by Philip Paris
* * *
Three days later, Giuseppe was sitting in the camp canteen drinking coffee with Shipwreck and putting the finishing touches to a cigarette lighter he had been making. They were a valuable commodity in the camp and his skills with metal made them relatively easy to make. He traded them with other POWs for tokens and with the guards for items such as cigarettes, which he could then swap for more tokens.
The POWs were not allowed real money and had nowhere to spend it anyway, so it was accepted practice that the guards could ‘purchase’ trinkets as long as they didn’t pay cash. Giuseppe was not trying to become rich, but on a wall in the camp shop was a banjo he had been saving towards for months. It was only a small four-string instrument. However, Giuseppe had been quite an accomplished player years earlier and he wanted this one badly.
Shipwreck had been giving his views on the situation in Italy. Over the previous few days, the events had become clearer and even the hardened fascists in the camp could no longer argue that Mussolini’s dismissal was untrue. While some of the men were dismayed by the news and others secretly pleased, they were all bewildered. No one had any idea what it actually meant for Italy, their families back home or for them as POWs. That did not stop people from giving their own analysis of the situation, something which Shipwreck had been doing across the table for the last ten minutes.
Giuseppe listened with less than half an ear. His mind was full of what he was going to say and ask of Fiona. The day after the news had broken about Mussolini, Fiona had been too busy on the reception to do much more than show him to the ward and there had been no spare guard the day after that, so Giuseppe hadn’t gone to the hospital at all.
For the last three days, Giuseppe had spent virtually every waking moment working out exactly what to say. He wanted to tell her about his feelings and he needed to hear from her own lips what her feelings were towards him. He was going through the ‘speech’ in his head when Shipwreck leant across the table and poked his arm.
‘I said, as if you were interested, your guard is late this morning.’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘More coffee?’
Giuseppe shook his head. Shipwreck got up and, leaning heavily on his stick, limped behind the counter. As he did so, the door opened. Giuseppe looked in disbelief at the figure walking slowly towards him. As the man drew near he smiled.
‘I thought you might be here,’ he said.
Giuseppe stared as if he was seeing a demon from the underworld. Lorenzo.
‘Why are you here?’
Lorenzo’s smile faltered at the tone in Giuseppe’s voice.
‘The doctor saw me yesterday. It took a lot of sign language but I understood he was pleased with my recovery and there was little more he could do so I could return to camp. As long as I don’t work for a while, I should make a good recovery,’ said Lorenzo, his smile beaming again but once more fading at the expression on Giuseppe’s face.
Shipwreck had returned with two coffees and put one on the table near to Lorenzo.
‘Here, this will soon make you better. You can sit and talk to me. Giuseppe’s been no company at all.’
The door opened again and a guard strode into the canteen. He stood, hands on hips.
‘There you are, Palumbi. Get your Italian backside to the quarry and be quick about it. You’ve had enough bloody skiving this last week to last a man a lifetime.’
Giuseppe hesitated then rose to his feet with the air of a man condemned.
‘Get a bloody move on,’ shouted the guard. However, he took a step back when Giuseppe drew near, his hand instinctively resting on the rifle slung over his shoulder, for the anger on the Italian’s face made him look like a man who would strike out, who would do almost anything at that moment, regardless of the consequences.
Giuseppe worked in the quarry for the rest of the shift like a man possessed, breaking and heaving stones until his muscles begged for rest and his hands were bleeding. He had never known such weariness when he collapsed on his bed that afternoon, too tired to wash, too disheartened even to line up at the mess hall when he heard there was an unexpected mail delivery. He was lying there with an arm thrown across his eyes, when he felt something light fall on to his chest and heard the voice of another man in his hut.
‘Giuseppe. You missed the mail and you’ve got three letters. You’re a lucky man. I got nothing.’
The man walked over to his own bed as Giuseppe sat up slowly, placing a hand on the envelopes to stop them falling on to the floor. He knew the writing immediately. They were all from his wife Pierina. One had been posted more than five months earlier. He opened the most recent one and as he unfolded the letter a photograph fell out on to the bed and the image of a boy looked up at him.
