Frank Polizzi - Somewhere in the Stars

To kill time, the detainees were allowed to form soccer teams, the players typically chosen from the Italian ship crew members. Gaetano and Marco stood by a short fence that separated the players on the field from the spectators. The crowd was noisy, so they could speak the enemy’s language freely and no one would shout at them to speak American. They could mention anything they wanted about Italy even in English and not be concerned about how it would be taken by the guards.

“They’re shutting down a lot of Italian publications in California and New York,” Marco said.

“Lucia mentioned that in her last letter. I am surprised the censors didn’t cut it out.”

“Ah, don’t you see. A good way to demoralize Italians. Keep us off balance. Maybe if the government left the publications alone, they might see that Italians have turned against Mussolini and his Blackshirts.”

“Our sons risk their lives fighting for America. And where does this get us?” The spectators shouted with enthusiasm. “Allura, we just missed the first goal.”

“This game is not the same as going to a real stadium. People are free to walk off the field and go home, if they get mad enough.”

“We’re going nowhere, Marco. Just marking time like a referee.”

“I don’t want to play this game anymore.”

“What are you talking about, Marco?” The crowd roared.

“You know I have other friends here from the Ex-Combattenti . We are sick of being here and we know how to fight.” He paused a moment. “We also know how to escape.”

“Mannaggia! What are you talkin’ about? They’ll catch you and then what.”

“We have it all planned.”

“You never told me about this.”

“I knew you would never go along with us.”

“Nun capisciu .”

“We volunteered to work for the Forest Service to cut wood to support the war effort, they say. It’s not a lot of money, but that’s not the point.” Marco winked.

“Are you pazzu ? The FBI has your fingerprints and photograph.”

“ Aspitta ! The forest is deep and dark. When the guards are busy eating their lunch, we will disappear before their eyes like Houdini.” Marco laughed, as the whistle blew for a time out.

“The FBI will hunt you down to set an example. The newspapers will put your photographs on the front pages.”

Marco shrugged and kissed Gaetano on both cheeks. “ Addio, miu amicu .” Marco squeezed his way through groups of men to meet with his former comrades in arms.

That night Marco did not meet Gaetano in the dimly lit room set for game playing. Gaetano decided to go back to his bed and lie down. The only thing that gave him any solace in this limbo was his friend, Marco. Now he had one more person to add to his worry list. He thought his friend might go off the deep end, to a place not even Dante had imagined.

In the morning Gaetano saw Marco leaving the mess hall and arched his right eyebrow before getting his breakfast. He complained loud enough about the institutional bread that he got permission to work in the kitchen so he could bake bread for himself and his paesani , using his mother’s recipe for peasant bread, pani rusticu . It was all about the hands and how you worked the dough, but it was simple enough, some white flour, water 90 °F, salt and some yeast. Two of the galley crewmen from the Italian liner noticed Gaetano baking and were allowed to pitch in, making a different batch of dough to twist into rolls of various shapes, shaking their heads when they couldn’t find any sea salt. They soon became known as the three bakers as they glided around each other from the larder to the table to the oven.

A few evenings later, right before supper, Gaetano heard a commotion outside his window and saw some vehicles with armed guards and hounds barking, as they passed by. He stepped outside noting that there still were mounds of snow all around, for the winters were long and hard in Montana. He followed the trucks to the Post Headquarters and saw Marco and his comrades shackled and being led into the Hearing Room.

By the time Gaetano got back to his barracks, the gossip had moved from one group to the next. Escapees were being shipped out to the worst internment camps, the ones run by the U.S. Army. Gaetano later learned that Marco had gotten influenza after hiding for two nights in a cave with his comrades, so he was taken to the second floor of the hospital, while the others were locked up. Gaetano visited his amicu in the evening. The guard on duty was sympathetic to Gaetano and let him spend some time with Marco.

“You no listen to me, Marco.”

“Cui nun spera, nun dispera.”

“If you don’t hope, you won’t be crushed,” Gaetano translated.

Marco coughed while he chuckled. “Your English is getting better. Maybe they set you free.”

“Allura, where will they send you?”

“I overheard Fort Sam Houston. I think Texas. A military base. They will be more strict there.”

“I feel bad they caught you.”

Marco snapped his fingers under his chin. The guard had not appeared, so his friend embellished the escape story and then they sat in silence for a while until a shadow appeared in the doorway.

“ Pregu , take care of yourself.” Gaetano kissed Marco’s hand.

“Arriverdeci Gaetano, miu amicu .”

Their eight weeks were up and the final field exam was about to commence with all of the tank groups of the squadron lined up to run through the rigorous course. They had finished their written exams the evening before. It was all about their performance and, if they failed this test, the four of them would be marching in the infantry the rest of the war. Sergeant Ackers, hoping they boloed, engineered it so they would go last to provide a good laugh for the whole squadron after a long day in the field.

When their turn came, they shook hands, jumped into the tank and Sergeant Ackers, watching from a viewing stand, pumped his arm up and down. Off they streaked at the highest speed, the left and right steering laterals firmly within Nick’s grip, turning, slowing down, and speeding up, going backwards and forwards, all the while the crew listening to Nathan’s commands on their headsets. Their crew fired at the first target, obliterating it with two shots, repeating the same routine three more times, returning to their original spot in record time.

Sergeant Ackers drove the CO of the squadron to their tank. Lieutenant Colonel Jones got out of the jeep and climbed onto the tank, while Captain Monroe grinned from his seat. The crew snapped salutes and the Colonel returned a sharp one. “Fantastic, gentlemen.” He turned to Ackers at the wheel, “I thought you said these men were inept. Looks like you could use a pair of glasses. We’re going to need men like these on the battlefield, right sergeant!”

“Yes, sir!”

That evening Nathan’s crew sat on the porch having a smoke. Everyone who passed on the way to the canteen gave some form of recognition. The barracks had emptied out, but they were still hanging around when Sergeant Ackers approached. They got up and stood at attention, but he never said: “At ease.”

“I’ll have to admit you qualified but it was just dumb luck. So don’t let it go to your heads,” the sergeant said.

“Is that why you came all the way from the NCO club?” Nick asked.

“No, there is one other thing—you guys may not be colored, but you’re still niggras to me. Look at your swarthy Eye-talian skin—no wonder y’all called guineas. And your Jew friend—just black turned inside out. What about your mystery friend here? No doubt, he’s got Injun blood or somethin’.”