Our temporary home had a magnificent exterior, being a large modern building with steps leading up to an impressive entrance, from which more steps led up left and right to a courtyard, with flowers and crazy paving. The flowers, needless to say, were dried-up and ragged, as the sun beat hotly down on to the white concrete paving and steps round the edge of the cloister. Glass doors opened into it, but many of the panes were broken. Various rooms led off from this courtyard, and in front, over the steps, was the large room, already referred to, which we used as an anteroom. A bar at one end, and various armchairs, covered with rather dusty but comfortable woollen material that once might have been a sort of brick colour, plus upright chairs and small round tables, were produced from somewhere in the building.
A passage with rooms on either side led from the first courtyard into the second, and much the same layout occurred here. Beyond this was the other great hall, where the British prisoners had lain in the straw, and further on still other rooms, rather small, but close together and convenient. These became the admin offices, and housed the camp commandant, the adjutant, the guard commander, the MO and the MI room (Medical Inspection room) and the MT office (Motor Transport). Outbuildings accommodated the RSM and his tame blackbird, the Q stores and the ration store. The Other Ranks had a field cookhouse and slept in tents in the field beyond.
The rooms around the cloisters, mostly in the basement, were the officers’ sleeping quarters, over three wings. The fourth basement wing housed a theatre with small rooms branching off it. Later on, during the winter, this was used for amateur dramatics. For the present it was disused, having no access to the outside for light, and electric current being extremely precious.
On either side of the building was a terrace, and it was wonderful to sit on the edge of the flat roof and from the north side gaze towards Rome, or on the south watch the sun on the nearest peak, Rocca di Papa, and the evening glow on the Alban Hills, of which Rocca di Papa is the highest. During our lunch-hour we would often have a little siesta on one of these terraces, although in August the sun was usually too hot to stay there for more than a few minutes. There was a garden of sorts outside, but it had been neglected for so long, or trampled over by a succession of troops, that there was not much left, except for a few straggling vegetables.
On the other side, towards Rome, was a small cottage, divided in two, where the former custode or caretaker lived, and in the other half some official connected with the former studio. These people and their families were allowed to stay on, and they had an unending source of interest in watching the doings of the English, whom doubtless they considered quite mad. One of the cottages I occasionally used to visit, and was invited to go one day when the eldest daughter, aged about eight, had a birthday. There were two little girls, and they were both spotlessly clean and had charming manners. I was even given eggs once or twice, which I hated to take for I knew that they had very little food, but they would brook no refusal. I was afraid to offend them, and so tried to make some return by taking them chocolate and soap, both rare and welcome commodities. They were also able to get some of the leftovers from the camp and were thus better placed than most civilians, although it was actually forbidden to give food to the population, or buy their food, or eat in their restaurants. Most of the civilian restaurants in Rome had the famous ‘out of bounds’ sign over their doors, although few of them were open at first. Some, however, were taken over by the Occupation authorities for the use of the Army and other services, for the RAF and Navy were also in Rome, as well as a Russian mission (a military mission to the Italian Army), quantities of Americans of all services, and some French, Polish and other liaison officers.
All round us in the fields were caches of bullets or forgotten shell cases, and for a month or so after our arrival there was a series of explosions as the sun touched them off, and sometimes a cloud of sparks would flash to and fro, accompanied by a rapid ‘rat-a-tat-tat’, as a pile of abandoned machine-gun ammunition exploded. Animals, or even people, occasionally set off concealed landmines, but I am thankful not to have witnessed such an accident, and in our area there were few. Further north they were far more common, and at that time the German shoe-mine, which was almost invisible, was disabling many of our soldiers. I often wondered how many of these perilous objects would remain in the soil and kill or maim some innocent peasant in later years.
