Pablo's Pistol--A Short Story

Pablo’s Pistol— A Short Story by Gabriel Paulson.

Good morning.  The past few weeks I have been sharing with you dog stuff somewhat like what Jennifer does only with my own voice. You all loved the photo of Yeti gazing up at me and hearing more about her.

But I have been on the road a lot and have not been around the doggies at all… including my Yeti. So, I decided that Folktail Friday needs to be that—folktales! Stories as told by common folk.

If short stories are not your thing, then you have my blessings to await Jenn’s email come Monday. BUT…

If you like to escape the reality of life for thirty minutes or so, put on your seat belts and come along for a wild ride. OH, and if you happen to be the writing type, let these stories inspire you to submit your own short story! I’ll work with you for a few weeks to get it print ready (unless it’s already so perfect I just have to print it!).

Pablo’s Pistol—a Short Story by Gabriel Paulson

Young Pablo Mariano went to the battlefield to search the dead for treasures.

After the recent bloody battles, there was always something to be found among the dead. With the three days his small village of Saracena sat in the conflict between the invading Americans and the Italian army under Mussolini, there was no school to attend, no festivals, nothing.

So, whenever the battles ceased, Pablo would take his dog Gubbio with him in search for treasures. Treasures like buttons from the uniforms of the fallen, cash in their pockets, canteens, pocket knives, and the like, Pablo could either keep them for his collection or could sell the items for much needed food for his family.

At the innocent age of eleven, Pablo had become accustomed to seeing the horrors of death and of war. Throughout his young life, he had partook in the slaughter of sheep and chickens on his grandfather’s farm and had come to ignore that these were young men lying lifeless in the field.

After a most violent battle in which the Americans under General Patton had moved northward toward Monte Cassino, Pablo found little in the way of treasures that day. The Americans were thorough about taking care of their fallen so there were no corpses to be found.

Feeling hunger in his belly, the absence of items for barter were a grave disappointment. As well, the Italian army was beaten down. Supplies were in demand.

Pablo’s dog was of a different mindset. Gubbio, a large black majestic canine had been the pride of his family before the war. Gubbio, like Pablo, was hungry. And the dog had guessed there was a correlation between the found battlefield treasures and food on the evening table.

Gubbio sniffed and searched the bloodied battleground for anything that could be found. The soldiers had done well to taking everything with them. The Americans threw away nothing.

But there, in a swamp near the riverside, was one fallen soldier who had been missed. He lie with his face down in the water. Pulling the body onto the gravelly shore, Pablo knew right away the American soldier was a low ranking officer, a lieutenant perhaps.

About his person was everything the young soldier had carried at time he had been shot just three hours prior. He had all his buttons. He had his canteen, boots, and a helmet.

And at his side, in a leather holster, the soldier had a Colt revolver, still fully loaded.

“OH!” Pablo exclaimed to Gubbio who wagged his tail in proud response. “This pistol will put food on the table for a whole week!”

There was something more that caught Pablo’s attention. And such a thing sent him back on his heels. Noticing the olive skin and dark hair of the young officer, embroidered on his uniform there above his right jacket pocket was a name:

Mariano

“How could this be?” Pablo wondered. The fallen soldier, lost and forgotten by his comrads, had the same family name as himself!

Pablo unbuckled the holster and, taking only the revolver with him, returned to his small farm cottage on the edge of the village.

“What have you found there?” his grandfather said rising from the wooden table where he was cleaning wool he had sheared that morning.

Pablo presented the pistol to his grandfather, his only remaining guardian. Taking the revolver from its holster, the grandfather pressed gentle fingers across the worn wooden handle.

“This was from a soldier?”

Pablo nodded.

“American?”

Pablo nodded again.

“American soldiers do not carry revolvers,” he said thoughtfully. “They carry .45’s”

“This one is an officer,” replied Pablo. “But Papa, there is something more. His uniform bears the name Mariano!”

His grandfather nearly fell backwards as his eyes gazed at his grandson, discerning how such words could be possible.

“Take me to him!”

Pablo’s grandfather made not a word while Gubbio lead the two to where the fallen soldier still lie. Upon reaching the body, Papa knelt down to see who the young officer was.

With an expression of pity, Papa looked over the soldier’s face. His fingertips pressed over the embroidered family name. His lips whispered along the letters.

“Mariano.”

Papa took out the soldier’s dog tags, knowing right away the city of origin he would find therein.

Without further words, Papa picked up the body with the help of Pablo, and carried it back to his farm cottage. Like a holy relic, he lay the body onto the wooden table, not caring that the wool he had been cleaning remained beneath it.

Papa took a cloth from the kitchen, drew water from the pump and doused it with lye soap. Returning to the body, he gently cleaned the soldier’s face.

“By the peaceful look on his face,” Papa said, “he did not appear to suffer in his death.”

Pablo watched with renewed interest wondering why his grandfather took such interest in this particular person. He had never done such a thing before.

“Papa! What is it?”

Even Gubbio sat with his black ears erect from the corner of the room, his head tilting slightly as Papa spoke finally.

Papa placed Pablo’s pistol over the soldier’s body with reverence. He took a few steps back, his eyes locked on the young officer. Then he sat on the table bench and took Pablo’s upper arms in both of his hands, his face and words directed to the child as if they were from heaven itself.

“My boy, there is something I have never told you. Before you were born, my brother Giovanni, your great uncle, took his family to America in search of a better life. This Colt revolver he now carries was a family heirloom, for my father had it sent to him from America for the protection of this family.”

Pablo held his breath. “Papa, you mean this pistol is that same one?”

“Giovanni and I fought over who should keep it. My father had purchased it for here, but Giovanni felt it would serve him better in the unknown New World. Our words came to blows. In the end, he took the gun and left and we never spoke to each other again.”

Papa let go of Pablo. He stood and turned away, for now a tear emerged from his face and he was ashamed to let his grandson see him so. Still, he turned and gazed once again at the soldier.

“This American officer here,” he said suppressing a sigh, “would be his grandson… your cousin. Your cousin brought this back to me and gave his life in doing so.”

With reverence, Pablo went to fetch the town priest. In the coming day, they held a proper funeral for Vince Mariano, and placed him in the town cemetery. Later his dog tags would find their way into the hands of another American officer so that his family back home would know of his passing.

Pablo had found a treasure that day of a much deeper value.

For other tales by Gabriel Paulson, go to:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09FKQDZN6

Jennifer Stoeckl is the co-founder of the Dire Wolf Project, founder of the DireWolf Guardians American Dirus Dog Training Program, and owner/operator of DireWolf Dogs of Vallecito. She lives in the beautiful inland northwest among the Ponderosa pine forests with her pack of American Dirus dogs.