Giuseppe gasped and lifted the picture to study it more closely. He might not have recognised his son. It had been well over two years since he had left home and Renato had not been much more than a baby. Now he was a proper little boy, smiling proudly into the camera. Giuseppe was consumed by conflicting emotions. Despair and guilt, love and desire battled within him throughout the rest of the glorious summer of 1943.
It was this summer that a thin edge of rock emerged from beneath the sea; a line that could be seen in Kirk Sound, stretching all the way from Lamb Holm to mainland Orkney, and in Skerry Sound between Lamb Holm and Glimps Holm. The same success had been achieved between the other islands. The channels had been sealed. Even though there was still a huge amount of work to do, no U-boat would ever enter Scapa Flow that way again.
The men worked and the summer passed unobserved into autumn, without anyone in Camp 60 realising their lives were about to change dramatically.
10
One morning in September, as Major Buckland sat at his desk, his orderly stuck his head into the room.
‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but the new Italian padre is here.’
‘Excellent,’ replied Major Buckland, ‘please show him in.’
Major Buckland stood up and walked around his desk as the orderly showed the priest into the room. Not knowing if their newest arrival spoke English, he greeted him in Italian.
‘I’m Major Buckland, camp commander. Welcome to Camp 60, Padre …’
‘My name is Gioacchino Giacobazzi, but I’m known simply as Padre Giacomo.’
‘Ah, Padre. Please, sit down. You’ll join me in a cup of tea, or would you prefer coffee?’
‘Tea would be fine, thank you, Major,’ the priest replied in English.
Padre Giacomo sat down, putting his small satchel on the floor by his feet. Major Buckland returned to his seat opposite. It was obvious to both men from even these few words that Padre Giacomo was significantly more fluent in English than was Major Buckland in Italian and they slipped comfortably into the former.
‘I believe you’ve most recently come from Edinburgh, Padre, although I suspect you got there by a fairly torturous route.’
‘I was captured at Soddu in East Africa then moved around month after month with no apparent logic until I ended up in Edinburgh, along with thirty other chaplains, to be allocated to various camps around Britain.’
‘Thirty! Goodness, that’s quite a posse of padres. And so you got the little Orkney island of Lamb Holm.’
‘The wisdom of God I do not question.’
‘Indeed. Well, I’m both sorry you’re here and glad. There are over 500 Italians in Camp 60. Most of them were in anti-aircraft regiments, tank corps or infantry. I’ve spoken with many individually over the last eighteen months and they’re all good men. Oh, you get plenty of flare ups, with lots of arm waving and shouting, but it’s generally over and forgotten about as quickly as it starts. No real trouble. Of course, they want to be at home with their loved ones, not here. But here we all are, nonetheless.’
‘Building barriers I believe?’
‘We prefer to call them causeways. Major Booth is deputy camp commander and should be on his way,’ continued Major Buckland. ‘He’s an exce
llent fellow. If you ever need anything and can’t find me then Major Booth is the man to seek. Now, what I was saying is I’ve got to know the men fairly well and what they’ve achieved inside the camp has been little short of a miracle.’
‘I must say,’ said Padre Giacomo, taking a sip of tea, ‘I was surprised at the number of flower beds. Some huts seem almost to have small gardens around them.’
‘Flower beds, vegetable plots, concrete paths so they don’t have to walk in the mud when it’s wet. They’ve built themselves a bowling alley with concrete bowling balls and even concrete billiard tables. I tried one once. It was devilishly difficult to pot anything.’
‘What else do the men do in their spare time? I take it they have some time away from the quarry and the block …’
‘The block-making yard,’ said Major Buckland. ‘Yes. We introduced a system whereby when a team had completed its allotted work for that day then they could return to camp. It didn’t go down well with the Balfour Beatty men because they have to finish their ten-hour shifts no matter how much work they’ve done.’
‘But it suits the Italian temperament.’
