by Philip Paris
They were about to follow but the little nurse got in front of them as they reached the hospital doors.
‘You can do no more now,’ she said putting a hand on Buttapasta’s arm ‘Leave him with us. We’ll let you know as soon as there’s any news.’
26
The next day, Domenico and Pennisi were transforming the plasterboard that had been put up in the nave, skilfully making them look like walls of brick and carved stone. The deception was cleverly carried out and it was already apparent that the effect would be very realistic, with the added illusion of making the ceiling seem higher.
Giuseppe was busy fitting a section of the rood screen. He had made virtually all of it and over half had been erected. The bottom section stretched across the full width of the hut and when fully assembled the rood screen would rise to the ceiling in four columns to create three Gothic arches, providing the congregation with an uninterrupted view into the chancel.
Within the central arch were two gates, the left one incorporating the word ‘Maria’ and the other the letters ‘IHS’. The previous week, it had quickly become clear that Giuseppe had created a work of art that equalled anything else in the chapel. Now so much of it was assembled a steady stream of admirers drifted in and out.
However, no one called that afternoon and the mood in the building was sombre. The three men worked in silence, alone with their thoughts. Buttapasta entered, carrying a bundle of teak, which he laid gently on the small table. Domenico and Pennisi walked over but Giuseppe carried on as he needed to finish securing his section to the wall.
‘I went down into the Emerald Wings to see what Aldo had been doing and found this,’ said Buttapasta. ‘It’s first-class teak. I think he meant it for the tabernacle.’
Domenico fingered the wood but didn’t speak. They had all been hit hard by the accident and waiting for news from the hospital was wearing down their nerves.
‘I didn’t think he was interested in the chapel,’ said Pennisi.
‘Perhaps it touched Aldo without him realising it,’ said Buttapasta. ‘He certainly went to a lot of effort to obtain this and he was so keen to do it himself he kept it a secret from everyone else.’
‘I wish he’d told us,’ said Domenico. ‘We wouldn’t have let him get caught by the tide.’
None of them could think of anything to say and were standing around in awkward silence when Major Buckland arrived.
‘Is there any news, sir?’ asked Domenico.
‘I’ve just had the hospital sister on the phone,’ said Major Buckland. ‘Aldo is awake. I thought I would let you know straight away.’
The three men broke into a bout of shouts, handshakes and back slapping. Buttapasta stopped himself only at the last instant from giving Major Buckland a huge pat that would probably have sent the slightly built man flying into the chancel.
‘He’s not out of the woods entirely. He’s broken his leg so is going to be in hospital for a while. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already got his eye on some pretty young nurse,’ said Major Buckland with a smile.
‘That would be Aldo,’ said Buttapasta. ‘We probably won’t see him for weeks, even after he’s recovered. He’ll be spinning it out until the war ends.’
‘Well, the sister has promised to keep us up to date.’
Major Buckland walked over to look at the painting of the Madonna and Child as he always did when in the chapel.
He turned to face them. ‘I can see that when you’ve finished the nave this could be a church anywhere in the world. It’s just a pity the outside looks like an extremely unattractive Nissen hut. But the inside is incredible.’
The men respectfully said goodbye to the major as he left and then stood around in silence for a moment.
‘I’ll give Aldo such a bloody thump when I see him,’ said Buttapasta. Leaving Giuseppe to continue with his rood screen the others walked outside. They stopped several yards away from the front door so they could look back at the building.
‘Major Buckland has a point,’ said Pennisi. ‘From the outside it looks uninviting. It’s not what you want from a house of God.’
They fell silent once more, staring at the Nissen hut as if they had never seen one before.
‘We could make a new entrance,’ said Domenico eventually. ‘Build a façade to hide what’s really there.’
‘That would be a big job but I’d be happy to lend a hand,’ said Pennisi.
‘All we have is time,’ said Buttapasta.
‘Time and cement. I think this is a job for an artist in cement,’ said Domenico innocently, looking up at his friend. Pennisi smiled but said nothing. The big man held out for only a little while.
‘Alright. I suppose I’m not really doing much else at the moment. If one of you draws a design I’ll make up the parts, but I’ll need a team to help construct it.’
‘The latter is hardly a problem, you can pick virtually any man in the camp,’ said Domenico. ‘As for the other, perhaps you’d consider designing the chapel’s façade Sergeant Pennisi?’
‘I’d be delighted,’ replied Pennisi. ‘Come on, let’s get a coffee and plan this in more detail.’
Shipwreck had just handed over their mugs when a British corporal opened the door to the canteen and bellowed.
‘Shipwreck to the commandant’s office, at the double!’
Shipwreck set off, looking rather crestfallen and certainly odd without his large stick. His ‘offence’ had been made worse at the end of the previous day’s events when he had been awarded the cup for the best athlete on the field. Major Buckland had been forced to congratulate him and shake his hand in front of nearly 2,000 spectators. When they reached Major Buckland’s office the corporal knocked, opened the door and announced.
‘Malvolti’s here, sir.’
