Sgt. James E. Farmer
Army Correspondent

(The following reprints a story filed from Italy during World War II action there by Army Correspondent James E. Farmer of Indianapolis)

WITH THE 36TH INFANTRY DIVISION, ITALY - When retreating Germans told them that United States "brutes" would impose both economic and moral ruin on them, the Italians disbelieved because they knew America and Americans through many relatives who live in the states.

American invasion boats brought many a soldier to the birth country of his parents or grandparents and to the homes of aunts, uncles and cousins.

"The Germans couldn’t picture the American soldier as a wild man to the Italians because they knew him even better than the Germans," Dom. Fillipo, an American-born priest who has lived in Italy under both Fascist rule and German occupation, observed. "Many an Italian has a brother or sister in Brooklyn or a cousin in Pennsylvania," he said.

The quiet, thin-faced Dom. Fillipo came to Italy from Cincinnati in 1927, studied religion in Rome, and then decided to stay in this country to teach. During the German occupation of his mountain city, the priest harbored some 100 Italian youths in his parish and saved them from capture and German labor battalions. When American troops neared the town, he walked down a winding mountain road in the face of artillery fire to tell them that the Germans had evacuated.

As the warfare moved northward and the little town knew peace and quiet again, the Catholic clergyman held special masses for U.S. soldiers. He gave them an understanding of the Italian people through informal chats.

Native-born Italians, as well as the American-born Dom. Fillipo, have shown the American G.I. the hand of good friendship. In combat areas, at times this has meant the risk of death and destruction of property.

The citizens of a little town about three miles inside of "no man’s land" were hosts to a 36th Division patrol for three days and two nights. Short, blond Corporal Boyd D. Dove of Criders, Virginia, who headed the patrol, said that Italian natives guided him and his men safely through enemy-sown mine fields and German entrenchments.

"About every other ‘Eytie’ there had cousins either in Boston or Providence," the Virginian related. "Our first variety meal in over a month came when our Italian hosts actually ‘killed the fatted lamb’ and served us a good hot meal. We’d been eating the Army ‘C’ ration."

In another infantry action, Private First Class James a. Mask of Fayetteville, Georgia, was trapped behind the German lines for five days. An Italian farmer hid him out in a pig pen and fed him a menu of water, grapes, fried eggs, and spaghetti. The area was thick with German soldiers and it would have meant death for the farmer if Infantryman Mask had been found there.

Early one morning a terrific blizzard hit a 36th Division bivouac area and blew tents down on sleeping soldiers. Some took refuge in a farm house nearby. The host, a stocky, heavy-jawed farmer, moved his family from the best room in his house - and the only one with a fireplace - to give it over completely to the wet, shivering Yanks.

He told his story to the Italian-speaking Private First Class Anthony S. Amoscato of Newark, New Jersey:

"When the Germans began the withdrawal through his community, he took for the hills nearby with his family, cattle and sheep. Any farm produce he had, he hid as best he could around his farm. The Germans used his home - the same living room where the American G.Ls were warming themselves - as a command post. They stayed there two weeks, burning a winter’s supply of firewood the family had stored up. ‘Men they took the living room table and chopped it up as fire wood."

It isn’t usually the emergency of a blizzard that takes the Yankee doughboys to friendly Italian firesides. Many make frequent calls to sit in on a family semicircle before the fireplace. Italians have commented on the American’s love for children. Even if he doesn’t know a word of Italian, the big, awkward G.I. Joe makes himself respected by his affectionate toddling of a child on his knee and his never-ending supply of "caramella" for the kiddies.