“I don’t like Italian,” was the reply, still fueling a delightful battlesweat, shared amongst the two in a glow of Axis shoulders clutching at faces which housed nothing but useless, stinging eyes which would not relent on a brain weighing the decision to end a parasympathetic set of functions.
Perhaps all of them, high in the mountains of Italy. Allied soldiers who knew the responsibility of benevolent good reached for rocks in lieu of munitions, incidentally sharing a thought which voiced by the ear of the mind came in a bark from General Washington’s most steadfast and ruthless staff sergeant.
“Back against the wall? Hopeless. Heave!”