My First Seven Years (Plus a Few More) by Dario Fo

Strapne), machine guns, mortars … nothing at all! You were given a mouthful of grappa to knock back at top speed before every attack, then they threw you forward to get yourself killed, and you were a sitting duck: skewer them or they skewer you. After the first six days on the Carso border, half of our battalion was already done for, slaughtered. On the seventh day we were relieved. I was literally a wreck. Two men from my village had been blown apart when a howitzer got them dead-centre, only five paces from where I was dug in. All that was left of those poor bastards who arrived at the same time as me were some bits of flesh and blood scattered all over the place. Everywhere there was the acrid stench of gunpowder and the sickly smell of blood and guts. And the screams of the wounded and the dying, groans and moans that would rip the skin off your body.
    â€˜Three “fresh” companies arrived to relieve us, and the survivors among us, numbed and dazed, went down to the town below, where they had set up services and lodgings behind the lines, and from there the wounded were moved to hospital. I received treatment too. I had some shrapnel in my shoulder, and they took it out just like that … with me standing upright, without anaesthetic … there was enough “sleeping portion” only for the most serious cases. They put three stitches in me and sent me on my way. It was there that I met Gigi Briasco, my cousin from Leggiuno. He had been in the army for three years, which made him a veteran. They were treating him for a “bang on the head”, as the men said, in other words a bad fracture of the skull. I was going to embrace him but he held me back: “Steady, Felice! My stomach’s like patchwork embroidery … I got a full blast of Drapen roses!”
    â€˜I waited till they patched up his head and we went down together to where they were dishing out the grub. There was a queue as far as you could see.
    â€œCome on, let’s go to the officers’ mess.”
    â€œYou’ve been promoted?”
    â€œOf course I have. I’m a sergeant. But it’s not the rank that gets me in. It’s this nonsense.” He had on his shoulder a gold-embroidered circle with a dagger and a bomb bursting into flames.
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œIt’s the emblem of the Arditi. ”
    â€œDid you join up with that lot?” I asked incredulously.
    â€œYes, third company, Arditi battalion. It’s the only way to save your hide.”
    â€œYou must be kidding. What do you mean? Don’t tell me you’ve got yourself an easy number.”
    â€œNo way. I’m still risking my skin. It’s my job to go over the top at night-time, in the open, snip through the barbed wire, defuse the mines the Krauts have been planting left, right and centre … in other words, clear the ground our lads will have to cross the next day when they launch the attack. But once we’ve done our work, we crawl back into the trenches and get sent back to a base away from the front … those of us that have made it back, obviously.”
    â€œExactly, and how many would that be? How many manage not to get shot by snipers, blown up by booby traps or caught by machine gun fire when flares leave them exposed?”
    â€œThis is true,” my cousin admitted, “but tell me something, Felice. Am I right in saying that less than half of your company is still alive after six days here? Now take my lot. There are one hundred and twenty of us in all, of whom around fifteen copped it in the last three months, and we’ve taken part in about twenty operations. Do your own sums and you’ll see the advantages: there’s no doubt that what we’re doing in the Arditi will give you pains in the balls like nothing you’ve ever felt … every time you get back from an operation, you’ve got an ache in your arse that stops you