Braided in Fire: Black GIs and Tuscan Villagers on the Gothic Line 1944

By Solace Wales

Cultures and relationships are intertwined to become BRAIDED IN FIRE in Sommocolonia, a medieval Tuscan village in the Apennines directly on the highly fortified Third Reich’s ‘Gothic Line’ stretching across northern Italy. Only at Sommocolonia did attacking German troops break through that formidable line, with dire consequences to the inhabitants and their defenders, a handful of black GIs, who were outnumbered three to one by the Axis troops. In the desperate fight, Lt. John Fox sacrificed himself with supreme heroism. (He was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor 52 years later.) Although the military action, (and tragic inaction of certain senior white officers), is described in detail, BRAIDED IN FIRE is not just military history, but tells of the human toll of war: the drama, the folly, the heartache – all present in grand measure for two peoples marginalized over the years for reasons of race and economic circumstances.

BRAIDED IN FIRE is a celebration of human dignity in desperate circumstances. This book is painted in a narrative befitting the beauty and rich hues of the Tuscan hills and its people, juxtaposed by the toils of a segregated America in black versus white, even while in Army green. Together these two worlds are BRAIDED IN FIRE with all of the passion, heartbreak, and violence of war, ultimately providing the reader with a redemptive peace, and cultural harmony.

Praise for BRAIDED IN FIRE

Braided in Fire tells the story of Lieutenant John Fox, a forward artillery observer and posthumous Medal of Honor recipient, who directed friendly artillery fire on his own position as German troops overran Sommocolonia, Italy, on December 26, 1944. Fox’s selfless sacrifice went unrecognized by the U.S. government for half a century simply because he was black. Solace Wales has invested decades in researching this instance of forgotten valor, producing a rich tapestry that interweaves the experiences of the black GIs and Italian villagers caught in the hellish maelstrom that engulfed Sommocolonia the day John Fox died. The result is a moving meditation on the cost of war and a tribute to the African Americans who fought for a country that treated them like second-class citizens. ~ Gregory J.W. Urwin, Professor of History, Temple University, author of Facing Fearful Odds: The Siege of Wake Island

Braided with Fire vividly recounts the intertwined histories of the small Italian town of Sommocolonia and the black 366th Infantry Regiment, which intersected during the German Winter Storm Offensive in December 1944. At the center of Solace Wales’ story are the brave Biondi family and forward artillery observer Lieutenant John Fox, who won the Medal of Honor for his heroism in Sommocolonia. Thoroughly researched and dramatically retold, Braided with Fire adds a valuable new page to our understanding of the Second World War. ~ Ian Ona Johnson, P.J. Moran Assistant Professor of Military History, the University of Notre Dame

Solace Wales contributes a remarkable, unique account which is not available anywhere else. . . Because of her gracious literary style, she vividly captures the ways in which the African American soldiers and the Italians of Sommocolonia’s lives became intertwined. The book breaks new ground. ~ Carolyn Ross Johnston, author of My Father's War: Fighting with the Buffalo Soldiers in World War II

• Language: English
• Publisher: Permuted
• Release date: Jun 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781682619421

Book preview

cover.jpg

Praise for

Braided in Fire

"Braided in Fire tells the story of Lieutenant John Fox, a forward artillery observer and posthumous Medal of Honor recipient, who directed friendly artillery fire on his own position as German troops overran Fox's position, on December 26, 1944. Fox’s selfless sacrifice went unrecognized by the U.S. government for half a century simply because he was black. Solace Wales has invested decades in researching this instance of forgotten valor, producing a rich tapestry that interweaves the experiences of the black GIs and Italian villagers caught in the hellish maelstrom that engulfed Sommocolonia the day John Fox died. The result is a moving meditation on the cost of war and a tribute to the African Americans who fought for a country that treated them like second-class citizens."

—Gregory J.W. Urwin, Professor of History, Temple University, author of Facing Fearful Odds: The Siege of Wake Island

"Braided in Fire vividly recounts the intertwined histories of the small Italian town of Sommocolonia and the black 366th Infantry Regiment, which intersected during the German Winter Storm Offensive in December 1944. At the center of Solace Wales’ story are the brave Biondi family and forward artillery observer Lieutenant John Fox, who won the Medal of Honor for his heroism in Sommocolonia. Thoroughly researched and dramatically retold, Braided in Fire adds a valuable new page to our understanding of the Second World War."

—Ian Ona Johnson, P.J. Moran Assistant Professor of Military History, the University of Notre Dame

"Braided in Fire is a fascinating story that explores the lives of the Italian residents and African American soldiers in the Battle of Garfagnana in Italy with the 366th Infantry Regiment, part of the 92nd Infantry Division. As the only African American infantry division to see combat in Europe in World War II, the 92nd carried on the proud tradition of the Buffalo Soldiers who won fame during the frontier period. The Medal of Honor earned by Lieutenant John R. Fox is a tribute to his selfless courage and adds admirably to the twenty-three earned by Buffalo Soldiers during the western expansion and the Spanish-American War."