‘Exactly. Several of the men are very gifted craftsmen and have turned their hand to making quite beautiful things out of ordinary objects. I’ve seen some intricately carved boxes, ashtrays adorned with Spitfires and Hurricanes, even a cigarette lighter that looks like the Eiffel Tower. There’s also a good band and two theatre groups, so there is a variety of productions. Oh, which reminds me there’s a performance tonight. I know the men would be delighted if you would attend. It gets a bit crowded in the mess hall but we manage. And there’s even a fairly impressive football team.’
‘They don’t play with a concrete ball?’
‘No,’ said Major Buckland enjoying the conversation. ‘We did manage to get a proper football from Kirkwall. In fact, the Red Cross have even helped to acquire kits for the team.’
‘Major Buckland,’ said Padre Giacomo putting down his cup and saucer so he could stress the point he was about to make. ‘I sense you are telling me that the men can fill their spare time, which is all very admirable, but what they lack is something for the soul.’
‘That’s why I’m so glad you’ve arrived,’ said Major Buckland. ‘For all the music, sports and theatre, the men feel strongly about the absence of any spiritual guidance. Also, although many of them have accepted the fact they are here until the war ends, for some …’
‘For some, perhaps the war continues … inside?’ suggested Padre Giacomo, tapping his chest.
‘Yes, they receive upsetting news from home and can do nothing about it or they have no news at all, which may be almost as bad. It makes it very hard for them. They chafe against their captivity. You see some individuals walking around the camp alone, rarely joining in with the activities.’
‘In such circumstances the road to desperation is a short one.’
‘And with that comes higher levels of illness. It’s a vicious circle, Padre.’
There was a knock at door and the two men paused as Major Booth entered, accompanied by a small white dog of uncertain parentage.
‘Ah, Major Booth. This is Padre Giacomo,’ said Major Buckland, rising from his chair, as did the priest. ‘I was just explaining how pleased we are he is here.’
‘I know the men will be reassured,’ said Major Booth, shaking hands with the new arrival. ‘Although, I’m afraid we can only offer the mess hall for your services.’
‘As it is Sunday tomorrow I would like to conduct mass in the morning if that’s possible, Major Buckland?’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘We could announce it before the performance starts this evening,’ added Major Booth helpfully. ‘The play is not one that I know. Something about a baker in Venice I believe.’
‘Well, I’m sure it will be good. They generally are. When we’ve finished our tea Major Booth and I would be pleased to show you around the camp.’
The camp was virtually deserted as the two British officers took a leisurely walk with Padre Giacomo, who expressed surprise at the temperature this far north.
‘It’s not what I expected,’ he said. ‘The weather is so much pleasanter than I thought it would be.’
‘Oh it has its moments in the winter, but in summer Orkney is a most delightful place. I hope at some point you’ll be able to visit the mainland and some of the other islands. They’re quite beautiful. As to the camp … well, the men have done an amazing job.’
‘You like your prisoners Major Buckland,’ said Padre Giacomo.
‘Yes, I do. To be perfectly truthful, Padre, I love the Italian culture. I was stationed in the Dolomites during the First World War, which was where I picked up a few words.’
‘You are very good,’ said Padre Giacomo.
‘You are very kind,’ said Major Buckland with a smile. ‘But yes, I have a great fondness for the people. In fact, my wife and I got married in Italy just after the last war.’
‘Your concern for the prisoners is commendable, Major. I would say that … my goodness! What’s that?’
The men had turned a corner and come upon a statue of St George slaying the dragon. Padre Giacomo walked up to the base and stood gazing in silent amazement.
‘I thought that might surprise you,’ said Major Buckland.
‘I’m speechless. Surely not made by the prisoners?’
‘By one prisoner to be precise, Domenico Chiocchetti. A man with a remarkable artistic skill,’ said Major Buckland, ‘using two of the things we actually have in great supply on the island … cement and barbed wire.’
‘Barbed wire?’ said Padre Giacomo, his astonishment becoming greater with every answer.
