Vito's Tale
By Joe Novara
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About this ebook
Vito's Tale is a piece of creative non-fiction (or historical fiction) about my grandfather who came to this country from Sicily ahead of his wife and children, sent my father to college, worked heavy construction labor all the while longing to return to the 'home' he left behind. Finally, as a widower, he did go back, married again and welcomed
Joe Novara
A former corporate trainer and writing instructor, Joe Novara and his wife live in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Writings include novels, short stories, a memoir and various poems, anthologies and articles. Nine of his young adult novels and stories are accessible through http://www.storyshares.org/users/view. He maintains a web/blog: Writing for Homeschooled Boys on his Wordpress blog that includes his publication list. Another blog, Free Floating Stories+ posts a short story every week. A novel, Come Saturday...Come Sunday and a novella, I'm Here, are available through Amazon by searching for Joe Novara.
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Book preview
Vito's Tale - Joe Novara
Contents
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
About the Author
Vito’s Tale
by
Joe Novara
All rights reserved
Copyright © February 20, 2021, Joe Novara
Cover Art Copyright © 2021, Joe Novara
Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.
Lockhart, TX
www.gypsyshadow.com
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.
ISBN: 978-1-61950-649-7
Published in the United States of America
First eBook Edition: April 6, 2021
1914, Tyrol
Hunkered under the artillery barrage bracketing no-man’s land, Vito didn’t hear the shell before it hit. The one that lifted his barrel-shaped body up, out of the trench and under an avalanche of cold wet soil. Before he had a chance to worry about suffocation, to determine which way led to air and release, another shell hurled him out of his temporary grave. He lay still, fifteen yards from what had been the frontline a few moments before. Stunned, unfeeling, was this the blessed moment of anesthesia before the pain of an injury registers? He tentatively wiggled arms, then legs, toes, neck. All good, thank God. He could see open mouths but couldn’t hear screams, just yet, but he could feel the juddering shocks of artillery launched and landed. His body absorbed the penetrating jolts, but he was alive, still. He sobbed, lowered his head on wet, cold mud and cried.
How had he gotten to this place? Five months ago, he was in Sicily, pruning and tying grape vines in the glaring hot sun. He had a pregnant wife, two teenage daughters, a five-year old son. Life was hard with barely enough to eat. And now, in the Austrian Alps, he was still hungry, cold instead of warm, and people were trying to kill him. More tears.
When the draft notice came, he had no delusions. No high-flown thoughts of patriotism and glory. Not when he was thirty-seven with family responsibilities. He needed to make it out of here in one piece. His tears turned to cold anger and a fist slammed into the yielding earth. He needed to get away from the front line. A man groaned near him. Surprised and relieved that he could hear again, he spotted a soldier lying on his back, a red patch staining his ribs. Aiuta! Aiuta me!
the man cried. He scuttled over, careful to keep his head below the ceiling of bullets whistling overhead. He grabbed the man’s ankles and dragged him into a shell crater, its back edge sloping into a drop off. Once below ground level, Vito rolled the man onto his shoulder and hunched toward the hospital in the rear.
He didn’t feel particularly noble when he handed off his burden for triage in the long line of stretchers. It was expected—what you did for each other. Morto,
the medic said, after a quick check for pulse. Well, I tried, he thought, then looked around at the mayhem of a field hospital in the middle of an offensive. Not all bad, he thought. At least I’m away from the worst of it. E tu?
the medic said, pointing to the blood on Vito’s tunic—was he wounded? Vito shook his head and pointed to the dead soldier—his blood, then he bit his lip. Think fast, he told himself. Find some reason to stay longer, away from the front. Aqua!
he called after the departing medic who jerked his head toward the large tent lined with bandaged men in cots.
Vito slowly made his way between rows of wounded. He had seen enough dead men to recognize one when he saw one… and the uneaten biscuit on his tray. He lifted three more biscuits on his leisurely stroll to the water bucket next to an empty cot in the back. After practically inhaling three ladles full of cool water, a wave of exhaustion toppled him onto the bed.
Sometime later he felt hands unbuttoning his bloody shirt. Niente,
a medic snarled before shouting for the military police. It was time to leave. On his way out of the tent, Vito stopped, arrested by the almost forgotten aroma of boiling broth drifting under all the other smells of the bed-ridden, unwashed, wounded. He vowed he would return soon to this place of dry, warm sleep and hot food—injured or not.
It took a while to get back. Despite short rations and lack of cold-weather gear in the mountains, Vito’s sturdy constitution wouldn’t allow him to get sick. So, he tried to make himself ill by drinking boiled tobacco. No luck. Finally, one day he got a fever and was sent behind the lines. After a night’s sleep in a warm bed and a couple of hot meals, he was good to go. Ever resourceful, when the nurse popped a thermometer in his mouth, he would wait till he turned his back and put his pipe in his armpit for a bit, then slide the thermometer there and watch the mercury rise to just above normal. So close, that checking by hand the nurse couldn’t detect the difference. That worked for a couple more day’s