Frank Polizzi - Somewhere in the Stars

The next morning the U.S. Seventh Army rolled into the center of the old city, clouds of dust hovering over the road all the way back to the hills. As Nathan’s crew followed the column of tanks, they passed under welcome banners, the crowds waving American and Italian flags. Some of the Palermitani cheered from the balconies of their apartment buildings, their bodies appearing to undulate from the rumble of the tanks. As the parade clogged up the long stretch of Via Vittorio Emanuele , their tank crunched the hard surface of the street pavement.

Nathan, Paul and Al, standing in the wide-open turret, beamed at the crowds. Paul gave the victory sign, while his cuginu steered with his head sticking out of the hatch. Nick surveyed the side streets and saw devastated buildings along the entire stretch. He had read in a newspaper that the bombing of Palermo started in May of ’43, when the B-17 Flying Fortresses dropped their payloads. By the time they reached the viewing stands, a Sicilian band played while the Cardinal watched from the Cathedral steps. Though the Sicilians may have been happy that the war was over for them after Palermo had been liberated, Nick wondered what family tragedies hid behind those smiling faces.

When the festivities were over, Colonel Jones positioned his squadron near the Kalsa section of Palermo, the old Arab quarter that fronted onto the harbor. Nathan’s crew began routine maintenance on their tank while waiting for orders. As they were working, a long ragged line of Italian soldiers was being marched over to a prisoner’s compound outside the city limits. Nick handed a wrench to his cousin and watched them go by along the road. All four of them had stopped what they were doing till the POWs passed. In disheveled and dusty uniforms, they dragged themselves along in uneven lines surrounded by armed guards. Nick thought many of the Italian soldiers seemed relieved and some even smiling. He was tempted to go over to speak with some of them but then he remembered the flaming Italian tank near Gela beach. Nathan handed out some cigarettes but Nick held back with the crew.

Sergeant Ackers came up from behind the crew and yelled: “Stop your gawking and get working on that tank.” They all turned towards the sergeant who moved sharply to the next tank and managed to smash into Nathan’s shoulder with his massive biceps, knocking him off balance. Paul picked up Nathan and Nick got into the sergeant’s face. “What the hell to do you think you’re doing?”

“Mind your business, corporal,” the sergeant barked, while towering over Nick, his chest pumped out. “Your friend can’t even stand straight.”

Nathan ran towards the sergeant and halted when he heard the colonel yell from a distance, “Don’t move, Sergeant Fein!” The colonel strode over to Ackers with Captain Monroe right behind him, as a bunch of tankers circled around. All the soldiers stood at attention and saluted but the colonel didn’t return the salute, bellowing, “At ease!” He glared at Ackers for a moment, and then turned to the group. “Okay, the troops need a little entertainment tonight, so you guys are going to settle this once and for all. A boxing match between Sergeant Fein and Sergeant First Class Ackers.”

“It’s my fight, colonel,” Nick volunteered.

“Wait a minute. This is between the sergeant and me,” Nathan protested. “I’m the one that hit the ground.”

“Captain Monroe, you settle this. I have to see to the rest of my rounds with the troops.” The colonel moved through the parting crowd.

“It’s you two,” as the captain pointed to Nathan and Ackers. “The Colonel has to meet with General Patton this evening at the Palazzo Normanni. I’ll referee this fight to make sure it stays clean.” The captain checked his watch. “Nineteen hundred oh fifteen, right in this spot.”

The troops dispersed to their tents and Nick and Nathan sat on the fender of the tank, while Paul and Al crouched under its shade and had a smoke. “Why didn’t you let me handle Ackers, Nate?”

“Remember what happened in Lincoln Park?”

“Yeah.” Nick laughed.

“What’s goin’ on up there, guys?” Paul stood up, squinting his eyes from the sun. “You’re pissin’ me off. Like you two are speakin’ another language or somethin’.” I was there too. Maybe youse guys got a case of amnesia?”

They jumped off and dragged Paul to the ground in a playful manner, then let him go. The three of them told their versions of the story to a wide-eyed Al, exaggerating the details and interrupting each other at will.

In the evening the whole squadron turned out, waiting for the captain’s arrival. Some of the soldiers were mock fighting, while others made jokes about each other. The bulk of them were placing bets with the company bookie and his two partners, who reminded Nick of the Three Stooges, except these mugs were real operators who always had plenty of dough to lend. Large groups of GIs gathered around, even ones from other companies, playing the odds in a frenzy. As soon as the officers showed up, the troopers calmed down. Nick managed to place the last bet for their crew without the captain seeing him, knowing that he disapproved of gambling.

“Listen up, gents,” the captain shouted, while a lieutenant gave a shrill whistle. “Our boxers are here now, so let’s form a circle. But give them plenty of room.”

Sergeant Ackers broke through the crowd, barechested to show off his massive pectoral muscles, a gut exposed over his shorts. Nathan wore a tight, once white undershirt, which outlined his wiry frame and loose fitting fatigue pants. They approached the captain who handed them the gloves. “A clean fight and you break the second I tell you. We’re following the Queensberry rules for 12 rounds. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the two fighters said in unison.

The first six rounds were a standoff with neither opponent attaining an advantage over the other in points scored. After the midway point, Sergeant Ackers used the same techniques as before, but the blows had a more damaging effect on Nathan’s face and torso, which panicked Nick as he tried to stop the blood from flowing when Nathan hobbled to his corner. It looked like a TKO might be declared in Acker’s favor.

During a minute break into the tenth round, the captain went over to the sergeant and whispered into his ear: “If you don’t take out whatever you have in your left glove, not only will I disqualify you, you’ll never make Master Sergeant.”

“Something’s not kosher,” Nick said in Nathan’s ear. “Stay focused and show that sonofabitch.”

“Cover that puffed eye and get that testa di merda ,” Paul advised, as Al jabbed the air with his fists several times.

The captain signaled for the next round. Nathan’s agility and adrenalin came back like a sudden crack of lightning and he overwhelmed Sergeant Ackers, who was knocked down as the gong sounded the end of the eleventh. The 12th round Ackers went on the defensive and dropped his guard for a split second, enabling Nathan to knock him flat out on the ground. Ackers sat up, shaking his head and the captain declared Nathan the winner. The crowd roared while Nick, Paul and Al ran over to Nathan. The foursome jumped up and down, linked arms and strutted back towards their tank. Later, hot showers were set up for the squadron and Nathan and his crew were ushered to the front of the line.

By noon the next day, they had completed their maintenance checklist, so Nick and Paul decided to explore the Kalsa neighborhood. They came upon abandoned, baronial palazzi in a maze of narrow streets reminiscent of a medieval medina. They lost themselves for a while, then followed the smell of Arab-Sicilian cooking that came from a tiny kiosk with a twisted corrugated roof. A woman with a wrinkled face and a desperate look coaxed the American GIs into buying fish couscous, redolent with spices. They sat on the dusty ground to avoid the streaming sun and picked the bones clean. Paul purchased a half dozen blood oranges from her and stuffed them into his shirt.