Tommaso balanced four glasses of beer, stretching his arthritic fingers to keep them from spilling. He placed one each in front of his old friends Sergio and Enrico and left one at an empty seat on the table.
All three men took a gulp and clinked glasses with the fourth, repeating the phrase. “To Vincenzo.”
“It was a decent service,” said Sergio. “Nice to see the old company.” Sergio wrinkled his nose to push his glasses up.
“Those that remain,” added Enrico. “Still, 103, not a bad run for the old Sergeant. Gonna miss him.”
“I’ll miss our poker games,” said Sergio. “I don’t think I’ll want to play without him.” Sergio dipped his head and took a long sip of his beer.
“Sure, we will,” said Tommaso, hitting Sergio with a light backhand. “You don’t stop living when he does.”
Sergio shook his head in defiance. “Can’t do it.” He stood up and wandered to the bar, head hung low. He returned with another round of beers.
Enrico swirled the bubbles in his glass around. “You know what I’ll miss. His stories. Remember the ones, when he was in the resistance, he’d roll under the tanks to plant bombs, as they drove through the street. And every time he told it, he used to raise his hands slowly and say ‘Boom.’ How many did he do?”
“Dozens,” said Tomasso.
“Just stories,” scoffed Sergio. “He didn’t really do that, did he?”
“Sure. I saw him do it a few times, when I was a cadet.” Tomasso nodded. “You know. It’s hard to say any one man won the war, but he made a difference.”
“I’d loved to have seen that.” Enrico said.
“How the hell do you roll under a tank and not get squished?” Sergio raised his voice and thumped his glass on the table.
Tomasso closed his eyes, as though flipping through the slide projector of his memories, or perhaps falling asleep. He opened his eyes. “I have an idea.” A smile crept across his face. “A tribute to Vincenzo.”
Walking slowly, as old men do, Tomasso led them to the village green and the war memorial. An old rusting tank still stood in the middle of the village. A reminder of what they fought, and why.
“Let’s bomb the tank.” Tomasso winked at his two friends. “For Vincenzo.”
“Yes!” Enrico grinned widely. “For Vincenzo.”
Tomasso lay on the ground in front of the tank and rolled over between the tank treads. Rolling wasn’t easy for a man of eighty-three, but he flopped over and over until he was beneath the tank. He slapped his hands onto the underside as though planting a bomb and then lay down flat pretending to wait for the tank to drive past him. With the help of Sergio he regained his feet, he raised his hands slowly, as Vicenzo used to do.
“Boom,” he whispered.
James Flanagan is an author of speculative fiction with numerous short fiction publications including EverydayFiction, among others. His debut sci-fi novel GENEFIRE won several awards and is garnering excellent reviews. You can find more of his work on www.jimiflanwrites.com.
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