the bombardment started. They were silent until I went out. They were all mechanics and hated the war.
I went out to look at the cars and see what was going on and then came back and sat down in the dugout with the four drivers. We sat on the ground with our backs against the wall and smoked. Outside it was nearly dark. The earth of the dugout was warm and dry and I let my shoulders back against the wall, sitting on the small of my back, and relaxed.
“Who goes to the attack?” asked Gavuzzi.
“Bersaglieri.”
“All bersaglieri?”
“I think so.”
“There aren’t enough troops here for a real attack.”
“It is probably to draw attention from where the real attack will be.”
“Do the men know that who attack?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Of course they don’t,” Manera said. “They wouldn’t attack if they did.”
“Yes they would,” Passini said. “Bersaglieri are fools.”
“They are brave and have good discipline,” I said.
“They are big through the chest by measurement, and healthy. But they are still fools.”
“The granatieri are tall,” Manera said. This was a joke. They all laughed.
“Were you there, Tenente, when they wouldn’t attack and they shot every tenth man?”
“No.”
“It is true. They lined them up afterward and took every tenth man. Carabinieri shot them.”
“Carabinieri,” said Passini and spat on the floor.
