Their long overdue meal arrived barely in time to prevent another riot. But the fascists among them continued the protest, doing their utmost to turn it into a full-scale rebellion. They had been strongly in favour of Austria, but were loudly and violently against Australia. They tried to cajole the others, goading them to refuse any order to board ship, demanding instead to remain in this part of the world because the war must end within months. It was insane to send them so far away. Germany now occupied almost everything in Europe except neutral Switzerland. They felt certain Hitler still intended to invade England, and because of the Berlin-Rome axis all Italian prisoners should be remaining in Britain to take over the camps and deal with any of the guards who’d treated them poorly. Side-by-side with their German POW comrades from other camps, they’d have a veritable army that could march on London, take over the government, and start to get rid of enemies like Winston Churchill and the Jews.
For hours they raved and shouted fascist slogans, trying to foment more upheaval, while the majority like Carlo did their best to abstain, knowing this was pointless. Their last prison camp was not an environment they ever wished to see again. The other side of the world could hardly be worse than the past two years; it might even be better. Far better, Carlo thought, if these mad buggers and their Nazi friends could remain on this side of the globe.
The following morning embarkation at Southampton began. Two armed infantry platoons were brought to control the queues formed along the docks, and a total of 2000 mostly Italian POWs were loaded onto the Royal Star, a British passenger liner that had been turned into service as a troopship. An estimated quarter of these were ardent fascists, still loyal to Mussolini and in a state of moody belligerence. A small proportion were Nazi Germans. Once they were on board scuffles broke out while they fought for the limited number of hammocks, or spaces near the portholes. A platoon of armed marines were stationed on board as guards, but the navy crew was nervous. It was a recipe for a very unpleasant voyage.
Luigi heard reports of the shipment and took the news back to Beatrice’s apartment where they were now living together. She was stunned by the thought of Carlo being transported to the other side of the world. England was so much closer. Since learning where he was imprisoned, she’d acquired books with details and photographs about Wiltshire and Marlborough Downs. It had seemed to her like pleasant countryside in which he might feel at home. Although home was perhaps not somewhere he wished to remember.
Luigi, knowing far off Australia came as a shock, tried to convince her he might be safer there than in England, which could still face bombing raids. To comfort her he talked of kangaroos and koala bears Carlo could sketch, and the very bad reports he’d heard about the previous camp. He also stressed how Australian troops had so far successfully repelled the Japanese attack in New Guinea, so any real danger there was over. She knew he was attempting to console her and their love-making that night, while always intense, was deeply emotional.
She lay awake long afterwards, listening to his steady breathing and feeling grateful at the way her life had changed since the first day she saw him. It was such a joy after the turmoil and anger of the years with Salvatore. Their relationship was no longer a secret to her close friends or family. She had received a delighted phone call from Gina, who had only met him once when she visited Rome for the weekend, but instinctively liked him. So had her parents, although there had been cautious endorsement from them both.
“Great news,” her father had said. “Just as long as he isn’t drafted to fight in Greece, Albania, the Balkans, or any of mad Musso’s crazy wars.” Luigi had been able to assure him it was unlikely he’d be sent to any wars, even the crazy ones. He was classified as a junior officer, whom the army found more useful to employ as a consulting lawyer in their legal battles.
“I liked him from day one,” Sofia had enthused, but being Sofia she did raise the difference in their ages. “In your two big relationships since art school, there’s always a gap, darling.”
Beatrice hastily pointed out there’d been eleven years between she and Salvatore, but scarcely three between her and Luigi. No great gap at all.
“True,” said Sofia, “but this time you’re the older and he’s nicer. Far nicer,” she added on reflection. “Make sure you look after him. By which I mean, please don’t lose him.” Beatrice laughed and promised this was a lasting association, aware it was Sofia’s odd way of expressing approval. She and her mother were closer now and this new happiness would be complete if only the war would end so Carlo could return to them and begin his scholarship.
But the war did not look like ending; there were stalemates and reversals and Australia was not entirely a peaceful place on the other side of the world. There was still a lingering battle being fought in New Guinea. The Royal Star, overloaded with prisoners, had been only a few days at sea when Japan had sunk a warship and freighters along the east Australian coast. Previously they’d bombed Darwin and their midget submarines had attacked Sydney Harbour. In Britain Winston Churchill had called for Australian troops in the Middle East to remain there and continue the fight against Rommel. This demand was promptly refused by Australia’s Prime Minister, John Curtin, insisting that Australian troops return to defend their own country. They were needed at home.
The Pacific was still ringed by countries occupied and ruled by Japan. The British must fight in their own hemisphere and Australia would do the same in the Pacific. Curtin had also successfully called on the United States to combine with Australia’s defense, as aid could no longer be expected from Britain. The old ties of empire were being dismantled.
When the Royal Star reached Capetown in South Africa, there was a sudden debate between London and Canberra, on whether the ship should continue its voyage. There had been daily outbreaks of worrying violence, the Nazi Germans and Blackshirt fascists in conflict with the more passive Italians, with the marine guards lax and seemingly unable to keep control. The message was sent to London—the ship could be in danger on the longest stretch of its voyage—across the Indian Ocean. If the insurrection became any worse, the armed guards on board would not be able to restrain a full blown mutiny.
