Aug 6

Aug 6 Islands Of Fire

“Will immerse you in the legacy and life of Sicily... A creative and contemplative book about Sicily’s journey through the ages”

— Ambassador Magazine

“A sweeping portrait of the Mediterranean’s biggest island”

— Amazon Review

“Highly recommended to anyone with a love of novels, history, or just a darn good read”

— Amazon Review

Read reviews in Goodreads

Islands Of Fire - book excerpt

February 1943 - North Africa, War Journal

Another chilly night. The moonless sky is hauntingly black and a thin sheet of clouds obscures the stars overhead. The air is still; the only sound I hear in our encampment on the edge of this mountain is the murmur of a passing breeze winding through the trees. Scores of exhausted soldiers are bivouacked around me in this pass through the Atlas Mountains in Tunisia. We wait for orders from our German commander or, worse, a sudden attack by enemy forces.

We have no firepits to warm us, only the red glow of a cigarette to light the ruddy cheeks and coarse hands of the men. We know that burning cigarettes is discouraged, but the pop of a flaring match is worse, so we have adopted the practice of chain smoking, lighting each butt from the one before to avoid the signal given off by the sulphurous burst of a new match.

“Shhh,” one man whispers to some others sitting in a cluster near him. Sound is also discouraged, but my fellow recruits from Sicily have little of home left in them except the stories they share on these dark nights.

“Silensu!” the man says again. “Ira infernu!” he spits out in Sicilian argot.

These men were recruited by the local authorities in their towns, mostly from Gela, Agrigento, and Mazara del Vallo on the southern coast of our island. The Italian government thought it expedient to bring young Sicilian men into the conflict, men who had a local connection and who would commit to the fight to preserve their homeland. We didn’t count on being shipped to North Africa though, even when the German commander told us that this was the way to keep the Americans and British far enough away from attacking Sicily itself.

I sit behind these squabbling men, understanding their disappointment and pain, but I am also disappointed to be defending this mountain pass in Africa rather than my beloved Sicily. I shift my position and arch my shoulders to stretch them, then lean back into the shallow wooden chair that I have provisioned. It is not very comfortable, but I can rest on the burlap sling seat and back of the sparse furniture.

The stiff neck of my starched sand-colored uniform chafes at my skin, so I poke a finger into the collar to pull it from my neck. Lifting the stubby cigarette to my lips, I draw in deeply and hold the breath for a moment before letting the smoke drift slowly out in a silent whisper between my lips. But I should write more about the war, not just my discomfort.

It’s doubtful that anyone will read this journal, even if it survives the war. Even if I survive. But the bloodshed, devastation, and terror all around us convinces me that I should put my thoughts on paper.

I am Vito Trovato, from Mazara del Vallo. I was drafted into the Italian 131st Armored Division Centauro. Most of the ‘recruits’ – we’re encouraged to report that we volunteered – are from my part of Sicily in the province of Trapani on the western side of the island. The German Army built up its reserves by recruiting divisions of Italian conscripts to defend our land. But, more importantly to the Third Reich, we are here to serve as a defensive line against attempts by the enemy to use Sicily as a staging area for an attack on the European mainland…and, from there, to the Fatherland.

They think of Sicily as a barrier island, a battleground between Africa and Europe, and they treat us like cannon fodder. They know we will fight to protect Sicily and our people, and that should be enough to satisfy their goals.

My country has been thought of that way for a long time…a barren ground on which the peoples of the world staged their battles. If it’s not the Greeks taking over our cities and taking our women, then it’s the Romans stealing our grain or the Spanish or Byzantines or Normans vying for domination over us.

No one believes that the Nazis care about Sicily itself, or the Sicilians. But I am a Sicilian, and any invaders coming to my country must be sent back.

We haven’t been very successful in sending back the invaders, though. Now, or in centuries past. Maybe we should just regard each new aggressor carefully and choose which ones we should surrender to.

We – the 131st Armored Division recruits – assembled in the square of our city in November of last year and we were later ferried across to Tunisia to fight the Allies who had landed there. I have a good education from the university at Palermo and I returned to my home in Mazara to teach Italian literature to secondary students. The German hierarchy thought I should become an officer and lead men of lesser status.

I had to laugh at this. I am true to my occupation, but it’s hard to find a profession of lower status to a German general than a teacher of literature. But, these are unusual times.

We landed the next morning and the Germans quickly set up their camp. We Siciliani were left to ourselves, an armored detachment in defense of a German operation that, otherwise, pretended we weren’t here. They say the place is called the Kasserine Pass, but all I know is it’s cold, dark, and unfriendly.

We’re in a trail through the mountains and they say it has some importance to the war, but the war itself lacks meaning for most of us. We hear that our Prime Minister, Il Duce, is fighting against the Americans and British, but while leaders declare wars, real men fight them. This pass, this Kasserine, matters for some reason that Herr Rommel, the most honored German field marshal, decides. But will he die along with us?

I would rather be back in Sicily, in Mazara del Vallo, but I suppose defending my country against these attacks here in North Africa keeps the threat farther from my people. Sicilians have had too much conflict throughout our history; we could use a break.

* * * * *

It is now the evening of the following day. We were told at daybreak that Rommel was moving his 10th Panzer Division against the Allies defending the Kasserine Pass. He was relying on a combined push by the German Afrika Corps Assault Group and our Armored Division to overpower the Allied positions. It appears to have worked, and we pushed the American and British contingents into a panicked retreat from the mountains in North Africa.