—Brian G. Shellum, author of African American Officers in Liberia: A Pestiferous Rotation, 1910–1942

Solace Wales contributes a remarkable, unique account which is not available anywhere else. Because of her gracious literary style, she vividly captures the ways in which the African American soldiers and the Italian villager’s lives became intertwined. The book breaks new ground.

—Carolyn Ross Johnston, author of My Father’s War: Fighting with the Buffalo Soldiers in World War II

Solace Wales’ carefully researched, gripping narrative of the overlooked heroism of the black 366th Infantry Regiment, so sorely mistreated, is a must read for understanding race in America today.

—China Galland, author of Love Cemetery, Unburying the Secret History of Slaves

"Braided in Fire is the culmination of years of meticulous research and dogged persistence by Solace Wales. The contribution of African-American infantrymen in WWII has been relegated to footnotes in history and Solace Wales has weaved her extensive interviews with these forgotten soldiers together with her inside knowledge of the Italian families whose lives were forcibly intertwined with them. The result is a uniquely captivating account of braided lives and cultures."

—James Pratt, whose father was a captain in the 366th Infantry Regiment, is a leading expert on the unit

Solace Wales’ painstaking research, and the myriad ways she brings so many characters alive, makes this a magnum opus, a masterpiece in story telling that is incredibly authentic.

—Daniel Gibran, author of The 92nd Infantry Division and the Italian Campaign in World War II

This book, full of attentive detail, flows along for the reader with great ease and freshness: it has a sober, essential, almost chronicle style that does not indulge in tears. It is exciting, especially for those who have a connection to these events, to recognize and meet people and facts that otherwise would have been lost forever.

—Sara Moscardini, Director for Barga Lucca Historical Institute

"Braided in Fire vividly describes the encounters between African-American soldiers and Italian villagers and partisans involved in the Battle of Sommocolonia. The families of the soldiers and the villagers become a part of this wonderful but tragic story which changed their lives forever."

—Ivan J. Houston, Buffalo Soldier and author of Black Warriors: The Buffalo Soldiers of World War II

Braided in Fire

Copyright © 2020 Solace Wales

All rights reserved.

www.KnoxPress.com

Published in the United States of America

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019956506

1. History/Military/ WWII

ISBN 9781948496032

eBook ISBN 9781682619421

Maps: Copyright © 2020 Knox Press. All rights reserved.

Cover Design: Ann Weinstock

Book Design: K. M. Weber, I Libri Book Design

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book online or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s and publisher’s rights is appreciated.

DEDICATION

Braided in Fire is dedicated to all those who were in Sommocolonia on December 26, 1944 whose stories I have not told. Whether they were villagers or soldiers (on whichever side), whether they lived or died, each one had a unique and worthy story.

Contents

Dedication 

Maps 

Author’s Note 

Prologue 

PART I

chapter 1 ■ The Author Investigates 

1980 – Sommocolonia 

1987 – Interviewing Villagers 

Contacting Veterans

Locating Arlene Fox 

chapter 2 ■ Berto and Adelmo Biondi 

Interviewing Berto 

July 1940 – Berto Becomes a Factory Worker 

Adelmo Captures Anna’s Attention 

chapter 3 ■ Rothacker Smith 

Interviewing Smith 

Smith’s Childhood 

Rock’s Teenage Years 

June 1943 – Camp Stewart near Savannah, GA 

February 1944 – Camp Atterbury 

chapter 4 ■ Irma Biondi on Living under Fascism 

Interviewing Irma 

November 1938 – A Sunday Visit Home 

January 1939 – Irma Attends a Dance 

December 1942 – A New Addition 

chapter 5 ■ Otis Zachary Meets John Fox 

Interviewing Otis Zachary 

Sharing Histories 

Zachary’s Run-In with Colonel Queen 

chapter 6 ■ Anna, Adelmo and Berto 

1970s–1990s – Visits from Anna 

April 1942 – Anna and Adelmo 

A Reluctant Farewell 

Berto Compares Factory Life with Soldiering 

Adelmo Devises a Leave 

Berto Is Called Up for Military Review 

Inflation and Forbidden News 

chapter 7 ■ The 366th Is Shipped Overseas 

1943 – Deployment of African American Troops 

John Fox’s Family 

January–Early March 1944 – Camp Atterbury 

March 1944 – The Atlantic Crossing 

April 1944 – Casablanca and Oran 

PART II

chapter 8 ■ Receiving Political News 

Irma Reflects on the Duce 

Paolo Brings Home Big News 

Early December 1943 – Mail Arrives 

chapter 9 ■ The 366th Assigned to Service Units 

May–June 1944 – Naples to Foggia to Manfredonia 

June 6, 1944 

chapter 10 ■ Entertainment and Danger 

Village Entertainment 

March 1944 – The German Todt Organization 

May 1944 – Air Raid at SMI 

June 1944 – Party near Lama 

July 1944 – Berto’s Run-In with German Authorities 

chapter 11 ■ Zachary in Rome 

June 4, 1944 – Liberation of Rome 

chapter 12 ■ The Biondi Brothers Choose 

August 1944 – The Star of Peace 

Germans Occupying SMI (Società Metallurgica Italiana) 

