Napoleon, Napo for his friends, the youngest and the smallest boy in the school, was the only one of the defense left behind the rampart. The others had already gone back for the evening mass. Alone and frightened, squatting down in a corner, he was determined to defend his position at any cost. Giacomo, the commander of the enemy squad, looked into his eyes, a snowball in his hand, ready to strike. "Naaapoo!" Napo smiled: two furrows running down from the corners of his eyes to meet the dimples of the cheeks. Giacomo got closer and waited for an infinite instant before smiling back and stretching out his hand while the school bell was calling for the vesper.

Twenty years, two wars, and thousand miles passed by from those days of snowballs and imaginary trenches, but it took only a wing stroke for the memories to come back. Giacomo, with his bayonet up in the air, frozen, looked at the small grey clad soldier lying on the ground. He looked into his eyes moist with sleep and fear glittering in the dull morning light. No, it was not possible, but yes…it was him. He waited for the wonted, infinite instant before smiling: "Naaapoo!" And Napoleon smiled back. Two furrows hardly made their way from the corners of his eyes down to the dimples of the cheeks, striving against the blood clots of the scabbed wounds. But the other gray clad soldiers were faster than Napo's cry. They fired a single shot at Giacomo who fell to the ground without a moan, his smile slightly disturbed by a short and sudden pain. The furrows on Napoleon's face clogged with tears and sweat. And while the few assailants retreated back to their trench and a crow alighted on the motionless body of Giacomo, a tear fell on the red snow with a thud of mortar fire.