Shipwreck marched into the room, saluted and stood to attention. The door was shut firmly behind him. The men in his hut had spent most of the previous evening trying to decide what punishment he would be given. He had spent a sleepless night. And now he stood in front of Major Buckland, who ignored him as he read through various papers. After a considerable time and without looking up or speaking, the British officer held out a small card. Shipwreck stepped forward, took the card and stepped back to stand at attention, glancing quickly down as he did so. The card had one word written on it. ‘Quarry’.
Shipwreck stood a few moments more but Major Buckland, apparently totally preoccupied with papers, did not say or do anything else.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Shipwreck loudly, then saluted smartly, turned about and left the room. Everyone thought he had got off very lightly. He later fixed his walking stick to the wall above his bed and hung the trophy from one end.
The next afternoon Buttapasta was up a ladder above the doorway to the chapel, holding a tape measure and calculating various distances and angles based on a design that Pennisi had produced the previous evening. The drawings still needed to be worked on but Buttapasta had been impressed by the sergeant’s quick grasp at what was required and his ability to convert ideas into sketches and workable plans. He had asked for some measurements to be taken, which was why Buttapasta found himself up a ladder when Major Buckland appeared.
The normally easy-going officer was tense.
‘Is everything alright, sir?’
‘Is Domenico inside?’ said Major Buckland, ignoring the question.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Perhaps you’d better come in and hear what I have to say.’
Domenico looked up when the two men entered. He had been mixing more paint to create a colour as near to that of brick as possible. He even had a brick on the table as a per manent guide.
‘Ah Domenico,’ said Major Buckland. He paused and looked at the artist, ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news. I wanted to let you know myself.’
‘Bad news, sir?’ said Domenico, perplexed at what could be so wrong.
‘It’s your friend, Aldo.’
‘Aldo? But yo
u said yesterday sir that he was alright apart from his leg,’ said Domenico.
‘So I did. However, I’ve just had the sister on the phone and I’m sorry to inform you that Aldo has developed pneumonia.’
‘Pneumonia!’ said Buttapasta who had stayed quiet until now.
‘According to the sister I’m afraid it’s very serious. Apparently it’s come on rapidly and Aldo is extremely ill.’ Major Buckland paused once more. ‘I’m very sorry. The message I got was that … that they weren’t very hopeful.’
Pennisi and Giuseppe stopped what they were doing and stood quietly to one side. They were all devastated.
‘Aldo,’ said Domenico.
‘You can be sure they will do everything possible at the hospital.’
Domenico seemed not to have heard what Major Buckland had just said.
‘If he dies because of a pile of wood, I’ll never forgive myself,’ he said.
‘No,’ said Major Buckland forcibly. ‘Not for a pile of wood. His actions were fuelled by a desire to be a part of what is being created here. There is always a risk going below on the blockships. He was willing to take that risk.’
They were all silent for a while.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Domenico. ‘I appreciate you coming to tell us yourself.’
‘I promise I’ll get word to you as soon as I hear anything from the hospital.’
There was nothing more Major Buckland could say, so he left the men to cope as best they could.
‘He’s right you know,’ said Buttapasta to Domenico. ‘It’s not your fault. You can’t take responsibility for another man’s actions.’
After a few moments the door opened and an Italian that Domenico only vaguely recognised came in. He walked over without speaking and knelt in front of the nearly completed rood screen. They instinctively turned their backs to give the man some privacy, but immediately two more people came in, then Carlo entered and a few moments later two more men arrived. They all knelt to pray in silence.
‘I suppose word has got around the camp about Aldo,’ said Buttapasta.
The four friends looked at each other. Without speaking they knelt. Outside, little groups of men made their way across the parade ground.
27
The weather continued to be fine and the Italians enjoyed the long hot days, when it was light from early morning until late in the evening. Camp 60 had its own monthly newspaper called Sole d’Italia, which was produced on a small duplicating machine in the administration hut. Some of the Italians showed great talent for creating crosswords, puzzles and stories. Pennisi drew illustrations for the front cover. His artistic skills were often called upon by the local amateur theatre group in Kirkwall and he was given permission to travel to the town on several occasions to create scenery for their productions.
The classes flourished in the mess hall and accommodation huts, and the gardens became more impressive, helped by visits to Graemeshall to obtain bulbs and flowers. There were always several games of one sort or another taking place, with football matches held regularly between the Italians and British army personnel who were manning the nearby batteries. The band had grown in number and included a range of instruments from accordion and banjo to trumpet and guitar. Domenico played the mandolin. Music filtered through the camp most evenings.
The number and sophistication of the plays had increased considerably since the arrival of Padre Giacomo, who had quickly revealed a passion for amateur dramatics and had taken over Domenico’s role in running the northerners’ acting group. As soon as the priest realised he had such a large and willing cast he had contacted a friend in Italy, who sent the first of many playscripts.
It was one of these weekend shows that gave Giuseppe the opportunity to return the invitation to the Merriman family, whom he had visited regularly for the previous two months. Several men in Camp 60 had made friends with Orkney families and an extra performance was being held on the Saturday evening, to which local people could be invited. Giuseppe had insisted he escort the family to the camp. He managed to get away early that afternoon and when he arrived at the farm Fiona was waiting for him in the kitchen.
