Brothers

The Sicilian campaign was a week old when three of us were detailed to escort some prisoners to the rear. We were offered a ride in a truck carrying four Italian P.O.W.’s guarded by a sergeant and two men. The truck gave off the sickeningly sweet smell of bodies. The four Italians were a body recovery detail supervised by the sergeant and his men.

One of the prisoners, a mere boy, stood alone silently, tears streaking his face. The sergeant said, "It’s the damndest thing I’ve ever seen. One of the bodies was this kid’s brother."

Compassion for the boy soldier and concern for my kid brothers, now in the Army, may have prompted my next move. Handing my rifle to another g.I., I went to the boy and put my arm around his shoulders. Drawing him close, I began talking to him. I spoke of sympathy and understanding. "Cry," I told him. "Let it out, let it go."

My words or tone, or maybe just my touch must have reached him, for he began sobbing. I held him close, smoothing back his hair, still talking in a soothing way. His sobbing at last over, I dried his tear-stained face with my grimy handkerchief. The Italian P.O.W.’s seemed to appreciate my concern and my comforting of the boy and murmured "Grazie. Grazie."

The G.I.’s at first seemed embarrassed at this show of emotion. Then, in typical G.I. fashion, they searched through their pockets. Soon the Italians were given cigarettes, matches, hard candy and sundry other items. My buddies, too, were showing compassion and sympathy--in their way.

We had now arrived at our stop, so, wishing the P.O.W.’s well, we dismounted.

"Take it easy, soldier," I said to the bereaved boy, and squeezed his shoulder. He managed a small smile as he replied, "Grazie. Mille grazie."

We were a somber group as we walked the short distance to our camp, each of us enveloped in his own sober, solitary thoughts. The grimness of war had come to us in an unexpected way that day. But nothing could match the horror of the boy soldiers finding the mangled body of his own brother.

Edwin F. Forrest A Rifleman Remembers     ©1997 and 1998