il Sindaco

[DATo]

il Sindaco

by

DATo

We approached the outskirts of the town cautiously in column: a line of men on each side of the main road. A number of German infantry units acting as a rear guard to the Wehrmacht's retreat were thought to be still active in this sector. Our job was to flush them out and send reconnaissance dispatches to the rear appraising Division of what lay ahead of the general advance. We were stealing a march on old Monty who thought this was going to be his show, but General Montgomery didn’t know Patton. The American Seventh Army was advancing at breakneck speed toward the port city of Messina driven by General Patton’s desire to best the efforts of his British counterpart. The island of Sicily was being sliced into three sections by the rampaging will of two egomaniacs, but the end result was effective - the Germans were on the run.

A concentration of well hidden German artillery not far from where we were advancing had been annihilated by Allied bombers only two days before. Had that artillery been operational our entire advance would have been halted and a fierce German counter attack would most certainly have followed. Hundreds, and perhaps thousands of lives had been saved by a message carried between the lines at great risk by an Italian resistance partisan. A note, a simple note written in English, with crude diagrams, had been found in the hand of a wounded and semiconscious GI. The soldier had been stationed in a clandestine forward outpost and had apparently communicated with someone from the village we were now approaching before receiving his wounds. His condition made it impossible for him to be debriefed but he had obviously understood the importance of the information in his possession for his path back to our lines was a direct one which had thrown caution to the wind and had exposed him to hostile fire, but he was ultimately successfull. The note he carried was discovered when he was found by a routine patrol shortly after receiving his injuries.

The spire of a small church looming over the treetops told us we were close, very close, to the village. Our caution was now redoubled as we advanced in short running spurts: each dash of ten men covered by a hundred rifles. As we advanced a soldier crouching in the last row of brush before the clearing of the town hand-signaled that there was a lone civilian standing in the middle of the road which turned sharply beyond our vision. The individual proved to be a young man standing awkwardly with his hat in his hands. He was signaled to approach us. As ranking officer I made my way to the front accompanied by Bobby Chirco, our battalion cook and second-generation American of Italian descent who could speak the language fluently. Questioning the man we discovered that there were no Germans in the town and none to be found in the immediate vicinity. But the Germans were known to take hostages to effect the results they desired from the loved ones of those being detained. We did not entirely trust the man’s information and infiltrated the town with caution as though it were occupied. As we entered the streets and byways of the town people began to emerge from homes and barns. The effusive display of welcome and joy with which we were greeted convinced us that the young man’s words had not been forced. Old Italian mammas and grandmothers hugged us and patted our cheeks; young, pretty girls waved immaculate handkerchiefs and occasionally, blushingly, kissed a GI; men offered bottles of wine and their pouches of tobacco, and the village priest blessed us all. This welcome was the closest thing to a civilized reception any of us had experienced since we first landed in North Africa long before the assault on Sicily. Though we were in the midsts of an alien culture it strangely reminded us of home and all the good things left behind.

As Corporal Chirco translated, an ancient man in a black, threadbare suit was introduced to us as La Professore. The attitude of the townspeople toward La Professore was deferential and I concluded that he was a man of some importance. He spoke five languages and I gratefully determined that I could communicate with him in English. The young man who had met us on the road explained that because La Professore was very old and frail, and because he could walk only with great difficulty, the townspeople decided that despite his protests he should not be pressed into service as their representative for our initial meeting on the road. La Professore welcomed us all in behalf of the town’s citizens and offered me his home as command post. After radioing developments to Division, dispatching two squads to re-con, and supervising the establishment of a perimeter defense I was escorted to La Professore’s home, which was only a short distance away, by half the townspeople and an energetic black dog which followed us with a rapidly wagging tail and what could only be interpreted as a broad, winning smile on his face.

La Professore, after speaking a few words to the crowd which had followed us, led me inside his modest but well-tended home alone but for the galloping dog which proved to be his companion. He told me that his name was Stefano Brocca but the town had nicknamed him La Professore. “It is practically tradition for every Italian to have a nickname.” he said. “They call me ‘La Professore’ because I was once a professor at the university, but this was long ago.” He went on to tell me that his wife had died fourteen years before and he had lived alone since that time, but the people of the community saw to his welfare. Women would take turns to wash his linens and others would send food, nicely cooked for him, with their children. Men would repair his roof or replace the broken leg of a chair and there were never any charges. In short, the townspeople looked after him, and in return he offered the wisdom of his years and education. When there was a protest or supplication for aid which required a well written letter to the district patricians it was La Professore who penned the letter. When a special doctor was needed for some obscure malady the old man would make the appropriate connections with the doctors and hospitals in Palermo.

