Author's Note: This is a story about World War I and the Italian front. Call me a fool, but Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms (which I absolutely HATED, LOATHED, something to that effect) made me feel like writing my own. And with the newsies, this could be interesting, I think. The Last Heroes is a tale about war and grief, but more than that, it is a story of friendship and brotherly love. I beg forgiveness for any historical inaccuracies because I am learning as I go along, and I will correct things as I learn more and post more. Also remember, the strike … yeah, never happened, for my purposes. Ages just wouldn't work out the right way.

Skittery, Daniel (Snitch), Anthony (Racetrack), Tommy (Mush) and Blink are not mine. If they were, things other than writing would occupy my free time (just take a guess, I dare you). However, Frisco, Link, and Giovanni are my own and I love them very much. If you'd ever like to use them, just ask, I don't have a problem with that stuff, and I can probably give you some more background and all that happy crap. Rating for language and situations, as well as descriptions of violence. Read and enjoy, and reviews most welcome.

The Last Heroes

PART ONE: 1917

ONE: Before the Front Lines

IT HAD BEEN RAINING FOR A WEEK IN OUR TRENCHES WHEN WE GOT THE ORDERS TO GO TO ITALY. ANTHONY, known to his closest childhood companions as the ever- infamous Racetrack, was thrilled at the chance to leave muddy France and visit the warm, clean-hearted country of his ancestors. Myself, I was simply glad to leave the nightmare that had been the Somme and the filthy awful trenches.

Italy, the wonder of wonders. It was warm, it was beautiful, and it was, for a few blessed weeks, peaceful. There were five of us, five war brothers banded together. Myself (Skittery, some called me, afraid of loud noises and now the devastating explosions); my best friend Daniel (Snitch, as I had called him since I could remember, him having always been the one who cracked under pressure or under the heavy stare of either of our mothers); Anthony, of course, the under-age gambling extraordinaire (nick-named Racetrack for obvious reasons); Tommy (or Mush, as we liked to call him, because his golden heart was so soft and gentle); and our one-eyed friend named Kid-Blink.

Those were our originals, of course, but we picked up other brothers as we went along, as all soldiers do. There was Frisco, the dark-haired, green-eyed kid from (where else?) San Francisco. I think his real name was Frank, or something like that, but because of our good-natured mockery, everyone had a war-name specific to them. We had Link, too, the pretty blond-haired, blue-eyed boy sent as the third child from his wealthy New England family. He was the most innocent of us, a true virgin to war (and maybe to woman as well, I haven't ever asked), but he was also perhaps the strongest of us. His morals were so strong, his principles so solid, his priorities so clear that every battle was, as he told us, a valiant test of his will and his heart. Then there was our lovely Italian friend, named Giovanni, whom we sometimes called Gigi when we either wanted to see his temper rise or when we wanted to express a very intimate affection. Giovanni was older than the rest of us by about three or four years, I think, although in war such a thing makes no difference. He was perhaps twenty or twenty-one, and good-looking with all the stereotypical dark Italian features. Once he had been wounded in the leg but as all the semi-competent soldiers are, he was put back on the front infantry lines to serve in this God-awful war. But Giovanni was hopeful, and mightily cheerful even on the darkest of days.

The war front was strangely beautiful, a lush gold and green land filled with warm sun, cool breezes, and cold clear blue water. For two or three days upon arrival, we waited for orders, gallivanting from little town to little town, eating good cheese and drinking sweet wine. I drove with Snitch and Frisco everyday from our temporary villa to the post, awaiting the installment of an officer for our new brigade. That summer we did much work with supplies and built housing to secure the front. At night, I listened to the call of the cicadas with Snitch, Frisco, and our newly-found Giovanni while Mush, Blink, Link, and Racetrack stayed in the room beside us on the second floor.

Oh, the villa was beautiful. That was what Italians called their homes, villas. A more suitable name I could not have invented; it was pink and tan and warmed in the sun. Behind it stood a table with yellow paint, and there was a little blue pond nearby where we swam when the afternoons got hot. Frisco more than anybody loved the water, but this was war, and day by day the front seemed to get dirtier and dirtier, ready to break into chaos at any given moment.

But it was not to be, and we were soon delivered into the hands of a bloody conflict we had barely agreed to fight in the first place. We found ourselves back on the front lines.

Now, let me tell you something about the warfare tactics used to blow the enemy to smithereens. There is nothing valiant or noble about them, nothing true or sweet or gracious. Anything else would have been preferable than laying face-down in a bombed-out field suddenly slippery with the blood of your countrymen, your shoulder broken from the kick-back of your rifle when it mercilessly slammed into your body. Pretending to be dead is not easy when you are shaking and sick, ready to retch from fear. Even our protection, the filthy trenches, is not welcome. Little food, little water, mass amounts of wine and death … the sum total of the situation does not add up to success.

And for what cause was this war being fought?

For that matter, who wants to fight any war? What principles can be places on Justice's golden scales and come out with the same weight as a human life? Everyone here was someone else's son, or brother, or husband, or father. Or friend. I could not imagine losing my own friends. No, not ever them. It was the same with the enemy … it is somehow always the same with them. They believe in their reasons and their principles, too, so who exactly was correct? Even more than that, who defined the standards of righteousness and those things wrongful, too?

Oh well, it was too late anyway. I spent my days next to those God-awful trenches and my nights in the cozy cot of my villa. Letters arrived, letters from friends and family back home. Jack Kelly wrote, and Spot Conlon swore endlessly to Racetrack that he was coming here to fight as well. Collectively, we listed for him all the pros and cons of serving in the army, and it seemed that the total of the pros numbered just four (maybe three, since two of them were all but identical) while the cons kept going at two-hundred forty-seven. Still he promised.

Itey Etole wrote, too, asking us about Italy, his homeland. Had it not been so torn by this chaotic war, I would have honestly stayed forever, but because I could only associate this beautiful town with destruction and death, I answered that I liked it well enough because the land was so pretty. Tell me, Michael, he wrote in my letters, tell me of my childhood's home. Is it well?

Yes, Itey, I would reply. All is well. The outbreak of war is controlled. I hope it will be over soon. I do not like fighting.

Oh, Michael, he would say, Be careful, and is it so very terrible?

Indeed it is, but do not fear, we are safe, I always dismissed.

Oh, Michael, Itey was always so sympathetic. Come home soon. Love from home. We miss you boys greatly. Please come home soon.

These letters I filed away in my pocket inside of my uniform. After a while, they became all I had left of my home.