Frank Polizzi - Somewhere in the Stars

“You know what was as scary as the beach landing?” Nick asked, as the crew fidgeted with their gear. “Sitting in that stinking LST tomb on the sea.”

“You’re right, cuginu .”

“Just like a duck in water under the bead of a hunter’s rifle,” Nick continued.

“I can picture a black duck from my home town,” Al put in.

“And then without…”

“Bang!” Paul interrupted Nick, as he mimicked shooting a rifle.

“Without any warning, the damn duck winds up dead, ass sticking out of the water.”

“Yeah, drowning to death like those bodies bobbing near the beachhead.” Paul took another drag.

“Face down in the black sea,” Al continued.

“Don’t dwell on this stuff. We all made it in one piece, didn’t we?” Nathan inhaled the smoke through his nose. “But I have to admit.” He took another drag. “It gives me the willies thinking about it.”

“I heard having Patton as commander is our best chance to get out alive,” Al said.

“Yeah, but didn’t he say in one of his pep talks, ‘We will get the name of killers and killers are immortal’?” Nathan asked. “It scares the shit out of me when our own officers start talking about warriors who won’t die in battle.”

“Yeah, like we’re the Persian Ten Thousand Immortals,” Nick concluded.

They buried the cigarette butts into the dirt, unrolled their sleeping bags and squirreled in. While his partners slept, Nick left the crew tent to gaze at the stars. He could see flashes on the northeast horizon, which marked the front lines where the British allies fought the German and Italian troops. He ruminated about the young GIs dead on the beach and wondered if many Italians or Sicilian paesani died. He thought about the flaming Italian tank they blew up, realizing he could have been in that tank had his family not emigrated to America. Perhaps they could be distant cousins. He would have to push these thoughts into the back of his mind. The pressure was already building inside and he prayed that he wouldn’t crack up. He closed his eyes and thought about his mother and father reunited, the money scarce. Soon after Nick’s musings detoured to Deborah and what she was doing now and if there was another guy. What he wouldn’t do to be with her one more time. He looked for a shooting star but the sky offered up the usual patterns. He gave up and scrunched into the tent.

The next day Colonel Jones briefed the captains of each tank company in his squadron, the news filtering down to the tank crews. The Allied Powers’ main objective was to take Messina, barely two miles from the Italian mainland. From Sicilian stories he heard in North Beach, Nick knew the island had some rugged terrain, which rose in the north with the Nebrodi mountain range, linking all the way eastward with the fiery volcano, Mt. Etna. He speculated which direction their squadron would go since their unit had been attached to Lieutenant General Patton’s Armored division. Would it be taking the most direct and dangerous route, heading northeast or storming Palermo first in the west and then heading east to Messina? While the brass argued battle tactics, the tanks sat idle.

After supper Nathan played poker with Al and Paul, while Nick sat under the tent opening and smoked a cigarette. He calculated that their camp was an hour and half drive by jeep to the paese natale of his father. He was very curious about his Nannu and the family hometown, having heard so many anecdotes from his Papà. The next morning he checked with Captain Monroe.

“I’ve never seen my grandfather. He lives in a fishing village not far from here. With your permission, Sir, may I visit him?”

“We have orders from General Patton, but I’m not at liberty to give details yet.” The captain rubbed his chin. “Stay right here while I pass this by the Colonel.” He returned within five minutes. “Private Spataro, the Colonel likes you boys so much, he going to let you use his own jeep. But I want you back by nineteen hundred, not a minute later. You can bring one of your buddies but the rest have to stay with the tank. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sir! Thank you, Captain.”

“Before you go, there’s something that’s been troubling me.” The captain looked straight into Nick’s eyes. “I grew up in Virginia and never cottoned to folks like Ackers. The South deserves a better image.” The captain smiled. “Anyway, have a great time with your granddaddy, but watch out for yourself on the main road.” As Nick jogged away he added: “And make sure you don’t run into Sergeant Ackers.”

Nick had chosen Nathan to accompany him to find his grandfather because his friend wanted to eat an Italian dinner in the countryside. Paul had agreed to stay with Al since the grandfather was on Nick’s paternal side. The pair didn’t talk much while riding on the main road because they had to be vigilant for sudden strafing. When Nick turned off onto a narrow dirt road, the jeep jostled them and Nathan teased him about his driving. Midway on the journey they passed by an orchard of almond trees that had turned deep green, later on rows of olive trees full of grayish-green ovals and then groves of lemon trees, the scent of citrus lingering in the air, patches of golden-yellow brooms popping up along the way to Sciacca. They eventually descended down to the port of the town, passing rows of idle fishing boats in the Porta San Salvatore. Nick managed to find Corso Vittorio Emanuele that led to the main Piazza Angelo Scandaliato , overlooking the sea. A group of elderly men chatted on the stone bench, while a fruit vendor poked his head outside the window of his truck, calling out, “pesche, meloni, arancini, limone!”

They got out of the jeep and walked over to a half-filled fountain and splashed water on their faces. Nick surveyed the scene and chose the café as a good place to inquire about his grandfather. They entered the place and Nick noticed the customers stopped talking and silently observed them. He questioned a skinny man in his seventies who had just finished steaming the milk for a cappuccino and placed the cup on the bar, giving them a distrustful look. A large poster of il Duce hung on the wall behind him. The barista grudgingly gave Nick the directions to his grandfather’s place— Vincinu lu Baglio, vai!

Nick got lost, which made them hotter and hungrier until they came across a dusty, roadside alimentari . It had a fruit stand outside, packed with blood oranges. The roof looked like it was ready to collapse from neglect. They stopped to buy a bag of the oranges, when an elderly woman in a black dress cajoled them into sitting outside under a large cedar tree at the side of the building. She promised to cook an autenticu Sicilian meal. Her grandson carried out a table and chairs, set up everything under the shade of that lone tree, putting a white tablecloth on top of the table. She produced a four course dinner with vinu dâ casa , everything home grown, from an antipasto of roasted red peppers and fried eggplant, a pasta with a creamy, tomato sauce, grilled lamb with herbs, finishing off with figs and espresso . Afterwards, they lit up Toscano cigars.

“Feels like our last supper before an execution,” Nick commented.

“Don’t go morbid on me, will ya!” Nathan tapped the ashes onto the ground. “The Signora gave you good directions. I’ll just stay here and finish my cigar, so you can have some private time with your grandfather. Maybe even take a little nap, Sicilian style.” Nathan laughed.

“See you later, Nate.”