Once or twice, I went to the San Carlo Officers’ Club in Naples. It was next door to the Opera, and at that time a very lively affair. There were one or two ladies who sang there, Italian songs and some of the well-known wartime melodies, the most famous of all, of course, being ‘Lili Marlene’, sung by Dietrich herself. I noticed that in between songs she usually sat at a table with one or two officers. The tables were grouped around the dance floor, but there were always far more men than women; at that time only British or American service girls could go there.
The club often became very lively as the evening progressed, and I remember once seeing young officers on leave having a fine rag on the stairs, jumping up and down like jack-in-the-boxes. There was a wonderful atmosphere of camaraderie at that time, and if somebody wanted to paint the town red, they were welcome to get away with as much jollification as they could before the MPs stepped in and quietened things down. The troops had a magnificent NAAFI/EFI (Expeditionary Forces Institute) nearby, in the Royal Palace. In between was the San Carlo Opera House, but I only heard one opera there, as we could so rarely get away in time for an evening performance. That occasion was after I had met a signals major at some party, who invited me to go to the opera with him one afternoon. I explained to him that it was impossible to leave the office except for an official reason. He suggested I should try the officers’ shop, and I managed to get permission to go to it. I had a glorious sense of liberation as I stood on the edge of the road after lunch, waiting for someone to pick me up. In a minute a 2-tonner came along, with several NCOs in it. It stopped, but was so high that I could hardly get in. A burly sergeant came to my rescue and lifted me in bodily by the armpits, and soon I was chatting to them and hearing all about their life in camp. They were then out of the line, resting, and everyone was so kind, unbelievably so, and so courteous, that often one felt quite unworthy of it all, but also felt proud to be wearing the same uniform as these men.
Needless to say, the opera was an unforgettable experience. It was Rigoletto, and the scenery, the voices and the orchestra were excellent, as only Italian opera production can be. I remember still the unearthly moonlight of the isolated cottage where poor Gilda came to her tragic end, and the agonising lament of her father, when he learnt that he had unwittingly killed his own child, his only treasure.
The Opera House was packed with soldiers, and it was always full in Naples. We had especially good seats, and nearly the whole place was reserved for troops; the civilians at that time were only allowed a certain space in the gallery. After all, they could go to the Opera any time, but for the majority of British it was a rarely indulged pleasure. How can it be said that the British do not appreciate music? The operas and the concerts held every Sunday night in the Opera House were always performed before packed audiences, silent, attentive, and all dressed in slightly varying shades of khaki drill. We attended the Sunday evening concerts, when possible, coming into Naples on a Liberty truck, which picked us up afterwards to go home again. Sometimes we would go into the club afterwards for a refresher. On one occasion an American soldier, a corporal, conducted the Opera Orchestra. His reception was just what he deserved – there was a tremendous applause.
Just opposite the Opera House was the Galleria, which had suffered badly from bomb damage, especially as it had a glass roof, many hundreds of panes of which were partly smashed or non-existent. The Galleria had four entrances and there were shops all along them. There were cafés there too, and it was a general meeting place for the Neapolitans, where they talked business and conducted black market transactions. One could see them haggling over currency and other scarce commodities, such as American and English cigarettes, spirits, especially whisky, or perhaps tea or coffee. The Neapolitans were developing to a fine art their age-old gift for pilfering, and a substantial amount of NAAFI supplies, not to speak of vehicle stores, found their way regularly to the Mercato Nero. Among the shops in the Galleria were several where one could buy coral necklaces, cameo rings, and other coral trinkets, also films, combs and perfumes – but they were all expensive.
One of the entrances to the Galleria was off the Via Roma, one of the best known thoroughfares of Naples, which gave its name to a famous Italian song of that time –‘Catari’, or, as it was called in the English translation ‘Down the Via Roma’. The Via Roma was long and narrow, with shops on either side, and leading off it to the north side, long winding alleys, even narrower, most of which were off limits to the forces. They had a reputation somewhat similar to that of the Kasbah in Algiers. A pungent odour of stale and mouldering vegetables, garlic and hot, unwashed humans would sometimes pervade one’s nostrils when crossing these side turnings, and sometimes there were worse odours still. But to be fair, the Neapolitans were short of water, just as we were, and no-one could wash much in the city; and due to the bombing and passage of many vehicles, there was a persistent surface of dust everywhere, which whirled up with the slightest puff of wind and was disturbed by the passage of motor transport, the feet of horses or mules, or even the weary trudging of the passers-by. It was hot and tiring in Naples and many people avoided it for that reason.
