Rome. The Nazis were on the march toward the city. News of their imminent invasion had spread overnight. Shamefully, Marshal Badoglio and King Vittorio Emanuele III had fled the capital for Brindisi, out of harm’s way. Badoglio hadn’t even left behind a battle plan to defend the city. The Italian Army was on its own, with only partisans for support.
“Here, Marco.” His father handed him an M91 Carcano carbine long gun. Its heft weighed in Marco’s hand, and he felt the gravity of their mission. He had fired rifles in Balilla, but never faced a live enemy.
His father scanned the men with a steady gaze. “Any questions before we go?”
“Beppe, how many volunteers are there?” one of the partisans asked.
“Several thousand, deployed throughout the city.”
“How many are with us?”
“Perhaps a thousand.”
“Which of our army divisions will we be fighting with?”
“With us in the south are the Piacenza and Granatieri di Sardegna Divisions. As for the Nazis, we fight regular Wehrmacht and Fallschirmjäger, the paratroopers. Most of you know their reputation as elite line infantry. Our troops outnumber the Nazis significantly.”
His father paused, scanned the men for more questions, then continued.
“Gentlemen, I’m not one for talk. Our mission is clear. Hold Porta San Paolo. Prevent the Nazis from passing through the gate into the city. Our infantry will be on the ground with heavy weaponry. We will fire from rooftops and houses. We have a battle plan. We will execute it. This fight could last all day. By its end, we will emerge victorious. We fight for freedom and our magnificent city. We will hold Rome. Viva l’Italia! Viva Roma!”
They all shouted in accord. Marco shouldered his gun, swallowing hard.
The partisans left the house and jogged down the street. It was a lower-middle-class neighborhood, comprised of the meatpacking district and nondescript stucco homes. No sound came from the homes or shops. Their shutters and metal grates remained closed. The residents waited for the battle to begin, as they knew the Nazis would attempt to enter the city here. Invaders had done so since the ancient days of Rome, as far back as the Visigoths.
Marco jogged up the street, looking ahead. The Porta San Paolo, the Gate of Saint Paul, was a massive brick edifice called the Castelletto, as it looked like a medieval castle with a crenellated top over a gatehouse flanked by large turrets. In the center was the arch of the gate, which led to a fork that offered two ways to enter Rome, Via Mamorata to the west and Viale della Piramide Cestia to the east. To the south, the major artery from Porta San Paolo was Via Ostiense, and that was where the Nazis were expected to attack. Next to the Porta San Paolo was the ancient Pyramid of Cestius, which was embedded in the Aurelian wall, part of the earliest fortifications of the city. Its white marble glowed in the early morning light, and its apex impaled the rising sun.
Marco could see the Italian Army taking positions around the Porta San Paolo and the Pyramid. Soldiers grouped in loose formation, checking their equipment. A fleet of Italian tanks and motorized assault vehicles stood in front of the Porta San Paolo, and one tank was stationed under the arch of the gate. Soldiers loaded a row of self-propelled guns, the Obice 100mm Howitzers, held long guns in front of the gate, and set up tripods for machine guns along Via Ostiense.
“Marco, come,” his father said, motioning.
Marco followed his father and his father’s old buddy Arnaldo, another veteran. The three of them formed a group, and according to his father’s plan, the other partisans broke into small units and fanned out among the houses. They began knocking on doors, asking the residents to let them use the windows and rooftops.
“Open the door!” his father said, banging on a weathered door at the southernmost end of the block.
“No!” called a shaky voice from within. “We don’t want any trouble!”
“We defend you and your family! Open up! It’s your duty as an Italian!”
The door opened, and they were admitted by an old woman, nervous and haggard. Marco’s father persuaded her to let them use the house, told her to hide in the cellar, then led the way up to the rooftop, which was flat except for a small shed that contained the stair.
His father gestured. “Arnaldo, you take the south side with me. Marco, you take the north, but stand behind the shed. Use it for cover.”