One evening, immediately after high tea, Jacky took me for a walk in the fields, and then suggested we might try to obtain a glass of milk from a farm where milk could occasionally be found. I had not tasted fresh milk for several months and she had not done so for more than a year, so we set off for the farmhouse. This turned out to be a rough stone cottage, rather battered and dilapidated looking, surrounded by grey dry mud that had been moulded into ridges by caked-up cart tracks. We went round to the back past some loosely built stacks, ignoring the closed shutters at the front, and found the farmer and his family in the bare, stone-flagged kitchen. Chickens, cats and dogs were mingling happily in front of the door, and we heard cows lowing from neighbouring stalls. We explained haltingly what we were in search of, and they produced it at once and very willingly. We expressed appreciation to the best of our ability and they gave us to understand that we would always be welcome. On a subsequent visit they produced two eggs. But after that, our little adventure reached the ears of the MO, who scolded us roundly and told us frankly that we could carry on, but that he would not sympathise with us if we contracted TB. I was horrified, having then no idea of the high rate of tuberculosis prevalent in Italy. We did not drink any more milk, but continued to wander among the farms, sometimes along cart-tracks and lanes, sometimes on small footpaths. Here, depending upon the hours, one might meet children driving the cows home, perhaps urging on a dreamy-eyed beast with a small switch, uttering shrill cries of abuse, or a yoke of oxen, patiently drawing a simple wooden plough, for in the Campagna agricultural methods were still largely traditional. Or at other times, often in the midday break, we would climb the Roman ruins, and bask on a grassy spot, the now overgrown floor of some antique salon, the plain spread out beneath and around us, behind us the Alban Hills, and in front Rome with its distant spires and domes. Even at midday it was very quiet, except for the buzzing of insects and the occasional zooming of a bumblebee, doing the round of any small wild flowers growing between the sundered boulders; and always above us was the blue sky, to us Northerners, a constant source of wonderment and delight.
Tony, Entwhistle and I had a nice large, airy office looking towards Rome, with two big windows, actually with all their panes. The ATs’ sleeping quarters were in the basement wing below the corridor outside our office, and so everything was very convenient, and it was easy to contact the housekeeper if one wanted anything done quickly. Some stairs led up from where the neck of the passage joined the two cloisters, and on the top here was a lovely spacious room, which became the officers’ mess. It had windows all round, and in winter we could see the snow on the Umbrian Hills to the east, as we sat at table. A kitchen and small larder were attached to this room, and on the same floor a little room where the two cooks slept. The kitchen had an external ladder, so that stores, vegetables, etc. could be brought up from outside.
The stoves were coal ranges, but modern ones, and quite adequate for the numbers they had to cook for, which varied from fifty to a hundred, as the strength was constantly changing, through postings, attachments and the departure or return of officers and men on section duty or mobile duty. In that case they either lived in a requisitioned house nearer the line of fire, or were attached to a division, brigade or other formation, when they messed with whomever they were with and only took a vehicle and driver from us, the parent unit. When the hostilities ceased, the situation was much the same but they became more stationary, and mostly worked in groups, rather than in the isolated detachments operating when the fighting was still on.
We ATs were responsible for much of the clerical work and what wou
ld be called the ‘stooging’. It was galling sometimes to feel that one was just a stooge, but then someone had to do the groundwork; it certainly could be done by women, and of course so much depended on whom one was stooging for. Even if sometimes we did wonder if we were worth our pips, we had the consolation of knowing that the work was important and had direct bearing on the action in our immediate theatre of war, and even in more remote theatres. Also, because it was highly confidential, we knew that we were useful and trusted. As officers, we were not much more trouble than the men, as we looked after ourselves entirely, the only difference being that we had to have separate quarters. Some people thought that we were a nuisance, but no-one can deny that women can undertake clerical work just as well, if not better, than men, and every woman employed in that way freed a man either for fighting or other more active service. We might not be able to go right forward like the male IOs (intelligence Officers), but we could do the research and typing in the background, which was essential for their job to be done thoroughly. We could assist in the running of the mess and take a part in the organisation of unit welfare. So all-in-all, disregarding the controversy for or against women officers, I feel that our presence fulfilled a need and achieved a purpose. That we fell in and out of love and got homesick occasionally seems to me only a side-issue. As long as it was remembered that, first and foremost, we were there to do a job, and not as playthings, then all was well. The Italians, for the most part, considered us to be morale-raisers for the troops, but then they did not have much experience of ‘Mädchen in uniform’.4
