August 1918, out on patrol, a barrage of daisy cutters bracketed the squad. Luigi made it back to the Italian lines. Salvatore, hit in the buttocks, did not. Luigi went out and carried him back to the trench. His shattered hips revealed exposed bone, joints and shredded flesh. Blood pumped out of him, staining the trench. Luigi knew that Salvatore would die in agony, but said he"d take him to a dressing station; it was hopeless.
“I"m done for, end it now,” Salvatore had said.
“I shot him. I killed my friend, then I tied his body to a mule and sent it to the rear for burial.”
Luigi refilled the tumbler with wine, and gulped it down.
“The wounds to my arm and leg got me out of the line; saved my life. Twenty-three when I got out of the hospital, and f*****g ruined by the war. I"ll never
