Frank Polizzi - Somewhere in the Stars

Right before the first landing, a barrage of 5-inch rockets from the Landing Craft Tanks called LCTs eradicated the land mines hidden in the sand, the explosions reverberating in Nick’s ears. By the third wave of infantrymen, the Germans sprayed the beaches with machine gun bullets causing some casualties, the first light bringing a Messerschmitt formation that blew up many supply-laden trucks. Nick saw fires fanning all over the beach and later heard the dreadful drone of Focke-Wulf fighter-bombers that swooped down and blew up an LCI nearby. By midnight of D-day, Operation Shingle was a complete success, an unexpected surprise for Field Marshall Kesselring and a welcome relief to Nick and his buddies.

Nathan’s crew was part of a unit attached to Combat Command B of the 1st U.S. Armored Division, when Nick drove onto the beach towards the end of January with the rest of the division following. Even though all the tanks were assembled on the beachhead, General Lucas still had not ordered a breakout from the Anzio beaches to drive a wedge through the German defenses blocking the way to Rome.

“Nick, I got a call over the radio from Captain Monroe.” Nick straightened his headset. “The infantry is bogged down near Campoleone, taking on a lot of casualties. They’re still waiting for armor support. Get ready to move out of this bitchhead.”

“Gotcha, Nate!”

Their unit of tank destroyers moved at maximum speed in a column followed by medium tanks and half-tracks on the road north to Cisterna. The ground began to shake, as the machines spit up globs of earth with their treads whipping around the wheels, the smell of diesel exhaust in the air. The unforgiving terrain slowed down the tanks and, when Nathan’s crew got closer, they could see what amounted to a killing field for the British infantrymen who had been desperately waiting for relief. Without a warning, German anti-tank guns, camouflaged on Vallelata Ridge, began to destroy tank after tank, as if in a fairground shooting gallery. In all this chaos, four tank destroyers got mired in an irrigation ditch, one of which was theirs.

“Great! We’re all FUBAR now, Nick,” Nathan screamed.

“We need a dang wrecker to drag us out,” Nick yelled back. When it got dark, tracers were flying over their heads, followed by a deafening cocktail of rapid firing MG 42 machine guns, the never-ending rounds of mortars and 88mm guns. Through the din Nick could hear wounded men crying out from the battlefield, the acrid odor of cordite from British weapons so strong he could taste the bitterness. He thought that they might have to abandon the tank, climb out of the ditch and make a desperate run for it, until he heard his cousin call out: “Here comes Captain America!” The wrecker dragged each tank destroyer out. Nick’s crewmates were relieved to get out of there, but Nick divined that they were running out of luck. When they got back to their encampment, Captain Monroe briefed Nathan who returned to his crew, opening the flap of their tent and stepping in.

“Fellas, more bad news. I’m sick to my stomach. We lost six times as many tanks trying to repel the German bombardment, after saving four tank destroyers. We’re not breaking through to Rome anytime soon. No matter what General Clark wants, no matter how hard ole bulldog Churchill pushes.”

One evening before mail call, the four GIs sat on the sand in front of their tent, longing for letters from home, Paul and Al puffing on cigarettes. Nick observed Nathan finishing replicas of five Panzers destroyed during the Salerno battle. They were done in fine detail, paint strokes, added to the others on the turret.

A postal clerk who handed out packages said he would return soon with the letters for their company. While they milled around by a burnt olive tree, Nathan opened up a package from his father and squeezed out a newspaper from the manila envelope. After glancing at the paper, he held it up for his crew to see.

“Guys, look at this.” Nathan stretched out the front page.

The Associated Press report told about the destruction of the medieval, Benedictine Abbey of Monte Cassino, perched high on a rocky hill just 75 miles south from Rome. Two hundred and fifty bombers, including a hundred Flying Fortresses, had bombed the monastery, knocking the blue and white tower into the courtyard, the abbey roof collapsing into its core and by nightfall, only the surrounding, massive walls at the base still stood, pockmarked with king-size holes, leaving all the buildings inside a mass of rubble.

“It used to be such a beauty.” Nathan said, shaking his head. “What a shame!” He described to his friends what it once looked like, having studied the art and architecture of this renowned treasure. Nathan explained that there was a lower fortress wall with a massive stone façade on top. The abbey stood palatial, punctuated with myriad cell windows. When the sunlight shifted, the stone would change hues. The blue dome of the basilica rose in the rear. The frescoes and mosaics inside were exquisite.

“Nick, did you think they’d blow up the abbey?” Nathan asked.

“Nah, it’s such an historic place. Where St. Benedict started his order in 529. Not even the krauts would touch it.”

“It’s just a building with a bunch of monks running around the place,” Paul said. “You ask me, those Nazis were hiding up there, just watching our every move, calling in all those artillery shells on our guys.”

“You’re my cousin, but there are some things you don’t get.”

“Get outta here. We’re here to blow things up, to destroy the enemy.”

“Aren’t we supposed to be a killer squadron like General Patton says?” Al asked.

“Yeah, I got his ‘Blood and Guts’ speech—your blood, his guts. But I’m not talking about the danged war,” Nick responded. “What about all those irreplaceable frescos and rare leather books? In the oldest monastery! So how did we know bombing the monastery was going to help the troops in the long run? Does anybody have the answer?”

“See, there you go, cuginu. Acting like a wise guy with all your trick questions. We’re all stuck in this merda. We’ll be lucky if any of us get out alive.” Paul flung his cigarette and walked away with Al following.

“All I did was admire a goyim shrine and a war breaks out between you Christians.”

“I love Paul like a brother, but you don’t know what it was like going to grammar school with him. Anytime my teachers praised me in class, he used to giggle and not satisfied, tease me after school. It used to get on my nerves. The only time we got along was doing something physical, like riding our bikes to the Golden Gate Bridge or playing baseball.”

“It’s tough when you start to outgrow some of the people you love. But Paul is still a mensch and that’s something everyone can appreciate. He’s just blowing off steam. Give him a hug when he cools off.”

Nick grinned, thinking how Nathan could piss him off just because he might be smarter.

“What’s with the smiley mug?”

“Nenti!”

An hour later there was another mail call and Nathan’s crew picked up their letters. Nick separated himself from the group, going behind the tank to read his.

Papà wrote:

Caru Nicolo ,

It has been a long while, figghiu miu , since we last heard from you. You say, all the time, everything is okay pop. Don’t worry you say but tell that to Momma . Allura . I read many things about Italy in newspapers, many deaths, much suffering. I am not a holy man but I pray for one thing. That you will sit with me by our fig tree in the backyard, pick the fruit when it’s sweet and eat together. I tell Mamma that little, old Italian women in black dresses cook la cena for GIs like you when you are not fighting Germans. Basta! Writing in l’inglese gives me a mal di testa .