Berto Becomes a Partisan 

Nearby Disasters 

Berto’s Squad’s Assignment 

Kesselring and the Gothic Line 

Adelmo Hides 

The Germans Retreat 

chapter 13 ■ Change in Status for the 366th 

A Telegram for John Fox 

Cannon Company Performing Its Proper Job 

chapter 14 ■ Berto’s Partisan Adventures 

Montefegatesi and Bagni di Lucca 

October 7–October 24 – Liberating Serchio Valley Towns 

The Villagers on the Front 

Berto’s Adventures in His Home Territory 

chapter 15 ■ Zachary Sent to the Front 

November 1944 – Near Barga 

chapter 16 ■ Berto’s Recovery 

November 1944 – Pisa, Florence, Lucca and Barga 

chapter 17 ■ The 366th on the Gothic Line 

Cannon Company Arrives in Loppia 

chapter 18 ■ Paolo’s Welcome Home Party 

chapter 19 ■ The 366th’s Attachment to the 92nd Division 

General Almond’s Welcome to the 366th 

Rock Goes to the Front

The Spy 

chapter 20 ■ Villagers’ Experience with American Soldiers 

An Arrest 

Mamma, Mamma, avere fame?

chapter 21 ■ 366th Soldiers’ Experiences in the Village 

Rock with His Machine-Gun Squad 

In the Sommocolonia Church 

PHOTOGRAPHS

PART III

chapter 22 ■ December 23rd, 1944 

Fox Goes to the Front 

Up the Mulattiera 

Fox’s Outpost 

chapter 23 ■ Christmas Eve 1944 

Sabatino and Pippo Summoned to Viareggio 

Fox’s Brief Return to Loppia 

Rock’s Musical Christmas Eve 

chapter 24 ■ Christmas Day 1944 

Soldiers and Villagers in Sommocolonia 

John Fox’s Christmas 

Arlene in Ayer 

Back in Sommocolonia 

Unheeded Warning – Ponte di Catagnana 

Sabatino in Fornaci di Barga and Sommocolonia 

A Critical Retreat 

chapter 25 ■ December 26th, 1944 The Battle 

Three Columns in the Wintergewitter Attack 

chapter 26 ■ December 26th, 1944 The Battle’s Aftermath 

Receiving American Artillery 

Partisan Defenders 

In the Serchio Valley 

The Hiding Biondis 

Arlene’s Dream 

Bearing Witness to Destruction 

Some GIs Escape 

Dina Moscardini’s Basement 

Armido delle Canne’s Basement 

A Dangerous Mission 

The Biondi and Moscardini Families Flee 

Disheartened Berto 

Rock and Buddies Discuss Options 

Happenings in the Valley 

Cannon Company’s Retreat 

chapter 27 ■ December 27th, 1944 

Cannon Company Performs 

Berto Reunites with His Partisan Group 

Fleeing Sommocolonians 

Villagers Witness Bombardment of Their Homes 

Arlene Receives a Message 

Rock and His Wounded Housemates Are Found 

Welcomed in Merizzacchio 

Troop Movement 

Rock and Sommocolonia’s New Occupiers 

chapter 28 ■ December 28th, 1944 Precarious Journeys 

Surviving Knickknacks 

Awaiting the Men in Merizzachio 

Berto and the Gurkhas 

Rock and the Other POWs 

chapter 29 ■ December 29th, 1944 

Rock’s March of Endurance 

Berto’s Arrival Home 

The Return 

The POWs in Castiglione 

Devastation in the Village 

Cannon Company Retained 

chapter 30 ■ December 30th, 1944 

Interrogation 

Finally Family News 

chapter 31 ■ New Year’s Eve, 1944 

A Second Interrogation 

Village Access Closed 

The Dead 

Berto Returns to Bagni di Lucca 

PART IV

chapter 32 ■ Early January 1945 

Irma and Vittorio Return Home 

Now the Women Hide 

Zachary Sees Fox’s Body 

Retaking Gallicano

Zachary Sent to Gallicano 

His Worrisome Wound and Further Travel for Rock 

A Nighttime Visit 

chapter 33 ■ Late January 1945 

Arlene’s Quandary – Ayer, MA 

James Hamlet Arrives in Sommocolonia 

Hamlet Is Tested 

Arlene’s Decision 

Rock in the Hospital 

chapter 34 ■ February 1945 

Hamlet and the Attack on Lama 

The Biondis Move Further behind the Line 

A Visitor to Fraia 

Trento POW life 

366th Action in the Serchio Valley 

chapter 35 ■ March 1945 – The Fate of the 366th 

chapter 36 ■ March Trials for the Two Rothackers 

chapter 37 ■ April 1945 

Hope amidst Doubt in the Barga Area 

Not a Hopeful Time for Rock 

The Insulting Emblem 

Clearing the Village of Incendiary Devices 

Coveted Silence in the Serchio Valley 

chapter 38 ■ Euphoria 

Stalag VIIA Liberated 

End of the War in Italy 

Receiving the Good News 

chapter 39 ■ May 1945 – Transitions 

Sommocolonians in Catagnana 

Rock in Mooseberg and near LeHavre 

Zachary in Bolzano 

Rock’s Trip Home 

chapter 40 ■ 1945 – Post-war Reality 

Sommocolonia and Vicinity 

Berto’s Father Goes Missing 

A Visitor to Ponte di Catagnana 

366th Soldiers Returning to the US 

chapter 41 ■ Spring 1946 – Rebuilding Sommocolonia 

chapter 42 ■ 1946 and 1947 – At Home 

PART V

chapter 43 ■ Recognition and Commemorations 

January 13th, 1997 – The White House 

December 26th, 1997 in Sommocolonia 

