La Strada Da Seguire: The Road to Follow

by Susan Toscan

  “It was worth it, sir,” one particularly cheeky 21-year-old told Michael on his return from the surgery.

  “I’m pleased for you, son. Now get some sleep.” Michael felt like an old man, even though he was only a few years older than the young soldier. Life was a good teacher, but Michael was sure that the lessons in store for all of them would teach them things they’d be better off not knowing.

  Eventually, Michael was told that they were heading for Africa. He had actually already guessed that, as had most of the men. They disembarked at the Libyan port of Tobruk and collected their kit bags, and then they marched a short distance to be collected by a fleet of trucks that would take them to the front lines.

  The troops were given tins of cold bully beef as their evening meal, and they settled themselves against their kit bags to try to sleep. Michael could hear some singing passing through the still night air. It was a beautiful sound, and he listened carefully to try to make out the words. He recognised the tune and joined in the singing. I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places…

  He realised that all the men were singing along, very quietly, as if they did not want anyone to hear, but they still needed to sing the beautiful words. These men were all thinking of home, as was Michael. It was good to send the words to the people whom they loved that were so far away from them. The soldiers slept with tears in their eyes but lovely memories in their hearts.

  Descent into hell

  The men were all awake before the sun rose. No-one had slept well, but somehow they’d managed to get a few hours rest. Once again they were moving in formation lines, this time towards the trucks that would take them to the front line.

  The three long trucks were all filled to the maximum with men who could not possibly comprehend the danger they were heading towards. They were told that they would undergo more intensive training in desert warfare when they arrived in Tobruk, but they would be on the front lines within a very short space of time. None of them knew as yet that no amount of training could prepare them for what was to come.

  Michael and the other officers were called to meet with the commander. They learned that the Germans and Italians were already entrenched in Tobruk and that it would be their job to hold the ground that had already been taken. Michael and his men knew that by holding Tobruk, the Allies were stopping the Germans and Italians from pushing into Egypt. They were not the first Australian troops to arrive in Tobruk. Many others had gone before them, and with the aid of British and Indian troops, they had achieved much. Michael also knew that many lives had been lost, and he had a sinking feeling that there would be no winners in the fight ahead of them.

  Michael was particularly distressed at the thought of fighting against the Italians. He had such wonderful Italian friends at home, and he just could not imagine such gentle people wanting to kill Australians. He was aware that many men in the Italian army had had absolutely no choice regarding their participation in this war.

  He knew that he had to stop thinking of these soldiers that way; he knew that he had to see them as the enemy or else he would get himself and his men killed. He found that he was doing a lot of praying lately, and he prayed now that he could do the job he came to do.

  The week of intense training was very tiring as most of it took place after dark. The Australian soldiers would mostly carry out the required raids on the German/Italian lines at night, so they had to train and learn the appropriate desert warfare tactics in similar conditions. Michael did his best to keep his men focused, and they generally coped very well. They were keen to “get stuck into the Eyeties and the Jerries”.

  When they finally reached the designated area to set up camp, the men were put to work digging. They dug trenches as well as underground shelters, and they often fought as well as lived in these holes. Because of this, the enemy gave them the name “Rats of Tobruk”, never expecting that the Australians would embrace this intended insult.

  While conditions outside the relative safety of their dugouts and tunnels were dangerous, conditions underground were also distressing. Three weeks could go by without the chance to wash, and Michael often thought that he would never feel clean again. Living in the midst of the filth and the fleas, he began to regard himself as less than human. Perhaps that was how he and his men were meant to feel. No human could suffer these conditions and come away from this war feeling normal again.

  The enemy certainly had the advantage. They were on high ground, they were very well equipped and they were brainwashed with such hatred that they had no fear. The Australians had plenty of fear. The reality of where they were and what they had to do had transformed their usual bawdy practical jokes and noisy name-calling games into silent contemplation of the circumstances they were faced with. This worried Michael. He thought that he could actually smell their terror, but maybe it was his own anxiety that followed him around. He tried to interest the men in some games, as far as their close quarters allowed, but even that did not draw them out of the solemn mood that engulfed them.

  Michael decided that he would talk to them honestly, as he always had, hoping that they would snap out of their introspection. Even though it would be a good thing for them to try to discuss their fear, he knew that none of them would own up. He would say what he was feeling, and this might encourage them to talk.

  His words came out much louder and more forcefully than he intended. “I don’t know about the rest of you lot, but I am shit scared. I just want to go home. I want to get off this ridiculous ride that we’re on.” All the men in the hole with him stopped what they were doing and stared at the corporal. Some started to chuckle self-consciously. Then Michael burst out laughing, and they all laughed with him. They slapped each other on the shoulder, trying not to look one another in the eye for fear of showing the emotions that they had been trying so hard to hide.

  Michael had been man enough to state what they all felt. For this, the other Australians respected him more than ever, and they knew that they were prepared to follow this man into hell.