But it had its fascination, and due to a fortunate combination of circumstances it became my job to visit the Survey Unit along the waterfront, where I had to obtain the latest maps needed by our officers for their work, and take them back to the unit. Usually this meant at least one visit a week into Naples, and I enjoyed the drive, the conversation with the driver and the change from the office. We would drive along past the famous old Castel dell’Ovo, a grim fortress jutting out from the sea, the Aquarium, and the Naval Officers’ billets, where one occasionally saw a Wren, jaunty in her white tropical uniform. The Map Centre, which was situated in a slightly damaged and now empty school building. We passed a sort of street market on the way, and after procuring the maps I would stop and buy some fruit for my co-workers from the peasant women at the stalls, who as one passed by would call urgently, ‘Ecco qui, Signori (pronounced Sinyoree), belle arance’, etc. I bought some lemons, beautiful big clean ones, with stalks and leaves, and sent them home. For the girls I would buy a kilo of enormous dark cherries, the best we had ever tasted, or perhaps some peaches, which positively melted in one’s mouth. These were a welcome addition to the rather dry NAAFI buns a soldier brought us every morning with our sweetened NAAFI tea in a tin mug. But how welcome that tea was, even though one lost it almost immediately in thin trickles of perspiration that dribbled down one’s neck and legs, or beads of sweet that stood out from one’s forehead and disorganised one’s hair as effectively as if one had had a bath. There was also a dried fruit shop in the Via Roma, at the end nearest the sea, where you could buy boxes of almonds, walnuts, figs and raisins for varying prices and have them sent directly home. I sent home some almonds and raisins and also some lemons. I heard from my godmother, to whom I had also sent a mixed box of fruit, that she had auctioned a packet of almonds for £20 at a charity bazaar.
Apart from Naples itself there were many other things to be seen, if one had the time. Capri was just over the water, a blue silhouette, coloured like love-in-the-mist on a fine day, but few of us, if any, could get there for the present. We had a bathe at Torre Annunziata one evening, and it was delicious after a hot day at work, especially in view of the water shortage. Torre is one of the first places, or spiaggie, as the Italians call them, after Naples, on the bay towards Sorrento. Soon after it comes Castellamare, literally ‘Castle on the Sea’, and there is a castle there, right out in the bay, grim and with solid stone bastions, built on to a rock, the fortress of the local duke where he took refuge during the turbulent Middle Ages.
There was an officers’ club at Castellamare, where we spent an enjoyable evening. On this occasion I was invited by Jean, the girl who had the middle room in our flat, to make up a party of four with a signals officer she knew, and his friend. They took us to Castellamare, and we had dinner at the club and afterwards went to the dance held close by.
For the first time I saw Italian girls with our men, and though some were pretty, I must confess to not being very impressed, at least by the type present. But we enjoyed the dance, even though there was some sort of incident, which I only hazily remember. I think Jean’s friend was jealous because someone tried to take her away from him, but it was all smoothed over, and we had several pleasant dates with the signals officers later on.
It was about that time that I went down to Portici one evening, the next village to Bellavista in the Naples direction, but much larger and really a small town, to locate a hairdresser. I made an appointment and returned a day or so later, armed with soap and towel, for the soap problem seemed universal at that time. The hairdresser was a man, and as he was also a barber, it was not surprising that I encountered several British soldiers in his shop. I got into conversation with a sergeant and heard about his experiences in the Italian campaign and about the desert – there was always so much to talk about. Finally he went off to be shorn, and a little later I was ushered into a compartment to have my hair washed for the first time in Italy, with my head held back over a small metal basin on a stand, as in France. While I was all in curlers, with the drier on my head, the sergeant suddenly appeared to say goodbye. He did not at all seem to mind my strange appearance, but insisted on shaking hands, as he said, with the first English girl he had met for three years. I was more than a little flattered.
