Friendly Fire

Canicatti, Sicily | July 10th, 1943 | 2:32A.M

Fire, incendiary rounds, and steel aircraft parts exploded all around him as he once again tumbled through hot, Italian air. Limp, densely-dark shadows of fellow paratroopers bounced off of his body as he struggled to tug the rip chord to his parachute.

It refused to open.

Thinking quickly, he tugged on the red chord to his reserve chute.

Another refusal.

He frantically began pulling both chords again, and again until successfully ripping each one free from their manufactured pouches.

His eyes finally closed. And his screams fell silent as the ascending landscape brutally greeted him by imploding his organs, disintegrating blood vessels, and shattering every single vein, ligament, and bone beneath his skin.

Garret’s eyelids exploded open with a fiery blaze while his lungs simultaneously wailed for oxygen as the nightmare breathed reality back into his body.

A delicate pair of soft hands pressed firmly against his drumming heartbeat, easing his spine back into the cushioned patch of cool grass.

The whispering voice that accompanied the hands was delicate, and comforting. The English words were beautifully accented with delicious Sicilian, dancing affectionately along the short gusts of wind.

“It was just a dream. Breathe. Slowly. In through your nose. Out through your lips. Like this.”

Garret listened. Inhaling deeply through his nose, then exhaling through his mouth. He continued this exercise while Rosalie continued to keep her palms firmly compressed against the chest pockets of his paratrooper jacket.

He tried to smile, but his injuries were blossoming. His two front teeth were badly chipped, and stained with blood. His lips were split, and ridiculously plump. His face was filthy, bloody, and bruised. And his eyes were so blood-shot, that he appeared to be more beast than human.

“Thank you,” he muttered.

Rosalie could see Garret’s battered face struggle to show his appreciation. The effort filled her heart with an emotional wave she had never felt before — forcing her to do what he could not.

Smiling, Rosalie responded.

“You’re welcome.”

Footsteps rustled through the grass, and crisp leaves behind Rosalie. Garret strained his eyes to focus on the dark figure looming over her. The man’s facial features were still a bit blurry, but a white collar, surrounded by the black fabric of a robe, set just below his Adam’s apple provided adequate identification.

It was the priest.

The holy man slightly hiked up his robes, knelt down beside Rosalie, then reached out his hand.

“Drink this. It will help with the pain.”

Garret shifted his body up from the ground, and positioned his back against the trunk of a large olive tree.

“What is it?”

“Tonic. It will soothe your nerves.”

Garret’s thirst outweighed the limits of his suspicion. He took the half ceramic, half wooden flask from the priest, and gulped down all that he could.

The lemon flavored carbonation reminded him of his favorite childhood soda pop that you could only get in Boston - which quickly soothed his nerves with nostalgia - doing exactly what the priest said it would do.

He burped his satisfaction, which made the priest smile, Rosalie giggled, and Corrado rolled his eyes.

“Thank you,” Garret said, handing the flask back to the holy man, while staring into Rosalie’s eyes.

“You’re welcome,” Corrado snapped as he ringed out the water from his shirt, breaking the soldier’s gaze on his sister.

Watching the dirty water slap against the wet grass, Corrado studied the teenage boy now that his vision was improving.

“What’s with the package?” Garret asked, now staring into Corrado’s fidgeting eyes.

“That’s none of your concern,” Rosalie said sternly.

Garret was about to protest when a burst of automatic rifle fire cut through the trees around them. Garret instinctively slammed his upper body down to the ground, and protected his head with his arms.

Father Burgio collapsed himself onto Rosalie, shielding her from the barrage, as well as from the splintering branches, and sharp chunks of tree bark that were exploding above them.

Corrado dropped to his stomach — then rolled to his side, and sprawled himself over the violin, protecting it with his body — miraculously dodging a bullet that would have pierced his heart.

The attack continued to suppress them for another two minutes as the shooter laid down fire while shifting positions — trying to make himself appear as a large force.

Being a weapons expert, Garret listened, and could tell that the gunfire was indeed coming from a single shooter who was quickly changing his position. It was a tactic that he, and his platoon had practiced a thousand times during combat training.

Shifting positions while laying down suppressive fire can give your enemy the appearance of a large squadron, when in reality, there is only one or two shooters.

There was one more thing he was able to recognize about the shooter. Whoever it was, was firing a Thompson machine gun. It was a weapon he had shot, and repaired, well over a thousand times during his training. That could only mean one thing.

The shooter was a paratrooper.

Burgio scrambled to his feet, keeping his knees bent, and heaved Rosalie to better cover behind a wide trunk consumed by waterspouts. He drew his pistol, fired two shots into the woodland, more as a distraction than for accuracy, then ran towards Corrado.

“Hold your fire, priest!” Garret yelled between shots.

Burgio did not listen, and continued to fire three more shots in separate directions as he hauled Corrado, who was clutching the wrapped package tight enough to splinter the wood, to the safety of another overgrown tree trunk.

Now he could finally focus on finding the shooter.

Allowing his own military training to kick in, he pivoted on his heels, raised the barrel of his pistol to his eye-line, then scanned the perimeter for any signs of human movement.

Spotting what he was looking for, his right pointer finger found the trigger and began to squeeze it.

A sudden metallic pressure on the nape of his neck prevented his pistol from firing.

“Do not shoot, priest. I will not tell you again,” Garret whispered into his ear from behind.

Burgio lifted his finger, but refused to lower the pistol.

“Trust me, father,” the voice said from the shadows, yet this time being accompanied by a reassuring palm to his upper left shoulder, and the removal of the pistol from his neck.

Burgio lowered his weapon, and Garret stepped forward and stood shoulder to shoulder to shoulder with him. Without looking at one another, Garret holstered his pistol then cupped his mouth with both hands before yelling out.

“Trooper!”

A few seconds of ominous silence passed by as everyone awaited a response.

It came.

“U.S army! Identify yourself,” the muffled voice of the stranger hollered back.

“Garret McLaughlin. 505th Airborne!”

“Mickey? The voice responded in a heightened level of euphoria.

“Tim?” Garret yelled back with enthusiasm.

“Holy shit! Is that really you, Mickey?”

“It’s really me, private.

Garret stepped out of cover first, and walked over to the welcoming stones of the jetty. He craned his neck from side to side, scanning, then saw a dark figure pop itself out from behind the shadows across the belly of cold water.

“You can lower your weapon now, private Hale,” Garret said.

Timothy Hale stepped to the waters edge, into a corona of moonlight, tipped his helmet up from his face, and grinned so big, the bottom dwellers of the pond could see it.

“You almost shot me,” Hale yelled.

“Not me. That was the priest.”

Hale’s face contorted in an initial shock of confusion, then twisted even more when a burly man in traditional priest garb stepped out from behind Garret, pistol in hand.

“This is Father Burgio. Father Burgio, this is Private First Class Timothy Hale, from Boston,” Garret said.

“My apologies father. I thought you were a Nazi patrol.”

“All is forgiven son. Besides, you’re a pretty lousy shot. I don’t believe we were ever actually in any real danger.”

Garret laughed, then cried from the pain it caused between his ribs.

“Get your ass over here Private. We’re going to need your help.”