Note
4 Mädchen in Uniform was a pre-war (1931) German film about Prussian military discipline in a girls’ school.
11
Do in Rome as Rome Does
N ot long after our arrival, Pam’s boyfriend turned up in Rome and took her out. In those early days there were hardly any clubs or hotels yet properly taken over where one could go for a meal or entertainment, and so they went to a civilian place. Pam returned with the most glowing account of a fantastic restaurant, with shaded lights, curtained alcoves where couples could dine in romantic seclusion; soft, nostalgic airs played on melodious strings, exquisite food, including iced cakes and cream (only a memory to us), ancient floors and walls lined with bottles – and last, but not least, waiters attentive and only too anxious to please the victorious Allies. This positively fired one’s imagination, and after a lunch of frittered bully-beef, dehydrated potato purée, dried peas and a good solid steam pudding, which sat like a leaden ball in the stomach on a hot July day, one’s mouth just watered with gustatory envy. But the enchanted place was soon put out of bounds, and it was some time before it was reorganised and reopened as an officers’ club. It was later called the ‘Orso’ and I often went there to dine and dance. But this was to come.
Meanwhile, another place opened for us, the Nirvanetta, a delightful garden with a dance floor in the middle and trees all round. Fairy lights hung in the trees, and an excellent orchestra, complete with accordion and guitar, played on a dais beside the floor. There we practised the tango and the rumba, swing steps and quick waltzes, for Italians never much played the unending foxtrot that prevails in England. There was a rhythm and a zest to their dance-music, not to mention the tuneful tangos and slow foxes, which you rarely find in a northern dance orchestra. Perhaps it was the moon and the stars overhead, perhaps partly also the relief that no Nazi spy might be among the guests, nor Fascist informer sitting nearby, sipping a glass of wine, his eyes open for an escaped Allied prisoner or anti-Fascist, but the orchestra played with real fervour and gaiety, and three young Italian girls, recruited to sing and partner unattached officers (who far outnumbered them), sang with great charm and much spirit. There was one little girl who only looked about eighteen, with a true, though not very loud, soprano voice, but her personality carried anything she sang right through to the hearts of the audience. She seemed fired with joie de vivre, whatever her private trouble may have been. Over and over again she was encored as her eyes sparkled, her active hands moved expressively, and she sang ‘Chirribirri bee’ or perhaps ‘Ho un sassolino nella scarpa, ai!’ (‘There’s a little pebble in my shoe – aha!’), or even ‘Lili Marlene’, the most popular song of all.
There was a bar inside as well as tables outside, where most of the men without partners would gather, and one used to see a great variety of unit flashes and uniforms. All sorts of people on leave would be meeting each other, some wearing long silk scarves and with long bristling moustaches. One would frequently watch friends slapping each other on the back, exchanging drinks and news, their conversation frequently punctuated with the universal ‘old boy’. It was a great meeting place. I have never seen men pay so much attention to current fashion as some of them did overseas. Many grew enormous moustaches, competing as to its length with their friends; and gaily coloured scarves or handkerchiefs worn at the neck of their bush shirts, to keep them free from perspiration, were the vogue. Corduroy trousers and suede shoes were another desert mode that persevered throughout the Italian Campaign, and these fancies were much caricatured by the famous cartoonist ‘Jon’ in his sketches published in the Army-sponsored CMF (Central Mediterranean Forces) newspaper, the Union Jack, read eagerly every day. Our other source of news was the American Stars & Stripes, but home journals were usually several weeks, or even months, old before they reached us.
Most people of course drank wine, for we were already acquiring new tastes, but there was usually some whisky or gin available. It was here that I first drank Spumante, the Italian version of champagne, which is really more like our cider and which became such a favourite with the forces. A brand of it was manufactured near Rome, and so there was always plenty to be had, and it certainly made a party go and left no after-effects.
At about ten o’clock there was generally a cabaret, some dance-turn, which invariably included a scantily clad and glamorously made-up danseuse. Being a woman, I never took a great deal of interest in how much or how little the lady was wearing; as long as she danced well, I liked her. I suppose women never do understand the almost professional and certainly rapt interest that men invariably take in a female cabaret turn. There would be a hush, the buzz of animated conversation would momentarily cease, and all eyes would be turned towards the floor. One felt quite a cad if one asked for a cigarette, or blocked a male view by electing to ‘disappear’, at such a moment. There were male dancers too, some of them good, but mainly just partnering the girls and putting them through their paces.
