8
Armed
30 July 1943
Enzo was like the nagging mother Pietro never had. It was the first time he considered himself “lucky” in the mother department.
“So. You yellow-bellied son of a b***h. You don’t even have the balls to catch a pigeon for your hungry friends.”
“Pee-ET-row.” The strange noise came from outside the tent. When Pietro popped his head out, he had the oddest feeling of deja vu. Please, not another donkey! Atop it was a Zulu man. Thank God! Not a Muslim priest! The man pronounced his name as badly a second time, and Pietro nodded slightly. He was wary as hell.
“Please. Come close,” the nervous Zulu whispered as he jumped off the donkey. Pietro recognized him as the man he gave the newspaper to in the infirmary and felt a glimmer of hope.
The man took off his tired Boer
