My Italian Adventures

by de Burgh, Lucy; Hodge, Mary; Hastings, Max

  For the first time I began to like the Italians. I had gone to Italy, and while keen to learn about the wonderful works of art and scenery that are so renowned, nevertheless sharing a prejudice against the ‘Eyeties’, which was almost universal in England and certainly in the British forces at that time. The father of these girls had taken grave risks to help the Allies. The girls were not only beautiful, they were intelligent and charming. Their mother, racked with worry about her relations in the north and suffering from bombing and lack of food, was just as kind and polite to me as though the Americans and British had never casually or mistakenly devastated complete residential quarters of some of the Italian cities. Among the poor people, too, I began to see not only resignation, but also courage and a philosophy that allowed them to enjoy the little that their life had to offer, and to laugh and joke, even though their country was ravaged, occupied and in the throes of being progressively and methodically destroyed by hostile armies. The Italians might not have distinguished themselves in Libya, but I began to realise that there were other kinds of courage besides that which we all so much admired, the latter partly the outcome of intensive training and rigidly enforced discipline. As a people, perhaps the Italians had failed, but individually they began to appear far less timorous, flippant and superficial than I had been given to understand and were generally represented. And so I was glad to know the ingeniere and his family. And in a way it felt homely to visit them – my only regret was that they lived so far away, right down the great Via Nomentana.

  12

  Excursions

  W e were still working at great pressure, which did not ease up after the fall of Florence on 14 August, for there seemed at that time nothing to stop our troops pushing on to Bologna. Already plans were being made for the Occupation of that city, and buildings earmarked for requisition. The Bolognesi would not perhaps have viewed with so much favour the coming of the liberators, had they realised what it would generally mean for them – the transition from one Occupation force to another. Meanwhile, bitter fighting was taking place in the mountains in the area of the rocky and barren Futa Pass, and again on the Adriatic coast. Our troops were delivering a fierce assault on the Gothic Line, the enemy’s last line of fortification in Northern Italy.

  All the time, there was a mass of transport moving north, and so it was not difficult to get a lift if one was going in the right direction; coming back, there was always a certain amount of traffic returning to base, or men going on leave. So one day Cicely and I managed to scrounge a day off and decided to hitchhike to Civitavecchia, on the coast north-west of Rome, about 35 miles away. This would be quite an adventure, we felt, as it had not so very long ago fallen to the British, and would be something new in the way of occupied towns for us to see. So we got a lift on unit transport into Rome, and then managed to get another lift to the other side of the Tiber. We walked on to a long wide railway bridge and up a hill, and then posted ourselves at the top, waiting for transport going north, up the coast road, Route 1, or the Via Aurelia, as it was called, for the main thoroughfares out of Rome still cling to the names allotted to them by the ancient Romans 2,000 years ago.

  We stopped a very large open lorry with just the driver in front, and he agreed to take us to Civitavecchia. With some difficulty we mounted and sat in the back, on a pile of sacking. We had a lovely drive – one hour. We asked our driver to take us to just outside the town on the north side, as he was going further. Indeed, he offered to take us to Florence, and we would have accepted, had we been sure of getting back in time for duty the next morning.

  So he dropped us at the edge of a sandy heath, within half a mile of the sea, and we set off on foot to find our way down to the water, as Cicely said that we must bathe. We stopped at a small shack and asked the way, and a farmer told us to be careful about mines. Apparently, the Germans had fairly sown the beaches with them in this area, and it was not certain that all had been cleared. We found a secluded portion of beach and managed a rather meagre bathe, being afraid to go in far because of the notices everywhere, saying, ‘Pericolo di morte – mine’. We ate our sandwiches on the pebbled beach, on the edge of the gently sloping warm waves, gazing out on a sea so blue that it seemed to fulfil all one’s dreams of what the Mediterranean was really like. Overhead an occasional plover could be heard calling to its mate, and crickets chirruped off and on in the scrub and gorse behind us. We had bought some red wine from the farmer and put it in our water bottles, and this contributed to make one luxuriously sleepy and lazy. No wonder the Italians liked a siesta – I began to see the point of it. But the sun was shining relentlessly down on us, and eventually we had to move, for the danger of sunstroke is very real, and so we scrambled through the bushes and under a small railway line back to the main road. Here some very surprised Americans gave us a lift back into Civitavecchia itself.

