The Neighbors

Canicatti, Sicily | July 10th, 1943 | 9:40A.M.

The rooster was odd. The gunshot forced their hand. But it was the scream that got them moving. Garret instructed Corrado to quickly wrap the violin back into its case, then ordered the group to gather their weapons and belongings. Their plan to disassemble the violin remained the same, but the introduction of nearby gunfire, and screaming, added yet another layer of anticipation.

Garret took point with his M1 Garand, followed closely by Father Burgio who was wielding a large Beretta. Rosalie took up the third position with a similar large pistol while Corrado carefully crept along behind her with Bova’s shotgun slung over his shoulder — clutching the violin tightly with both arms. Private Hale followed last with his M1. Providing eyes, ears and protection for their rear flank.

Continuing gunshots kept the group quiet as they tactically scouted the once heavily wooded path behind the homes to the neighbors house. The entire area had suffered impressive damage from the fighting, and the trees which remained all came to a splintering burst halfway up the trunk.

Their short walk proved to be extremely treacherous as they were forced to climb up and over dead fall after dead fall. Garret, and Tim’s wounds painfully protested the journey, but they needed to locate the source of the shooting.

With a break in the shooting, Corrado decided to break the verbal silence while he stretched his leg over a downed tree branch.

“Is no one going to say anything about that rooster?”

No one said anything at first. But his inquiry was quickly answered by another awful scream, and two more gunshots. Garret’s clenched right hand immediately up into the air. Ordering the rest of his group to remain still.

No one moved.

Garret kept his hand raised above his head as he took three careful steps forward into a bombed out clearing in the downed brush. He poked his head around the opening and studied the unfortunate scene that was rapidly unfolding.

Just beyond the wood line, a decent yard stretched for about one hundred feet until it was disrupted by a two story farmhouse with a dilapidated stucco roof. Three men in dark military fatigues patrolled the smoking grounds while they spat vile jokes at one another in Italian. He counted two limp bodies laying in patches of crimson grass between him and the house, and another three - still alive - being brutally tormented by the soldiers. One of the men was whistling and singing a deep tune as he dragged an older, screaming woman by the hair towards the noisy pig pen. His two companions shared hefty gulps from a dark bottle while filling the rear of a military supply truck with crated chickens, trunks of clothes and other personal belongings. Each time they would make another trip in, and out through the main door, they would volley drunken shots from their Lugers at two middle-aged men who were both bound to the same tree trunk in the side courtyard.

Garret was about to turn around and address the rest of the group as to what was ahead, when Private Hale’s voice, and hand stopped him.

“That’s him,” Hale said.

“That’s who?” Garret asked, looking towards the commotion, and to the man whose low humming had turned into a full vocal concert.

“Oh yeah. That’s him, Mickey.”

Garret knew what he meant. These were the men who killed the elderly couple. The same couple that hid him in their basement while refusing to give up his location.

He looked into Hale’s eyes, then at the rest of the group who were each staring back at him with billowing anticipation.

“What do you want to do?”

“I can’t let them go, Mick.”

Garret sighed, then grinned with an ominous understanding.

“Roger that, soldier.”

Garret waved his hand, and the rest of the group hustled over to the clearing.

“Here’s what we're going to do,” Garret began, “We have an immediate threat ahead that we cannot ignore. Private Hale and I are going to flank the west side of the house, and enter around the back. We will first take out the two men plundering the house, clear the house, then we will make our way out through the front to distract and eliminate the third man by the pig pen. Father, I need you to stay here and protect Rosalie and Corrado while we handle this. The sooner we get through here, the sooner we can get you back to someone who can truly help you. Until then, my job is to keep you, and your cargo safe.”

“Are these them?” Corrado asked, directing his question at Private Hale.

“Yes,” he said.

Rosalie and Corrado stared at one another as they each digested the plan. These men weren’t Germans, but they were loyal soldiers under Mussolini, which meant they were loyal to Hitler. They were responsible for the deaths of an innocent Sicilian couple, and would certainly hinder their mission. Deep down they knew what needed to be done, and they each seemed to sense that they were on the same page, so they nodded to themselves.

“We will stay here,” Burgio interjected, “We will watch the tree line for any incoming threats, and await your signal to advance.”

“Roger that Father,” Garret said while shifting his attention to Rosalie who offered a small nod in agreement.

“They’re going back inside. We need to move,” Hale said, pushing his way out of the clearing, rifle barrel pointed forward.

Garret followed closely behind him, keeping his rifle pointing towards the house. Rosalie, Corrado, and Father Burgio watched from their fortified position, as the two Americans quietly advanced along the tree line.

Private Hale cut across the grass first. He posted up a tight position at the rear door, waited a moment, then motioned to Garret to advance. Within five seconds, Garret was stacked behind Hale.

Respecting Garret’s rank, Hale waited for him to give the order.

Garret raised his right hand to Hale’s right shoulder, then gave it a firm squeeze with his fingers.

Hale shot inside with killer speed, flanking hard left while Garret flanked hard right. They cleared the initial two back rooms with haste, finding no threats, save for a toppled candle on a ransacked table - which Garret placed upright before the flame could ignite the wood. They quickly regrouped at the threshold of their room’s doors, then listened to the intoxicated voices of the two men who had no idea they were being hunted.