Plans to Honor Black Veterans and to Initiate a Monument to Peace 

chapter 44 ■ La Rocca Days in Sommocolonia – 2000 

Thursday, July 13th, 2000 

Friday, July 14th, 2000 

Saturday, July 15th, 2000 

Sunday July 16th – La Rocca alla Pace Ceremony 

Monday July 17th, 2000 

Afterword 

Prominent Veterans of the 366th 

Explanation of the Variations to the Congressional Medal of Honor Awarded to First Lieutenant John R. Fox 

Acknowledgments 

Interviews 

Notes 

Credits 

About the Author 

map iv

Sommocolonia — December 26, 1944.

To view full-color versions of the maps,

visit www.braidedinfire.com.

Author’s Note

The ‘Braided’ in the title Braided in Fire comes from two sources. The first is straight forward. The book follows three groups or ‘strands’ which are entwined together in the village of Sommocolonia: villagers, African American soldiers and Italian partisans.

The second meaning of ‘Braided’ comes from historian Natalie Zemon Davis, who coined the term to signify the history of peoples encountering one another as opposed to the history of rulers, the famous and the powerful. This book follows the lives of ordinary people. The protagonists came from two groups who lived worlds apart but were thrown together into the fulcrum of the Second World War.

Although the ‘Fire’ in the title is readily understandable as in artillery and other kinds of battle fire, it also has a second origin. Irma Biondi, one of my Sommocolonian interviewees, described how terrible it was when they were fleeing after the battle and saw that all the wooden farm sheds around the village were burning. It was a circle of fire, she exclaimed, and we were on the inside!

The events described in this volume vary from what is written in the Congressional Medal of Honor citation awarded to Lieutenant John Fox on January 13, 1997 by President Bill Clinton at the White House. In the Afterword, I will outline the variations to that citation that, based on my research, correct the record.

Finally, in this text I generally use either ‘African American’ or ‘black’. The racial identification during the era was either ‘Negro’ or ‘colored.’ When used as Army jargon, or in conversation, I relay the usage as the protagonists would have then used.

Solace Wales

january 2020

Prologue

The Biondi family had been sleeping in a Sommocolonian neighbor’s basement for two months. Straw mattresses covered the dirt floor. Twenty-six people slept in a ten-by-twenty-eight-foot room, with barely enough space to inch by the mattresses. Two people shared each mattress, though the four littlest Biondi brothers slept on one. A rectangular slit five inches by fifteen inches, cut into the stone wall two-feet-thick, let in a sliver of light. The lack of air made for stale odors in the dank room, even though they left the door open during the day.

Irma had been told that this basement was safer than the one in their house. But wouldn’t the three stories of stone and bricks above crash down on top of them if bombs arrived on its roof? Yet her father insisted that it was the safest spot. German mortar shrapnel had hit the exterior of the Biondi house several times but had never struck this one. This house was protected by an adjacent taller building on its northern side.

Besides, with American soldiers upstairs at our house, their mortar cannon planted right in front, and a million telephone wires coming into our place from all directions, you aren’t safe at home if the Germans arrive! he argued.

Irma hated sleeping in the basement, and she especially hated making the beds in the morning. It pained her to see the hemp sheets her mother had taken so much trouble to make—from planting the hemp to combing it, weaving the fabric and then finishing it with beautiful embroidery—so grimy and spotted with dirt. They could not wash and dry the sheets. She never dreamt she would long for the village’s public laundry with its freezing cold spring water. She used to complain bitterly about her many hours there, chilled to the bone, her hands red and wrinkled, knuckles raw. Now that they could hardly go outside, that exhausting chore seemed like a privilege.

Two of Irma’s six brothers were missing from the basement—Berto and Mario. Seventeen-year-old Mario slept in the basement of the family he worked for as a handyman. Berto’s situation was more worrisome. Irma knew that as a partisan fighter he was now involved in all sorts of dangerous missions.

Though only the tiniest thread of light entered the room, Irma was suddenly wide awake. What was that? she asked, poking Anna.

