After Capua we came to Caserta. The country was still flat, as there is a plain north of Naples until you come to the Volscian Mountains, but to the right was a line of hills, low and clearly silhouetted against the horizon. Caserta was a little better than Capua, and the move of AFHQ (Allied Forces Headquarters) from Algiers (which was in process of taking place, the advance party having arrived) was giving the inhabitants work, for the Army employed a large number of civilians everywhere in many menial capacities. This work and just the Army’s existence in the place meant a great increase in food. Swill as we know it hardly existed in those days – the local population were only too glad to utilise the leftovers and to them every crumb had its value. Very few people in this country have ever been so near starvation as the Italians were that summer, after the long drawn-out and disastrous war into which Mussolini had launched them, against the desire of more than half the population, to satisfy his own crazy ambition.
On top of the losses in Africa, the Allied blockade, the ai raids in the north, the thousands of young men killed, wounded or imprisoned, the latter sent to forced labour camps by the Germans, and the consequent semi-paralysis of trade, business and agriculture, came the Armistice, and a species of civil war in Italy, when some sided with Badoglio and others with the Germans. The Germans had nothing but scorn for their late Allies, and did not scruple to wreak horrible vengeance on them whenever the occasion offered. Worse was still to come – many Italians had believed that the Armistice would bring them peace, that they would now be treated as a friend by the Allies and that the Germans would withdraw from Italy. But instead they were between two stools – both sides hated them – and each was determined to drive the other out of the country. Italy became a cruel and bloody battleground, in which many innocent men, women and children perished, numerous beautiful works of art were damaged or destroyed, and the once verdant countryside was frequently scarred by shelling and made uninhabitable by mines. The people were downcast in the extreme, and under a bitter disillusionment. They had not wanted the war, and when at last it was possible to shake off Mussolini’s yoke and offer friendship to the Allies, the latter had spurned their friendship and but grudgingly accepted their allegiance, not letting it be forgotten that Mussolini had stabbed France in the back in 1940, and making it plain that the Italians would have to work hard to get back into the good books of the world again.
In 1944, despite the gaiety of Rome and the joys of being liberated, Italians everywhere were experiencing a kind of hopeless despair and a paralytic lassitude, as the Allies pressed on and the battle waged ever fiercer. They could do nothing, for the fate of Italy was not in their hands; they had to stand by and watch the land they loved ruined and trampled on by the conglomerate armies of both sides. ‘Che miseria’, they would say, as they sat mournfully at their cafés, gloomily surveying piles of rubble, or scrabbling in it for some remnant of household property, or waiting in queues at the Allied labour offices, trying to get some sort of job, with local government or road cleaning or driving, something to tide them over until the war was over and they could resume their lives again. ‘O Dio, speriamo che finirà presto la guerra,’ one heard the women say so often, ‘non si può più – ormai l’Italia è finite asiamo – c’e tutto rovinato, tutto destrutto. I tedeschi ci hanno preso tutto.’ (‘We can’t go on any more – the Italians are finished – everything is ruined and destroyed. The Germans have taken everything away from us.’)
As we drove on up north that day, only some of these facts were known to us, and although we noticed the destruction and ruination everywhere, we were partly distracted by the interest of the journey and the delight we all felt to be going to Rome. The Allied armies were advancing north of Rome and regrouping for the assault on Florence; meanwhile the Allied government in Rome was thoroughly established, and the Naples–Rome railway was already in the early stages of a long and laborious reconstruction. Outside the Italian theatre of war, the invasion of southern France was making steady progress, and the invasion of Normandy was achieving startling success, so morale was high and some optimists even expected an early surrender.
We had got down to the famous Pontine Marshes, not so very far from Anzio, when we halted for a picnic lunch in a field of Indian corn. Mussolini had made a good job of land recovery here, and it was a crying shame that the Germans, in order to bog the Allied transport, had re-flooded much of the recovered area, which was still underwater. The roads, being raised, were more or less dry, but there were long stretches of water, with trees and bushes protruding above the surface. To our right we had passed by the rather gloomy mountains, which on the Roman side are called the Alban Hills, and on our left we had branched away from the blue coastline, for our road, Route 7 as it is called, turns inland before Anzio. We had passed through Formia and Terracina, both badly battered, but lovely nevertheless, beside the brilliant cobalt-blue sea, bluer than I had ever seen it, even in Naples. We had passed the rock that is supposed to be the ancient seat of Circe, when she tried to beguile Odysseus from the path of duty, and we had left the sandy beaches, where no-one could bathe and no children could play in the warm inviting sand, because it was raked with jagged barbed wire, broken pill-boxes and crumpled gun emplacements. And now we were leaving the Pontine Marshes behind and rising into the Roman Campagna, that flat plain surrounding Rome, where the pines grow and from all parts of which you can see the dome of St Peter’s, a distant landmark rising above the spires and roofs of the Eternal City.