At last the date of our departure for Rome was fixed – 4 July – exactly one month after the city’s capture by the Allies. A bombed-out cinema studio, formerly Cinecittà (Cinema City), had been requisitioned to house our unit, and tents would house most of the soldiers. It had been used as a German prisoner-of-war camp and was in a bit of a mess, but the advance admin staff were doing their best to clean it up before the main party arrived.
Meanwhile, when much of the packing had been done, we had a little time on our hands, and Cicely and I took the opportunity to hitch-hike to Pompeii, also on the way to Salerno, and look at some of the truly amazing Roman remains there. The House of the Vestal Virgins has some of the most wonderful mosaics, but perhaps the street, with its centuries-old paving stones, still bearing the rut marks of Roman wagons, was what appealed to me most. The grass grew green between the ruins, cypresses stood sentinel over the dismembered temples, shops and homes. Beyond, rose steeply the walls of the once deadly volcano.
There seemed to be plenty of guides, and we found ourselves in a large party of assorted soldiers and sailors, some American, some British. We noticed, however, that the guides seemed reluctant to include us in their parties, and we quickly realised that we might spoil the ‘fun’ that was evidently to be had in certain parts. We therefore managed to secure a guide to ourselves, who took us on a respectable tour, and omitted the places considered suitable for ‘men only’ and the risqué jokes usually passed at such times. We drove off in high style in a carriage drawn by a horse, a sort of buggy, and had some refreshments in the town before hitching another lift to Bellavista.
Our final excursion was officially sponsored and was an ascent of the volcano itself. About fifteen of us set off, including three ATs and some sergeants. We drove as far as possible in two 15cwts, and then parked the vehicles and started off on foot. It was about five o’clock when we left the mess, and the climb up to the summit took about three-quarters of an hour. Some people decided not to attempt it, but rested by the vehicles and enjoyed the view. Others started but gave up halfway, while a few were grimly determined to reach the top, come what may, and a very few even seemed to be making a race of it. I did not race, but took it quite moderately. It was not at all difficult, only hard work, as there was a lot of loose lava on the path and one was inclined to slip back into it. The air was hot and dusty, and the nearer we got to the crater the stronger it was imbued with the smell of sulphur, which irritated one’s nostrils and made one cough. Cicely was to the fore, striding ahead with her stick. It was a close race between her and two or three men, but she was determined to make it first, and so she did, outstripping us all.
Once there, we had a breath of fresh air, for it was quite high. The view is of course magnificent, for the whole panorama of Naples, the Bay, Sorrento and Capri is spread before one’s eyes, and to the south Salerno and beyond. To the north we could distinguish the distant line of hills, in the midst of which lay Cassino, and near to which we were so soon to pass. And at our feet was the crater, the mysterious, steamy, hissing and rumbling interior of the volcano, which called to mind the adventures of Jules Verne or the strange underworld of Greek mythology. But the light was fading as the sun sank, molten red, in the west, and so we hurried down, slipping and glissading in clouds of dust to join the others at the trucks. Hot and parched with thirst, we arrived back at the mess at about eight o’clock, in time to consume ravenously whatever we could find in the way of a meal at that late hour. Washing the grit and dust from our hair and clothes was no joke, with the water situation still acute, but the effort was worthwhile. After all, one cannot go up a volcano just any day for a stroll.