It’s too early, go back to sleep, Anna said. Then she added, It’s the GIs, can’t you hear them marching?

No, Irma objected, American boots don’t make that noise!

All the villagers coveted the silent rubber-soled American boots. This was a sharp sound of metal hitting stone as many heels made contact with the street. Irma whirled around to see her brother, Adelmo sitting bolt upright in his bed too. Soon everyone whispered in alarm. Only the normally rowdy, wide-eyed children remained quiet. Adelmo leapt across the mattresses, stepping on someone’s shin and someone else’s arm in the process. He positioned himself like a sentry at the window with its minimal view of the house to the south, just across the narrow alleyway.

It was a long minute before he whispered, I see an Austrian hat!

With all the Americans in this village, that cannot be! someone objected.

There’s no doubt, Adelmo confirmed. He’s gone now, but he was wearing the Alpine beret with an edelweiss.

Get out of that window! ordered his mother. They might see you!

No, Mamma, they can’t see anything looking into this dark hole.

But he moved away from the opening. The past months had taught him to be invisible. He often hid to avoid risking being taken by the Germans for slave labor.

Irma’s great aunt was wailing in a raspy, throaty way. What’s going to happen? What’s going to happen! she cried over and over. No one answered. Everyone knew that with so many enemy soldiers in the same village, there could be only one result.

Irma’s mother, Irene, began to say Hail Marys. Her low voice had a soothing effect on Irma who knew her mother’s unwavering focus when involved in prayer. Irma remained silent, concentrating on slowing her own racing heartbeat. A few other women’s voices joined Irene’s. This did not stop the old woman’s unnerving wailing, but it provided a counter to her desperation.

A knock came at the basement door, three quick raps followed by a strong bang. Someone opened the door for Vittorio Biondi, the father of the Biondi clan. He was returning from his night watch at the Vincenti’s. He had witnessed Marina Vincenti and her mother, Dina, walk the few doors down the street to join their relatives’ basement hideout. At least twelve other gatherings of villagers were crammed into basements.

Are they exchanging fire yet? someone asked.

You’ll know when it starts, Vittorio Biondi answered. Then he turned to Irma’s wailing great aunt and roared, Quiet! Irma knew he would also like Irene to stop praying, but he could not ask that of his wife. The great aunt did stop for a few moments. When she started again, her plaintive voice joined jarringly in the Hail Marys.

Looks like we are going to be stuck in this hellhole for some time, said Vittorio. Let’s not make it even more unpleasant with a lot of screeching. He glared again at the offending aunt, but there was no pause in her wailing prayer.

I have to pee said Bruno, pounding his big sister’s arm.

Irma turned to the child. I have to pee too, she said. Normally, when morning came, they went home to use their own chamber pots.

If someone had to pee at night, he or she just slipped outside the basement for a moment. But though the marching boots had passed, no one was going outside this morning.

What shall we do? Irma asked of no one in particular.

We’ll have to use the leaves in the back corner, answered her father. At least they’re clean.

Nearly all the village houses had such a pile of leaves in the basement, located directly under the commode seat above. When leaves became saturated, they were shoveled into a wheelbarrow and taken down to fertilize crops. Like many things, this chore became more difficult to accomplish while living on the front. And with the occupying soldiers, many more people were using the commodes, making for dubious hygiene and unpleasant smells. Because their basement was being used as sleeping quarters, this household had not been using the commode above it and the leaves were clean. Today that would change. But before anyone could move, they heard the jarring noise of a machine gun. The very walls around them seemed to be reverberating. The gun was answered by two rifle shots.

We’re all going to die, said Anna, Adelmo’s fiancé, in a strangely calm voice.

No, no, shhh, said Adelmo. We just need to stay quietly hidden, and we’ll be okay.

It was not long before several machine guns fired simultaneously. Then came a nearly continuous sound of rifles. Bullets bouncing off walls created echoes in the narrow alleyway. The fire seemed to be coming from every direction, as if their hiding place were at the very fulcrum of the action.

Then came the scream of someone hit, followed by a long, low moan that sickened all who heard it. Lt. John Fox was less than seventy-five yards away from the Biondi family and the others sharing the basement, but at a very different elevation. His outpost was on the third and top floor of Sommocolonia’s enormous tenth century tower. The Romanesque tower had been built at one end of the elevated oval of the La Rocca castle field which was supported all the way around by twenty-foot stone walls. This meant that Fox’s location was approximately twenty-five yards higher up than that basement.

Fox saw the enemy troops shortly after they infiltrated the village. Hearing a few distant rifle shots, he peeked behind the black-out cloth covering the tower east-facing window to look in the direction the sound came from. It was unmistakable—there were Germans on Sommocolonia’s eastern path. As the forward observer for this Apennine mountain garrison, Fox exclaimed in frustration to his radio operator, "We can’t call in artillery fire onto that position!" They both knew it would not only endanger villagers in the houses nearby, but also fellow soldiers of their all-black 366th Infantry Regiment, some of whom were occupying those houses.