But Britain was insistent; they did not want the prisoners of war returned. It would be a bad look for the government; the media would ridicule the costly dispatch of thousands of POWs as far as South Africa, then an absurd decision to return them to England. After a short stay to refuel and take on more provisions, the ship must proceed as ordered. Plans were already in process for their distribution to the available camps in Australia.
To improve security on board, more guards were sourced from South African army units to reinforce the marines, and prisoners were prohibited from going ashore during the stay. Even more extreme was the decision that only small groups be allowed fresh air at a time. For most of each day they were kept locked below decks, despite a heatwave that made the lower sections of the vessel like an oven. Though no strict record was kept by the guards, this caused a number of deaths and there were secret burials at sea after dark. Twenty fatalities were reported, but it was rumoured the real body count was more than twice that.
Prisoners like Carlo down in the lowest section of this nightmare vessel knew nothing of what lay ahead of them. The ship’s captain had requested, in view of the previous violence and overcrowding, that the ship terminate at Perth and allow those on board to disembark at Freemantle. This was rejected; the ship was to proceed to Sydney as the captives were already assigned to camps in eastern Australia. Any change would mean extra cost. As for the mention of overcrowding, the captain might care to remember that these were enemy prisoners, not privileged guests on an ocean cruise.
TWELVE
Despite the scandal raised in a previous year by the overcrowding of aliens and internees on the troopship Dunera, the Royal Star was even more congested. Far less care was taken because the occupants were Italian and German POWs and being enemies they had no one to hear complaints about their
treatment. The conditions were appalling. There was almost no space between the many hundreds of hammocks on the cramped lower decks and the vast majority had to sleep on emergency planking deep below the waterline and far too close to the engines. The noise of the diesels was unrelenting and the air was polluted. Water was rationed, showers were only allowed every second week, and towels and soap were in such short supply that they had to be shared. A shortage of latrines meant extra makeshift toilets were needed and these could only be set up on open decks where they flooded. As a result the ship was unsanitary and men became ill from the sewage. Whenever possible the crew kept to the main decks and out of sight, the engineers stayed in their quarters below and the increased force of armed marines kept control. A squad was given the task of checking the seriously ill, there was no official doctor on board and the dead were taken late at night for a hasty disposal at sea without a ceremony. Among the bodies were four POWs the marines had shot and killed for refusing to remain in the fetid hold, escaping to seek fresh air on one of the upper decks. Since the previous riots, no prisoner was allowed to be on deck unsupervised for more than their allotted half hour each day.
Carlo was just one of many who had missed out on the chance to secure a hammock. He spent the first weeks trying to sleep on a rough planking floor deep in the ship’s hold, and close to the vibrating engines that throbbed day and night. The constant smell of oil and lack of any fresh air made him nauseous. While the ship took on supplies in Capetown, the guards were stricter and kept the prisoners continuously in their stifling atmosphere around the clock. As a result Carlo became sick with excessive reflux and stomach cramps.
After leaving South Africa the guards ignored his condition; one stopped above his prone figure to abuse him for malingering. On the second night, desperate to breathe fresh air and almost choking with the diesel fumes, he found his way up an unguarded companionway to an outside deck, passing a sign that read: OUT OF BOUNDS AFTER DARK. STRICTLY PROHIBITED.
He reached the ship’s rail just in time to vomit overboard, then cried out in painful shock as a rifle butt dealt him a heavy blow in the back. The voice of an armed marine guard bellowed in his ear to get-the-fuck below. Carlo felt as if the blow had broken a vertebra. He turned to remonstrate, only to receive another heavy clout from the rifle butt—into his rib cage this time. He was confronted by a belligerent face inches away as the guard shouted again, and a second guard came to his support, securing a tight grip on Carlo’s arm. He tried to struggle free but was rendered helpless by another rush of bile. Unable to convey a vocal warning, he was sick all over them both.
“You fucking eyetie bastard,” the first one shrieked, then flung himself clear as another discharge soaked his trousers and boots. He lashed out and aimed a kick that caught Carlo in the groin, and sent him staggering backwards to collapse on the deck.
“Here,” warned the second guard, as Carlo lay writhing in anguish and a light suddenly shone on the boat deck above them, “maybe this geezer’s really sick.”
“He’ll be a fucking sight sicker when I’m finished with the prick,” the other marine vowed, lashing out again with a kick. This time he aimed at his victim’s head, and barely missed when Carlo rolled clear just in time.
They heard a shout from above. “What the hell is going on down there?”
“Nothing to do with you or the bleedin’ navy,” the guard replied, as the ship’s First Officer came quickly down the companionway. “This wop bastard’s breakin’ rules. Spewed his guts all over me. Look!” he shouted, and gestured to show the mess on his clothes and boots.
“You kicked him. I saw it, first in the groin, then almost his head. You could’ve killed him,” the naval officer said angrily.
“Who cares? Who’d fuckin’ miss him? ”
“You oaf, he’s sick.”