  We had seen from the beach outside the town just how badly smashed up the port was, and now we saw that the town also, including the railway, had undergone some very serious bombing. Many houses near the seafront were empty, and windows were broken, doors forced open, and everywhere there was dust and rubble. The sun shone and the sky was magnificently clear, but beneath the brilliant firmament was havoc caused by human beings. It all seemed such a ghastly waste. The town was deserted, with only a few small groups of people here and there, and the usual sprinkling of Occupation troops and neat sign-boards, directing one to the nearest REME (Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers) or MP (Military Police) post or other Occupation units.

  As there was nothing to see except ruins, we did not stay long, but were soon out on the road again and hailed a passing truck. It was pleasanter to watch the white foam breaking on the beach – for at this point the road passes right along the water’s edge – and to study the distant line of hills inland, than to gaze upon interminable heaps of rubble. As we glanced back, Civitavecchia looked romantic with its battlemented harbour walls and castle, and its houses silhouetted against the golden sunshine of late afternoon. In the distance one would not have realised that it was so destroyed – before the war it must have been a most attractive place, but how much reconstruction there was to be done before it even resembled its former self! Small wonder that the inhabitants looked despairing and hopeless. As for looking for the house in which Stendhal was reported to have lived, we did not have the face to enquire about it.

  We passed along the waterfront of Santa Marinella, a mass of broken and twisted barbed wire and crumbling pill-boxes. Many villas here also were damaged or in ruins. Only the hydrangeas and oleanders were still blooming, untended in the abandoned gardens. We went on and crossed a ruined railway, with an entire train standing on it, completely burnt out and blackened; and all the time here and there one saw debris thrown up by the surge of battle that had passed over it. There were burnt-out tanks, bullets, helmets, all the usual relics, blackened and hideous, scarring the grassy hinterland. We passed a magnificent avenue of towering umbrella pines, which led, I learnt, to Fregene, which we hoped to visit later on.

  At the little level crossings one would sometimes see a woman with her children watching the traffic pass. There were very few domestic animals. For the main part the country seemed absolutely deserted – a sort of no-man’s-land. Then we passed on and once more came within sight of Rome – the dome of St Peter’s lifted itself above the pinky roofs of the houses, and beyond rose the distant peaks of the Alban Hills. It was evening as we bumped down the cobbles back into the heart of Rome. The children were playing in the streets and there were the flowers and fruit for sale. As usual we had no difficulty in finding another truck to take us back from the Piazza Venezia.

  Soon after it was known that a large unit had settled in the old Cine building, a stream of civilian applicants came begging for work. There was no way of restricting their entry until a barbed-wire perimeter had been completed round the entire building, outhouses and garden. Only the custode’s cottage remained outside. For the present,
on account of the secret nature of the work, no civilians were to be employed except for a woman to look after the ATs. A large lady, by name Signora Pinto, was taken on, after due screening by the nearest Field Security Section. This established that she had not had contact with the enemy and, as far as could be ascertained, had in no way actively associated with the Fascists. She brought us lovely wide flat rush brooms and a few stracci or dusters. With these she kept our rooms spotless and did our washing to perfection, though I do not to this day know how she managed, for there was only cold water and we were strictly rationed for soap. I had a flat-iron and this she used, for electricity was also extremely scarce, at times non-existent. Signora Pinto then became part of our lives, and it was in affection and not disdain that she was nicknamed the ‘Old Hag’, commonly abbreviated to OH. Sometimes she would bring us delicacies, such as a form of cold pancake, which she made at home. She even sewed or knitted small things for us, and I still have some of her handiwork. She was devoted to ‘her Signorine’ as she considered us, and we were certainly lucky to get her.

  On another occasion I managed to make an excursion to Ostia, which presented an even more desolate scene than Civitavecchia, its long sandy beaches a mass of barbed-wire entanglement and broken-up fortifications. The houses along the front had been badly knocked about and the town was practically deserted. Ostia Antica, the old Roman city, which we so much wanted to visit, was a minefield, and I was never able to go there; in fact, it was a long time before it could be visited with safety. A month later II District had been installed there, and one or two of us went over. I was surprised to find all the ATs glamorously got up in mufti, but with everyone in uniform you do at least know who and what everyone is, and do not commit the gaffe of slapping a lady major on the back or failing to call a female colonel ‘Sir’.

