But it helped and finally, as he leaned against the wall trying to make peace with the fire inside him, he passed out.
When he regained consciousness, he was bathed in sweat, the bullet still between his teeth. He looked at his watch. Ten-o-five. Two hours.
Then he heard the voices. Low, cautious. At least two of them, talking rapidly. He strained to make out words. The beam of a flashlight filtered through the cracks of the shed. They were nearer now, at the door. He heard the latch lift from its rusty hook.
Corrigon sat straight up. He held the 45 in both hands and aimed it at the door and waited, biting down hard on the bullet, blinking the sweat out of his eyes. The flashlight beam fell on his face. He squeezed the trigger and the pistol plinked. Empty.
Corrigon’s shoulders sagged. He lowered the gun to the floor and spat out the bullet and raised his head towards the ceiling, closing his eyes and waiting for it to come.
The flashlight beam lowered and picked out the gun.
‘Americano,’ a voice said.
‘Si,’ came the answer.
‘Laferita e motto sanguinosa. E gravemente leso.’
‘Ummm,’ said the other one.
‘E mono?’
‘No.’
‘Buono.’
Buono? That was good. What were they saying? Something about blood, death. A jumble of words he could not understand.
One of them was very close now, leaning over him. Then he said, very slowly, ‘You are lucky, amico. That the gun was empty. I would not want to kill you.’
Corrigon opened his eyes.
The Italian lowered the flashlight and in its reflection, Corrigon could see the two men. The man who had spoken to him was tall and lean with grey hair and a jawline like granite. The other one was younger and shorter and had shoulders like a football player.
‘My name is Francesco. Capisce? Francesco.’
Corrigon managed a feeble smile.
‘Hi, Francesco,’ he said in a voice hoarse with pain and exhaustion.
‘That is Dominic. He does not capisce English.’
‘No capisce,’ Dominic said and smiled from embarrassment.
‘That’s okay, I no capisce Italiano.’
‘E ufficiale?’ Dominic said.
‘He says, Are you an officer?’ Francisco said.
‘Shit, I’m a goddamn corporal.’
Francesco turned to Dominic. ‘No. Sonuficiale.’
Dominic shrugged. Then he held up a tommygun. ‘Abbiamo udito colpi e trovato una mitragliatrice.’
‘We heard the shooting and we found this gun on the hill.’
‘I think it’s mine,’ Corrigon said, then: ‘Who are you?
‘Farmers.’
‘Not partisans?’
‘Non siamo guerriglieri, ma siamo simpatizzanti.’ Dominic said.
‘He says, we are not guerrillas, but we are sympathetic to the Americans.’
‘Grazie.’
Everybody nodded.
‘Do you know La Volte?’
Francesco looked puzzled. ‘La volte 2 The fox. What is that?’
‘Shit,’ Corrigon said, ‘I’m too tired to go into it.’
Dominic said, ‘I tri attn sono morti.’
‘Si,’ Francesco said and, turning to Corrigon, told him, ‘The other three Americani are dead. I am sorry.’
‘Ah, Jesus.’
‘Pray for yourself. It is too late for them. What are you called?’
‘Corrigon. Johnny.’