‘Yes, I must admit I thought it was a bizarre request when I heard a prisoner had asked for barbed wire. Normally they want less of it. I think Chiocchetti’s gang may still be working at the block-making yard,’ he said. ‘If not, we’ll meet them on the way back. How do you fancy stretching your legs, Padre?’
‘After the amount of sitting I’ve done in the last few days that sounds like a fine idea.’
‘Excellent. Let’s go and find your parishioners.’
11
The three men walked along in comfortable silence, Buster following faithfully behind Major Booth. Guillemots, known locally as ‘tysties’, bobbed on the water’s surface while a variety of gulls screeched noisily overhead. The British officers seemed decent and the conditions in the camp far more favourable than he had imagined, but there was a great deal Padre Giacomo didn’t understand.
‘Is building the barriers the only occupation of the prisoners Major Buckland?’
‘The causeways,’ corrected Major Buckland amiably. ‘Yes, it’s really what everyone is here for. It’s a massive project. Three of the channels between the islands are around two thousand feet wide and the water in some places is more than fifty feet deep. However, all four channels … you’ll hear them referred to as sounds … are now sealed.’
‘So the work is almost complete?’ asked Padre Giacomo, with a sudden fear of soon being moved on again.
‘Oh no, Padre, far from it. There are several months of work yet to do. The activities you’ll see over the next few days on Lamb Holm are being duplicated on other islands.’
‘Let’s hope the local people appreciate their new … causeways when they are complete,’ said Padre Giacomo, unable to understand Major Buckland’s reluctance to call them barriers. He had not yet learned that the term had been changed eighteen months earlier to defuse the tension with the Italians, following their complaint of being involved in ‘works of a war-like nature.’ The construction work had become a long-standing project to build causeways that would allow local people to travel more easily between the islands. Whether anyone believed this was debateable, but it helped to get the POWs back to work. Ever since, the British had avoided the word ‘barrier’.
Padre Giacomo, Major Buckland and Major Booth stopped a short distan
ce away from the Lycia, which had been rammed on to rocks as part of an earlier attempt to block the channel between Lamb Holm and Glimps Holm. More than forty vessels had been sunk between mainland Orkney and South Ronaldsay and in a line behind the Lycia were the blockships, Ilsenstein and Emerald Wings, each one progressively more submerged. It was possible to walk across gangplanks from the shore to the Emerald Wings but when the tide was in more than half of the ship was underwater.
Several Italians were fishing from vantage points on the Lycia, while others were splashing about in the water and many more sat on the bank watching and laughing. A few British guards sat around chatting.
‘Fishing?’ said Padre Giacomo, as he looked at the scene before him.
‘They must have completed their work for the day and are enjoying some free time before going back to camp,’ explained Major Booth. ‘Fishing is quite a popular pastime. They can keep whatever they catch to supplement their food.’
‘There’s Chiocchetti,’ said Major Buckland, pointing to a group of men. ‘Come on, Padre. Let’s go and meet the man who sculpted St George and the dragon from barbed wire and cement.’
The men on the ground stood up when they saw who was walking towards them. Major Buckland and Major Booth greeted the men by name and Padre Giacomo was quick to notice the friendliness of the British officers and the apparently genuine respect of the Italians.
‘And may I introduce Padre Giacomo,’ said Major Buckland.
Buttapasta was the first to shake hands.
‘I’m Domenico Buttapasta. Welcome to the camp, Padre. The absence of a priest has been deeply felt.’
‘I hope I can be of some help now that I am here,’ said Padre Giacomo.
Major Buckland introduced Dino and Carlo, who greeted the priest with due reverence, then turned to face Aldo, who spoke before he could make any formal introduction.
‘Aldo Tolino. If you need anything of a practical nature then I’m your man,’ he said, taking the priest’s offered hand and smiling. Anyone watching Aldo carefully might have been aware the smile did not reach his eyes and if Padre Giacomo felt the slight stiffness in the handshake then he made nothing of it.