“You must be the leader of this community then I expect.” said I.

“Oh no,” he replied. “We have a new mayor, a young fellow, who was elected mayor by the town unanimously only two days ago. The former mayor was a lackey and a German collaborator. Sunday last the men of our village met in the priest’s sacristy after mass to avoid the eyes and ears of the Germans. It was then that it was decided to make an attempt to warn your army of the artillery emplacements. The former mayor, as might be expected, objected to this plan. He threatened to tell the Germans if we made any effort to implement our devices. If he had done so one can never tell what reprisals may have visited the heads of our people, but this mayor was only interested in his own profit, and his own skin.

“It was our new mayor, iL Sindaco, who delivered the message to your forces. He and I privately discussed the matter and decided that our ends could best be served if he were to take the path to the lake where we sometimes fish. The path runs very close to where only he and I knew that your forces had set up a hidden observation post. Sindaco and I have traveled this path many times, and so well do we and all of the people of the village know this path that any of us could could walk it in the pitch blackness of night. My regret is that I could not join him in this trial, but if I were younger I would have made that journey beside him. His mission resulted in some minor injuries but he has recovered nicely and is in fine spirit. It was decided that I would meet with you at this time and speak officially for him when your forces arrived.”

I was intrigued by the story I had heard, and said that I was sure our government would welcome an opportunity to recognize and honor this man for the bravery of his actions and the sacrifices he endured for he had unquestionably saved the lives of many American servicemen.

“He is a modest individual,” replied La Professore. “He would be embarrassed by undo attention. He was orphaned as an infant and this whole town has become his family. I’m sure, without question that it was his desire to repay the kindnesses he has received since his childhood in our village by risking his life to serve our interests.”

“And what of this former mayor?” I asked grimly.

“He has not been seen since the Germans left.” La Professore said vaguely. “Perhaps he went with them.” He shrugged, and appeared to take peculiar interest in something invisible to me on the table as he said very quietly, “Who knows?”

La Professore uncorked a bottle of wine and produced some bread, cheese, an onion and some olives seasoned in vinegar and salt. Despite the modesty of the repast it remains fixed in my memory as one of the best meals of my life, perhaps garnished with the knowledge of my good fortune in not having taken any casualties in the execution of our mission. La Professore told me all that was known about the German retreat as well as what armored weapons they possessed, and all that the people of the village had learned about the German lines of supply. In time I took my leave, thanking La Professore for his information and his hospitality.

He walked me slowly to the door and said, “It is not seemly that a military officer of your distinction be seen to walk through our town unescorted. Please accept my apologies but my accursed infirmities prevent me from joining you.” He then spoke to his dog, who bolted to his feet at La Professore’s first word and listened to him in rapt attention. “Pippino, escort La Capitano if you please.” Though the old man spoke to Pippino in English it was obvious that the dog understood his meaning for he accompanied me out the door while looking up at me with a broad grin while matching his every step with mine.

I made my way through a crowd of happy, lingering people with Pippino prancing proudly by my side. Corporal Chirco jogged up to meet me and provided more information which he had obtained from the people of the town during my visit with La Professore. The village doctor had requested medical supplies of which he was in dire need, and some of the townspeople humbly asked for whatever food and fuel provisions we could spare because the Germans had left them with nothing when they left. I told Chirco to let the people know that the gratitude of the Seventh Army for what their village had done to protect the lives of so many of our troops would be unsparing. As Chirco listened he crouched over to briskly rub the fur of the frisky mutt by my side.

“I see you’ve made a new friend Corporal. I think introductions are in order. Corporal Chirco, meet Pippino.”

“You know captain, that old man must really love this dog. He’s wearing a new collar, and if I’m not mistaken this name tag is made of gold, but you got the name wrong. His name isn’t Pippino, the tag says, iL Sindaco. It means, The Mayor."