Earlier, well before it was light (around 5:00 am), Fox had been effective in directing artillery fire to the north of the village and had succeeded in scaring off German soldiers who had attacked the Italian partisans defending Sommocolonia from that end. He knew that his artillery fire alone would not have accomplished that mission because some of the enemy were too close to the village for him to fire on. His binoculars had helped him see the few partisans guarding the village’s northernmost little hillock, scrambling about, firing nonstop at the intruders. He was happy to have those effective gate keepers in that critical spot.

Along with the other GIs stationed in the village, Fox had been told that the enemy would never enter from the east, only from the north. Looking behind the curtain on the south-facing window, he saw that not only had they entered from the east, but in less than two minutes a few German soldiers had advanced to the street directly below his tower! Though the street was far below, he said quietly We’re in for trouble now.

His alarmed radio operator said, Maybe Jenkins’ gunners will spot ’em and fire directly down on ’em. Fox shook his head. He figured no one in Jenkins platoon knew Germans were anywhere nearby.

A machine gun sounded on a parallel street. Immediately, answering shots echoed loudly. That put an end to the unnerving silence as all hell broke loose, the firing occurring in several areas near the tower, the sound amplified by the narrow stone streets and buildings. Fox noticed that the Germans on the street below had dispersed, clearly looking for more protected positions. The GIs of the 366th inside the buildings were firing out of windows and doors hiding behind the frames of the openings in order to expose themselves as little as possible. But many on both sides were hit and the cries of the wounded were heart-wrenching.

Required to stay in his forward observing outpost and unable to enter in the battle, Fox felt impotent just standing there, paralyzed. He could see his friend, Lt. Graham Hervey Jenkins, in the field below preparing his platoon for battle, but all other action was now hidden by adjacent buildings. Only his ears registered what was happening. Finally, at just after 8:30 am, he had a chance to contribute. He spotted a train of thirty mules approaching Sommocolonia from the north, clearly attempting to resupply the Germans engaged in the battle with ammunition. He flew into action. He did quick calculations and called the battery in the valley below with his coordinates. Shortly, after the boom of the cannons, it was reassuring to hear his buddy’s voice over the crackly phone line: Good hit! We can see heavy casualties, and most of the animals are down.

But the German forces did not appear to lack ammunition and the battle raged on.

Later in the morning, the inevitable happened—pairs of enemy machine gunners raced up La Rocca’s narrow southern steps, two soldiers at a time, while many other German soldiers managed to scale the twenty-foot wall from the northern side, a seemingly impossible feat. Feeling suddenly faint, Fox said under his breath, Oh my God! There are swarms of them! He saw that his friend’s platoon holding La Rocca field was surrounded and far outnumbered.

At the time the Sommocolonia battle raged on December 26, 1944, I had just turned six and was asleep with my Christmas rag doll in a comfortable house in Washington, DC. I shared no war-related traumas with the protagonists in this book. But in the mid-1970s, my husband and I bought a house in the little medieval village and our neighbors began telling us snippets of their daunting war experiences. Over the years, my interest in the events grew until I became obsessed with the agonizing village battle that irrevocably changed the lives of everyone involved. I needed to learn about what the lives of the villagers, the Italian partisans and the African American soldiers had been like in the years leading up to the compelling moment when they found themselves the brunt of one of the last attacks of the Wehrmacht. I was privileged to hear first-hand about the agony and the heroism from people of all three groups who lived through the events. I learned of extraordinary bravery among the young black GIs who were defending the little garrison against far superior numbers of German troops. I discovered what happened to the people present for the fateful battle who became forever braided in fire. This is their story.

PART I

1

The Author Investigates

1980 – Sommocolonia

I stood in dappled shade on a small hilltop in northern Tuscany, somewhat perplexed. How had I, despite walking daily past this monument to World War II heroes, missed seeing this name before? I’d always assumed that the eight markers, arranged in a semi-circle, commemorated local resistance fighters active around this Italian mountain village. But I hadn’t looked closely enough, for this marker read Ten. John Fox, esercito USA, 26-12-44. The engraving was clearly legible, if weathered, and lit by strong contrasts created by the sun filtering through the woods. My seven-year-old daughter wondered why I was lingering.

Did you know there were Americans in this village before us? I asked her. Even as I spoke, I knew it was silly; although Sommocolonia, a village of a hundred souls, was far off the tourist track, other Americans had been here before our family—and before the US Army. I explained to my daughter that Ten. was short for tenente meaning lieutenant, and that esercito meant army. Born in Italy and having lived much of her life in Sommocolonia, her Italian was better than mine, but these two military words had not yet entered her vocabulary. I told her the little I knew, that on December 26th, 1944, a disastrous battle had been fought here in the village. John Fox must have died that day along with the Italians named here, I surmised.

