AND ALL FOR ITALY!
Some years passed and Andrea was now a stocky lad with resolute walk and
steady black eyes. He was fourteen, the age to which he had long looked
forward as the time when he should realize his ambition to work beside
his father in the glass factory. Maria, too, was growing up: already her
fingers were almost as deft as her mother's in making lace, under
whose guidance she could even fashion the beautiful roses, the special
characteristic of Venetian point.
As for Chico, he was constantly establishing new records, and his wings
bore witness to many triumphs.
Then the Great War came, and the world shook with its thunders. On May 23,
1915, Italy had declared hostilities against Austria-Hungary, although the
Italian offensive did not begin until 1917.
At first the victories were all on the side of Italy, when her brave
heroes broke through on the Isonzo front, it seemed almost as if they were
destined to sweep everything before them Then the tide turned: one town
after another was retaken by the Austrians, until, on October 29, 1917, the
entire Italian front on the Isonzo collapsed.
Then came days of black despair: all Italy mourned, but in Venice
especially was the horror felt. From her situation she had always been a
bulwark against the Austrians, and not yet had she forgotten the hated rule
of her enemies.
Nearer drew the lines until the roar of the cannon could be sometimes
heard, and there was scarcely a clear night that aeroplanes did not hover
over the terrified city. Dimmed were the lights that were wont to make a
fairyland of St. Mark's Square, and in the daytime the red, white, and
green of the Italian flag supplied almost the only color, while the only
music was the martial call of Garibaldi, to which countless marched to the
field of battle.
"To arms!
Haste! Haste! ye martial youth!
On every wind our banners fly,
Rise all with arms, all with fire!"
The glass factories were closed, and Giovanni went, with the rest of the
brave men, to fight for home and country. Even Pietro hastened from his
wanderings to offer his services. The lace factories were deserted,
and instead of the delicate threads and the bobbins, the women busied
themselves with bandages for the Red Cross.
No longer did the canals echo the laughter of gay tourists, and desolately
the pigeons flew about St. Mark's Square, which was almost a deserted place
save for the workmen to whom had been assigned the task of protecting the
church by placing sandbags on the roofs and iron girders at the windows:
mournfully lapped the waters of the Adriatic.
The bronze horses were transferred to Rome for safety; even the pictures by
the great masters were taken from their places and hidden, lest they fall
into the hands of the enemy.
Old Paolo, who, for a year past had been decrepit, died, broken-hearted,
when the first news came of Austrian victories. He was sadly missed in his
accustomed haunts. A younger man succeeded him as caretaker of St. Mark's,
and Andrea, not old enough to be drafted for service at the front, was
appointed chief guard of the church by night.
Sacrifice was the watchword of the hour. Men gave up the savings of years,
women brought their trinkets to be sold or melted down for the use of the
Government.
And Andrea--what had he to give?
One night, as he paced back and forth on his beat, listening for the
possible roar of an aeroplane or the sudden bursting of a bomb, there
flashed into his mind the story of services rendered Venice in the olden
time by homing pigeons. He seemed a child again, sitting close to old
Paolo's side and listening to his tales of happenings in the long ago.
True, now there was wireless at the front, besides telephones and
telegraphs, and yet, even with all modern inventions, he wondered if the
War Department might not be able to find some use for a trusty pigeon.
Though the boy's heart grew faint at the thought of the sacrifice, his
resolution was immediately taken, and as soon as he was released from duty
in the morning he made his way directly round the church to the bird's
nest. He was tall now and had no need of the box Paolo had placed so long
ago for use as a step: thrusting his hand through the aperture, he firmly
grasped Chico who happened at that time to be taking his turn with the eggs
while his mate enjoyed a much-needed constitutional.
Naturally he resented the interruption and made futile efforts to free
himself. But Andrea was resolved on no delay, and without more ado bore off
the struggling bird, just as Pepita fluttered into the aperture, with an
apology for being late, and ready to assume her wifely duties.
"Chico! Chico!" the boy exclaimed, gently smoothing the rumpled feathers,
"you mustn't mind, old fellow. I'm sorry to take you away, but you and I
have a duty to our country and we mustn't shirk!"
Gradually the pigeon ceased to struggle, and while not in the least
understanding what it was all about, snuggled close to Andrea's breast,
putting his head confidingly inside his soldier's coat.
"And, Chico," the boy went on, "you must do your part, no matter what
happens. And, if you"--he choked a little at the thought--"and if you
should never come back, it will be for Venice, and for Italy. We won't
forget that, will we, my bird?"
As he spoke, he bent his head to listen caught a faint answering "coo," as
Chico snuggled his head closer.
By this time he had reached the War Office which was located in one of the
buildings on the north side of the Square. In response to his knock he was
ushered into the presence of a kindly official who sat at a table littered
with maps and papers of every description.
There was a moment's pause, during which Andrea stood uneasily fidgeting,
and his courage almost oozed away as he nervously twisted his cap.
But at last the great man looked up, and somewhat abstractly asked, "Well,
my boy, what can I do for you?"
"Please, signore," Andrea faltered, as he took from his coat the precious
bird, "please, I have a homing pigeon--"
At once the officer became alert. "A homing pigeon?" he repeated quickly.
"Is he trained to carry messages?"
"Si, signore." And the boy forgot his embarrassment in his anxiety to tell
of Chico's exploits. "He won the blue rosette at a pigeon show at Verona, a
few years since, and see, here is the record of his flights." With that he
spread out the wings and the officer studied them over thoughtfully.
When at last he spoke, Andrea could not but note the light in the tense
eyes and the eagerness of his tone:
"My boy, this well-trained homing pigeon will, indeed, be valuable to the
War Department. Tell me, what shall I give you for your bird? Name your
price!"
"My Chico is not for sale!" the boy protested stoutly, "It is my wish to
give his services to my country!"
"Think carefully, the Department is ready to pay well for this branch of
air-line service."
But Andrea shook his head, "No, signore, it is for Italy. There is but one
thing I would make sure of." He paused.
"And what is that?" the great official inquired kindly. He was beginning to
realize that this was no ordinary relation which existed between the lad
and his pigeon.
"Please, I would ask that when the war is ended, I may have my bird again;
that is, that is--" and the boy's eyes were misty as he spoke.
"To be sure, to be sure," the officer cleared his throat. "I'll see that
you have a written voucher to that effect."
He touched a bell and gave the order in a business-like tone to the
respectful soldier who at once made his appearance.
"We have a valuable addition to our air messengers in the shape of this
well-trained homing pigeon. Have you room for him in the next consignment
that is sent to the front?"
"Si, signore, one will go to-morrow. The baskets have four compartments and
there is one place still vacant." With that he fixed the metal anklet, and
Chico was thereby enrolled as number 7788 in the air brigade of the Italian
army.
But that was not all; a voucher was then and there made out that, after
hostilities had ceased, number 7788 should be returned to the owner, Andrea
Minetti.
The great official affixed his own signature and, after handing the paper
to the lad, escorted him to the door and opened it for him.
Though Andrea's heart was well-nigh bursting with grief, the parting words
brought a thrill to his whole being:
"It is such sacrifices that will win the war for Italy and, believe me,
this act of yours will not be forgotten!"