JUNE 1947 MARSHALL ANDERSON
Marshall tightly gripped the railing of the ferry as the view of Sorrento flanked by cliffs and hills appeared in his view. It was a beautiful, blue sky encasing the world he was in. In fact, Mount Vesuvius could be seen clearly in the distance across the bay from the charming city, a rare sight. Usually, it was covered in clouds swirling around the top one-third of the mountain.
During his tenure in Sicily, only four years ago, he had been a soldier in the American army. Now, he was just a twenty-two year old civilian on the proverbial quest to "find himself". He had been greeted as a hero after the war when he returned home to Beaver Bay, Minnesota. He hadn't felt like a hero. He had done his job, even though he was scared out of his wits most of the time. Most of them had been scared, scared beyond their grossest childhood dreams. Many who had come back were damaged, not just physically. That was the easy part. Emotionally, the scars would last for decades. He hoped to erase his memories of the war and what he did, or didn't do, here, where he sought a new life. A quieter, simpler life.
Marshall wanted justification for continuing a life that seemed without meaning. He wanted to atone for what he wasn't, and find what he wanted to be. Although, he had no idea what that was right at this moment.
He had finished high school, but in reality, his skills were limited. His greatest skill had been thrust upon him by the army. It had taught him how to fire the M1 Garand, officially designated as United States rifle caliber 30M1. It was the first semi-automatic rifle to be generally issued to the infantry of any nation. It had a metal clip containing eight rounds. The rifle fired one round each time the trigger was pulled. After the eight rounds were shot, the clip automatically ejected, causing a ping noise to occur. He learned to hate that damn noise. It clung to his brain like a tick on a dog. It wouldn't let go, along with every memory he had of firing the gun.
So, here he was, ready to start over doing whatever he could. He needed to put it all in the past. Through a bit of circumlocution, the reasoning going on in his brain gave him the idea of coming back to Italy and facing whatever demons he needed to exorcise. Marshall didn't know if it would work, but he was willing to give it a go. He had chosen Sorrento because a buddy had told him it was the most beautiful place in Italy.
The ferry entered the Marina Grande, port of Sorrento. It's speed had slowed perceptively when they approached the protected harbor. The refreshing breeze he had been basking in earlier diminished to nearly nothing as the boat slowed and approached the main dock. His Boston Red Sox cap took its place on top of his head while his eyes soaked in the the stunning view before him.
The position of Sorrento, which was known as Surrentum more than two thousand years ago, was very secure. It was naturally protected by deep gorges. Old walls, forty feet high, defended a 300 metre section on the southwest side of the city. Those walls dated from Roman times. The arrangement of the modern streets remained the same as the ancient town. No ruins were preserved in the town, but, part way up a cliff, underneath the Hotel Victoria, an ancient rock-cut tunnel descended to the sea. In future days, Marshall would learn its location and follow its pathway with Sarah.
A member of the crew called out something in Italian to similarly dressed men on the dock. Ropes were tossed from the ferry and caught by the men below. The ferry captain threw the engines into reverse, gently bringing the boat to a halt as he swung it around and kissed the side of the dock. When the boat was securely tied, streams of people poured from the ferry onto the dock. He waited patiently till the others lined up and filed past him. He kept his gaze upon the city and the mountainous backdrop. He had heard of a road built along the cliffs paralleling the sea. He had caught the tail-end of an American couples conversation; Amalfi coast he had heard them say. Something about a breathtaking, beautiful drive they were going to take from Sorrento to the south and then back again. Heights and sheer cliff drop-offs did not excite him.
The crowd thinned until only a few passengers, including him, remained on the ferry. Picking up his lone duffle bag, stuffed with everything he could pack into it, he walked with some trepidation to the steps arranged for disembarking. A lively, young man sporting a sailors cap waited at the bottom of the steps, ready to catch anyone that might stumble as they descended. Marshall nodded and then stepped onto the dock.
"Buongiorno," said the dock-man just as cheerily the last time as the first. Marshall replied with the same "good morning" greeting while he disembarked. His eyes cast down to the clear waters of the Mediterranean slapping the posts sunk deep into the bottom below. Pausing, he watched fish darting between rocks and in and out of hollows. They reminded him of the herring caught in Lake Superior, but he had no idea what kind of fish they actually were. He knew that sea bass, salmon, and swordfish inhabited the waters, but probably not this close in. Not having anything else to do, and being intensely interested in the scene below, he kept watching.
"Don't fall in," he heard from a female voice speaking English. The most beautiful woman in the world stood twenty feet further up the dock. Her thick, dark hair cascaded well below her shoulders. The features of her face definitely identified her as Italian, at least, in his view. A dark complexion and angular cheek bones caressing a Roman nose, filled his vision. Her expressive eyes appeared to reflect the sailboats gliding across the sea behind him. While standing slightly turned towards her, he quickly decided that he wanted to find out more about the girl who had just warned him.
"I was just watching the fish." He couldn't think of anything else to say.
"Instead of watching them, you should try catching them."
"I would, but, as you can see, I don't have a fishing pole. She smirked a little and walked close, stopping a perfect, socially acceptable distance away.
"Well, there are other ways of catching fish." Without elaborating, or waiting for him to respond, she walked towards the ferry, and then she turned and shouted, "My name is Sarah." The sound of her shoes clapping upon the wooden planks of the dock floated to him like music in a great outdoor theater. His eyes followed the young girl in the loosely fitted dress. He was a bit flustered, but intoxicated by her presence, which was now leaving. She hopped gracefully up the steps and onto the ferry.
