Brothers of Black Stone | Pt. 3

Sicily | July 10th | 1943

Garret used the combat knife to cut a slit in the fabric of Tim’s pants, and revealed the gunshot wound. Without any syrettes, there was nothing he could do to lessen the pain, but that mattered little. Tim’s paleness and lack of awareness were tell-tale signs of shock, and the bullet unfortunately severed his femoral artery. There was nothing he could do. Garret held his friend’s hands in his own, and stayed with him until his eyes rolled back, exposing their white bellies. He stayed with Tim until the end.

He knew Tim refused to carry a final death missive for his family, so he removed his friend’s dog tags - which had a bronze cross pendant attached to the chain - and buried them as deep as he could within his palm, while making a poor attempt to hold back tears.

Shuffling footfalls approached from behind, followed by a familiar, comforting voice speaking Sicilian.

“Vacci piano, sorella. La mia testa mi sta uccidendo,” Corrado said softly with slight irritation to Rosalie as she carefully helped him to sit down against a tree trunk.

“Is he okay?” Garret asked.

“Yes, he’s fine. He has a swelling gash on the side of his head, but the bleeding has stopped. The worst of his immediate troubles is a throbbing headache. All he needs is some sleep and water. "

“And how about you, Father. Your neck looks pretty bad.”

“It looks worse than it is. The bullet only grazed. The lord must be truly with me,” Burgio said while making the sign of the cross with his right hand.

“Not so much with him though, right?” Garret asked the priest, while shoving private Hale’s dog tags, and bronze cross into the air, “Tim wore this damned cross everyday since his sister died, four years ago. He never took it off. Where was his lord?”

Burgio sighed, because he knew there was nothing he could say, no prayer of healing he could recite, nor an optimistic story he could tell. The American soldier was cascading into a state of rage in which words have little to no power. The only thing he brain allowed his mouth to speak, was the simple common gesture anyone would make in response to such a tragic situation.

“I am sorry.”

The words fell hard, pressing down on Garret’s shoulders. His knees tingled from pulsing nerve endings, his skin crawled with armies of ants, and his heart sank to his gut. Timothy Hale was one of Garret’s life-long friends, particularly his best one. They grew up together in Boston’s south end, playing tag, football, and soccer around the fountains in Black Stone Park. They began attending the same school at the ages of six, and eight - garret being one grade behind Tim. Losing his mother at the age of eleven, made it extremely difficult for Garret to carry on with his life. Tim saw the change in his friend, and began consuming Garret’s pain with unyielding brotherhood. They had become family.

Years passed, and more tragedy followed. Days before Tim’s 19th birthday, his sister slipped on a slate of ice while playing with friends inside of Blackstone park. She was rushed to the nearest doctor, but the damage to the backside of her skull was too great. She passed away hours later.

Over the course of the following year, the war in Europe was raging on, and America’s military was ramping up their advertising efforts to enlist more men. Timothy’s heart however submerged itself in dark bottles of brown liquid. He ignored any and all external help. He neglected his personal hygiene and health. He refused to pay attention to the situation unfolding in Europe, and he declined the motivation to see a further purpose in life.

Returning the favor Tim had given Garrett when he lost his mother, Garret dedicated his time reminding Tim of brotherhood. Of adventure and excitement. Of risk and reward. Of taste and smell. He tried to pull his friend from his tarred abyss, but the hold was too strong.

Garret’s eighteenth birthday arrived soon after, and his heart pulled him towards a life he could not avoid. The life of his father, and grandfather. The life of a soldier. Particularly a Paratrooper in the United States Army.

Two more years faded to time, and the young boy from Boston’s south end had become a Sergeant. The Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, and the United States of America was officially in a state of war. On a brief, week-long leave after his promotion, Garret took a train from Fort Benning, to Boston to visit his old friend.

Looking back, Garret wished he had never made that trip back to Boston to see Tim. A trip where Garret pulled Tim from a shameful pit of alcohol and bad decisions. A trip that forced Tim to get sober by tossing his ass into army boot camp. A trip that would cost Tim his life.

The following year, the brothers from Black Stone jumped from a C-47 military transport aircraft into the backcountry of Sicily.

“I’m sorry too,” Rosalie said softly.

“As am I,” Corrado said while he forced his legs to stand the rest of his body upright.

The tension is Garret’s body faded at the condolences of the twins, but the sight of the damned violin clutched in the boy's arms prodded his fire with veracity. He charged Corrado with black, shark-like eyes.

“Give that to me, boy.”

Corrado stepped back, but because the blood in his legs was still coming back to life, their numbness made him stumble to the ground.

“I need to know what’s inside,” Garret growled, “I need to know that Tim’s death had purpose. Purpose beyond this.”

Father Burgio attempted to slow Garret’s charge, but the hand-to-hand combat skills of the young paratrooper easily overpowered the overweight priest. He quickly found himself on his back, staring up at the cerulean sky with a tremendous pain in his stomach.

Corrado’s dead legs failed him, and he was overpowered by the older American boy. The violin was ripped free from his arms, and he was shoved face first down into the moist Earth.

“Don’t fight, Corrado,” Garret said with a slight sob in his voice, “I need to know.”

Garret turned around, wiping away an embarrassing tear from his left cheek, then stopped short.

Rosalie’s arms were outstretched in front of her waist, her hands firmly gripping Mr. Bova’s shotgun.

“Put it down.”

Garret fidgeted, and considered putting the violin down.

“I can’t do that, Rosalie. I need to know what’s inside. I am opening it.”

Rosalie shifted her left forearm hard, and loaded the shotgun.

Garret knew was aware of the limits Rosalie would go in the defense of her family. He did not doubt her ability to pull the trigger, but he had no choice.

“Trust, Garret. That’s how this is going to work. You need to trust us just as much as we need to trust you. The loss of your friend is terrible, but what we are trying to achieve is exactly what you’re so desperately searching for. Which is why we will open it together.”

Garret’s stance turned inward, and defensive.

“What am I searching for?”

Rosalie lowered the gun and smiled. A quaint breeze rolled between them and made her dangling black curls dance to the sound of her voice as she spoke.

“Purpose.”