—Let’s have chow, Chaplain Bascom said, wiping his eye.
They arose together and replaced their chairs as though they’d been at a formal dinner. Chaplain Bascom took Father Donovan’s arm. Together they walked through the Galleria Umberto. Father Donovan took pride in his uniform as he had pride in his Mass vestments, so he looked down to see if his trousers were neatly belled out over his combat boots. In this same spirit he called Chaplain Bascom’s attention to his protruding shirttail.
The Galleria was filtered with air currents. At the transept crossing from the San Carlo Theater to Via Santa Brigida a column of cool air swam on the heat.
—Say, I feel that vermouth, Chaplain Bascom said heavily.
—There are worse things to feel, Father Donovan said brightly.
He loved the Galleria because it was always full of Neapolitan children—children begging, children selling, children looking, children shuffling barefoot. What caught at him most were the little children pimping. They’d learned a perfect and Saxon English for the pleasures they offered for sale, and their obscene phrases smote Father Donovan more brutally than the worst sins he’d heard in the confessional, where at least he could be impersonal. But when a Neapolitan child played the bawd, the ugly sentences shrieked out as though a parrot spoke them, and they seemed all the fouler because the child understood their import. Father Donovan wondered about Americans who were capable of teaching such things to little Neapolitans of seven and eight. Sometimes when he lay awake at night, he thought of the tragedy of the children of Europe, born and passing their formative years under a rain of bombs, keeping alive by catering to the desires of soldiers. What would these poor children be like in maturity, who had never known the innocence of childhood? If these children grew into cold bitter reptiles, then the world would really have lost the war. . . .
—Next week, said Chaplain Bascom, if we’re still here, I mean to bring some soap and wash these children’s mouths out.
—There are better uses for soap in Naples than that.
These children, Father Donovan thought, are the same as those in South Philadelphia. They’re the same as kids all over the world. I wish I had them all to teach them baseball and buy them popcorn.
—Italian children, he said aloud, are the saddest spectacle of the war.
—But we have slums in the States too.
—Oh I know that, I know that. But these children have no escape at all . . . not even a settlement house.
The chaplains went down the steps of the Galleria that lead to Via Verdi.
—What a place that arcade is, said Chaplain Bascom. A great novel could be made of it. I suppose the market place in Jerusalem was like this arcade. Except that Christ isn’t here.
—Oh, I disagree with you, Father Donovan said. I think He is . . . very much so.
They waited for a truck convoy to pass them with a roaring and a streaking. Across Via Verdi was a transient mess for American officers. In August, 1944, it was busier than a Childs. In shifts officers ate a soup, a plate of warmed-up C-ration, and a saucer of canned pears. It seemed as though every officer (except airplane drivers) out of combat took his meals there. It had a screen door that swung and clattered. On this door always hung one of two signs—OPEN or CLOSED. When this mess ran out of C-ration, the CLOSED sign went up like a storm flag. Winding out of the entrance was a queue of officers, a depressed little concentration of nurses clutching their shoulder bags, and civilian secretaries of the State Department and the War Shipping Administration. Officers paid ten lire a meal, civilians thirty-five. Ducking the bobbing screen door was a hag in a torn black dress who sold Stars and Stripes, Yank, and Time. She saluted all officers who bought a paper and beamed on them with jagged gums. One rumor had it that she was born during the Vesuvius eruption of 79 A.D., another that she was the sybil come in from Cumae because business was better in Naples, another that she was Eleanor Roosevelt in disguise, gathering material for her column.
Father Donovan and Chaplain Bascom went to the tail of the line and mopped their faces and their necks in the Neapolitan afternoon. As four people came out of the mess, the line would inch up four places.
The tables in the mess were like those beds where people sleep in shifts. An old Neapolitan was wiping the untidy table top, stacking plates, and talking threateningly to himself. Chaplain Bascom seated himself and beat on the table jovially so that all the glassware vaulted.
—Mangiare, Joe. And be presto about it too.
The old Neapolitan retreated and was seen no more. Father Donovan turned his quick timid smile on a young Neapolitan in a drenched white coat who brought them two plates of soup.
—Buona sera, Joe. Come state?
—Ehhhh! the young Neapolitan said, relaxing and smiling. Non c’è male. Ma c’è troppo lavoro. . . .
—Dago-lover, said Chaplain Bascom. These people are good for nothing but to sing operas and work in barbershops.
Father Donovan didn’t answer. He was making the sign of the cross prefatory to saying grace before meals.
—You know that embarrasses me in public, Chaplain Bascom continued.
—I thank God even for C-ration, Father Donovan said when he’d finished his brief prayer.
Chaplain Bascom plowed into his soup. He continued to watch suspiciously the slight brown hands making their second sign of the cross in front of the Purple Heart ribbon on the priest’s left breast. Father Donovan then applied himself to his soup. He ate demurely, never looking at what he was eating.
—In the seminary, he said, they used to read aloud from pious writings while we were at our meals. So naturally I expect nothing but edifying thoughts from you until dessert.
The chaplains looked distrustfully at the second course, which was what they knew it would be: diced pork with beans, dehydrated potatoes, spinach, and a leaf of lettuce.
