"I wish you'd get killed. Couldn't you let me sleep a minute? You must be either a creditor or that tyrant of a picket officer going his rounds.... If you are a creditor come back six months after peace is declared, because now I won't pay you a soldo even if I had one. If you are the picket officer I tell you that when I have put out the fires I have a right to take my ease ... and now let me sleep ... May you be ..."

"Oh, Ciampanella, let me go. Don't you recognize me? I am Pinocchio."

"Oh, it's you, youngster, is it? Did you intend to make me sing like Spizzete Spazzete? I have nothing to tell you, but if you insist upon my singing something for you at all costs, I will sing for you to get up off me."

Pinocchio, seeing that the mess-cook was in one of his "moments,"

thought it prudent to leave him in peace, so he lay down on a heap of straw that was close by, intending to go to sleep.

But his sleep didn't last long. About four o'clock in the morning, when dawn was peeping over the horizon, he heard a shot that seemed to come from a spot not far from the trench.

"Get your guns, boys!" yelled Scotimondo, rushing to a machine-gun, while the others, guns in hand, took their places before the loopholes. "It was Draghetta who saw the enemy. Boys, I count on you.

We've got to make a racket, lots of noise as if all the company were here, and don't expose yourselves ... let them have a continuous and intense fire."

His glance took in Pinocchio, who was gazing at him, his eyes wide open with terror, and Ciampanella tranquilly dozing. With a bound he caught up a gun and put it into the boy's hands.

"Ho, lad, stop standing there doing nothing or I'll break your neck!

I'll smash your head before the potato-eaters knock it in."

With another spring he was on top of the cook, who was calmly dreaming a culinary dream, and gave him such a kick that he jumped up like a jack-in-the-box.

"I hope they'll eat you."

"Ready to fire! Fire! for Heaven's sake!" Scotimondo screamed at him and ran to take his post, grumbling, "but why doesn't the sentinel come back? What's that scoundrel of a Draghetta doing?"

Ciampanella rubbed his eyes and discovered Pinocchio, who stood there turning his gun round and round without having yet discovered what exactly it was that he held.

"May the dogs eat you! Instead of standing there fiddling with your weapon that you know as much about as I know about training fleas, you would do better to give a look at the saucepan that it doesn't burn instead of making me get that kick from the corporal."

"But what saucepan? Are you still asleep?"

"Didn't you hear what he yelled at me when he kicked me? 'Fire!

Fire!'"

"Certainly, but he meant the fire of the battery, not that of the stove. Don't you know that we are expecting an attack?"

"Who says so? There's no need to wait for it. You can wait if you want to, but I'm off. I don't know anything about war and don't know how to shoot. When there are necks to wring or beasts to butcher I'm ready, because they are hens or lambs or such like beasts, but Christians I _can't_, and toward the enemy I have the respect ordered by our superiors. Listen, youngster, if two bullets. .h.i.t me in the rear I'll take them and won't protest, but I don't stay here at the front unless they tie me."

He was just getting away when Scotimondo, who had an eye on him, turned hurriedly and poked a revolver at his back.

"Oh, very well! There are certain arguments you can't dispute. I'll remain, but I'll find me a hole where I can be safe, because if I die the _Manual of War Cookery_ won't be written," and he threw himself down on a big stone, signaling to the "youngster" to follow him.

A voice outside was calling for help, only a few feet away from the trench.

"Stay where you are, all of you. I'll go," commanded Scotimondo, and, wriggling like a serpent, with his revolver in his hand, he set off and was lost in the darkness. Shortly after he returned, dragging in Draghetta.

"What's the matter? Are you wounded?"

"No, not exactly wounded, but I can't stand up. I'm afraid my feet are frozen."

"Let's have a look," and he made him sit down and began to free him from his woolen puttees, his hobnailed boots, his waterproof stockings, and to rub his red, swollen feet with snow, all the time continuing to question him.

"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."