Foreword

The first question that came to mind as soon as I finished reading Daniele Ferroni’s story was: What moved a talented photographer to write this war tale? I thought of the heavy, suffocating atmosphere we are currently experiencing — the war in Ukraine with the threat of nuclear escalation, the conflict in Gaza, and other wars we know nothing about, yet which are no less tragic and brutal, playing out every day around the world. All of this may well have influenced our author, perhaps unconsciously. Or perhaps it was his love for his homeland during the Second World War — there, on the banks of the River Lamone, which in recent times has tragically overflowed, putting the local population, and Daniele himself, to a severe test — as harsh as during wartime, if not worse. Then I thought of the Canadians. My father used to tell me there were many of them in Cesenatico too — good people who tried to give their best, helping and often feeding my fellow townspeople who were by then on the verge of starvation. “The Saint” was one of them, and it seemed only right to me to help preserve their memory. Whatever reasons may have led Daniele to write this story, I find it clean, credible, and compelling. I believe it should be read in schools, to help young people understand the horror of war and the importance of loving life.

Stefano Simoncelli, April 2025

The Saint

On the way to Zurich, Thursday, August 22 – Kehl - Baden (Switzerland), Friday, August 23 – Villanova B.c., Thursday, August 29, 2024

Marina certainly didn’t know that this house held so many stories, including that of the Saint when in that distant May of 1976 she came to take photographs of the female farmworkers picking green beans for her project: We, Others. Images and Stories of Women. Their laughter and singing, bent over their work, restored peace to a place that had seen so many young lives cut short by the hatred of war. It was December 1944. The Allied troops were slowly moving up the peninsula, liberating it town by town from the Nazi-Fascist occupiers. Within the British Eighth Army, the Canadian regiments were proving their worth throughout Romagna, particularly in the area between Highway SS 16 and the railway line connecting Russi to Castelbolognese, across the rural districts of Bagnacavallo and Russi, and along the natural trenches formed by the Naviglio Canal, the Lamone River, and the ditches north and south of them - natural defenses that continuously hindered their advance. That farmhouse, known as the Casa del Santo, was then inhabited by the Andraghetti family, known as the Sulacì. It stood close to the right embankment of the Fosso Vecchio—on Via Argine Fosso Vecchio—about fifty meters behind the house, where it formed a small bend. All around it stretched vast cultivated fields, mainly cereals, between the hamlets of Villanova and Villa Prati, in the municipality of Bagnacavallo. The Canadian troops had liberated the village of Villanova on the night between December 10 and 11, crossing the Lamone River under heavy enemy fire—approximately at the location of today’s Viale Dante—using the Bailey Bridge, quickly built by Canadian engineers. However, pockets of enemy resistance still remained in the western area, towards Bagnacavallo. The Loyal Edmonton Regiment, to which Lance Sergeant St. Germain -known as Il Santo, belonged, was initially stationed around Palazzo San Giacomo in Russi. On December 12, they were ordered to reposition around the village of Traversara: Companies C and D along Via Ca’ del Vento, and Companies A and B along Via Vecchia Traversara. At dawn on December 13, officers received word that the Hastings and Prince Edward and the Carleton and York regiments had been counterattacked and forced to retreat to the right bank of the Naviglio Canal, where they were holding the line with only a handful of men. In this situation, the Loyal Edmonton Regiment was immediately placed under the command of the 1st Canadian Infantry Brigade, and an attack plan was devised to push past those positions and drive the enemy back. Advancing first along Via Vecchia Traversara, then through Carraie Biondina and Vecchia Viola Graziani, and briefly along Via Cogollo, the four companies sent to provide reinforcement reached the Canale Naviglio between the Villa Prati Mill—now the home of Pietro Ricci’s family—and the Viola Mill—now the Quercioli Mill. From there, a fierce battle began, fought house to house, room to room.