‘The others are shopping in Kirkwall,’ she said, before he had even said hello. ‘They won’t be back for at least an hour. That means you can give me a hug without fear of interruption.’
He walked over to her and took her in his arms.
‘You know, of course, this is against regulations,’ he said after a few moments.
‘Regulations?’
‘Part of the agreement between the British and Italian Governments is that Italians held in captivity should not visit public houses or form relationships with local women.’ He held her tightly so that she couldn’t move. ‘I think not being able to have a drink is the worst restriction.’
He laughed as Fiona struggled against him.
‘It’ll be very strange for me to be inside the camp and actually see where you live,’ said Fiona.
‘Well you’ll see some of it, but I can’t take you into the accommodation hut.’
‘No, it wouldn’t be proper.’
‘You sound like your mother!’
Mr and Mrs Merriman and Rebecca returned just as Fiona and Giuseppe were putting the finishing touches to the meal. They swapped news as they ate, Giuseppe giving them an update on the chapel. When they had finished, Mr Merriman sank into his favourite chair near the stove, while Giuseppe sat at the kitchen table, reading the front page of the Daily Telegraph, which told how Soviet troops were capturing an increasing number of German strongholds.
When the three women had tidied up they began what seemed to be a knitting frenzy. Giuseppe studied them, trying to follow the patterns woven in the air by the needles.
‘We’re making woollen squares for a patchwork bedspread,’ said Mrs Merriman.
She spoke without slowing down or looking up, knowing Giuseppe was watching intently. Mrs Merriman felt he was almost part of the family. It worried her. What would happen in the future? She didn’t want to see her daughter get hurt, but this relationship couldn’t have a happy ending.
The evening began with Major Buckland informing everyone that Aldo was recovering well in hospital, which resulted in a huge cheer. Coriolano, with his fine baritone voice, was amongst the men who sang, while the band outdid itself. Padre Giacomo was delighted with the performance. Giuseppe, sitting between Fiona and Rebecca, received many envious stares from the other men.
By the summer of 1944 the work on the causeways was virtually complete, resulting in a huge exodus of Balfour Beatty workers, mainly to the south of England. Since the first men had arrived in May 1940, there had been regular changes within the workforce, but some had been working side by side with the Italians since they had arrived two and a half years earlier. Many friendships had flourished and several people swapped addresses with offers to visit when the war was over. There were unofficial farewell parties and more than one man with a strong accent tried to teach the Italians how to say goodbye in his local dialect.
The near completion of the causeways meant the Italians were increasingly sent to help on farms or with other tasks. They became a familiar sight in the streets and shops in Kirkwall. One Italian from Camp 60 was a frequent visitor to J. M. Stevenson, which sold a variety of items. He rarely bought anything but often stayed after his friends had gone, hanging around near the door. One day he went in by himself and handed over a sheet of paper to the girl who worked at the counter, before rushing out again without speaking. The girl was so taken aback that she gave it to the shop manager, Ernest Marwick. He laid the letter on the counter.
Dear Miss, I am obliged to write you for telling you my feelings towards you. Since first time I saw you; I feel something in myself that is very difficult explain it tell you but it is not possible because I do not know it. You understand the reason for these few word that I write to you. You do not know how great my love for you. Our eyes understand how much deep our love. My heart would neve
r be tired to sing this loving hymmm but, I must close because I can’t write long how you know – I am waiting a your reply, and if you please I beg you a your writing clear easy. With all my love.
Tony.
‘Tony’ never came back to the shop again.
* * *
When the altar was complete Padre Giacomo held the first mass in the chapel. Men squeezed into every possible space. Major Booth had managed to borrow a gramophone and this had been set up in the vestry to provide the music, which included a Gregorian chant. Mass had been held every Sunday since then and each time more men managed to squash themselves inside. However, the Reverend John Davies, who had arrived in May as the local army chaplain, held a service in the chapel once a fortnight for British soldiers, the few non-Roman Catholic Italians in the camp and anyone else who wanted to attend.
Giuseppe had completed the rood screen in four months, working full-time at his forge. Domenico had finished the altar and altar rail. Candles, purchased out of the chapel fund, stood in four brass candlesticks made by Sergeant Primavera, and two made in wrought iron by Giuseppe. The lanterns made from used bully-beef tins did not look out of place, where men had used the materials at hand to create a place of worship.
James Sinclair was Orkney’s best known photographer and the only civilian with a permit from the military to take photographs on the islands. He had already recorded occasions such as the football match and the sports event. When the altar was finished Major Buckland called him back with an idea to create a postcard using a picture of the altar on the front. James Sinclair took the photograph and Major Buckland arranged for a local printer to produce the postcards, which the men were later able to buy in the camp shop.
With strict censorship regulations, all that could be written was a man’s signature and the date. But the postcards at least allowed loved ones back home to see a picture of the chapel altar where the men worshipped. The postcards were stamped ‘POW Mail Post Free’, along with the camp number and the official censor ‘Passed’ mark.