—I keep thinking of Missus Bascom’s friend chicken.
—But just taste this iced tea, Father Donovan cried gaily. You’re having qualms because you drank three glasses of vermouth. Don’t. Saint Thomas says we may drink till we feel hilarious.
They both arose as two nurses prepared to sit at their table.
—Ya don’t mind, boys?
—Not at all, not at all, girls.
With women Chaplain Bascom was almost feudal. In the slight glow of the vermouth he was still enraged that he hadn’t scored one this afternoon on Father Donovan.
—Oh, padres, one nurse giggled. We could use a little salvation, Tessie.
The nurses were older than most ANC’s. They had an air of edgy misanthropy of women overseas too long. They had also a certain pride in their captaincies, since every nurse above the rank of second lieutenant considers that she has jumped the Rubicon.
—And where are you girls from? Chaplain Bascom purred.
It was a theory of his that people could be put at their ease by any of a dozen key phrases.
—Oh lands, said the nurse named Elsie, let’s not go into that. The only thing we’re sure of is that this is Naples, Italy, and that we wanna go home and can’t.
—You girls have the most Christian mission in this war, Chaplain Bascom said.
—Oh we know that, Tessie said. But since Salerno it’s been goddam . . . beg your pardon . . . wearing.
They smoked while eating, holding their cigarettes in painted fingernails which nevertheless betrayed how often those hands had been in hot water.
—There’s nothing pleasant about overseas assignments, Father Donovan said, slicing his preserved pear.
—You can say that again, Father! As soon as I looked at you, I knew you was a priest. . . . Remember me in your prayers so I can stay outa the booby hatch.
—I promise, Father Donovan said.
The chaplains finished their meal and said good night to the nurses.
—If they didn’t smoke like stoves, Chaplain Bascom said on the way out of the mess, they wouldn’t be so nervous.
—Well, I expect t
hey’re lonely and very very tired.
On the sidewalk outside the transient officers’ mess they put on their caps and peered at one another in the sunset that streamed down through the dome of the Galleria. Father Donovan yawned in the hot light.
—Shall we go back to our tent in the Dust Bowl?
—Look, said Chaplain Bascom. What’s that?
Between the two stairways of the Galleria that cascaded into Via Verdi there was an entrance they’d not noticed before. Over the doorway hung a sign in yellow and red:
ARIZONA
For Allied Officers
Now Father Donovan couldn’t imagine what Arizona was doing in Naples. But since he was fond of western movies, he thought this might be worth looking into. Chaplain Bascom said:
—Since you put me on the path to perdition with vermouth, we might as well look in. Maybe they have cactus plants and saddle horses.
The corridor of the Arizona was leaden with smoke. A girl sat in a checkroom the size of a telephone booth. She reached out as they passed and flipped their caps out of their belts.
—But we won’t be staying long, girlie, Chaplain Bascom said, reaching for his cap.
—Hundred lireee, pleeese, she shrieked and put their caps on an inaccessible hook.
—Must be a clip joint, Father Donovan said out of his movie vocabulary.
Inside there was nothing but a small room swimming in smoke. Tables were crammed about a cleared square no bigger than a checkerboard. Officers hunched over these tables, a few French, a few British. But most were American airplane drivers with their high soft boots ensconced also on the tables. Everybody was drinking steadily. But somehow the chaplains sensed that nothing had really begun yet. On a dais smothered in greenery a small Italian band was playing dance music. They did it self-consciously, as though they were imitating phonograph records. Steered by Chaplain Bascom, Father Donovan sat down at a table on the edge of the cleared space. Trying to feel at ease, he tapped his boot to the music.
—Everybody’s looking at us queerly, Chaplain Bascom whispered. Our insignia must stick out like a neon sign.
—No one’s looking at us.
A waiter shambled up and regarded them with menacing timidity. Evidently something went on at the Arizona which made the Neapolitan personnel regard the Allies as an honest-to-goodness conquering army.
—Now this will be on me, Father Donovan said grandly, bringing out his Ayrab wallet. Will you bring us a bottle of . . . champagne, please?
—Good Lord, Chaplain Bascom said.
When the wine came Father Donovan blanched at the price, but to make good his gesture he paid up without a murmur. An airplane driver with swollen eyes leaned over chummily from the next table:
—It ain’t the champagne ya payin for here, kids.
—Atmosphere, I presume? Father Donovan said, feeling quite worldly. He’d learned much from the movies.
—Well, ya can call it that, the airplane driver said. He was on the wrong side of the chaplains to see the crosses on their collars. I keep comin here night after night. I call myself a beast, but I keep comin. . . . Roger.
—What’s he talking about? Chaplain Bascom whispered. He’s drunk. No wonder they have so many casualties in the air force.
—I heard that, the airplane driver cried. Lissen, Jack, I come here to fergit my troubles, not for fights with doughfeet. But if ya spoilin for a bruise, wait till my buddy gets back from the bobo, an we’ll mop up the floor with the botha yez. . . . Roger.