The other seven markers around the central monument dedicated to the Martiri della Resistenza (Martyrs of the Resistance) included birth dates and places. All had died between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five, and most came from nearby, though none from Sommocolonia itself. I guessed that John Fox’s place and date of birth were not included because whoever had made the monument lacked that information.

A cypress tree grew behind every marker. The tree behind John Fox’s was smaller and scrawnier than the others. Did they only water Italian martyrs’ trees? I thought ungraciously.

You know, I said, it’s really remarkable that an American is remembered here in an Italian monument. I wonder why.

The US soldiers stationed in the village had been from a segregated unit, but most of their officers were white and Fox was a lieutenant. Was he white? African American? Was he buried here?

We went on to do our usual run in the village’s only flat space, the soccer field cleared out in the middle of the woods. The exertion on a hot afternoon replaced thoughts of the long-ago events of World War II. During our five years of living half-time in Sommocolonia, our neighbors had told us a little about their daunting war experiences. Although fascinated by these fragments, I found the prospect of twentieth-century warfare in this idyllic spot fantastical. Mortars and machine-guns amid these lovely gardens with prize geraniums and abundant vegetables? American GIs in a tiny Italian mountain village on the way to nowhere?

Walking home, we passed Dina Vincenti, a small woman who could be described, in the most affectionate terms, as a crone. In Tuscan tradition, a crone with a broom delivers presents to the children rather than Santa Claus—crones inspire affection here rather than disdain.

In spite of the afternoon heat, Dina was dressed from head to toe in black. Her long black dress was covered by a black shawl with black fringe and her hair was tucked under a black kerchief tied behind her head. Well past eighty, she still swung her scythe through the green bushes at the side of the road with energy and precision. Her frail frame was bent over her task, but she straightened up at the sight of us and a charming smile crinkled her weathered face.

She pointed to her braided cane grinella, a basket, that was already overflowing with greenery, and said, Per i conigli. (for the rabbits) A grinella has a wheel-like framework, often four feet in diameter, with radiating spokes. It makes a large, shallow container full of holes, light when empty and useful for carrying long twigs and branches that don’t fall through the empty spaces. I saw the basket as a mandala symbolizing the aesthetic beauty in the practical economy of contadino (peasant) life. Dina would soon place the heavy load on her head and, with her back ruler-straight, make her way home to the rabbits.

I always loved happening upon Dina. She was the quietest of the villagers, but her eyes sparkled with warmth and human connection. I remembered how self-conscious I felt the first time I came across Dina in the woods, fully covered in proper Italian dress while I stood panting in short shorts, tee shirt, and running shoes. But to her, we were simply spirits meeting on the road.

My husband and I, both artists, had found paradise in this medieval village where the old contadino way of life remained very much in evidence. Several of the village men worked in the factory in the valley, but they all still cultivated vegetable gardens and kept a few rabbits and chickens. Many worked fields below the village, growing crops of wheat and corn, and wine grapes in small vineyards. A few kept cows, and the sight of a village woman stopping to chat on the street while balancing an enormous bucket of milk on her head was a daily marvel.

Dina had lived through the Second World War. Still, I knew better than to ask her about it. ‘Per i conigli’ was about as much as I’d ever heard from her. It would be more than a decade before I learned that Dina’s deceased husband, Vittorio Vincenti, had been Sommocolonia’s most prominent Fascist.

We’d bought our house in 1973 from Dina and her older sister, counting out the asking price, $2,800 in lire, and placing it into their gnarled hands. We realized it wasn’t much money to pay for a two-story stone house—even an abandoned one in dilapidated condition. But since it was all the money we had, to us it was quite a monumental step.

While the villagers were sometimes reticent to speak of the war years, their houses could tell stories. In 1977, we sold our first house and bought the house across the street. It had a garden, a potential studio, and a better view. It also had bullet holes in its marble-composite steps. Other shots had dug pockmarks in the plaster around upper story windows. On the ground floor in the cantina (wine cellar) it had a lower wall that was very likely Roman; no mortar had been used, indicating Roman construction. The local stonemason said that before and during the war, our long kitchen had been divided into three very small rooms, explaining the different wall colors. It served as an apartment for two unrelated villagers.

In a way that numbers cannot, this showed us that the village had once been a great deal more populated than it was in the late 1970s, with its 102 residents and many abandoned houses. At the beginning of the twentieth century, there had been approximately 500 inhabitants. During the latter part of the nineteenth and the first part of the twentieth centuries, poverty caused large waves of immigration, to New York, Boston and Chicago, but most especially to Newcastle-upon-Tyne in northeastern England, so that, by World War II, there were about 300 people living in Sommocolonia. ¹

None of our more talkative neighbors knew who John Fox was, beyond the obvious fact that he was an American who had died in the battle there. Nor did they know if he was white or black. The villagers called all the black soldiers ‘Boof-fah-low.’ By the time I was inquiring about Fox, I knew what they meant, but when I first heard it I had no idea. Because I was American, my Sommocolonian friends assumed that I’d know the word. Eventually I’d learned that black Americans of the segregated 92nd Infantry Division wore a picture of a buffalo on an emblem sewn on their sleeves, and everyone called these men ‘Buffalo Soldiers.’ ²

My neighbors were able to set me straight on one fact: nobody was buried under that monument. Though the gravestone-like markers for Fox and the partisans are not literal headstones, they do honor deaths. I knew that Fox was not the only American to lose his life in the Sommocolonia battle. I’d been told that many ‘Boof-fah-low’ died here on that day after Christmas in 1944.