The commander reports that the Allies lost many men and much military equipment in the rush to abandon their positions, and he bravely predicts that the enemy can no longer take over the North African theatre.

Once again, we are assigned to sit and wait. All around me, in small clumps, tired soldiers sit around the muddy roadway, leaning against the worn tires of the trucks we drive, and smoke cigarettes. One of the new recruits – we can always pick them out by the relative cleanliness of their uniforms – seems dazed. When I walked over to him and offered him a cigarette he smiled wanly. He looked like he was lost, or confused, or maybe just scared.

The Nazi commanders tell us about the great generals – Montgomery, Dunphie, Patton, Kesselring – but the names mean nothing to us. We’re soldiers who fight in the trenches, in the dust, in the hills. We can’t see farther than the sights on our rifles, or the smoke and cinder that erupts when one of our shells lands on enemy lines. Dry clothes, a pocketful of cigarettes, and a little to eat…that’s all we hope for.

We drove the Allies from North Africa, but then something happened. Herr Rommel changed his mind. I heard rumors but couldn’t tell what was true and what was not.

All that mattered was that we were pulling back, giving up the pass and the land we had died to hold. The survivors were thankful to let go and retreat to safer ground, but we were also dejected to leave behind our friends who had died for nothing.

* * * * *

Another day has passed. In the early morning hours, we shipped back to Gela, on the southern coast of Sicily. We retreated from North Africa, although the German officers told us we had just conquered North Africa. Most of my men are uneducated farmers, but they can tell that there was no victory over there. So, in shipping out, we moved the battle lines backward across the water, back into Sicily, all the while keeping our eyes and scouts focused on the coastline of the continent we were abandoning. If we had conquered it, we wouldn’t have to keep watching it.

‘We’ve run before the enemy,’ he said to us. I knew the German officer’s mastery of Italian was weak, which meant that his mastery of Sicilian was probably non-existent. He might have wanted to say that we escaped the clutches of the Allies, but to say ‘we’ve run before the enemy’ sounds – to the ears of the exhausted foot soldiers assembled in the piazza – more like ‘we lost, and so we ran.’

Siciliani are a proud people and running from the enemy leaves a stain on the man’s soul, his family, and the community. Over many years, many centuries, we’ve been overrun by people from Europe and the east, but surrender is ugly.

‘We’ve run before the enemy.’

Herr Traubel couldn’t have worded it any more poorly.

The Germans told us to plan to regroup on Sicily and establish a line of defense against the advancing Allied forces. But their strategy failed almost immediately. American General Patton landed with his Seventh Army on the shores of Sicily near where we had landed, outside of Gela. Rumors are the news bulletins for soldiers at war, and we were no exception. I heard from a German sergeant that Patton was heading west away from us, although that didn’t make sense. Why quit the battle when they seemed to have us in retreat?

We also heard that British General Bernard Montgomery was heading due north, right into the path we had been ordered to take as we backed up through the island. We were given a short pause in the march and the men slumped to the ground to rest their backs and legs.

We were pushed back again, at the instruction of the Germans. They didn’t want to confront the British on the southern shore of our island and they didn’t know where the Americans were headed by their swing to the west. All this meant for the soldiers in my command was to put themselves in between the two armies, the Allies advancing and the Germans backpedaling from the confrontation. My men asked what to do, and I could see desperation in their eyes.

I had been put in charge to lead these soldiers, and I intended to do so. But I couldn’t tell what the Germans would do, and I was becoming afraid of what the British and Americans could do.

* * * * *

Another day of light fighting and a rapid retreat, and now we are camped out near a stream on the eastern part of Sicily. The Allies are advancing toward us and have already won battles in the south between Gela and Ragusa, and the west around Agrigento and Licata. Many small towns in Sicily have been transformed from quiet hamlets to killing fields in an afternoon.

We are being driven back into the north-eastern corner of Sicily with only the water and Straits of Messina behind us. The Germans have no option but to stage another retreat across the strait to the boot of Italy and try to reorganize there and make a stand against the Americans.

We Siciliani are being dragged along with the Germans as they pull back from the south. The campaign is going terribly for all to see, and my men don’t need my summary of events to realize that we are losing.

Some men have left the ranks, never to be seen again. Some have been found ahead of our division, with a single gunshot below the chin. Some have merely sunk into a sullen depression, forced into losing a battle they had not chosen to fight.

’I know we fight for our country,’ Adolfo told me one morning. ‘But the Germans don’t care if we win it.’

I have to agree with him. I don’t need to remind him of the history of our country, how people from everywhere have fought for domination of Europe and the entire Mediterranean region using Sicily as the battleground. Adolfo has had enough fighting. He doesn’t need to be reminded that this has been the plight of our island ever since it was first inhabited by primitive people.

* * * * *

This morning was bright and crisp. The sun rose and brought a soothing warmth to my skin. The air was still, except for a light breeze that tickled the leaves of trees. It is a new day and I have come to a decision. Lifting my pack by a strap and throwing it over my shoulder, I looked once more at the camp around me. My six-month contract had ended weeks ago.

Adolfo sat with lowered chin nearby, but when I stood he turned in my direction. He looked up with sullen eyes and nodded. It was as if he knew what was in my mind.

I held his gaze for a moment, then I turned and walked toward the edge of the encampment. And when I made it that far, I continued walking. I am heading home for Mazara del Vallo.