—We’re not in the infantry, Father Donovan said, laying a hand on his arm. We’ve just worked with it a little. And since we’re both in the same army, there’s not much sense in a fight, is there?
—Roger, the airplane driver said.
He settled back mollified and beamed on Father Donovan’s Purple Heart. He pointed to his own, to his wings, and to the Twelfth Air Force patch on his left shoulder. It had been crocheted in rhinestones by some Neapolitan. He winked at Father Donovan and reached over to put an arm about his shoulders.
—Y’are all right, lootenant. But who’s that ole beagle with ya? Shoulda left him home.
With a warm swell of good feeling Father Donovan set the two glasses precisely in the middle of the table and poured out the champagne. It bubbled so cool and golden that even Chaplain Bascom assumed his Something Special air. They clinked glasses. Father Donovan was a host for the first time in his life. Being curate under a bitter brooding pastor in South Philadelphia had somewhat pinched his naturally hospitable nature. All he’d ever been able to do for anyone was to teach kids baseball. Only in saying Mass had he ever been in a position to do something grand for other people.
—Delicious, said Chaplain Bascom, smacking his lips. I see the point of Solomon’s warning against wine. Look how it giveth its color in the cup.
—That guy talks like a chaplain, the airplane driver muttered, emerging from a funk in which he’d laid his head on his chest.
—I am a chaplain, Chaplain Bascom said loftily.
—Then what are ya doin in this place, Father?
—I am not a priest.
—Well, ya should be.
Father Donovan blushed. There was a cyst of delicacy in him that made him itch and sweat when things didn’t run smoothly.
—Some of our champagne? he said to the airplane driver.
The flier had been regarding them with a confused affection and hostility, like a dog making up its mind. He tottered to their table and seated himself with the help of Father Donovan.
—Thank ya. My buddy musta died in the bobo. Since last month at Cerignola, all ya have to do is yell flak, an we all start shittin . . .
Chaplain Bascom twitched.
An now my missions is all done, Roger. I’m goin back to the States.
—Well, I advise you to watch your language when you get there, said Chaplain Bascom. There are ladies in America.
—If you wasn’t a major, I might be tempted to tellya to blow it. In fact, I think I will anyway.
—I’d hate to pull my rank on you, Chaplain Bascom said.
—That’s all you Protestant chaplains is good for is to pull rank. Ya get GI after leavin a little piddlin church in Georgia that pays ya five bucks a Sunday . . .
—We’re all friends here, boy, Father Donovan said.
The flier gave a windy sigh, said Roger, and went to sleep on Father Donovan’s shoulder. He removed the dead weight softly from himself and settled the head on another table.
At this moment some glasses and bottles went whizzing through the air and crackled against the orchestra stand. A fight began in the farthest corner between three airplane drivers and two combat engineers. The noise rose in level as though an invisible hand had turned up the volume control on a radio. What was going on the chaplains couldn’t see clearly for the billowing smoke and the crowds pushing in from their tables. The disturbers of the peace were lured out the door by the Italian manager into the arms of waiting MP’s.
—Nice place, said Chaplain Bascom, sipping his champagne.
Then girls appeared and sat down invited or not at various tables. The din rose. This was what everyone had been waiting for.
—Why, Chaplain Bascom said, this place is a taxi dance hall.
The airplane driver came to and straightened up. He identified the girls for Father Donovan:
—That’s Lola with the green handkerchief. . . . That’s Gina with the earrins. . . . That one there signalin the waiter is Bruna. . . . That number in red is Bianca Stella. . . . Most of em is married to officers in the Italian Army that are prisoners of war. All these cheesecakes have bambini. But a gal has to make a livin. . . . Mamma mia, what a covey of quail. . . . They all got a union rate of two thousand lire a night . . . an don’t tell me that us airplane drivers have inflated the prices. . . . But O Roger, Roger. . . .
Father Donovan and Chaplain Bascom turned on one another as though they’d just met and were sizing one another up.
—Look
, Chaplain Bascom moaned hoarsely.
A girl had come out in front of the orchestra. She got an ovation. In a low rasp she sang “I’ll Be Seeing You in All the Old Familiar Places.” A carnation was stuck in her hair. She wore a dress that seemed to have been sewn from pieces of lace and silk rooted out of ashcans.
—That’s Lydia, the airplane driver said, his eyes bloodshot. An she don’t gimme the time of day.
—It seems, whispered Father Donovan, rising from the table, that Lydia is about to take off her clothes.
The two chaplains retreated through the maze of tables where the officers leaned forward toward Lydia through the iron-gray smoke. Some had girls on their knees who incited them to drink deeply, to forget everything but This Moment Now. Through the fumes eyes looked out at Lydia with weariness and desire and fever. There was an air of daze and bestial futility cut by the mechanical-saw voice of Lydia. The chaplains got their caps. The MP at the door leered at their insignia.
Outside it was dark. Evening had come to Naples, but the heat stayed on as loving and deadly as a pillow over a sleeper’s face. Down the steps of the Galleria Umberto came buzzing evidence of trafficking going on up there in the blackout. Chaplain Bascom was sweating and panting as he put his cap on his head and set it determinedly at a forty-five-degree angle.
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