How had it been for black Americans to live in this remote village with a white population very different from people they encountered at home? My Sommocolonian friends had not told me what life was like under Fascism—nor how it was for them once their village was full of Buffalo Soldiers. Did the villagers interact with the soldiers? And why had Fox been singled out for a memorial stone?

Discovering Lt. Fox’s marker would end up defining years of my life. Yet it took years before the questions it prompted became imperative. It took watching some of the oldest members of the village die, knowing that their memories of the war were lost forever. It took finding out that the situation in Sommocolonia was unique: Not only was it the most northern point on the western end of the Gothic Line, it was the only place where black Americans and Italian peasants lived at length side by side on the front. ³ Normally, whether it was the Allies or the Axis, occupying troops forced civilians to leave their homes, in part for their own safety but mainly for the convenience of the soldiers. Sommocolonia was also the only place where German forces broke through the ‘Gothic Line,’ the stalemated front line that stretched across the entire Italian peninsula. Most importantly, it took realizing that no one else was telling the story of the black GIs and the villagers during those final, tumultuous months of the war.

In my subsequent interviews with villagers, and later with African American veterans, I found not just one story, nor hearts all in rhythm. Sommocolonian Irma Biondi expressed it well when she said, Ognuno ha vissuto questa cosa in maniera diversa dall’altro. (Every person lived the war differently.) Indeed, each person I interviewed had a different story with its own pathos. Yet all these stories resonated with one another, and they were braided inexorably together in this one tiny place, which had become my place.

I began to see the whole pattern of this war experience as very like Dina’s grinella, the individual stories like woven spokes on the wheel, separate, yet all connecting to the same center. In this book, the lives of four black GIs and four villagers (one of them a partisan) are followed, illuminating just eight of the many spokes that converged in Sommocolonia. The spokes are braided together in the central circle of fire which the village became during the battle.

1987 – Interviewing Villagers

Except for the addition of a television, the setting for my first interview was identical to the Sommocolonian rooms inhabited by GIs in 1944. Although it was August, a fire was burning in the blackened fireplace because the large iron kettle hanging over the flames was being used to make soup; the soldiers also would have witnessed the cooking happen in the village fire places. Apart from an elaborate brass bed on which lay ninety-year-old Annetta, wrapped in a beautifully crocheted shawl, there was little furniture: a few straight back, caned chairs rested on the worn but polished brick floor. Small religious cards sat on the mantel, and the curtains were lace, a reminder of a past art practiced by the village women. The window, revealing just a glimpse of the breathtaking view of the valley far below, appeared to illuminate only Annetta’s very white hair.

Neither Annetta nor her sixty-five-year-old daughter Pina were intimidated by my unfamiliar tape recorder. They spoke with ease and eloquence to someone they already knew well. That first interview emboldened me to ask to speak to others who’d lived through the traumatic war years. Over several summers, I interviewed twenty-one Sommocolonians, nearly all those old enough to remember the events of 1944. ⁴

The more I heard, the more the story claimed me. First, I had to learn the basics of World War II on the Italian peninsula—and this I learned from Sommocolonians, who had had little education. The Sommocolonia school only went through the fourth grade. But they had had life experience and proved to be excellent and accurate instructors. Only later did I pore over the few military histories that mentioned the action in the Serchio River Valley.

I wanted to expand my research to the Buffalo Soldiers, but the task seemed daunting. How would I locate men who had been stationed in the Serchio Valley decades before? I knew I could not just phone the US Army and ask for their addresses. And I wondered if I would be capable of prompting honest, heartfelt answers from people I’d never met. Even more to the point, why would these veterans want to tell their war experiences to me? I’m a woman who does not share their military background and, as a white person, I do not share with direct experience the pain of racial prejudice in our society.

Contacting Veterans

No one in Sommocolonia knew who Lt. John Fox was. It wasn’t until the summer of 1994 that I came upon the answer in a very brief account of Fox’s sacrifice in an American military history, Buffalo Soldiers (Sunflower University Press 1990), which informed me he was a black American who had acted heroically. This discovery galvanized me to engage fully in the task of trying to find his fellow soldiers.

I wrote to the author of the history, Maj. Thomas St. John Arnold, and learned that Lt. John Fox was with the 366th Infantry Regiment attached to the 92nd Infantry Division. He and others of the 366th did not wear the Buffalo emblem and were not officially ‘Buffalo Soldiers,’ but all black soldiers linked to the 92nd were called that by Italian locals, and sometimes even by African American military historians writing later about the action.⁵