Week With My Father (eBook)

Sunday morning, November 21, 1943

I am by the barn putting together some feed for the few animals that remain when I hear the rumbling of anti-aircraft guns in the distance. It is a nice, clear morning. The sun is about ready to show itself over Arielli on the other side of the valley. I watch as a shroud of fog floats across the bottom of the valley.

I don’t own a wristwatch or a pocket watch anymore, but by the light of the day and the fact that the sun isn’t showing over the town, I figure it to be around 7 o’clock. Soon the sun will rise over the town and the fog will lift. The sound of the guns is not unusual for this time of the day. Then again, nothing is out of the ordinary anymore. War has arrived.

Most of the shelling and bombing going on in between the Germans and the Allies has been happening during the day. But over the last week or so it has been shifting to different times, and the frequency is increasing. I can now distinguish the difference between cannon fire, tank fire, and bombs being dropped by planes. I figure the Americans are trying to weaken resistance inland as they get closer. They control the air space and now they are softening the ground resistance. But the anti-aircraft guns are well hidden all over the sides of the hill. To dislodge them, the Allies will have to bring in ground troops to supplement the bombing. In my heart I hope the Americans get here soon.

I go on with my work and become immersed in it until I realize a whining in the distance I wasn’t paying attention to is getting closer. I move away from the house to get a better look over the roof. When I look up, I have to shield my eyes. The sun is still not fully showing on the other side of the valley over the town, but its brightness is like a floodlight, blinding me.

The noise is growing louder and when I move to the side of the house, I see five planes flying by and turning toward the town.

“The Americans are coming!” I think to myself.

With my hand still up to protect my eyes from the sun, I watch them float toward the town. The strange part is that while the planes have flown by, I can still hear the approaching whining of an engine. When I turn to look back, I see the nose of a plane coming over the house. It comes so close that it blows some tiles off the roof. The tiles momentarily follow the plane in its wake, then fall to the ground and shatter.

I run for the cover of the terrace in front of the house to avoid the falling tiles. From the safety of the terrace, I am relieved to see the plane still floating toward the valley. I see a fleeting shadow of the pilot in the cabin and a big star painted on the fuselage. The Americans aren’t coming, I think to myself. They are here!

In previous days, I’ve heard distant mortar and cannon shelling coming from the Allies in what I believe were positions near Ortona. I suspect they were trying to dislodge the Germans from the port city and push them inland. I also noticed there were more bombardments from the air, and with each day they seemed to get closer.

Now, American planes were flying over our heads, and I thought: Things are about to change.

As the plane flies by, I realize the single engine propeller is sputtering and smoke is pouring from what looks like the engine and pilot compartment. More smoke seems to be coming from the tail end. I know for sure that the plane has been hit. I’m guessing the pilot is in trouble and that he won’t make it across the valley and over the town to fly beyond the anti-aircraft guns and find safety.

I come out from under the terrace and run toward the end of the clearing in front of the barn so that I can follow the flight of the plane. I see it’s losing altitude and is going to crash. It moves in and out of patches of fog as it floats toward the bottom of the valley. With the distance growing, I can see that the black smoke left by the plane in its wake is becoming more prominent, spreading and mixing in with the fog. I lose sight of the plane for a moment, but when it comes into view again, I see its belly hits the ground close to the bottom of the valley. It seems to skip along our freshly planted fields until it reaches a grassy area. Then it looks as though an invisible hand is pushing the plane to give it momentum as if it plans to take flight again.

But that is not to be, for the inevitable happens.

The plane reaches the tree line, and almost instantly one of its wings clips some low trees and breaks off, flying out to one side. The rest of the plane continues toward the bottom of the valley. It crosses the line where the “v” of the valley forms and the climb up the other wall of the valley begins.

I know my land, so I realize that from where the plane has crashed and skidded to the opposite side of the “v,” it will meet what amounts to a steep cliff. I keep watching the plane. It leaves a cloud of smoke and dirt in its wake that continues to mix with the ground fog. Then I lose sight of it as it disappears in one of the denser pockets of fog and hits the bottom of the cliff.

The other planes have reached the town, and I hear the first of the explosions as the bombs start to hit their targets and unload on German positions.

Now, I hear my mother ask, “Tumaa’, che’ succede?”(“What’s happening?”) She is looking down at me from the terrace as she comes outside with my brother and two sisters in tow.

“A plane was shot down,” I say. “I’m going down the valley. Maybe I can be of help to the pilot.”

“No, Tumaa’! There are Germans all over the place!” My mother’s voice sounds even more commanding than usual. Her words come as I hear more explosions of bombs being unloaded on the town followed by the rat-a-tat of German anti-aircraft guns.

“Please Tumaa’…don’t go! They are bombing the town. It’s too dangerous.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be okay,” I answer as I start to run toward the valley.

But after a few steps I hear my mother’s voice again. “Rocco, come back!”

I turn around and see my mother standing at the edge of the clearing in front of our home. She is calling to my brother, Rocco, who is 10 years old. He is running after me. The pleading in her voice makes me stop and wait for Rocco to catch up.

“Dove vai? Vai a casa! (“Where are you going? Go home!”) I tell him.

“No. Vengo anch’io.” (“I’m coming, too.”) he replies.

I wave to my mother to reassure her. I don’t want to lose time arguing with my brother, so I decide to take him with me. I can hear my mother saying something, but by now we’re running down the hill toward where the plane has crashed. I see where it landed, carving a deep gash in the land, running past the edge of the field, across the river wash area and into the woods.

The trail is easy to follow. As we run past the wing that has been ripped off and we come closer to the plane, the smell of fuel is strong. But so far there haven’t been any explosions. That has me worried because if the plane does blow up there will be no place for my brother and me to hide. Not that we would even have a chance to look for a hiding place.

But my thoughts turn to the possibility I might be able to help if the pilot has survived the crash.

When we reach the plane, we see it lying on its side where the missing wing should be. The wing that’s still attached is standing straight up, reaching for the sky it flew through only minutes ago. We must climb over debris to reach the plane. When we do, we discover that more then half of the cabin is imbedded in a wall of dirt, along with sticks and rocks the plane collected as it skidded to a halt. The window glass is all gone except for some jugged pieces still hanging around the frame. There is some blood on the glass. But other than the blood, I see no trace of the pilot.

Small flames are flashing by the pilot’s seat and spreading toward the back of the plane. There’s a full load of bombs hanging from the remaining wing. I know, as well, that the cargo area must be fully loaded.

Rocco says, “Tumaa’, non c’e’ nessuno.” (“No one is here.”) I look at him and shrug my shoulders. We are still looking around the plane when I hear a sound I haven’t...