They were all in the town of Maletta again, two months later. It looked cleaner and neater than when they had first seen it, for the townspeople and the U. S. Army engineers had done a first-rate job of cleaning out the mud and trash left by the flood waters.

Scotti was back in the United States, recuperating from his wounds, but the rest of them were heading back to the front lines again, quite a distance to the north by this time. They took the last day of their furlough for a visit in the town that had been so important a part of their lives for one week.

But there were some differences. Dick Donnelly wore a First Lieutenant’s bars on his shoulders. The General had conferred the commissioned rank on him on the field of action, right after the successful conclusion of the battle for Maletta. And there was the colored ribbon on his left breast which meant the awarding of the Distinguished Service Medal.

Tony Avella was a Master Sergeant now. He and his Uncle Tomaso had been caught on the opposite hill, away from the cave, by the flood waters. But that had meant nothing more than sitting and waiting for the waters to recede. They had been hungry and exhausted after their ordeal but that was all. Even old Tomaso stood up well under it.

Vince Salamone and Max Burckhardt were both corporals now and everyone in the group had some sort of citation in recognition of his brilliant and heroic work. Boom-Boom Slade, as meek and quiet as always, seemed a little embarrassed at the decoration on his breast.

They all went to call on old Tomaso first of all. They found him in his same old room in the servants’ wing, but not the sad and broken man they had first seen there. He had put on a little weight, decent clothes now enhanced his dignified bearing. With characteristic Italian emotion he gratefully saluted the American flag which now flew above the door of the ancient villa.

“Did they take down the radio from the tower?” Tony asked him.

“No, it’s still there,” Tomaso said. “I think they may just have forgotten about it. And I haven’t said anything because when this war is over I want the town to put that in a museum—as a memorial to the battle of Maletta.”

“Well, it can stay there for all I care,” Tony said. “I had my fill of that bell tower for the rest of my life. I never want to see it again.”

Tomaso led them to a sidewalk restaurant where they sat and drank coffee and talked together. They recalled all their experiences again, reliving in memory those hectic days. It was a good memory, and the result had been a great success. Thousands of German soldiers had been drowned, thousands more killed by the Americans that poured across the two ridges and so caught them in a vise. Hundreds of trucks and tanks and guns had been lost by the enemy and many of these were already repaired and serving the American forces. The general told them that their work had saved at least a month in the Italian campaign, probably more.

While they sat, Enrico came along and said hello to them all.

“Now,” he said to Dick, “I can take time to ask you for your autograph.”

Dick felt foolish, but he signed a note for the young Italian. Enrico thanked the young lieutenant profusely, and then said very seriously, “You know the opera company is singing Cavalleria Rusticana tonight. I’m really not up to it. It would be a great treat for me to sit in the audience. How about it, Ricardo Donnelli, will you sing Turridu tonight?”

“Bravo,” cried Tomaso with a wave of his hand and his black eyes sparkling. “The great Donnelli it is for tonight.”

“No, no,” Dick protested. “I’m not a singer these days, I’m a soldier.”

“Forget it, big boy,” exclaimed Vince Salamone with affection and not without humor, for he was a good foot taller than Dick. “You’re going to be Turridu tonight and capture the hearts of all the girls in Maletta.”

“You bet you are,” agreed Tony. “He’s my favorite opera hero, and I’d like to hear his role sung proper-like.” Adding with a mock-serious bow to Enrico, “No offense to you, my good fellow.”

And Max Burckhardt exclaimed in his good-natured way, “No kiddin’, Lieutenant. I’d like to find out first hand if all the hullabaloo I hear about those vocal chords of yours is on the level.”

Boom-Boom Slade came out of his customary reticence to add, “It would give me the keenest pleasure, Lieutenant Donnelly, to hear a man sing whose talents as a soldier I so deeply respect.”

So that evening they all went to see Ricardo Donnelli in Cavalleria Rusticana. But the next morning it was Lieutenant Dick Donnelly that reported to his commanding officer at the front lines.