"Enough! Let me go! Help! Bersaglierino! Mollica-a-a!"
"What are you doing to him? Let him go. Shame on you!" yelled Bersaglierino, running up.
"But don't you know that he was wishing a shell would hit us, the little wretch?"
"Just as if we hadn't enough troubles now."
"Of course you have enough, and one of your troubles is that you are regular beasts," cried Pinocchio as soon as he could get his breath. "I said I wished for Bertha, the cook in Papa Geppetto's house, to sweep away the water in here, but now I wish I had a broom in my hand to break its handle against your ribs."
"But don't you know that a 'Big Bertha' is a Boche gun that would have blown us into a thousand pieces?"
"So, little devil, do you understand? And now that you have learned your lesson, be off with you."
There was nothing else for poor Pinocchio to do but to spit out the mud still in his mouth and turn on his heel.
"Bersaglierino, I would have believed anything but that words change their meaning in this way. With these idiots you have to pay attention to what you say. They made me swallow so much ditch-water that it will be a miracle if I don't have little fish swimming around in my stomach."
It stopped raining, but as if the Austrians didn't want to give the bersaglieri time to repair the damages caused by the bad weather, they began a furious bombardment of the trench. The "mosquitoes" kept up a terrible singing. Huge projectiles churned up the ground all around, digging out deep holes, raising whirls of earth, throwing off shreds of stone and steel in every direction. One shell had fallen near the telephone and had done great damage. The soldiers couldn't venture any distance from the dugout to aim at the enemy who was firing at them with such accuracy. Mud prevented their movements. They couldn't change their positions because the slippery earth offered no foothold. It was impossible to excavate deep because the earth slid down. It was a critical moment. Several men had been killed, the wounded were moaning bitterly, the dying were groaning.... But the Italian bersaglieri did not lose courage and stood up against the foe, showing a genuine disregard for their lives. Pinocchio longed to cry. He wasn't thinking of the danger to himself, but of the fact that if this devilish fire kept up much longer all his bersaglieri would be killed. Wasn't there anybody to look out for them? What was our artillery doing? Did they really intend to let them all be massacred?