The aid of a stranger (travels in Italy)
During the course of my nearly thirty-six-year military career and civilian travel, I’ve been lucky enough to visit five continents and nearly forty countries, some more pleasant than others. Just like Americans, some of the people I met in those travels were wonderful, some jerks.
Some folks loved Americans. Some hated them. Some people ignored strangers, others welcomed them. Some people wouldn’t lift a finger to help a with a problem, others went out of their way to render aid.
Shortly after September 11, the date that is now synonymous with terrorist attacks, the Army, increasing security on European military bases, called on the Army National Guard to help beef up what the military calls force protection measures. In other words, additional soldiers to protect bases that until 9-11 had been considered safe and secure. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan had yet to start and the America, not to mention the Army, was still adapting to new realities of international terrorist threats.
With a week’s notice, I was tabbed for a temporary assignment to Vicenza, Italy. Vicenza is the home of the 173rd Infantry Brigade Combat Team (Airborne), nicknamed the Sky Soldiers. The 173rd is the Army’s quick reaction force for trouble in Europe, Africa and the Middle-east. The Sky Soldiers were on high alert when I arrived in November 2001, just nine weeks after the 9-11 attacks. An Illinois Army National Guard unit of military police, about one-hundred-fifty, soldiers were already on the ground when I arrived. Other National Guard forces were flowing to Europe in anticipation of the fight to come. None of us realized we were writing the first page of what would become America’s longest war.
With the buildup of American forces, the small base was overflowing with newly assigned troops, so, even though a senior Lieutenant Colonel at the time, I and the major accompanying me were housed seven miles off the main post in a long-abandoned NATO missile base. As a relatively senior staff officer, and due to the lack of other transportation, the Army provided us with a staff car from the motor pool. Regulations prohibit personal use of a government car, but since there was no mess hall on the largely vacant missile base, we were allowed to use it to go to and from restaurants in the local area, as well as to and from our military duties.
The major with me didn’t have a military driver’s license, nor did he have any navigation skills beyond knowing that we were in Northern Italy, so in a breach of military protocol, I, even though the senior officer, wound up driving.
Vicenza is located in the Veneto, or Venice area of Italy. It’s about thirty miles from Venice and the Adriatic Sea. Like every place I’ve ever been in Italy, the food is amazing. Every little crossroads village has a little restaurant with meals you won’t find in an Army mess hall!
One evening nearing the end of our Italian tour of duty, the major and I ventured out in the early darkness of a November evening to find dinner. Northern Italian November weather is much like November weather in my Southern Illinois home. Rainy, mid-fifties and dark by five o’clock. After yet another marvelous Italian meal, the major and I are returning to post on the autostrada, which is the Italian equivalent to an interstate highway.
Conspicuous in our American sedan, I carefully observed the speed limit, as the windshield wipers attempted to keep up with the beating rain. All the while an occasional German in a massive Mercedes roared past us on his way north to the homeland, with Italian Fiats in chase and likewise zooming past us. When I say zooming, I mean ZOOMING! The speed limit is 130 kilometers per hour or 81 miles per hour!
Even though Italy is smaller than New Mexico, but with sixty-one million people, many areas of the country are quite rural. We were on a rural, dark stretch of super highway. I heard the unmistakable sound and the sudden vibration of a flat tire. Slowing the Detroit iron, I pulled off onto the shoulder.
Exiting the sedan, I popped the trunk. We found the spare and pulled it out. I handed the major the lug wrench. He bent down to struggle with the jack, finally looked up at me and the Chicago city boy confessed he’d never changed a tire and had no idea what to do. “Dammit, I’m already soaked and cold. Now I have to change the tire!” As a working class, small town kid I had plenty of experience with bald tires on oil-burning old beaters. Even so I’m struggling and cursing the odd wheel covers hiding the lug nuts in the pitch-black Italian night while the chill rain runs down my back. Nor was I aware that Italian traffic law requires placing flares or reflectors out behind your vehicle when you have a problem.
The Mercedes continue to roar past in the passing lane, giving the disabled American sedan a wide berth. Just as I’m reaching the outer limits of my patience, an Italian family pulls up behind me and puts on his bright lights so I can see what I’m doing. He patiently waits as I get the wheel cover off, the lug nuts off, the flat tire off and replace it with the spare, lug nuts tightened, wheel cover on, flat tire in the trunk and a grateful, if soaked American waves as the Italian toots his horn and pulls back onto the autostrada.
Fifteen minutes out of his life to help a complete stranger, who, driving an American car, could only be a foreigner to his country, on a darkened, rain-slick highway, who didn’t even know enough to put out the required reflectors to lessen the danger. I didn’t get to thank him. I can only thank him by paying it forward.
The motor pool mechanics are probably still cursing the National Guard guy who turned the sedan back in with a flat tire in the trunk.
(C) William L. Enyart 2021
www.billenyart.com
Email: bill@billenyart.com