Part 19 (2/2)
”Was it you who fired that shot?”
”Yes.”
”Is the enemy in sight?”
”They tried to leave their trenches--two little groups--one of their usual nasty little ways to draw us out, and as my superiors did not see them, I thought it my duty to give the alarm signal.”
”You were right.”
”But I wasn't able to get back because my legs gave way, so I had to try to crawl on my hands and knees until I had only breath enough left to call for help, certain and sure that ...”
”Heavens! Swine!” Scotimondo swore and stopped rubbing.
”What's the matter?”
”Nothing, nothing; take your place at the machine-gun; I'll take mine in the trench.”
”Why?”
”You have need of rest,” and he went off, growling, ”poor Draghetta!
He tried to warn the rest of us and couldn't get away himself.”
He again left the trench to reconnoiter. Half an hour later he returned, a.s.sembled his men, and told them that the foe had retreated to their trenches, but that as soon as it was lighter they would have to make themselves heard, so as to keep the enemy from attempting an attack, which would undoubtedly be fatal to the little garrison. They would have to make a lot of noise, but must not waste ammunition, because when Captain Teschisso's company came into action they would probably have to support it.
”And I impress upon you the importance of not exposing yourselves.
_The first who does so I'll send to the devil myself._ I have need of every one of you, and it's too much that out of ten one should be without feet, one a cook, and _one who isn't even a man_.”
”Did you hear that, youngster?” Ciampanella asked Pinocchio, when the laugh which followed Scotimondo's words had died down. ”Did you hear?
They want to send you to the firing-line. What do you think of that?”
But Pinocchio didn't reply. His wooden leg just then seemed to have nervous twinges and rattled like a rusty key in a lock. The sun had scarcely begun to rise above the horizon and the snow to glisten in its rays when from the trench cut out of the slope narrow as a knife-blade came a sound of firing that was truly infernal. The machine-gun was smoking, but poor Draghetta didn't let it rest a minute. The others kept up a tremendous fire and an accurate one, because they could see that the parapet of the enemy's trench was marked by little red clouds. Every now and then above the crackle of the musketry resounded the humming of larger projectiles that had their own special tone. The Austrian commanders were evidently laying plans for the whole day because there was not even the shadow of an enemy to be seen. They contented themselves with replying with an occasional sh.e.l.l. But what would they have done if they had known that opposite them were only seven men, and one of them disabled, and that the formidable _ta-pum, ta-pum, ta-pum_ which rose above the whine of the musketry came from--the _mouths_ of Pinocchio and Ciampanella?
The coming of the twilight cast a veil of melancholy over the little garrison, wearied by the fatigues imposed by its continual vigilance and the continual answer to the firing of the foe.
They were all expecting every moment to see Captain Teschisso's company come into action, the Austrians swept from their trenches with the bayonets at their backs and thrown on the mined zone where they would all be blown up. Yet nothing of the sort was taking place. The enemy had never appeared more quiet and as sure of himself as to-day.
What had happened to the company? It wasn't possible that it had been captured by superior forces. The Alpine troops would have fought like lions; the noise of their battle would have reached the trench, and some one would certainly have returned to bring the news of the disaster. It was more likely that Captain Teschisso, knowing that he would have to engage a superior force, had decided to attack at night.
The surprise and the impossibility of judging the number of the a.s.saulting force would certainly keep the enemy from resisting. But Corporal Scotimondo was not altogether satisfied with his captain's tactics.
”I'm not a Napoleon,” he grumbled, in his patois, striding with long steps through the narrow pa.s.sageway of the trenches, every now and then making a right-about face. ”I'm not a Napoleon. It's easy to say 'hold fast at all costs,' but in order to hold fast you have to have men. My men are not made of iron; I am not made of iron; they need rest and yet even to let them rest I can't allow the trench to be without sentinels all night. If I change sentries every half-hour, n.o.body sleeps; if I make them stay at the posts for two hours according to regulations, they'll come back to me with their feet frozen like Draghetta, and then we couldn't hold fast. Plague take it!
This is certainly a situation to upset a corporal. If ...”
He stopped suddenly because Pinocchio barred his way. He looked at him for a minute in amazement, gestured with his head for him to move to one side, but, seeing that he stood there as firmly as if he had taken root, he grunted, I don't know whether with anger or surprise.
”Skip, boy, skip. Don't you understand anything? Don't you understand I want you to get from under my feet?”
”Just a question, corporal.”
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