Somewhere in the Stars Page 7

  The next morning he ate breakfast in the large mess hall. The internees sat together on wooden benches at long tables lined up in rows. The food was edible but never bonu, and for lunch and dinner, never a drop of red wine, a drink that always accompanied dinner at home. Gaetano thought of the Sicilian proverb, ‘Bonu vinu fa bonu sangu’—‘Good wine makes good blood.’ There was something missing to wash down what passed for three square meals. As usual Gaetano sat next to his friend, Marco, both complaining about the food. The white bread was puffy, the oatmeal mush thick like cement, the vegetables canned and the coffee so bitter, no amount of sugar or milk could mute its aftertaste, not even lemon. Gaetano never craved a second cup of java. They usually ate in silence and only spoke Sicilian in private because they never knew who might be listening, and they did not want to be interrogated, having no information the FBI would be interested in anyway.

  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’.”

  Nick threw a punch at Ackers that Nathan blocked. Paul put his face right up to the sergeant, but Al squeezed his body between the two of them. “Get out of here, sergeant,” Paul yelled over Al’s shoulder, “before you become the first casualty of this squadron.” Ackers laughed at Paul and strutted away.

  “Nathan, why the hell did you block my punch, after what he said about us?”

  “That’s what he wanted. If you strike someone in charge during war, you’d be court-martialed. Do you actually believe anyone would take our word over his, without any other witnesses?”

  “How did you figure all of this out?” Paul asked.

  “A wise old Jew warned me and I listened.”

  The camp cycle had been completed but no one seemed to know what was going to happen next. There were naval battles going on in the Pacific and an Allied military campaign raging in North Africa against Field Marshall General Rommel. As the men killed time, they moved about as if the war were on hold. The silence and the secretiveness of things unnerved them. Nick and his friends had seen the newsreels in the camp movie house that showed the fire, destruction and human carnage taking place all over Europe, horrified by the Blitzkrieg against Britain.

  One evening the Colonel entered their barracks with Captain Monroe. “At ease, gentlemen. Before you know it, we’ll be shipping out from the port of Galveston. The troop ships will be heading in many directions, and you won’t know for sure where we’re actually going until we are on the open sea. Remember, the Central Command Headquarters can change orders, so don’t speculate too much. Just stick together and we’ll get through this. You’re well trained now and you’re fighting for your country. In the meantime, we will be participating in joint maneuvers with engineer, artillery and infantry units. Any questions?” Everyone remained silent.

  The Lieutenant Colonel left the barracks to continue his rounds, allowing Captain Monroe to linger awhile. While the other GIs chatted away, the captain asked Nathan’s crew to step outside. The young men fidgeted while they waited for the crisp-tailored captain to speak. “You can light up if you want, gentlemen. I just have something private that needs to be aired out.”

  “It’s not about Sergeant Ackers, is it, sir?” Nick asked.

  “Don’t worry about him, Private Spataro. I just want to say that we’ll be heading to places that might provide a less than comfortable zone for you fellows as compared to the other recruits. I happen to think your tank crew is one of the best I have ever seen and would not want to lose you. But in all fairness to the whole squadron, I have to be sure of your commitment.” All four were intent on his every word. “It might be wise to pick another corridor of warfare, if anyone of you feels he may not be able to discharge his duties to the fullest.” He stared at them. “I mean unwavering.”

  Paul responded: “Don’t worry about me, sir. I’ll do whatever I’m told. I’ll be shooting at the uniforms of the Axis countries and that includes Italy, sir.”

  “Ditto for me, sir,” Al blurted out.

  “What about you two?”

  “Captain, I have a few cousins in Venice whom I’ve never met, but I’m thinking about all the families trapped by the Nazis. I’m ready to go to Italy.”

  “And you, Nick?” The captain put his hand on Nick’s shoulder.

  “To be honest, I’m not sure, sir.” The captain moved his hand down.

  “That’s not an acceptable answer, Private Spataro.”

  “Can you give me a little time, sir?”

  “You don’t have a lot of it. Talk it over with your buddies, if you like, but get back to me real quick. I’ve got to catch up with the colonel now.” The captain jogged several yards, stopped and spun around as if he forgot something. “I’m meeting up with some old friends at the Officer’s Club later, if anyone needs to talk with me.” He stared at Nick.

  Nick waved off his crew and went off to the wooded area to think things out. He lit up a cigarette and watched the big circles of smoke dissipate into the cool night air. The important pivotal scenes in his life popped into his head while the blinking stars faded in the black sky. Things had a way of working out badly, as if he were disgraziatu. He had warned Paul that he had issues about killing Italians but didn’t want to desert this crew of best friends. It would be a piece of cake to argue that he would be killing Fascists and helping the resistance restore the republic. But he began doubting his motives and maybe there was too much fear in him, using this Italian obstacle as an excuse. Then again, what young man wanted to die before ever having a life?

