damn thing. It’s time to get moving again.”
    They continued without interruption down the long mountain ridge, and then the long snake of men and vehicles stretched out into the valley heading towards Cividale. The cannon salvos behind them shook the mountains and filled the sky with lightning, like a storm. The boy with the bandaged arm was leaning against the inside of the truck as if he were yielding to sleep. Every turn and pothole jerked him around like a puppet.
    They continued in this way until close to dawn, when there was another forced halt. Cavallotti appeared again: