My Italian Adventures

by Lucy de Burgh

  The drive from Riccione to Rome is long and a little tiring, past the castle of Francesca da Rimini, through battered Rimini itself and then inland at Fano; next, up a high mountain pass, with a petrol point at the top in the charge of one isolated ‘Tommy’ (he appeared to be living with some Italian peasants); and then down to Foligno in the plain, through Spoleto with its magnificent ancient castle, down once again to Terni in the dusty plain, and up for the last time to antique Narni, with its strange arched galleries, clinging to the hillside. From then it was an almost straight run to Rome and soon the famous landmark, Monte Rotondo, came into sight, the mountain which one sees when approaching Rome from any of the northerly routes into the city.

  Not long after this, we were in Austria again, accompanied by an Australian captain, Howard, who spoke fluent German and was to run the section up there. By this time, plans were well under way for starting it up. We only stayed two days, visiting the HQs at Klagenfurt and Villach, and then returned to Verona. One of my tasks prior to this trip had been tactfully to disabuse various ladies who either wanted a lift to Austria for themselves, or hoped to arrange one for their friends or retainers. The safe-conduct of a military vehicle was much coveted, but as the carrying of civilians, apart from wives and children of service personnel, was strictly forbidden to all travellers in military vehicles, appeals for assistance of this sort had to be politely refused.

  On this occasion in Verona I had a morning to myself and was able to visit the house where Romeo wooed Juliet and see the balcony that he is supposed to have climbed up to. I also saw the chapel where they were married and Juliet’s tomb. Like all other Italian towns, Verona has its own intrinsic atmosphere, and many interesting monuments, for beside relics of the Montagues and Capulets there is also the Roman amphitheatre, where operas and plays are performed in the open air each season, a fine statue of Dante and a number of ancient and interesting houses and churches. The river rushes through the town, at that time unfortunately under damaged bridges where reconstruction work was busily in progress; and, as at Udine, the high mountains form a splendid frame to the mass of red-brown roofs, grey spires and towers.

  Shortly after this brief glimpse of Verona, a reorganisation took place in the commission. A conference was held in Milan of most of the senior officers, and there was a great pooling of views and much interesting information imparted. My job was to take everything down verbatim. The Austrian Section was now well on the way to taking definite shape, and it was also decided that a reconnaissance should be made in the Trieste area, as it was known that there were helpers in that part. Some of these, it was feared, were behind the demarcation line, where it would be scarcely practicable, let alone safe, to penetrate, owing to Tito’s rigid frontier patrols. One bold spirit, however, was only too anxious to slip over into ‘Jug’ territory, and it was obvious that he would have to be restrained, as international incidents were to be avoided at all costs, and any hint of such a thing becoming known would have immediately brought the wrath of the gods upon the commission from Supreme HQ. Even so, the gentleman in question did manage to get into a spot of bother, despite being warned, but fortunately nothing international, and so it was smoothed over.

  Meanwhile I was delighted at the prospect of a Trieste Section, as I hoped that sooner or later the CO would have to go there to start the ball rolling on an HQ level, and that I would be able to accompany him and see a part of Italy hitherto unknown to me, but where I had a relative with an infantry regiment. The conference, meanwhile, came to an end with various conclusions reached about changes of personnel and the eventual closing down of the Milan Section, tightening up of controls on the use of petrol and other stores, and other administrative matters.

  Next day, I was detailed to fly down to Rome, and this journey was far from pleasant. By chance, I was travelling on my own, but met a colonel from the Allied Commission in Milan, likewise on his way south, and so I travelled with him. I was glad of a companion, for the passage proved highly disagreeable. The weather was bad and we went right out over the sea, beyond La Spezia, towards the island of Elba. We were in a storm and at moments seemed to be just skimming the water; for one awful instant it seemed we would strike it, but the plane righted itself and soared up again, to me it seemed just in the nick of time. Soon after that the weather cleared, and before long we were nearly level with Rome and out of the storm-belt. During that tense period, everyone in the plane appeared outwardly calm, although the Italian passengers could not keep up their usual incessant conversation, as the roar of the wind was deafening. I used to watch some of them gaily chatting on the airfield before take-off, and then they would continue their conversations, in spite of being given ear-plugs and even when the engines were revving up, finally raising their voices to a shrill crescendo, approaching their faces to almost touching distance as the plane took off. By this time most people had relapsed, at least temporarily, into silence, but the inveterate talkers could just be heard, though going by the exaggerated movements of their lips they were obviously bawling, yet their voices seemed no more than a murmur or a squeak. They would carry on like this until completely exhausted, and then sit back to accumulate more energy for the next bout.

  That day we landed at Ciampiano, a bigger airfield than the other, and by now cleared of much of its damage, with artificially surfaced runways, over which a small black-and-yellow jeep plied between planes as they came in. Round the edges of the vast airfield, however, ruined hangars and twisted plane débris were still to be seen.

  From that time on, my work was to centre more on Rome again, but I did not mind, for now I loved both north and south Italy, and felt equally at home in both. During September, there was a certificate award ceremony in the small town of Rieti, in the Abruzzi Mountains, at which many notables of the city, including the bishop, a fine cheery man with great personality, and the major of the local carabinieri were present. The people were universally friendly and there was an atmosphere of great cordiality at Rieti, the town where lived Azzari, the pastry cook already mentioned. He was perhaps most distinguished for his gallantry, but others of his townsfolk had also done excellent and courageous work helping our men. At the small reception, I met a professor from the local grammar school, or ginnasio, and also a woman teacher and curator of the town library. We talked about English literature, and I, knowing that most people on the continent are well acquainted with the works of Lord Byron, asked them if they had any of the poetry of ‘Beerronne’ in the library, whereupon they both replied, a little reprovingly, that they had of course the works of ‘Byronne’ and we went on further to discuss him. I felt somewhat foolish at being corrected in the pronunciation of one of our own poet’s names. But generally, I had found that few people abroad pronounced him rightly and thought only to make myself clear. I did not try again.

  Another event that summer was a garden party held at the British Embassy, to which several of us were invited. The garden was beautiful, with tall old trees – cedars and pines in the main – a great green well-cut lawn, English fashion, and a profusion of flowers. The ambassador’s wife was a charming hostess, here, there and everywhere, and friendly and welcoming to everyone. Little could anyone imagine at that cheerful party that in barely more than six months’ time, a bomb would shatter half of the front of the embassy and a new home quickly have to be found for BHE (British High Embassy) staff and work.

  About the same period, I attended a different type of party, a private affair, mainly it seemed, to entertain members of the Roman nobility and stray foreign aristocrats, with the gathering leavened by an admixture of oddly assorted service personnel. A German crown prince was present, a Roman prince, and other scions of nobility with varying titles. The English guests included an air vice-marshal, a beautiful girl from the British Embassy, Judy and myself, and a colonel commanding the large transit camp outside Rome. This strange gathering intrigued me, and when the Roman prince offered me a lift home in his car, I was even more intrigued. On th
at occasion, the only time I had a specific chance of transport back to my hotel, the commission’s Italian driver made sure of coming back to fetch me. He arrived too early in the first instance, but when I told him he would not be needed, he firmly turned up after about half an hour and tooted methodically and with great determination, until eventually I decided it was best to take advantage of his willingness, though I felt rather like a child with its nanny. Some drivers would not have come back again, but perhaps he had seen me leaning out of the window with the prince, who was recounting his experiences in the desert, though I could not quite make out which side he had been on at the period he was describing, and did not like to ask. Perhaps it was this that made Enrico so determined to transport me safely home that night. As for Judy, I believe the German prince gave her a lift – anyway I left her in deep discussion with him.

