After several days of spearheading our attack in Sicily, we were on a break in the village of Partinico. Lt. Harvey, our platoon leader, sent for me, saying, "Forrest, I have an important job for you. These civilians swear that the Fascists hold out on food distribution and sell it on the black market."
"Today is the time for their weekly flour ration, and they are afraid they will be cheated. I want you to take three men with you to get their flour."
"The mayor’s representative will be with you, plus three trucks and drivers. You are in charge, as you have a knack of getting things done. Bring back their full ration."
Engleterra, Stein and Byrd were selected by me, and my little convoy was on its way. The mayor’s representative was a small man in a swallowtail coat that hung to his knees. He was sweating profusely in the August heat.
The Fiat trucks were small, elderly, and were started with hand cranks. I hoped that they would make the ten or twelve miles to the warehouse.
Upon our eventual arrival, the mayor’s representative and the warehouse supervisor began a heated argument.
"What’s going on?" I asked engleterra who spoke fluent Italian.
"The supervisor is saying that the ration has been reduced, and our guys don’t like it," replied my interpreter.
"Tell him we came after a full ration of flour, and that’s what we are leaving with," I said.
Engleterra gave him my message, and the supervisor gave me a scornful sneer. He then launched a torrent of Italian and spittle at me, ranting on and on. What he said seemed to amuse the warehouse crew, for they were all laughing. Finally, out of breath or spittle, he stopped.
"What the hell did he say?" I asked Engleterra.
"Well," he said, "about everything. He said you have no business interfering in his affairs; you get what flour he chooses to give you, if any; and just who in hell do you think you are, anyway. These were the nicest things he said.
"Oh, and he doubts your parents were married, and if they were, your father pimped for your mother."
My slight irritation can well be imagined as I gave my orders to my little army.
"When I give the signal, cover these bastards, but for god’s sake, don’t shoot. Just cover them. I’m going to use diplomacy."
"Engleterra, tell this pompous ass that I haven’t shot an Italian in days. I miss shooting them, and would be glad to start with him and his crew.
"Also tell him I’m sure to gut-shoot him. When I fire a shot, give him that message."
My bullet, carefully aimed just in front of his feet, caused him and his crew to leap into the air. Engleterra gave him my ultimatum, and the warehouse crew began shouting at him.
"They’re scared to death," Engleterra confided, "and want him to obey you. He’s too scared to speak."
"Tell these men to load our trucks until I tell them to stop," I told Engleterra. "See how well diplomacy works?" I smiled.
Engleterra and I were surprised at the quantity of contraband we found in the back room of the warehouse: cases of wine, cheeses and sausages were just a few of the goodies stashed there. These people were really in the black market.
A workman is worthy of his hire, so we surreptitiously loaded a supply of these goodies onto a truck.
The trucks were groaning under the weight of sacks of flour when I called a halt to the loading. Engleterra, in picturesque Sicilian terms, told the chastened warehouse manager what his fate would be if he didn’t mend his ways.
With three happy drivers, a rapturous and well-floured mayor’s representative, and our purloined plunder laden trucks, we wheezed off for Partinico. The fierce August sun and our overload soon caused radiators to steam, necessitating frequent stops to cool and water the trucks.
We finally limped into Partinico late in the afternoon. We were quickly surrounded by the townspeople. The mayor’s representative and the drivers, all talking at once, related a lurid version of our adventures.
According to Engleterra, I was compared to Garibaldi, high praise indeed. The people gathered around us cheering, while kissing and embracing us. Though a trusting soul, I did keep my hand on my wallet.
We received numerous invitations to dinner and accepted them all. Lt. Harvey asked me if I had had any trouble getting the flour. I told him that I had used a diplomatic approach and encountered no problems at all. Pvt. Byrd said, "Hell, Lieutenant, when Forrest threatened to shoot them all, they were only too happy to load us up."
The lieutenant regarded me thoughtfully. "Forrest," he sad, "if you haven’t made any postwar plans, would you consider the Diplomatic service?"
"Hell, no, sir," I replied. "They talk too much. Would the lieutenant care to join me for dinner tonight? The mayor is expecting us at seven, and we’re sure to be served some of his wife’s excellent fresh bread."
Edwin F. Forrest A Rifleman Remembers ©1997 and 1998