Cry Wolf

which takes a great deal of money, food and drink to nourish. On the

pale skin his body hair was dark and curly and crisp as newly picked

lettuce leaves. It grew in a light cloud across his shoulders,

and then descended his back to disappear at last like a wisp of smoke

into the cleft of his milky buttocks that showed coyly above the

waistband of his shorts.

Now the smoothness of his body was spoiled by the ugly red abrasions

and new purple bruises which flowered upon his ribs and blotched his

legs and arms.

He groaned with a mixture of agony and gratification as Gino knelt over

him, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and worked the liniment into

his shoulder. His dark sinewy fingers sank deeply into the sleek pale

flesh, and the stench of liniment stung the eyes and nostrils.

"Not so hard, Gino. Not so hard, I am badly hurt."

"I am sorry,

my Colonel," and he worked on in silence while the Count groaned and

grunted and wriggled on the bed under him.

"My Colonel, may I speak?"

"No," grunted the Colonel. "Your salary is already liberal.

No, Gino, already I pay you a prince's ransom."

"My Colonel, you do me wrong. I would not speak of such a mundane

subject at this time."

"I am delighted to hear it," groaned the Count. "Ah!

There! That spot! That's it!" Gino worked on the spot for a few

seconds. "If you study the lives of the great Italian Generals Julius

Caesar and-" Gino paused here while he searched his mind and more

recent history for another great Italian General; the silence stretched

out and Gino repeated, "Take Julius Caesar, as an example."

"Yes?"

"Even Julius Caesar did not himself swing the sword. The truly great

commander stands aside from the actual battle.

He directs, plans, commands the lesser mortals."

"That is true,

Gino."

"Any peasant can swing a sword or fire a gun, what are they but mere

cattle!"

"That is also true."

"Take Napoleon Bonaparte, or the

Englishman Wellington." Gino had abandoned his search for the name of

a victorious Italian warrior within the last thousand years or SO.

"Very well, Gino, take them?"

"When they fought, they themselves were remote from the actual

conflict. Even when they confronted each other at Waterloo, they stood

miles apart like two great chess masters,

directing, manoeuvring, commanding-"

"What are you trying to say,

Gino?"

"Forgive me, my coUnt, but have you not perhaps let your courage blind

you, have not your warlike instincts, your instinct to tear the jugular

from your enemy ... have you not perhaps lost sight of a commander's

true role the duty to stand back from the actual fighting and survey

the overall battle?" Gino waited with trepidation for the

Count's reaction. It had taken him all his courage to speak, but even

the Count's wrath could not outweigh the terror he felt at the prospect

of being plunged once more into danger. His place was at the Count's

side; if the Count continued to expose them both to all the terrors and

horrors of this barren and hostile land, then Gino knew that he could

no longer continue.

His nerves were trampled, raw, exposed, his nights troubled with dreams

from which he woke sweating and trembling.

He had a nerve below his left eye that had recently begun to twitch

without control. He was fast reaching the end of his nervous strength.

Soon something within him might snap.

"Please, my Count. For the good of all of us you must all curb your

impetuosity." He had touched a responsive chord in his master. He had

voiced precisely the Count's own feelings, feelings which had over the

last few weeks" desperate adventures, become deep-seated convictions.

He struggled up on one elbow, lifted his noble head with its anguished

brow and looked at the little sergeant.

"Gino," he said. "You are a philosopher."

"You do me too much honour, my Count."

"No! No! I mean it. You have a certain gutter wisdom, the

perceptions of the streets, a peasant philosopher." Gino would not

himself have put it quite that way, but he bowed his head in

acquiescence.

"I have been unfair to my brave boys," said the Count, and his whole

demeanour changed, becoming radiant and glowing with good will,

like that of a reprieved prisoner. "I have thought only of myself my

own glory, my own honour, recklessly I have plunged into danger,

without reckoning the cost. Ignoring the terrible risk that I might

leave my brave boys without a leader orphans without a father." Gino

nodded fervently. "Who could ever replace you in their hearts, or at

their head?"

"Gino." The Count clapped a fatherly hand to his shoulder.

"I must be less selfish in the future."

"My Count, you ca

cried Gino, and he trembled with relief as he thought of long,

leisurely days spent in peace and security behind the earthworks and

fortifications of Chaldi camp.

"Your duty is to command!"

"Plan! said the Count.

"Direct!" said Gino.

"I fear it is my destiny."

"Your God-given duty." Gino backed him up, and as the Count sank down

once more upon the cot, he fell with renewed vigour upon the injured

shoulder.

"Gino," said the Count at last. "When last did we speak of your

wages?"

"Not for many months, my Count."

"Let us discuss it now," said

Aldo Belli comfortably. "You are a jewel without price. Say, another

hundred lire a month."

"The sum of one hundred and fifty had crossed MY

mind, murmured Gino respectfully.

The Count's new military philosophy was received with unbounded

enthusiasm by his officers, when he explained it to them that evening

in the mess tent, over the liqueurs and cigars. The idea of leading

from the rear seemed not only to be practical and sensible, but

downright inspired. This enthusiasm lasted only until they learned

that the new philosophy applied not to the entire officer cadre of

the

Third Battalion, but to the Colonel only. The rest of them were to be

given every opportunity to make the supreme sacrifice for God, country

and Benito Mussolini. At this stage the new philosophy lost much

popular support.

In the end, only three persons stood to benefit from the rearrangement

the Count, Gino and Major Luigi Castelani.

The Major was so overjoyed to learn that he now had what amounted to

unfettered command of the battalion that for the first time in many

years he took a bottle of grappa to his tent that evening, and sat

shaking his head and chuckling fruitily into his glass.

The following morning's burning, blinding headache that only grappa can

produce, combined with his new freedom, made the Major's grip on the

battalion all the more ferocious. The new spirit spread like a fire in

dry grass. Men cleaned their rifles, burnished their buttons and

closed them to the neck, stubbed out their cigarettes and trembled a

little while Castelani rampaged through the camp at

Chaldi, dealing out duties, ferreting out the malingerers and