The clashes, after continuous reversals of front, had a temporary respite when Companies when around 22 h, A and B Companies had apparently finished clearing some of the farmhouses between Via Pozzarda and Via Abbadesse: the Toni, Longanesi, Ferroni, and Staffa homes. However, the areas assigned to Companies C and D were still occupied by enemy infantry and armored vehicles. The following day, December 14, under a light drizzle, the few surviving members of the counterattacked regiments and the four companies were asked to gather and reorganize, protected by the walls of some houses. But around 13:30, the enemy attacked again, supported by seven tanks, artillery fire, mortars, and a large force of light infantry, spreading panic throughout the area. It was when the Saint was struck down. Joseph Flavian St. Germain, born in 1916 in Dixonville, Alberta, was a Native Canadian of the Cree Nation of the Peace River province. The eldest of four sisters and two brothers, son of Adolphus and Marie Nancy. Before the war, he worked in a sawmill. He enlisted on April 5, 1940, in his hometown; he then left for training in various locations across Great Britain, particularly in Whitecrook, Scotland. It was there that he formed a close friendship with a local girl, Miss Anderson. Then came his baptism of fire in Italy during Operation Husky on July 10, 1943, near Pozzallo (Ragusa), on the beach of Grottelle. From that day on, he became known as The Saint, partly due to the abbreviation in his surname. He also fought in the brutal battle of Ortona, along the Gustav Line, where Canadian forces suffered the highest casualties of the Italian Campaign—1,375 casualties out of 1,665 total Allied losses. Saint Germain distinguished himself for his valor, but when Major James Riley Stone commended him, he replied:“Sir, I’d rather die in this war than go back home. Here, I command a platoon, and the boys call me ‘Saint,’ but back in Canada, I’m just another damned Indian, with no rights and not even allowed to enter a bar for a beer.” Despite the fighting raging nearby and the immense risk, young Romano was in the stable helping his father Federico tend to the animals. Meanwhile, some Canadian soldiers, had just crossed the Fosso Vecchio using a wooden footbridge, momentarily stepping out of the hellish combat for a brief respite. A couple of them, smoking, were talking to the Saint, trying to make sense of the enemy’s possible attack strategies, and looking for a way out of the pocket they had been forced into by the overwhelming force of the counterattack. Romano was brushing the gleaming coat of Zeus, the bull king of the stable and his favorite. Zeus lazily swayed his tail to chase away the flies while Romano, through the corridor, observed the soldiers gesturing amid a haze of cigarette smoke. Then, a sudden whistle followed by a loud explosion made them vanish from sight, leaving behind only a spiral of smoke rising towards the sky - as if they had become three suspended souls. The Canadians had been hurled a good ten meters from the manure heap beside which they had stood—two of them lay lifeless. The third, the Saint, was unconscious and barely breathing. His left arm hung in shreds, attached to his body by only a sliver of skin. The thigh on the same side was partially severed, and a gaping wound tore open his side—injuries that offered little hope. The stretcher-bearers rushed over immediately. First, they wrapped the soldiers’ bodies in white hemp sheets, as if they were shrouds, then laid them onto wool mattresses taken from the master bedroom on the upper floor of the house—the one belonging to Linda and Federico. The medics did what they could to stem the Saint’s bleeding, tightening a tourniquet around his arm, injecting morphine, transfusing plasma. A military chaplain, who had arrived on site, gave him the last rites. They placed them in the ambulance and took the back roads, steering clear of the main ones still pounded by mortar fire. Linda followed at a desperate pace, zigzagging between potholes on the only bicycle the family owned—a black men’s model. Each was burdened with their own silent worry: the medics focused on reaching the destination in time; Linda clutching the thought of recovering her mattresses—a wedding gift from her father. They reached the small hospital in Russi, nestled within the old fortress, where the nurses, gently lifting the fold of the sheet from his face, could do nothing but confirm what they already feared. In the margin of the Field medical card, they wrote: “Dead on arrival.” Personal belongings:

• a red leather wallet
• a keepsake lighter
• a tin box filled with personal photographs
• a green Kodak Petite camera
• two rosaries
• a keychain
• a prayer book
• a cigarette case
• a small knife
• a pencil
• several snapshots The battle ended at 2:35 am on December 17, when the Saint was already riding free across the vast prairies of his native land.