We passed Velletri on the crest of the hill overlooking the plain, and saw fresh piles of rubble and crumbling homes, the result of the recent fighting, where crowds of townspeople seemed to have nothing to do but stand despairingly in groups discussing the depressing scene. Genzano, a little further on, was also in a bad way, and we saw the same dejected groups of inhabitants. We skirted Albano and saw the white towers of the Pope’s summer residence at Castel Gandolfo; and then we sped on downhill, and left the main road near Ciampino airfield, where the wrecks of several planes and buildings razed to the ground gave one the impression of a sort of no-man’s-land. Finally, we passed a Roman ruin on our right – it seemed strange to see a Roman ruin after all the contemporary ones, but it would doubtless outlive many of the latter, so firmly were the great blocks of stone placed one on another. We then turned in and struck another road, on each side of which were large buildings, all showing signs of damage. They were modern and must once have been very attractive, but now they had been ripped and gashed; in some places the whole construction was showing, the shoddy flooring and plaster walls revealing bad materials concealed by an ornamental veneer. Nevertheless, there were plenty still standing, even though a good many windows had been smashed, and we were to live in one of these erections, which had originally been cinema studios. Ours, as previously related, had been used by the Germans to house Allied prisoners, and we were told that the great hall, where they had lived, had been left full of foul straw, abounding with lice and fleas. All that had, however, been cleared away, and the place was as clean and free from pests as possible – certainly the admin staff had made a good job of it. But they had not been able to rid it of all its insect population, as I found later to my cost. The hall became our unit garage, and for some time to come one could not cross it without some encounter with the flea population.
We arrived at about three o’clock, and were soon drinking the inevitable cup of chow. Afterwards we ATs were shown our quarters, which were very nice. They had been dressing rooms, or perhaps wardrobe rooms, and were in the basement, but quite light and airy. We had four rooms, two large and two smaller, to house us seven ATs and two WAAFs who were to join us shortly. At the end of the corridor near the stairs were the washrooms, with four basins and about six showers, and WCs. It was quite private, the only problem being that the sentry on duty would be able to see in through the windows, especially at night when the lights were on, but rectified that a few days later by hanging net curtains across them.
Our rooms had been cleaned, but rather superficially, we felt, and so we set to work to give them an extra scour and to dust out the cupboards. The end room was destined for the WAAFs, so it had not been cleaned, as they were not expected for at least a week, but Cicely decided that she would like it; and although I pointed out that blood had been spilt on the floor, she would not be dissuaded from cleaning it out, blood and all, and installing herself there. I had gone up to the mess to borrow a broom from one of the batmen, and he had come down with me to see if he could help us. We were wandering from room to room, discussing the layout, when we got to the end room, which Cicely was busy putting in order. We all three had quite a long conversation, I standing in the middle. All of a sudden I noticed that Cicely was wearing no bush shirt and that the top half of her torso was covered only with a very flimsy vest. I looked quickly at the batman, but he was talking, staring straight ahead, as if J/Cdr Fowkes-Clevedon was, in Army language, perfectly ‘properly dressed’. In fact, neither of them betrayed any emotion of any sort, except interest in domestic arrangements; but I suggested that Sims and I should have a look at one of the other rooms, which we did.
Once our rooms were more or less in order and we had set up our beds, we explored the building, commandeering for our own use any of the numerous pieces of furniture lying about that took our fancy, including some old bits of cinema sets. Most of these eventually, I am afraid, were broken up for firewood. There were dressing tables in the rooms, and we found some nice low stools to go with them and some attractive small tables. There being nothing left to do, I went for a stroll up the road with Toby and another man, the main convoy having by now clocked in, and we inspected two burnt-out tanks and various other pieces of wreckage, including helmets of varying types, shell-cases, etc., which were lying everywhere on the edges of the road and in ditches. Ahead of us, orange and peach in the evening glow, were the Alban Hills, dotted with white houses in their lower reaches, and on their eastern flank a small white town, which I later learned was the renowned Frascati. To the east of us lay more hills, and to the north Rome itself. From the mound of the Roman ruin one could see the far-off dome of St Peter’s, and the red roofs of the houses, golden in the sun. We were 9km, about 4½ miles, from Rome, and we wondered how often we could get in. There was a fair amount of Allied transport on our road, so we thought it should not be too difficult to make the journey once we had started.
It was hot and arid, and we were thirsty, and the dust parched our throats and powdered our shoes, which were supposed to always look as if they had just been rubbed up with spit and polish. I missed the freshness of Naples, and the apricot groves. It seemed flat and very isolated here after the glorious scenery we had just left. To the west of us was a magnificent avenue of towering umbrella pines, beyond which ran the old Roman aqueduct, through whose arches the sky showed the colour of tangerines until the sun dropped behind the horizon. A pink afterglow succeeded it, which in turn gradually diffused into shadow, so that only the outline of the hills to the south could be faintly discerned. Night falls quickly on the Campagna, and we hurried back to the enormous hall, which for the time being was used for our anteroom, or lounge, but I was tired after the journey and it was not long before turning in. I found Jean already installed, her curlers in, reading a book, and asking why ever I had wanted to go out souvenir-hunting, for we had brought back one or two old helmets and other such junk. ‘You’ll have plenty of time for that muck,’ she said. She proved to be perfectly right. The helmets made good wastepaper baskets.