Our recreational truck started on the return journey from the Piazza Venezia at eleven o’clock, and so we had a rush to get back there in time. But the evening was well worth the rush. Like many English girls, I had until that time never been to anything approaching a night club, and the Nirvanetta, with its music and lamps, the warm star-lit evenings and the scented atmosphere of the Mediterranean nights enthralled me and showed me something I had never even dreamt of. I had never danced out of doors, only once in a marquee, and it is a joy few people can experience in this uncertain, chilly, damp climate of ours. And there was the atmosphere of the Army overseas, the comradeship and friendliness, because everyone was far from home, and you did not need to be introduced to become acquainted. Your uniform, whatever it was, provided sufficient introduction. Who and what you were in civilian life mattered not at all – people took you as they found you and judged you for what you were. In that sense life in the forces seemed to me truly democratic.
I startled some of our people by turning up at the Nirvanetta in the company of an American officer, who had given me a lift one day and we had become friendly. He was very nice, of Czech origin, but like so many of one’s friends overseas, with the progress of the campaign he moved on, and we did not keep up a correspondence. Like all Americans, he was generous to the point of extravagance, and gave me long, fat, perfumed American cigarettes whenever we met, and on his last visit presented me with a beautiful painted scarf, a souvenir of Rome
.
About ten days after our arrival, a staff captain from the RAAC (Royal Australian Armoured Corps) phoned up Jacky. He had met her on duty one day when she went down to HQ on an errand for the colonel, and asked her to dine in his mess and bring as many of the ATs and WAAFs as were free or cared to go – he would provide a sufficient number of escorts. Five of us accepted the invitation – Jacky, Jean, Pam, Phyllis (one of our WAAFs who had recently come up from Naples) and myself.
We all dressed up as smartly as we could, Pam of course far outstripping everyone else in her perfectly cut, cream silk gabardine tunic and skirt. Her face was tanned with the sun, and her hair naturally wavy, and worn rather long. With bright lipstick and coloured nail-varnish, and a perfect pair of silk stockings on her legs, she certainly showed how smart and attractive it was possible to look in uniform. Sophistication was reflected in every perfectly polished button and rang the keynote of her low, measured speech. All five of us collected in the anteroom and were offered drinks to warm us up. Presently the self-appointed lookout announced that unknown transport was arriving, presumably to fetch us. We were collected and driven off, half our male colleagues watching us depart with quizzical grins from the windows. It was always known when, and with whom, we went out, and in fact it seemed to be the before-dinner amusement of some members of the mess to watch the comings and goings from the windows of the anteroom. The ATs were particularly noticed, perhaps because there were so few of them. It was always remarked on if any of us appeared with a new boyfriend, but in time we got used to the banter and leg-pulling and rather enjoyed it.
So on this occasion we drove off pretending not to notice the audience, and were taken into Rome, to the winding boulevard with the lime trees on either side. We stopped at one of the largest hotels, Les Ambassadeurs, or Gli Ambasciatori as the Italians call it. There was an American as well as a British MP on duty outside. We left our hats (which in the hot weather were the only extra piece of uniform we wore) with an American corporal, and went down into the basement, into a long low room with a little platform at one end. It was illuminated by modern tube lighting, and always gave me the impression of the pink and green with which one coloured homemade marzipan before the war. At the far end was a small cocktail bar, and to one side, in the middle, was another dais for the orchestra. Comfortable plush seats lined the walls, and small tables and chairs were scattered here and there. We were very soon introduced to the rest of the party and sipped Gin Fizzes before going into dinner. This was where the inter-Allied staff of the RAAC messed, and very fine it was too – just the job, in fact. The dining room was enormous and very ornate, with chandeliers and gilt panelling, and steps led down into the body of the room, so that everyone could see who was coming in – and with whom! The messing was once more American, and so we had coffee with every course, and – most delicious – sweetcorn as a vegetable, in a creamy sauce. It was my first experience of corn on the cob, and I enjoyed it. On a subsequent occasion, however, when it was served au naturel, I found the eating of it less easy and it was somewhat of a task to try and make bright conversation while preserving some of one’s lipstick and all of one’s face powder. An orchestra played in one corner, and very obligingly performed arias from opera, or other favourites, on request. After dinner, we returned to the bar-cum-ballroom, and the rest of the evening passed pleasantly, dancing and chatting.
My Italian Adventures Page 11