The fighting in Sicily being over, the troops were now on occupation duty. Company C was bivouacked in an area near a village. One day a pair of nuns showed up, asking to speak to our captain. We soon learned that they ran an orphanage nearby. They asked if they could have leftover food for the children. Nuns then showed up at mealtimes and were given leftover food.
Soon we G.I.’s stopped going for extra helpings. In a short time several of the men carried the increasingly heavy food containers. Now men made daily visits to the orphanage. When talking of the visits they began to speak of "my kid" this and "my kid" that. Curiosity finally prompted me to join them on a visit.
The orphanage was run devotedly by six nuns, some of whom had nurse’s training. Their charges ranged n age from infancy to 13 or 14 years of age. The nuns, with very few funds, ran the place with help from the older children. Some of the inmates had lost both parents, others, due to the chaos in Sicily, had become separated from their families.
Our men "adopted" the kids, and bragged about such accomplishments as how well their protegees had grasped our language. I was reluctant to form a personal attachment to any one child, knowing that our stop in any one place couldn’t last long, and that my departure could be painful for the child.
This changed completely the day a tiny, soft hand sought mine. Looking down I saw a pretty, slim girl about seven years old. She looked up at me with enormous brown eyes. Seating myself, I drew her close.
"You are pretty," I said. Cupping her delicate face in my hands, I said "Faccia bella! Faccia bella!" Next I drew my fingers outward from my chin and made a fearful face. Pointing to myself, I said "Faccia bruta!"
The child’s laughter was good to hear. She pointed to me and said, "Faccia bruta!" and laughed again.
An English-speaking nun exclaimed, "What charm you must have! What magic you have worked!"
She explained that the child, Teresa, had been at the institution for four weeks, and hadn’t spoken a word until now.
We G.I.’s pitched in with a will, doing necessary repairs and whatever we could to aid the nuns. We built the children a sliding board, see-saws, swings and makeshift monkey bars. We fashioned simple wooden toys from scraps, and one fellow managed to make sturdy sandals.
Gradually we began referring to the institution as "The Nunnery," disliking the cold word "orphanage." Our officers were also involve in our activities, arranging periodic visits by doctors from a nearby medical unit.
It was quite a sight to observe a grizzled sergeant feed and burp an infant. The few small babies were bathed and diapered by tough, rough soldiers as tenderly as by a skilled nanny.
Nightly moonlight requisition parties sought much-needed supplies from other units. Woe to a loose domestic animal that came into range, for we liberated it for the common good. It is not the easiest task to persuade a cow or milch goat to step up into a truck.
Because we pitched in doing the heavier chores at the nunnery the nuns were not so exhaustingly busy. They had us leave our soiled clothes for washing and mending. We had plenty of time with our "kids." We played games with them and taught them new games. One fellow had a daily class in English. Before long our kids were receiving visits from other units. The visitors usually brought items for the nunnery and became foragers in its behalf.
The mechanics managed to rebuild an ancient generator at the nunnery, creating a need for a supply of gasoline. By judicious pilfering we soon had a stockpile of gas stored well away from the main building.
Occasionally lost children at the refuge were reunited with their anxious families. More children soon replaced them, so that the nunnery remained full.
Our support of the nunnery was truly beneficial to us G.I.’s. Being around the children caused us to police up our language. There was less drinking and fewer disciplinary problems.
We all, of course, dreaded the day we had to leave our kids. It would be a sad day for all concerned. I was fortunate, however; Teresa’s parents showed up a few days before our company left the area. Knowing that she would be with her family was a great relief to me.
When saying goodbye, I pointed to my face and said, "Me, faccia bruta!"
To my great delight she threw her little arms around me, kissed my cheek and said, "No! No! You faccia bella," and smiled at me beautifully.
So, we had to leave the nunnery and the kids we loved. G.I.’s don’t cry. Of course not.
Edwin F. Forrest A Rifleman Remembers ©1997 and 1998