9
On the Fringe of the Eternal City
T he first night we spent in our new quarters was close and sultry, and indeed it was some time before we became accustomed to sleeping in the torrid atmosphere that prevailed that summer in the Campagna; those who had been in Cairo said that the Roman heat was as bad, perhaps worse.
I was to move and work in a different office, with a captain, who had not yet arrived from Algiers. According to all reports he was a good type and very enthusiastic about work, so it sounded all right, though I was sorry to leave female company again. But there was no choice, so why worry? It certainly was nice to have important decisions made for one. All one needed was resignation – or fortitude, if the decision was an unpleasant one.
The first morning there was not much to do, as the rear party had not yet arrived with all the files and office equipment. I spent most of the time cleaning out my new office and arranging the furniture as suitably as possible; also surreptitiously commandeering any items that I thought might be handy, including some spare Italian file covers and odds and ends of stationery, left since the cinema days in forgotten cupboards or out-of-the-way corners, doubtless undiscovered by the Germans who had preceded us.
In the afternoon, as there was no work to be done for the moment, Eileen and I decided to go into Rome. Eileen was Jacky’s friend, but Jacky, being the colonel’s PA, was of course busy, so we decided to take the opportunity of a breathing-space in our labours to get our first glimpse of the city whose name had been on everyone’s lips now for several months past.
At two o’clock we were standing on the edge of the road, which was dry and dusty where the grass was withered and exhausted for want of rain, watching the traffic go by – Army vehicles, civilian carts with peasants taking a few wares in for sale or vats of wine; civilian cars, filled to overflowing, often with mattresses and luggage piled high on top; and pedestrians, footsore and weary, for there were no trams or buses. The trams just could not function for lack of electricity, and the buses for lack of petrol.
We hailed an open American truck and clambered into the back. Soon we were travelling rapidly along our road, at first past dried-up grassy fields, and then through a very dirty, shell-pocked village, where once more people lingered, conversing at length in whatever shade was to be found, and grubby children chased alongside us shouting, ‘Caramelle, signorina, caramelle’. Here the word ‘signorina’ was used in full, and we very soon became aware that the Italian spoken in and around Rome was quite different from Neapolitan, to which we had hitherto been accustomed. I realised later that quite a few of us were practising our limited Italian with Neapolitan accents, but a few months’ sojourn near Rome fortunately rectified that, for Neapolitan is looked down on by the rest of Italy, and the dialect is far from pure. Tuscan, especially as it is spoken in Siena, is reputed to be the purest form of Italian. Rome, of course, has its own dialect – in fact most parts of the country have. Needless to say, the Allied armies developed their own ‘dialects’ and adapted Italian terms and expressions for their own use.
We passed the length of the rather sordid looking village, and having crossed over a railway bridge, we continued under an aqueduct. After that came more houses, some rather shoddy looking, and we then came to a corner on which was a school, a fine building in the modern style. We turned left and passed some blocks of working-class flats, similar to those seen in the film Open City, and in a minute were on the main road, Route 7, which runs parallel to the ancient Roman Via Appia, which was the old-time thoroughfare. We joined the tramlines, disused, and a stream of military traffic, which was proceeding speedily down a long boulevard, with shops and flats on either side. We saw the names over the shops, designating their function, such fascinating names as ‘Rosticerria’, ‘Pasticceria’, ‘Cartoleria’. They mostly seemed to end in ‘-eria’ (‘Rosticerria’, when literally translated, means ‘Roastery’), but for cake shops and cafés, there was no ‘cafeteria’, so perhaps that was just an American invention.
Presently we came to an antique gateway, set in the old city walls. There were three entrances to the gateway: one said ‘veicoli’, and all traffic entering the city went through this one. Our Americans dropped us on the other side, as they had to branch off, and we stood at the side of the road looking out for another lift. There was considerable civilian traffic here, and it seemed to be a general rendezvous. There were some small trucks, used as converted bus
es, and we saw some of these loaded up to their fullest capacity, waiting to start. The people inside were wedged in like sardines, and some were sitting on the edges protruding over the side, so great was the pressure from within. Ladders were propped against them from the ground, and when they were full, or rather when every square centimetre of space was utilised to the full, the ladderette would be taken off. And amid shouts of ‘Ciao’ (so-long) and ‘Arrivederci’ (goodbye) the camionetta, for so we soon learnt they were called, would move jerkily off, bursting at the seams with its human cargo, and start its creaky journey into the country. As we watched, people were arriving with bags, parcels and bundles of all shapes and sizes, some with worn old suitcases tied up with string, and were preparing to get into one or other of the waiting conveyances, not queuing up. There were priests and nuns, peasant women in black calico dresses, children, young men who might be returning home from the war, or evading their service, everyone rather hot and dusty, and here and there was the inevitable Italian policeman, or Carabiniere, in shabby, grubby and faded green uniform and a rather crumpled-looking peak cap. It was not until later that the Carabinieri were given new uniforms and achieved considerable smartness and discipline. For the time being, through no fault of their own, they were ill-paid and shabby and they did not quite know whom they were serving, for it goes without saying that they were under the strictest supervision from the Allied Control Commission.
My Italian Adventures Page 9