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“Knock it off, Tubes!” Canidy whispered, trying to sound angry.

“Right,” Tubes said in a mock-English tone.

“I mean it, dammit!” Canidy said.

There was silence, and Canidy guessed that he had hurt Fuller’s feelings.

Fuck it. Grow up. We’ve got a job to do.

“Are we ready?” Canidy said evenly.

“Sure,” Fuller whispered, with some ice in his tone.

“Ready,” Nola whispered.

On the submarine, Canidy had debated with himself how they should go into town—armed to the teeth, or try to get there as quickly and unobtrusively as possible.

They were not at a loss for weapons.

Canidy had his Colt Model 1911 .45 ACP semiautomatic pistol, the Johnson .30-06 light machine gun, and the baby Fairbairn. Fuller carried a.45, too, and a Sten 9mm submachine gun. And Nola was armed with his own personal Walther P38 9mm semiautomatic pistol; he had declined the offer of an automatic weapon since he’d had no experience handling one.

In the end, Canidy had decided that each man should have his pistol close at hand. But the bigger guns could be held as backup, left in the duffels.

His reasoning, after all, was that there would be no firepower needed if they were to find a city full of dead citizens. Or if instead they were to encounter, say, a city overrun with German and Italian troops, they sure as hell were not going to engage in a firefight—not and get out alive.

We’re supposed to get in, get the intel, and get the hell out.

And that’s exactly what I plan to do.

“Lead the way, Frank,” Canidy whispered. “Or tell me the direction and I’ll take point.”

“I can do it,” Nola said and started walking.

After a dozen yards or so, Canidy felt that they were walking up a light grade. A few more yards beyond that, the grade became steeper. Then the path leveled off, and Canidy could see out over the water, the light from the stars reflecting on the surface. There was no visible horizon, and it appeared that the sky and sea had become one.

They began walking southwestward along a dirt path that paralleled the main, two-lane road. On either side of the uneven rocky trail grew hardy, dense shrubs, about chest-high to the men. The growth provided them with some cover. If necessary, they could duck down for total concealment.

There were absolutely no lights to be seen anywhere. Canidy could not determine if that was a good sign or a bad one. Where they walked was not at all populated—they had yet to pass any structure, residence or otherwise—but still he thought that there might be some man-made light somewhere in the distance.

Of course, the absence of such man-made light could mean the absence of man himself.

Off to their right, near the main road, Canidy noticed a low wall constructed of a white stone that showed up well in the dark. It followed alongside the lane, off into the distance as far as his eye could see. And it continued to do so, even after they had walked along for some five or so minutes.

“What’s with the wall?” Canidy whispered to Nola.

“What do you mean?”

“The stone wall over by the road. What does it go to?”

“Oh. That is Cimitero dei Rotoli.”

“That’s what?” Fuller said.

“A monumental cemetery,” Nola explained. “Is the size of what would be many, many city blocks, long and wide, and on up the mountainside.”

That’s massive! Canidy thought.

Wonder how busy it’s been lately?