Garret gently placed his rifle down behind him on top of a pile of overturned clothes, then removed a large piece of chicken wire - which he took from the previous house - from his pants’ upper thigh pocket. He removed his army knife, flipped it around in his palm then reached out into the dark hallway. Hale leaned his rifle up against the inside wall of the back room, took the blade by its handle, then studied the precise series of hand gestures Garret made in the darkness.

The plan was simple. Stick to the dark edges of the hallway. Advance to the front of the house. Separate the pair. And quietly eliminate the threat. Except things in reality are never simple. The hallway was littered with broken pieces of furniture, shards of sharp glass, torn and burnt clothes, rotten food, and numerous streaky puddles of dried blood. It seemed impossible to approach in silence, but they had no other choice. Luckily, to their advantage, the two men they were hunting were fortunately quite intoxicated. Between looting the home, firing their pistols at the two men tied to a tree, and drunkenly arguing about something neither of them could understand, they were making a fair amount of noise on their own. There were also no other rooms that branched off from the main hallway, and the structure was single floored. It was a straight shot.

Garret took the lead this time, working the chicken wire around his fists while he tiptoed around a reflective puddle of glass and blood. Hale slithered along the opposite wall, keeping his arm tightly cocked to his chest, preparing himself to drive the blade deep into flesh.

Hale lifted his leg to step over a nail infested pile of wood panels, then placed his foot down in an inch deep puddle of water. The splash echoed off the walls, and sent a shiver down Garret’s spine. Both men froze their positions, waiting to see if Hale’s bad step caught the looters’ attention.

The two men’s drunken debate only increased in volume. They could hear nothing but their own voices.

Garret gestured for Hale to keep moving, then made his final step towards the end of the hallway. He angled his head around just enough to get a visual, and saw the two men arguing over a small case of multicolored stones. He also noticed that both of the men’s rifles were laying on a small table on the opposite side of the room.

The space was impressive, but it was ransacked with every item of value the house had to offer. To the right, a modest kitchen was slowly filling with smoke from a still frying pan of burning bacon. To his left, a living space with a decent hearth welcomed anyone who entered through the front door.

Once Hale reached the hallway’s end. Garret motioned towards the rifles that were in the kitchen, then to the position of the two soldiers.

A sudden crackle of thick oil erupted in the kitchen, grabbing both of the thieves' attention. The taller man, the one who held the box of gems, flung his hand into the air - pointing towards the kitchen - and barked at the shorter man.

Garret plunged his head back into the darkness of the hallway, then motioned to Hale to retreat three paces and drop down as low as possible.

Just as they both crouched down below any direct line of sight, the short man stumbled past the hallway’s entrance, and attended to the burning piece of pig fat on the stove.

They patiently waited for him to finish.

Stumbling back to plead his case for the jewels, the short man became distracted by a funny whistle coming from the dark hallway that led to the back of the house. As he stood in the black corona of the corridor’s threshold, he listened and wondered at the weird whistling that continued to vibrate off the narrow walls. Through his haze, he could see sunlight gently streaming inside from the back door.

It must have been a bird. And this man loved birds. Except no one knew that about him. It was something he kept to himself. His secret curiosity.

The bird must have known that, because it whistled again, yet it sounded fainter and further away. The bird was leaving.

The curious man took three steps in pursuit of the bird, then felt a sharp pressure build beneath his jaw and chin. He tried to breath but his tongue struggled to move, and his airways began to clog and choke. A warm liquid sensation flowed down his neck, soaking his shirt, and dripped down onto his stomach. The sunlight that was gently pulsing through the back door quickly began to fade to a flickering ember, before darkness took him forever.

The bird whistled no more.

Garret was dragging the body deeper into the hallway when his foot caught on one of the protruding nails in the wood plank pile. His forceful momentum once again wedged his ankle. Except instead of being stuck between a rock and water, he was stuck beneath the weight of the dead man, and a sea of broken glass. He crashed hard to the floor.

The tall man with the jewelry box screamed out in frustration then pounded his boots across the wood floor as he planned to strangle his shorter companion. Arriving at the hallways entrance, his heart erupted with searing pain as a pair of dark eyes slowly drained the life from his body.

Private Hale placed his left hand behind the tall man’s skull as his body crumbled to the floor beneath the weight of the six-inch combat knife. The man’s faded, red button down shirt did little resistance to prevent the blade from plunging itself to the hilt.

With both threats eliminated. They each retrieved their rifles, then assessed the final threat through one of the broken windows surrounding the front door.

The man was around six feet, and had broad shoulders. He too wore a similar red shirt as the other men, but gave off the impression of being far superior in rank. He was standing outside of the pig pen, smoking a cigarette, whistling a deep tune, and throwing large pinches of feed at a middle aged woman who was pleading for her life as she was being bitten by the ravenous pigs.

“We have to get her out of there, Mickey. Those fucking pigs are going to eat her alive.”

“No one is going to get eaten by pigs, Tim. I’ll flank left towards the prisoners, and cover your advance. Once I’m set, flank right and set up a firing position by the supply truck. When you have a clear shot. Take it.”

“Roger that, Sergeant.”

Garret checked his rifle, let out a deep breath, then stepped out into the main courtyard.

Not taking her eyes off of the house, Rosalie watched as a fourth man, armed with a Beretta 1918 submachine gun, exited the driver’s door of the plunder-filled supply truck.

She wanted to yell out to Garret, who’s head she could see peering out of the main door frame, but she knew she couldn’t. She looked to Corrado and Father Burgio for an answer, but all she found were the same bewildered expressions as her own.