Only one other incident enlivened the routine of my life in Bellavista, and that was my acquaintance with the dressmaker. The aforesaid khaki drill was badly in need of alteration, and I was recommended by another AT to try a little Italian dressmaker who lived below her in a ground-floor flat. It was part of a large square villa with terraces upstairs and down, each opening on to a luxuriant garden planted with apricot trees and rich with many other sorts of fruit and vegetables. I duly sought out the Signora in question, who had a baby of one month and little boy of about 2 years old, to whom I was always introduced, and if possible I would present him with a packet of fruit gums or some other delicacy. His mother made an excellent job of the drill, and at last I felt inconspicuous, with average-sized skirts and neatly fitting bush shirts. I was also told that the Signora Renata would make underclothes, and she offered to make me a brassiere, to give me a really nice shape, she said, moving her hands about expressively. When she made it, to my horror, she had given it the very voluptuous shape that was then the fashion in Italy, and into which the Italian girls habitually squeezed themselves. The ‘ladies’ of the Via Roma of course carried it to extremes. But I really could not refuse it; she was so keen to improve my figure. I discovered that she had made a similar garment for one of the other ATs, who felt the same as I did about feminine curves in extremis. So she gave hers to me too, and I sent them both home to England to a friend who might find them useful, in view of the prevalent clothes-rationing there. I heard they were very gratefully received. Whether or not they were ever worn I never knew.
The Signora had become quite a friend of mine, and when I went to collect any of my clothes, or discuss or fit them, I would sit and chat with her in her hot little parlour, where flies buzzed incessantly in concert. Sometimes she offered me a glass of red wine, and on one occasion I met two swarthy young Neapolitans there, and we all had wine and biscuits together, and smoked English cigarettes. I usually managed to take a piece of soap along on these visits, which was ecstatically greeted, for soap was like currency.
The day I said goodbye to Signora and her little family, I was astonished to hear her offering me marriage to her brother. ‘Mio fratello vuole sposare a lei, Signorina’, she said, in the curious diction in use for the benefit of the Allies. I was somewhat startled, and enquired where her brother was. ‘He is in Asmara, interned,’ she replied, ‘but he will be coming back, and would so much like to marry you.’ I thought quickly, and said I felt honoured and flattered by the offer, but unfortunately had a fiancé in England whom I had promised to marry after the war, and therefore must decline with regret. The Signora also expressed regret. And we parted the best of friends.
We packed our kit a few days before departure, and our heavy baggage was loaded on to baggage trucks. We only took one grip each with us. I had brought three civilian dresses with me but found they were no use as we could not wear them, uniform being universally the order
, and I really never had any occasion to wear them, at least not in those early days. So I presented one of them, a white linen tennis dress, to Giovanna, one of the girls who did our rooms and our laundry. She was delighted, and it suited her beautifully, with her dark eyes and hair. We presented as much in the way of chocolates, biscuits and cigarettes, with a bit of soap here and there, as we could spare, to the good woman and her family who had looked after us so kindly, and with them all out waving us farewell, we set off at about 8 a.m. on the morning of 4 July for Rome.
8
All Roads
Lead to Rome
T he AT officers, except Mabel, who stayed behind to come up with part of the rear party, were privileged in travelling faster and more comfortably than the rest of the unit. The Colonel drove up in his car with Jacky, his PA (personal assistant), and her friend Pam, while Cicely, Jean, Iris and I followed in a PU. The main convoy was setting off at about 6 a.m., whereas we did not have to be on the move until two hours later.
We traversed Naples, skirting the end of the Via Roma, ascended the hill on the other side, and took the road to Capua and Caserta. Capua was one of the most depressing places I have ever seen. It was grey and dingy, suffering much from war damage. The people were so very poor that they had long been unable to afford fresh paint for their houses, or anything to relieve the unpleasant dreariness and squalor of the place. Life for the inhabitants of Capua was at that time grim in the extreme, and beneath the blue sky and beaming sun their poverty, stark, sordid and inescapable, seemed to be thrown into relief; like a bad odour it hit one in the face, as it were, and one almost shuddered to think that human beings could live in such surroundings. Perhaps since the war things are better for the Capuans – I sincerely hope so. At that time they had also to put up with the continuous passage of everything pertaining to an army in the field: guns, ammunition lorries, vehicles carrying stores of every kind, troop-carriers, breakdown gangs, bailey bridge transporters, aeroplane parts, and – worst of the lot for the damage they did to the already hard-pressed road surfaces – tanks and Bren carriers. It was a constant stream, and on 4 July we formed part of it, and our unit’s convoy was one of many streaming up north, through Capua, on the road to Rome.
My Italian Adventures Page 8