A/N : This story was never created to hurt anybody and I am very sorry if I have done so

A/N : This story was never created to hurt anybody and I am very sorry if I have done so. The racial slurs are meant to be depictive of the time, and not meant to offend. So sorry!

Luka awoke to the sounds of shouts and scuffling. He roused Dave and crawled over to the other Germans. They peeked out of the window and saw foreign soldiers picking through the rubble of the old town they took refuge in. They ducked back down.

"They are Americans. I can see their tank," one of the Germans stated.

"They're coming this way," their commander choked out. His forehead was beaded with sweat and he was breathing quickly. Much too quickly for the comfort of the men he commanded. "One of you must lead them away." He looked at the soldiers before him. "You," he grabbed Dave. "You go out there and distract them. We'll escape through the back door." The man's eyes were crazed and his knuckles white from gripping Dave's uniform do hard.

"Sir," one of the Germans cleared his throat. "With all due respect that doesn't seem wise-"

"Did I ask you, lieutenant?!" His face was red. The soldier bowed his head. "You, Go!" he shoved Dave toward the exit. Dave didn't understand what he'd said to him. The sergeant looked frustrated. "I saw you two talking," he gestured towards Luka. "Tell him what I want him to do. I only need soldiers who can understand me, anyway." The four soldiers looked at each other in growing unease.

Luka looked at the sergeant for a moment, then to Dave. "He wants you to go outside and create a distraction while we escape," he said in Italian. Dave looked at the sergeant then back to Luka.

A soldier's duty is to obey orders.

Dave grasped his rifle and buckled his helmet. Luka glanced at the sergeant again, who was not chewing on his own shirt collar. He spoke quickly and quietly, his voice filled with urgency. "He's going mad. DO not be careless with your life." Malucci locked eyes with the Croatian one last time before slinking out.

One of the German soldiers crept toward the door in the back of the building. He silently turned the handle as the other soldiers watched the movements of the unsuspecting Americans. But the door would not open. He turned to his comrades. They were trapped unless Dave led all of the Americans away, which was highly unlikely. The soldier quickly decided against trying to break down the door, for they could not risk the noise it would make. He had thought the other night all in fun, but now he realized that their lives all depended upon the scrappy young Italian.

Dave pressed his back against the wall of a crumbled, stone building trying to decide upon his best course of action. The combination of his hunger and fear made him sick, yet he knew what he had to do. He couldn't wait until the God damned war was over and he could go home again.

He slunk over to the next building. From behind his rubble heap he had a clear shot at one of the Americans. He raised his rifle and was preparing to exact his shot when he heard a click behind him. The muzzle of another's rifle pressed against his back.

"Hey, Colonel! I've got a live one!"

Dave froze and heard more of the Americans moving toward him. One of them took his rifle. He tried to slow his breathing as terror gripped him. The American tapped the barrel of the rifle against his ribs, telling him in a universal language to roll over. Dave did as he was told and fearfully looked into the faces of his captors. They all had their rifles trained on his body. He struggled to remain calm.

"Hey Colonel Romano, this one's Italian!"

"Who gives a shit Carter! Get him to talk," his dark friend was impatient.

"Shut up, Cookie."

"Oh, so now we're back to that, huh? How many times do I have to tell you that I am Peter Benton, proud member of the US ARMY, not some pot-lickin' cook!"

"Oh come on, I was only joking." He laughed. Boy, did he know how to push Benton's buttons.

Dave's eyes darted from one to the other as he held his hands up in surrender.

"Get up," Carter motioned with his rifle. Malucci slowly rose to his feet, hands still in the air. "Do you speak English?"

Dave's eyes searched him, pleading to understand.

"English?"

Dave recognized the word and slowly shook his head.

"You do have alive one," Colonel Romano said as he approached, his rifle aimed at Dave's heart. "Does he speak English?"

"I don't think so, Sir."

"Well, if he's alive and in such fine condition there's got to be others. You know how they are- like rats."

He pushed Carter out of the way and stepped up to Dave.

"Where the hell are they, huh? Where the hell are the rest of you dirty wops hiding?!" Romano backhanded the unsuspecting Dave and sent him stumbling to the ground. "Answer my fucking question!" He kicked Malucci in the ribs. Blood trickled down his chin from a split lip. He squinted, waiting to regain the ability t breathe again. "Huh?" Romano kicked off his helmet and dragged Dave to his feet by his shirt collar.

"Sir," John Carter cleared his throat. "I don't think beating him up will make him understand."

"Oh, he'll understand if he knows what's good fir him," Romano used the butt of his rifle to hit Malucci squarely in the head, causing him to fall to the ground, much more savagely this time. For a moment his world went black and he desperately prayed the American would stop. He couldn't take much more. He felt his warm blood sliding down the side of his face and staining the collar of his fatigues. Romano backed up, disgusted. "Get him up and bring him with us. We're gonna' go find his friends." Benton grabbed Malucci and pulled him to his feet, dragging the half-conscious man along.