  That evening has always remained engraved on my memory, because it was fairly typical of Roman life at that time. The party was held by a British officer in a lovely old house looking out over the Tiber towards the Janiculum Hill. The lime trees on either side of the road running alongside the river stood in sharp outline in the light of the street lamps. Our host was a British regular Army major, with a slightly cavalry air and he was very hospitable and made everyone perfectly at home. We talked, danced, smoked and drank whisky, sherry or Frascati Spumante, a delicious and non-intoxicating drink. Altogether it was a delightful evening – everyone was of a different nationality and profession, but thanks to the skill of our host, the ingredients fused very well. There were no contretemps, even when the daughter of a well-known Roman family arrived late, and at once demanded whisky, and drank whisky solidly for about two hours, but without showing the smallest trace of an effect. At that time in Rome, and perhaps it is always so, you might meet anyone anywhere, and it was just accepted. In that climate, the rigid differences existing in more northern lands seem to merge more easily and happily into one another when occasion demands. And so we leaned out of the windows of the small mediaeval house that evening, watching the lights reflected in the ripples of the River Tiber, and discussed art, politics, the war and other things, ex-enemy and ally together, and even the bitterness engendered by the doings of Nazi and Fascist seemed extinguished in a newly awakened understanding.

  Shortly after this, General O’Connor came out to Florence to see and thank personally the Italians who had made his escape possible, and as this was within the Province of our Commission, our CO was instructed to go to Florence to meet the general. We motored up a day early, via Route 1, the Via Aurelia, and as luck would have it, the Chev again broke down, this time at a spot not far from Orbetello, the tiny town on a tongue of land jutting out on a promontory right into the sea. We had already stopped once, way back at Fiumicino; Bruno, the Italian driver the colonel had been persuaded to take on, had complained volubly that the lazzaroni (rogues) in the Rome garage had not serviced the car properly before we set out. Anyway, she broke down and nearly lost a wheel, as some nuts were apparently loose and had fallen off (according to Bruno). After he had hitched a lift on a passing lorry and gone in search of spare nuts, I had the none-too-pleasant task of hitchhiking on another lorry into Orbetello and ringing through to Rome on a public telephone to report the disaster. Hours were wasted, and it was finally after eight o’clock that night that the relief vehicle came and we were able to proceed to Florence. In spite of the lateness of the hour, I enjoyed the journey, especially as we had a midnight supper out of doors at a charming little roadside café on the outskirts of Siena. Here some Italian boys with a small puppy were very interested to learn that the English for it was ‘dog’. They promptly proceeded to christen it ‘Doggino’ (little dog). But the pleasant interlude was over all too soon, and before long we were driving through the deserted and silent streets of Florence. Much went wrong on that trip, and I was genuinely glad when it was over, although General O’Connor’s meeting with his helpers was a complete success. He then went on elsewhere and not long afterwards, to my delight, the CO actually decided to go up to Trieste on a short visit, and also to GHQ, which had by then moved to Padua.

  32

  Trieste

  I t was sometime after the Milan conference that the CO was persuaded to take ‘Bruno’ as his driver. Bruno had been chauffeur to the manager of Barclays Bank in Rome and for some reason had to be discharged, as his services were no longer required. So the CO was approached and Bruno’s virtues so extolled – his good and careful driving, his reliability, his polite manners, etc. – that eventually the CO, who was looking round for another driver, agreed to give Bruno a chance and take him. What we did not learn was that his eyesight was bad, that he was really not physically fit enough for long-distance driving, and that he nourished rather too much affection for café-cognac, an affection that revealed itself more and more as the cold weather came on.