“Tough. He’s off limits, broke the rules. Which side are you on, mate?”
“There are no sides on board ship, soldier. POWs are under the Geneva Convention. And despite the congestion, our job is to get them to Aussie.”
“And my job is to keep order. There’s a sign says he’s out of bounds. A fuckin’ illegal. If he has to spew, do it on them below, not on us.”
“For God’s sake!” the officer regarded him. “You’re a piece of work, you are.” He turned to the second marine. “The next time this clown tries to kick a sick man in the head, or the balls, he’ll find himself swimming back to Blighty.”
“Not my fault, mate,” complained the other guard.
“I’m not your mate. Just get the useless sod out of here, or you’ll both be in the slammer.”
“You got no room in your slammer. It’s full of wops and Nazis.”
“We can always find enough room for an idiot. Or else we can tow the pair of you on a rope behind us and see if the sharks are hungry.” He stood staring after them, as both guards glared at him before moving reluctantly away.
“Wallies,” he muttered, then looked down at Carlo, “Are you okay?”
“Just about.” Carlo managed to sit, feeling his groin gingerly.
“Lucky he missed your head.”
“It’s the knackers I’m worried about. I want to be a father one day.”
“I’m glad you’ve got a sense of humour. Even speak good English. Can you stand?”
“I’ll try.” Carlo attempted to get to his feet. The officer helped him rise unsteadily.
“Not feeling too bright. Maybe his boot got your head, after all.”
“Not quite, he tried his best. Missed by inches.”
“Stupid sod. Just as well. Where did you learn so much English?”
“My mother spoke some. She started teaching me.”
“Taught you well.”
“And I spent a long time in a POW camp with an English dictionary and help from one of the guards.”
“Not a guard like those thugs, I gather?”
“No.” Carlo smiled. “A really friendly one. Called Herbie. Did sketches of him, and he helped me with English. We had lessons every week.”
“Sounds like a fair exchange. Sketches?”
“Yeah. Portraits for his family and friends.”
“You an artist?”
“I hope to be. Well, I better say thank you, and go back below. I didn’t want to be sick and make it smell worse down there.”
“Must be horrible.”
“It is a bit,” Carlo agreed, trying to get his balance.
“It’s a long climb, and you’re still not too steady. How’s the stomach? Can you hold down the rest of today’s menu?”
“I hope so. Most is overboard, or on the uniforms of those two clowns.”
The officer grinned. “Then my mates and I should be safe. Come up to the boat deck. You can rest in our wireless room. Get your equilibrium back, before you tackle the companionway below.”
Surprised at the friendliness he tried to scale the short climb to the boat deck, but stumbled until the officer held his arm and saved him from a fall. “Thanks. My name’s Carlo. Carlo Minnelli.”
“Ted Gallagher,” was the reply, and they climbed slowly to the next level and entered the wireless room, which looked more like a private rest room to Carlo. There were chairs and a table where two crew members were drinking tea with an unfinished game of chess between them. An open door led to a tiny adjoining annex, with a single bunk inside it. On benches around the main room were transmitters and what he thought must be a short wave radio, plus microphones and communications to the rest of the ship. Charts on the walls showed all the world’s oceans with a mass of technical detail.
The chess players looked up as Ted Gallagher introduced Carlo. “He’s a young Italian artist who speaks English,” Ted told them. “Just been kicked in the cods by one of our army crazies, so treat him kindly.”
He sat Carlo down in a chair and introduced the others, Stephen the wireless operator from East London, and Archie his assistant.
“A real artist, eh laddie?” Archie h
ad a broad Glaswegian accent.
“You can put him to the test,” Ted said. “Ask him to do a sketch for the girlfriend in Glasgow. But not tonight,” he warned. “He’s been roughed up.”
“Are you one of those Italians who’s a Hitler supporter?” the Scot asked,. “If so, I’ve got some seriously bad news for you.”
“I’m not on his side,” Carlo said and asked what news.
“It was on the BBC short-wave link. German troops have surrendered in the Crimea. Bad call, that invasion. Hitler forgot about the Ivan winter freeze.”
“Bloody marvellous.” Carlo’s unexpected response made them smile. “Bad news for Adolf is good news for us who don’t like him or Mussolini,” he explained. “That includes my mother and sister, but regrettably not my father.”
Over the next hour they plied him with friendly questions and he told them if not for the war he would be studying art at the French Academy in Rome. And how he’d been robbed of a happy night with his first live model.
“Does the word ‘live’ mean what I think it means?” asked Stephen.
“Alive and naked,” said Carlo.
“Thought so. And obviously in this case female?”
“Absolutely. In fact, bloody oath,” Carlo said, recalling a phrase learned from Herbie. He had them laughing—then wanting to know more about her.
“That’s the sad part,” he said. “I went to sleep the first night with fatigue and was kidnapped by Blackshirts next day. She was due back soon and…well, to be honest, that was the end of it. She was both keen and lovely…” They were briefly silenced by contemplation of this overwhelming bad luck. Archie tried to inject a note of optimism.
“The wee lassie might wait for you, if the war ends soon.”
The Last Double Sunrise Page 11