  Hell was indeed waiting for them that very night. Michael had to ask for the first lot of volunteers to go out on patrol that evening. He would lead the first raid. After that, he would work out a roster system for each night. He now had a good knowledge of which men worked best together, and he would draw on that knowledge as he put the teams together.

  The men came forward slowly to stand with their corporal; Steven was the first to walk towards him. This was reassuring for Michael, but he quietly shook his head at his friend because he wanted Steven to go out the following night as leader. He knew that Steven was a cautious soldier and would not take any chances. Michael trusted Steven’s judgment, and he knew that the men would also.

  Once Michael had the group together, they discussed the route that they would take. He reminded the men of the warning they had been given in the early training sessions. “You are all aware of the warning about the Very lights—when that flare lights up the sky, you men need to lay flat on the ground, mould your bodies into the dust, and pray that the gunners will not see you. Don’t bother with the tin hats; they offer no protection. In fact, the reflection off the hats in that glaring light will be a dead giveaway—literally!” The men acknowledged Michael’s words; they wore their slouch hats and prayed that the camouflage would be more beneficial than any protection their tin hats could provide.

  Careful observation was required to see the direction from which the Very lights were fired. Michael told his men that if they could discern the direction the lights came from, it would be a good indication of where the gunners were. They were to aim their retaliatory fire in that direction in the hope of using the light to their advantage and therefore doing maximum damage. It was a good strategy, and that first raid was reasonably successful. Two men received bad scratches from the rusty wire they had to climb through, but they all returned generally unscathed. That is—phys­ically. Mentally was a whole other issue.

  Michael was in a
cold sweat during the entire raid, starting from the minute he and his group went over the edge of their holes and ran out into the dark unknown of the night. The bullets whistled around them as they ran forward. It did not take long for the dreaded Very lights to go up, and Michael had the presence of mind to scream for his men to get down.

  As they moved off again, Michael’s worst nightmare came to life. He came face to face with a young Italian. Michael was leading his men out of the cover of some undergrowth towards what appeared to be an old deserted shed when they were ambushed. They fought bravely against the Italian soldiers in hand-to-hand combat. The reality of killing someone whose eyes you could see was a terrifying experience, but Michael’s men did not hesitate to follow the instructions that they were given. Michael instinctively knew that this was survival, but every part of his brain was screaming at him to stop—they were Italians, not Germans. He did not want to kill Italians.

  As the Italian soldier rushed towards him, Michael thought that he heard him yell, “Dispiace, Australiano!” but before he could think about it any further, he had fired his rifle instinctively. The soldier fell forward, almost into Michael’s arms.

  When the guns fell silent, Michael looked at the brave soldier he had killed. The Italian would have been about the same age as him—in his mid-20s—and he too looked underfed and unkempt in his ragged uniform. Michael fell to his knees in the dust, shaking, tears in his eyes. His brain was screaming at him, What are we doing here? These men don’t deserve to die any more than we do!

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was one of his men trying to help Michael to his feet. “Come on, sir. We’re done here. It’s time for us to get back. There’ll be another patrol following these guys. Let’s get out of here.”

  Michael got to his feet, but he could not move. He suddenly bent down and started going through the pockets of the man he had killed. “Sir? What are you doing? We have to go.”

  “I know, I know. I just want to see if he has any ID. I want to know his name. He had a name and a family, and now he has nothing. I killed him.” Michael found military identification tags but no name. He left the tags with the body in the hope that someone would be able to tell the soldier’s family that he had died bravely.

  When they got back to the hole, he told the men to rest; they would talk further the following morning. Tonight there was no need for words. All of the men were in shock and were glad to have some time to themselves. This included Michael, who dropped down onto his sleeping mat, covered his face and cried. In his mind, he kept seeing the faces of the Italian men who were his friends at home, and he was horrified that he and his men had killed Italians that night. He could still see the eyes of the man who now lay in the dust out on the battlefield. The young enemy soldier had called out ‘dispiace’, the Italian word for ‘sorry’, which he had heard so many times from his friends at home. Hearing it used in such a violent context would continue to haunt him.

  Michael made a fatal mistake that night, and it was not on the battlefield. He reached for a bottle of cheap whisky that he had bought on the way to the front line, and he drank until he could feel no more.

  Drawing fire

  Night after night, men went out to the killing fields, and it was not long before Michael’s unit suffered losses. These good men were killed fighting for the country they loved. They did not fully understand the politics of the fanatics behind this conflict; they just wanted to keep Australia safe for their loved ones. They were simple men with hearts of gold. They were stubborn and brave, but now they would not go home to the country that they loved.

  Michael was distraught, obsessed with the futility of their deaths. Drinking became a nightly ritual. He would drink just enough to deaden the rising panic prior to going out on a raid, and then when he got back, he would drink to forget what he had seen. This was common behaviour, and who would judge him? Certainly not his fellow soldiers. The men had their beer rations, but there was always the hard liquor that they could buy from the occasional traders who came their way. The senior officers tried to stop this practice, but those who wanted it could always get hold of the strong stuff.

  Steven would talk to Michael and try to persuade him not to buy the “rot gut”, the name the men had for black-market alcohol.

  “Michael, we don’t know what they are making this brew from; it could kill you.”

  “Leave me alone, Steven. It helps me cope.”

  “Look, mate, you should talk to the officers,” Steven pleaded. “You’re not doing well, and I’m worried about you. Your behaviour has been very erratic, and lately you’ve been taking unnecessary risks. This isn’t good.”

  The months rolled by, and the fighting intensified; the Australians were commended by their military commanders for their heroic efforts in withstanding the siege. They had not gained any ground, but they had not lost any either. This was not a fight that they could win. The German army was much stronger, and its soldiers had tanks and guns that put the weapons of the Australian soldiers to shame. This was an even bigger tribute to the Australian soldiers. They held Tobruk in spite of the many odds against them.

  The loss of life was extremely high. Some men died in the line of duty, and some died painful deaths due to infections as there were never enough drugs or medical officers to help them. The men lived in fear—not so much of death itself but certainly of the slow, painful death of a badly wounded man. Life was hard. The men were despondent.

  Letters from home were few and far between. The mail deliveries were inconsistent, as the mail trucks were often fired upon and destroyed. To men desperately waiting to hear from loved ones, having their precious letters from home go up in flames was almost as sad as the loss of life.

  It was late June when Michael received a much-longed-for letter from Agnes, and to his great delight, the envelope also contained a letter from Frances and a drawing from Patricia. Patricia had drawn all of them, including Michael, together on the swing. They were distorted stick figures, but it was a precious gift, and Michael treasured it. He noticed that the letters were sent three months ago.

  Frances wrote:

  Hello Daddy, I miss you. When are you coming home? Mummy said that I have to tell you good things to make you happy, but I am sad all the time that you are away. I do like school and I have some good friends. Some of my friend’s daddies are in the war also. They say they miss their daddies too.

  Patricia and Neil are good. They annoy me a lot espec­ially Patricia, but she is ok some of the time. Neil does not remember you so we talk about you a lot and we all have a photo of you by our beds. We kiss you lots Daddy.

  Please ask your boss can he send you home as we miss you so much.

  Love you, Frances

  Michael reread the letter so many times that he knew every word of it by heart. Then he read the letter from Agnes.

  My darling Michael,

  Time goes so slowly these days and it does not get any easier knowing that you are so far away and in so much danger. You know how I feel about this endless war so I will not go on, but I long for it to end so that you can come home to us. You would have read the letter from Frances. She misses you so much; it is hard to keep reassuring her that you will be home eventually.

  Times are hard in the town, but somehow things keep going. The Italian families all work so hard to keep the farms running. Frank is looking after as many farms as the daylight hours permit him time. So many of our old neighbours and their sons have gone to fight. Dad is also doing his best to help out. Mum complains that he is never home, but neither is she. She has joined the land army and has even learned to drive a tractor and she loves it. Dad says that she is downright dangerous, but as long as she is the only one in the paddock she cannot do too much damage. You would laugh to see her up on the tractor with her big picture hat on her head.

  Frank, Maria and the girls ask after you all the time. They send their love. Frank gets very upset when he asks about you. He said he feels in a ridiculous
position of having you and Steven on one side and his nephews on the opposite side of this crazy war. He loves all of you and he wants you all safe, he is such a softie. He knows that his nephews are fighting in Italy and not in Africa, but it breaks his heart that you are all so far away.

  I am doing the best I can my darling. The kids are great, they keep me sane but without you I am empty. I feel that I am marking time until you return to us. I pray that is soon.

  I love you forever, Agnes

  The men wrote home almost weekly, but it was difficult to put a cheerful slant on their correspondence. There was no way that they could begin to describe the reality of their lives—not that they were permitted to do so—so it did not leave a lot to say. Their weekly letters were often similar words—trying to give reassurance to their loved ones and relay the love they felt for their families—repeated again and again. They tried to tell funny stories that often made their wretched situation sound like a school camp. It did not matter. Writing these repetitive letters made them feel close to their families and, for at least a few minutes, took them out of the horror that surrounded them and home to see the loving faces of their wives and children.

  Michael found it harder and harder to write to Agnes. He could no longer picture her beautiful face with clarity. It seemed that the ugliness of his surroundings was causing him to forget that he once had such a beautiful wife. He would often dream of his family, and in his dreams, he would float above them and watch them going about their daily lives. He saw Agnes lovingly holding and playing with their children, but he could not see her features. He would often be woken by one of the men close to him because in his sleep, he had been shouting for Agnes to look at him. Michael felt that he was losing his mind. He struggled to write the words he needed to say—he wanted to tell Agnes how much he missed them all—but he felt that he was no longer worthy of such a beautiful family. Nevertheless, he forced himself to write.