  I was always a little suspicious of Bruno, preferring a British soldier driver for the CO, and he in turn was highly suspicious of me, ‘La Signorina’, from whom he took orders with evident distaste. He did not approve of women in uniform, and he was of an older generation of Italians, to whom the British way of life as it had developed in the Second World War was quite incomprehensible. His vocal chords had long ceased to function normally and his voice was wheezy and husky, but not musically so, and when annoyed he was inclined to whisper gutturally and almost inaudibly to himself. He was well turned-out in a good chauffeur’s uniform and bowed politely, almost obsequiously, as he shut and opened the car doors. He was in fact probably the perfect chauffeur for town driving, but for long distances he had neither the stamina nor the experience. For one thing, he was bad at finding his way and when interrogating locals as to the right road, would invariably, to the CO’s intense annoyance, say to them, ‘It is that way, is it not?’, at which they would of course agree with him. As his suppositions were usually off, we would go in the wrong direction and it would only be after several miles that we would be convinced of his mistake. He drove like the wind and would suddenly miss a curve in the road or a bump, and before long the CO developed the habit of watching the road the whole time Bruno was driving. Several times he saved our lives when Bruno would most certainly have been the end of us all. And so we started off to Trieste, fortunately unaware of what lay in store for us with Bruno at the helm.

  It was the second week of October and already, as we drove north, the leaves were drying and falling and the stubble had turned brown and worn. The air was cooler and there was a scent of autumn about. The drive after Venice was mainly along the Gorizian coast, through Monfalcone and small villages and across flattish, rather uninspiring country until we came to the coast road proper, with its surface cut from rock, and cliffs towering above us and falling sheer beneath to the water. All of a sudden, there came into sight a magnificent Norman fortress jutting out over the sea; it must once have been almost inpregnable. It was a little disappointing to learn later that the castle was not much more than a century old. It had once been the residence of the ill-starred Maximilian who fell in Mexico, but now it housed the HQ of an armoured division. This was the Castle of Miramare, and not far past it we came to yet another magnificent fortress, the Castle of Duino, this one of genuine mediaeval origin, though much restored, where the British C-in-C had his HQ and where we were to return next day. Bruno hurried past and soon the port of Trieste came into sight, in the cusp of a large bay, the water grey-blue, not now the pure cobalt or turquoise of the southern summer. There was a slight wind blowing, but not the famous Bora, the icy local wind, said to be violent and very chilling, which fortunately we did not encounter. It was however much colder than further south and there was something of northern Europe in the air here, where Germanic and Latin influences combined with Slav produced a blend that can only be described as ‘Triestino’ – it had something of all three, but none predominated to destroy the others.

  The CO put up at the Excelsior, the seniors officers’ hotel, and I stayed in
a back street at a less exalted establishment. Our main business was conducted next day, when my CO had an interview with the C-in-C, General Sir John Harding, at Duino, and I accompanied him to the castle. We were invited to lunch and this was a great ordeal for me, although Lady Harding and the brigadier’s wife could not have been more charming. I sat between two ADCs at lunch at a long table lined, as it seemed, with ‘brass hats’. The castle inside was in an excellent state of preservation, as it was externally too, and it was well furnished, with fine portraits on the walls. The view from the windows was unsurpassed, the breakers roaring about the bastions, so that one might almost have been on the deck of a liner. To the left, the whole port of Trieste was spread out in full view, stretching along the coast of Istria, down towards Pola.

  This day turned out to be a rather sad one for our commission, as the Commander-in-Chief had irrevocably decided, in spite of pleas from our CO, to order the closing down of our section at Florence, which would of course make our work far more difficult. As a result of this interview, both Milan and Florence were to be closed down, to keep in pace with the overall retrenchment in Italy; and a new section was to be opened in Bologna to conduct ASC work over the whole area previously served by the two sections. But it was an order and ‘Orders is Orders’; still it was one which would be a great disappointment to the keen officers who were trying hard to do a difficult job, often in isolated places, and a job that in winter was twice as difficult. With only bases at Rome and Bologna, their difficulties would be tremendously increased, and unfortunately the work did not seem to be decreasing to help matters out. While the fateful interview was taking place, I sat with the two ladies and afterwards we said goodbye and were soon off, getting into the car again in the mediaeval courtyard, where smart guardsmen were on sentry duty; we drove through the massive arches, several feet thick, and back to Trieste, where work had to be done in connection with forming the new section there.