My oldest brother, Vince, opened his government-issue "Pocket Guide to North Africa." It read: "You are to do duty in North Africa as a soldier of the United States."

Vince was 10 when he and our mother emigrated from the mountain village of Gizzeria, Italy, to Bellevue, just outside Pittsburgh. He never expected to see Italy again.

But in 1943, at the age of 19, he was on a U.S. ship heading from North Africa to southern Italy -- the exact area where he was born.

The troops pushed up the coast to Anzio and Naples. They stopped and set up camp. Vince later asked if he could go south to find our nana, the grandmother who helped take care of him as a child. The officer told him that he could go but he would have to go on his own. The superior officer warned my brother that he had to return in a week or he would be reported as AWOL.

Vince started on foot and headed south wearing his U.S. Army uniform. The train tracks ahead had been bombed. He continued to walk through day and night for two days. Even though he tried to flag down trucks passing through, no one stopped to pick him up.

"I wasn't afraid," he says now, "because I was in my country and I could speak the language." He decided to stand in the middle of the road and flag down the next truck. As the truck approached, he could see that it wasn't going to stop. He jumped aside, and at the same time yelled out in his childhood language "paesano," meaning "countryman."

The truck came to a sudden halt, and the driver waved him on. He jumped onto the running board because the truck cab was stuffed with four people. He held on tight and rode through the night with his head tucked in toward the truck door.

At one point, the truck stalled. For 15 minutes, they cranked the motor over and over. Finally, the truck started up again, and they continued in the dark. At dawn, they stopped on the top of a mountain. They saw the repaired train tracks and the next train at the bottom of the mountain.

My brother said he felt anxious as they raced down to get to the train that would take him farther south. When he reached the train, there was no room in the passenger section. After striking up a conversation in his Italian dialect, some friendly Italian soldiers invited him to go to their section of the train.

Finally, they arrived at the last station near his native town. He got off the train and looked up and saw his village. Vince started up the long climb on foot. He followed the stream where he used to play as a child. It led him "home."

Looking up, he saw the statue of S. Giovanni Battista, the patron saint, at the entrance to Gizzeria. He knew he was safe. Even before he reached our nana's street, the children had run ahead shouting "Americano! Americano!"

"When nana saw me, she fainted," Vince recalls.

When she regained her senses, she and our uncles -- Carmelo and Gennaro -- joined in celebrating Vince's return. It was Easter. The whole village had reason to rejoice. They all celebrated for two days eating cuzzupe, Italian Easter bread.

Then Vince had to start his trek back to camp. He got back safely and without incident.

Vince was deeply grateful for the opportunity to make his trip back "home."

The photos of his visit to Gizzeria would be the last photos he had of our nana. It was the last time he would ever see nana Maria.

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