  It was twenty-three hundred hours, but Nick couldn’t think any more—it was too painful. Maybe the only real happiness he ever had was at those big holiday celebrations that were shared by the family clan. What had all his Italian ancestors learned from all the wars and humiliations that traversed the Italian peninsula and the islands of Sicily and Sardinia—to survive, there was just the family. Only the Romans held real power but that civilization was ancient history now. Mussolini thought he had recreated that empire—what a cruel joke to play on the Italian people. Nick picked himself up and inched over to the Officer’s Club. He could hear the loud conversation, groups of men singing along with the piano player and the ever-clinking glasses. He couldn’t make up his mind, even as Captain Monroe stepped outside. And anyway, how many stones did he have in his head to think that tankers would be going anywhere else but the European front, not the islands of the Pacific.

  He asked point blank: “Private Spataro, do you have a problem killing Italian combatants?”

  “No, sir!”

  “Glad to have you on board.” The captain shook his hand and returned to the club.

  The lights were out in his barracks and everyone was asleep. Nick quietly packed his gear and rested it next to his crew’s bags. He had lied to the captain but his bond to the trio was unbreakable and as pazzu as it sounded, fighting Italians would prove his loyalty to America like nothing else, the vehicle to spring Papà from the internment camp. Nick was learning that everything was complicated in life, whether it was his girlfriend, family or the damn war. He would just have to live with the pain of it all, so he slunk into bed without a word to his friends, the night shadows revealing themselves like so many floaters in his eyes, until his nerves wore him down into a shallow sleep.

  The next weekend Nick thought it was odd that there was still no news about shipping out, so it became a case of ‘Hurry Up and Wait,’ leaving him anxious about everything. Papà and he were living in Army camps, one in Montana, the other Texas, about as far from North Beach as they ever wanted, not even a view of the sea, both of them adrift in a sailboat with no idea where the winds would take them.

  V

  After months of maneuvers, an outbreak of measles and a change in orders, their squadron finally shipped out in a convoy from the port of New Orleans. They made the crossing towards North Africa at the end of April 1943. During the voyage, the troops slept in hammocks on the tank deck below, suspended from steel bars in tiers of three and when they weren’t cleaning equipment, they ate or killed time, playing hours of poker and gin rummy for big stakes and little. Nick wondered how many excuses the GIs could come up with to gamble the night away. Two weeks later, under a crescent moon, the American troopships approached the French Moroccan coast, while the Royal Naval frigates from Gibraltar scared off an attack by a wolf pack of U-boats. Nathan’s crew couldn’t sleep, so they went up on the main deck for some fresh air, as their LST, a Landing Ship, Tank, steamed closer to the port of Casablanca, liberated by British and American forces during Operation Torch.

  “There’s no
turning back now,” Nick said after a protracted silence, while the long stern wake marked their speed. “My father once said you can see the shoreline of Tunisia from Sicily. In the hills of the Baglio, north of Sciacca.

  “È veru,” Paul confirmed.

  “I wonder if my Venetian ancestors ever ran into yours on Sicily,” Nathan added. “Some of them were navigators, you know. Wouldn’t it be something if we could travel in a time machine and find out?”

  “How about using it to find a peaceful island now?” Nick asked.

  “Don’t we all wish,” Al said, shaking his head.

  “I heard a lot of Brits got killed fighting the Desert Fox’s Panzers in Libya,” Paul said.

  “Let’s not talk about it, cuginu.”

  “Yeah, Paul. The worst thing is the fear of the unknown,” Nathan added. “Who knows what the battle front will be like by the time we get there?”

  After several weeks of training exercises in Morocco with new, M10 Wolverine tank destroyers, their squadron moved east to Oudja, where they spent weeks in preparation for an amphibious assault on terrain that resembled the Sicilian coast. The port of Algiers was chosen as the point of embarkation for their convoy designated Dime Force, whose target was the Gela beach, one of four staging areas in southeastern Sicily. Their squadron would be part of General Paton’s Seventh Army Landing.

  Though not time for mail call, a soldier came by and told Nick to go to the mail station since there was a stack of letters waiting for him. When he grabbed the bundle, he flipped through them and opened one of the envelopes from his father. He found a second one within that had a cancellation stamped October 15, 1942. He wondered why these letters were delayed for so many months. He examined the flap of that second envelope, which appeared jagged as if it had been tampered with. He shrugged and slid out a one paragraph note, which he read to himself and then aloud: