The Allies who were supposedly liberating Italy treated the country with remarkable callousness. In December 1944, when there was hunger verging upon starvation in Italy, a British Embassy official in Washington visited Assistant Secretary of War John J. McCloy to protest against the policy of shipping extravagant quantities of supplies to US forces overseas, while Italian civilians were in desperate straits. ‘In order to win the war,’ he demanded of McCloy, ‘were we not imperilling the political and social fabric of European civilization on which the future peace of the world depended?’ This drew from Mr McCloy the immediate rejoinder that:
It was in British interests to remember that, as a result of the complete change in the economic and financial position of the British Commonwealth which the war had brought about, we, in the UK, depended at least as much upon the US as we did upon Europe. Was it wise to risk losing the support of the US in seeking the support of Western Europe? This was what was involved.
The shocked British official persisted in pressing the case for feeding Europe’s civilians. McCloy stuck to his guns, asserting that it would be fatal for Britain ‘to argue that the war in the Pacific should be retarded in order that the civilian population of Europe should be fed’. The Foreign Office in London professed acute dismay on receiving the minute of this meeting, but British impotence in the face of US dominance remained a towering reality. That only a relatively small number of Italians died of starvation between 1943 and 1945 was due first, to the illicit diversion of vast quantities of American rations to the black market, and thereafter to the people – much to the private enrichment of some US service personnel; and to the political influence of Italian-Americans at home, which belatedly persuaded Washington of the case for averting mass starvation.
So there it is – just a few vignettes which I hope help to illustrate the nature of the tragic experience that the Italian people endured in the Second World War. It is because, as a historian, I know more than most people about the story, and about the noble part played by some of its humblest people, that I am so happy to support the work of the Monte San Martino Trust. It strives to keep alive an understanding of what we, the British, owed to many fine Italians; to show our recognition of that old debt of our fathers and grandfathers; and to renew the bond. It is sometimes said that in Britain, we remain in the twenty-first century too preoccupied, even obsessed, with the Second World War. But there are some aspects of the legacy that richly deserve to be kept alive, and indeed to be renewed, in the fashion that the Trust aspires to do.
Sir Max Hastings
1
Joining Up
W hen the war broke out, I was at university studying French and German. Of course I wanted to rush off and join up, like everyone else, but my father persuaded me to stay on and finish my course, saying I would be more useful to the country fully trained than with no diploma or certificate at my fingertips. I hope subsequent events proved him right. In any case, my military career would undoubtedly have taken a different course had I not finished my studies and rounded them off with an arduous secretarial training course.
So it was eventually at Christmas 1941 that I had to make up my mind what form of war work to take up. I had an interview with my principal, who told me in no uncertain terms that she considered that I should join up. I was still attracted by the idea, but other forms of war work were gradually evolving for girls, and I had an interview for an interesting job, dealing with the foreign, in particular the enemy, press. If I had taken that, I would probably have stayed in the university town for the duration, but my principal was quite annoyed when I asked her for a reference for it, saying she had already told me it was my duty to join up. What finally decided me to join the ATS (Women’s Auxiliary Territorial Service), which I shall continue to call them, as the WRAC (Women’s Royal Army Corps) did not come into being until my service was over, was the fact that people in the provincial town where my home was, in our immediate circle, seemed to think it was shocking. In those days, the ATS were still a bit of a novelty and wild stories were in circulation about their supposed immorality, their undisciplined form of life, their rough ways and toughness and so on. The thought of joining this apparently ill-conditioned crowd of reprobate young women appealed to me tremendously, and within a short time I had applied at the local recruiting office. I was told that as I spoke German I must write to a certain branch of the War Office, which I did.
In due course, forms arrived for me to fill in and eventually I was called for interview in London. I went up for the day, dressed plainly, but I hoped not frumpily, in a check tweed costume and brown hat to tone in. The Board consisted of about five men and two women, one of whom later asked me questions in German. I don’t remember being asked if I played cricket, but if I was, then the answer was in the affirmative. Fortunately, the interviewers would have no chance of measuring my utter lack of skill before taking me in or throwing me out. I was told that if accepted I would do a basic preliminary training followed by an officer’s training, and then be posted to whatever work was in store for me. I had not wanted to become an officer, at least not so quickly, but as I was apparently being interviewed for the Intelligence Service, and at that time the only women allowed into it were officers, so I would have to be commissioned. As I knew absolutely nothing about army life, this information really made a very small impression on me. As long as I joined up, I really did not care what happened.
That interview was in April 1942. After being told in a letter that I had been accepted, I waited until June for instructions to proceed somewhere to start my training. It was a beautiful summer and it was my last at our home in the town where we had always lived. We did not have many raids, so the time passed pleasantly enough, but I was anxious to be off and on the job.
Finally, when the posting instructions did come, on 20 June, I discovered that I was not to go to a preliminary training centre, but straight to an OCTU (Officer Cadet Training Unit) in Edinburgh. I was not worried about going straight to the OCTU until I got there and found a most terrifying array of sergeant majors, CQMSs (company quartermaster sergeants), sergeants and corporals there for the same purpose as I, all bursting with military zeal and efficiency, and wondering who on earth this stray civilian was who had clocked in with them and appeared to be trying to get herself kitted out in second-hand khaki. Fortunately, I had two companions in distress, like myself under the Army Officers’ Emergency Reserve arrangement. They were also in civvies, but by the end of the second day we were as well dressed as possible in new, part-worn uniforms, and fresh khaki stockings. We found the shoes agonising on parade. Luckily, I had come in an old pair of brogues, which I substituted as often as possible for the cruel new ‘shoes leather lacing brown ATS’ or whatever they were listed as. Needless to say, we three peculiarities were not sorry when our ultra-efficient companions all had to strip off their badges of rank. From then on we were all just officer-cadets.
Of course for us civilians, the new girls, life was all very strange and trying, to say the least, though even the ‘old soldiers’ who were with us did not find the OCTU course a party. During the first week I felt I should never survive it, and that I should soon become a raving lunatic. Lectures, parades, PT (physical training), kit inspections – all followed in a dizzy succession. And one dare not be late for anything. This last was particularly gruelling for me, not long from the gentler and more casual ways of a university town, but by the end of the first week I was resigned. If I were flung out, then that would be that. There was nothing humanly possible I could do about it, so it was better bow to the inevitable, and meanwhile do my best and enjoy what I could, the latter of which was was almost everything. With the aid of this philosophy of resignation, and the practical help and guidance of Tim, my room-mate, I was able to carry on, and even when large-scale sackings occurred round about the fourth week of the course, I remained unperturbed. The idea of becoming a private, possibly in ‘Ack-Ack’,1 was beginning to appeal to me. After all, what
did I want with a commission? I wanted to begin at the bottom and work my way up like the others. Only the thought of my father’s disappointment if I failed to come through clouded my horizon – for his sake I would gladly sacrifice romantic dreams of a gun-site and the company of hearty and tough he-men of the Bombardiers.
Here a word about Tim. She was a real brick if ever there was one. She taught me how to make my shoes shine, how to polish my buttons all four at once, how to barrack my bed, how to lay my kit out for inspection, how to put on my cap (that most uninspiring portion of feminine attire), exactly how and whom to salute, and a hundred-and-one other useful bits of knowledge, without which I should have found the whole course far more trying than I actually did. She cheered me up when I was in despair, and she sympathised with me when nothing seemed right: my hair was too long and wouldn’t stay in its net, my skirt was too long, or my pockets were undone, etc., etc. She was a real pal and we had great fun in our tiny little room. Of course at first she was astonished to find herself sharing a room with a queer bod like me, but she soon swallowed her amazement and set to work to mould me into at least a fairly presentable cadet, who very soon after the first week forgot she had just stepped into OCTU off a passing bus, as it were, whereas everyone else had been travelling towards it for some considerable time.
In our off-time we went off into Edinburgh and ate large sumptuous teas at one of the comfortable restaurants along Princes Street, or just walked up and down, studying the different uniforms, and getting quite a lot of fun out of saluting all officers, male and female, including the Poles, who were there in force at that time. The first time I attempted to salute a male officer, I nearly slipped and fell backwards, being so nervous about the correct procedure. After that I was more careful of my ground before I ventured on saluting when in town.
As I had an aunt in Edinburgh, I was sometimes able to get away from the military atmosphere and have a change. But I never minded going back. Timmy and I always had some spicy bit of gossip, mostly about our instructors, to entertain each other with. In the evenings sometimes, I studied King’s Regulations and ATS Regulations with diligence, though how much I was really able to absorb in such a short time is doubtful. I managed to read the whole of the ATS Regulations, but fortunately perhaps there was no time to read any other army handbook in full.
When our passing-out parade took place, the Princess Royal took the salute. I was very impressed by her charm, and her wonderful complexion and hair. Thank goodness she did not speak to me, as I should have been frozen stiff with terror and am sure would not have been able to utter a word. As it was, a major misfortune befell me that day. While we were standing at ease before the parade really began, a bird dropped on me, and it was with the utmost difficulty that I surreptitiously cleaned away the mess from a shoe and my tunic. For years I looked upon that as a hideous and horrible occurrence, and a long time afterwards when I at last had the courage to confide in someone about it, they laughed and said that on the contrary it was a sign of good luck and nothing to worry about. Otherwise I thoroughly enjoyed the passing-out parade, as it was particularly inspiring to march to the band of the Dragoon Guards.
These parades meant extensive preparatory training and the sergeant major was busy for days drilling and grooming us all in readiness for the great events. She was of medium height, impeccably smart, and as peppery as one would ever wish a female sergeant major to be. ‘Swing those arms,’ she would roar, ‘they won’t come off,’ as we trudged, or goose-stepped, up and down the parade ground. And we swung our arms shoulder high, so that nearly all the muscles of our backs and shoulders were stiff and aching, and one almost longed for one’s arms to drop off, to prove the RSM (regimental sergeant major) false, if nothing else. Her eagle eyes picked out in a second any irregularity in the line, a hair out of place, or too generous an application of lipstick. This latter she would order to be removed with a handkerchief. To me she was on a pedestal of military perfection – a sort of Goddess Diana of the ATS. And I could never see her without thinking anxiously of how much I had put in my tunic pockets, or whether my shoes might be down-at-heel or my hairnet too low on my collar. She made us conscious of our appearance and bearing to the last.
As may be imagined, after these harrowing times, I went home on my end-of-leave course feeling quite an old hand after such a concentrated baptism of fire. I travelled down by train at night, spending most of the time in the corridor. The train was packed, and soldiers were lying along the floors, or on the racks, and even in the cloakrooms. Needless to say, sleep was impossible, but as long as one is going on leave one does not worry about sleep.
We had approximately ten days’ leave, which I spent mostly in ordering and being fitted for my uniform by our tailor at home. It was expensive, but they made it well and to fit, and today one of my barathea uniforms has been transformed into quite a smart black costume, trimmed with black corduroy, which testifies to the quality of the material. I had my greatcoat lined with red, as that seemed to be the fashion at OCTU, even though my family was of the opinion that it was too flashy.
During this leave I received my posting orders, to an ‘unknown destination’, and was told that I would be met at a certain station. It all sounded terribly cloak and dagger, especially the mysterious letters denoting the name of my future unit. This was it. My military career was to start.
Note
1 Anti-Aircraft Artillery.
2
My First Posting
I have no very clear recollection of arriving at my first unit, as a second subaltern, ATS. I was appalled and overwhelmed by the preponderance of men over women in the mess – something I was to get far more used to later on. I felt gawky and quite speechless and was exceedingly glad when nobody took much notice of me, although everyone I was introduced to was extremely kind and friendly. But I felt very much at the bottom of the form. I had two companions in distress with me, however, and I found myself sharing a room with one of them, a girl of about 34, very attractive, who soon acquired the nickname of ‘Birdsnest’ on account of her hair-style, which was swept up and attached with combs at the crown.
We all started work in the general office, and to my chagrin I found my work consisted mainly of copy-typing, not even translating. For this, older and more experienced girls were employed, all of course holding officer rank. As for my work, mostly typing stencils in German and English, it did not seem worthwhile being commissioned for, but I consoled myself with the fact that it was at least ‘TOP SECRET’.
I soon made a friend of Jacqueline, who had been in the original FANYs (First Aid Nursing Yeomanry), and when that corps was divided into the so-called Free FANYs and ATS, had elected to join the ATS. We used to go for walks after dinner in the evening, along the peaceful country lanes, and she would tell me of her ambition to go overseas and also of her many admirers of the opposite sex, though at times she seemed herself to have an innate contempt for the men we came into daily contact with. She told me I should not stay ‘stuck in the mud’ at this secret address, c/o the GPO, for all the war, but should also try to get abroad.
I had only just joined up, and frankly the idea of going overseas had not yet suggested itself to me, but I wrote to my father, whose advice I always sought, and to my surprise he said it would be an excellent idea and urged me to apply without delay. But I dallied a little longer, and meanwhile Jacqueline went off, wearing an engagement ring on the fourth finger of each hand, and I missed her exhilarating company and robust sense of humour. I heard some months afterwards that she had gone out to a corresponding unit in Cairo, affiliated to ours, and had been the only woman on a large troopship. In those days, the convoys made an enormous detour across the Atlantic, and Jacqueline landed in Brazil, or touched there, and finally put in at Cape Town and Durban, completing the rest of the journey by train from South Africa. She told me that on Christmas Day 1942 she had been invited for a drink by every man on board, but as she was completely teetotal, had herself only
drunk lemonade, having been able to play skilfully with the glasses and, unobserved, leave them untasted on the bar, so that she offended no-one. Needless to say, her drinks were not wasted.
Jacqueline had worked in a different office from mine, which she shared with one other girl and two men officers, and her place was taken by another ATS subaltern. I had occasionally assisted Jacqueline with the typing of her long reports in English, as we in the office were not always at top pressure, and likewise were sometimes able to give her successor a hand. She was called Roberta, and she also had applied for overseas service. When she too went off, it was not really unnatural that I should be chosen to take her place. This pleased me greatly, the office was smaller and I was away from the madding crowd. I had some very interesting indexing to do, which would have made me happier had it been of more use, but so much effort seemed to be put into what was little used. The worst of war is that you must always prepare for any eventuality, and so much spadework was necessary, and so I worked away on the index; indeed, to my intense gratification and that of the other people working on it too, it was sometimes used for important reports.
My new boss was an intellectual captain, very keen on his job, so much so that he used to ascertain whether the CO (Commanding Officer) was free to grant him an interview by peering through the keyhole of the door leading directly from the colonel’s office to the main corridor of the block. Captain Heath was large and burly and the portion of his anatomy thus protruding caused quite an obstacle in the traffic up and down the passageway.
My Italian Adventures Page 2