“Come—we must hurry”—Tommaso urged, seizing his gun and starting to rise.
Angela held his hand firmly and pointed to the smoke-covered field below.
“No—no—my man. Your place is there to fight for our bambino and his country—you just forgot for a little while. I know—I understand. I felt my heart melt and my poor knees go down—you go now and fight for us!”
The man trembled and could not meet her eye.
A shell exploded near, hurling the dust and gravel in advance clear above them. A piece of iron buried itself in the earth but three feet away.
Angela cried in terror. The man suddenly stiffened, looked into the face of his boy, rose, seized his rifle, kissed his wife and rushed down the red lane of death to the front.
Angela watched him with pride and terror. He was still in plain view in the little valley below when he met the ragged lines of our retreating men. The color-bearer fell. Tommaso seized the flag and called the men to rally.
Through a hell of bursting shrapnel and machine-gun fire he turned the tide of retreat into a charge—a charge that never faltered until the last man fell on the slippery slopes of blood below the trenches of the enemy.
Tommaso staggered to the breastworks and stood one man against an army cheering and calling his charge to the field of the dead.
The enemy rose in the trenches and cheered the lone figure silhouetted against the darkened heavens until he sank at last exhausted from the loss of blood.