Part 19 (1/2)

”I wish you'd get killed. Couldn't you let me sleep a minute? You must be either a creditor or that tyrant of a picket officer going his rounds.... If you are a creditor come back six months after peace is declared, because now I won't pay you a soldo even if I had one. If you are the picket officer I tell you that when I have put out the fires I have a right to take my ease ... and now let me sleep ... May you be ...”

”Oh, Ciampanella, let me go. Don't you recognize me? I am Pinocchio.”

”Oh, it's you, youngster, is it? Did you intend to make me sing like Spizzete Spazzete? I have nothing to tell you, but if you insist upon my singing something for you at all costs, I will sing for you to get up off me.”

Pinocchio, seeing that the mess-cook was in one of his ”moments,”

thought it prudent to leave him in peace, so he lay down on a heap of straw that was close by, intending to go to sleep.

But his sleep didn't last long. About four o'clock in the morning, when dawn was peeping over the horizon, he heard a shot that seemed to come from a spot not far from the trench.

”Get your guns, boys!” yelled Scotimondo, rus.h.i.+ng to a machine-gun, while the others, guns in hand, took their places before the loopholes. ”It was Draghetta who saw the enemy. Boys, I count on you.

We've got to make a racket, lots of noise as if all the company were here, and don't expose yourselves ... let them have a continuous and intense fire.”

His glance took in Pinocchio, who was gazing at him, his eyes wide open with terror, and Ciampanella tranquilly dozing. With a bound he caught up a gun and put it into the boy's hands.

”Ho, lad, stop standing there doing nothing or I'll break your neck!

I'll smash your head before the potato-eaters knock it in.”

With another spring he was on top of the cook, who was calmly dreaming a culinary dream, and gave him such a kick that he jumped up like a jack-in-the-box.

”I hope they'll eat you.”

”Ready to fire! Fire! for Heaven's sake!” Scotimondo screamed at him and ran to take his post, grumbling, ”but why doesn't the sentinel come back? What's that scoundrel of a Draghetta doing?”

Ciampanella rubbed his eyes and discovered Pinocchio, who stood there turning his gun round and round without having yet discovered what exactly it was that he held.

”May the dogs eat you! Instead of standing there fiddling with your weapon that you know as much about as I know about training fleas, you would do better to give a look at the saucepan that it doesn't burn instead of making me get that kick from the corporal.”

”But what saucepan? Are you still asleep?”

”Didn't you hear what he yelled at me when he kicked me? 'Fire!

Fire!'”

”Certainly, but he meant the fire of the battery, not that of the stove. Don't you know that we are expecting an attack?”

”Who says so? There's no need to wait for it. You can wait if you want to, but I'm off. I don't know anything about war and don't know how to shoot. When there are necks to wring or beasts to butcher I'm ready, because they are hens or lambs or such like beasts, but Christians I _can't_, and toward the enemy I have the respect ordered by our superiors. Listen, youngster, if two bullets. .h.i.t me in the rear I'll take them and won't protest, but I don't stay here at the front unless they tie me.”

He was just getting away when Scotimondo, who had an eye on him, turned hurriedly and poked a revolver at his back.

”Oh, very well! There are certain arguments you can't dispute. I'll remain, but I'll find me a hole where I can be safe, because if I die the _Manual of War Cookery_ won't be written,” and he threw himself down on a big stone, signaling to the ”youngster” to follow him.

A voice outside was calling for help, only a few feet away from the trench.

”Stay where you are, all of you. I'll go,” commanded Scotimondo, and, wriggling like a serpent, with his revolver in his hand, he set off and was lost in the darkness. Shortly after he returned, dragging in Draghetta.

”What's the matter? Are you wounded?”

”No, not exactly wounded, but I can't stand up. I'm afraid my feet are frozen.”

”Let's have a look,” and he made him sit down and began to free him from his woolen puttees, his hobnailed boots, his waterproof stockings, and to rub his red, swollen feet with snow, all the time continuing to question him.