  Another ruined city was Tivoli, where I went one afternoon in late August with Jonathan, who was about to depart up north on attachment to an Indian division. He had made all his preparations, and was to start next day at crack of dawn, so we spent his last afternoon sightseeing. It was no conventional sightseeing, for the sights were mostly destroyed, or in the process of being repaired and put in order. The world-renowned Villa d’Este at Tivoli had been hit and was closed for repairs – there was no water for the famous fountains, and the gardens of the villas were closed. We drove on to what had been the main street, but was now piles of ruins with here and there a house left standing, but not spared from bullet marks or broken panes. A few people were to be seen, poorly dressed, some of them doing a little trade, inside stone doors hung with the inevitable bead curtains. There was an occasional mule, eating out of a moth-eaten nosebag, switching its tail to keep away a cloud of vicious flies. There was also a crowd of small children, who clustered round the truck as we stopped for a few minutes and demanded caramelle, holding out grubby brown hands and looking at us beseechingly. We had not many caramelle with us, but what we had they got. We bought some sweet white grapes to slake our thirst, for it was intensely hot and the sun seemed to focus on the rubble like a magnet, which threw back the heat in dusty, burning rays, parching one’s throat and irritating one’s eyes.

  There was nothing more to do in Tivoli, so I lit a cigarette and gave a few to the crowd of children, who would doubtless do black market trade with them. They waved goodbye to us as we bumped up the street once more, out on the uneven high road, down through the silvery olive groves back to Rome, past the sulphur baths, which had also had their share of damage and were out of use for the time-being, though in any case there were no clients at present. Then back we went along the Via Tirbutina, into Rome, for dinner at the Pincio, and then a walk through the darkened streets, for a dance and a drink at the Nirvanetta; and after that the usual rush back to Piazza Venezia to pick up the recreation truck and go ‘home’. On this occasion we missed the truck, and got a lift in a small Italian lorry, something like a camionetta, though fortunately it was empty. It took us most of the way and we walked the remainder, under the aqueduct in the moonlight, through the sleeping villages, which seemed almost desolate without their crowd of eager fruit-vendors, hoards of ragged children, and groups of grave-faced elders; then past the sand-pit where Jimmy used to dig for pieces of antique pottery, back to the barbed-wire perimeter, mosquito nets, and in my case, a sleepy Jean, who asked me where I had been, what I had been doing, with whom, and why. I was too tired to give her all the answers, so I just flopped into bed, and drowsy with sun, wine and the walk home, slept solidly until the batman knocked us up the next morning.

  Not long after this, we did one or two evening excursions and this was very pleasant, for it was cool enough to move about without dripping with perspiration, provided one went a few miles out into the country. Our corner of the Campagna seemed to remain as equably sweltering as ever, and one was forced to wear the absolute minimum of clothing, which during the night usually meant nothing, as our ATS pyjamas were far too warm for that climate. One could not expect to be issued with summer pyjamas, but all the same, it seemed a little incongruous that the same pyjamas should be available in the semi-tropical heat of the Italian summer as were provided for the English winter.

  One of our evening trips was to Fregene, where we bathed in the moonlight and had a picnic supper on the beach, the sea glistening blue and silver in front of us, and behind us a great wood of umbrella pines, its mysterious depths unveiled here and there by shafts of moonlight, which lit up the boles of the trees, thereby enhancing the obscurity and gloom of the rest. There was no sound but the eternal lapping of the swell on the shingle and the occasional cry of a night bird in the wood behind, for all the world like the enchanted forest of Where the Rainbow Ends.5 One could imagine magic castles hidden there and dangerous monsters, but solid haversack sandwiches and a good tot of gin and lemon soon dispelled any morbid imaginings. The sea air was exhilarating, and as the darkness acted like a cloak, I could not resist performing to myself some amateur acrobatics and doing handstands and turning cartwheels on the beach. It gave one a wonderfully healthy feeling, even if the rest of the party did seem mildly surprised that Fregene could affect one that way. As the evening wore on, however, the wind began to rise, and so we packed up our rugs, haversacks and bathing clothes, loaded up our 15cwt, and traversed the pine wood, which looked more friendly when lit up by our headlamps – and so back to Rome.

  Another evening such as this was spent beside Lake Albano. This time the drive was not so pleasant. We turned south down our road, towards Rocca di Papa, and then bumped for several miles over execrable road surfaces, and finally got lost. Then followed long and complicated discussions with local contadini (country people), and finally we seemed to be descending very steeply a narrow defile, apparently to the edge of the lake. I was sitting in the back so I could only guess what was happening, as it was rather dark and we had wasted so much time getting lost and asking the way. We pulled up with a jerk, and there we really were, on the narrow edge of a small black lake, reflecting in its passive waters the millions of twinkling stars, which made the blue-black sky look like silk spotted with polka dots. We were ravenously hungry and made short work of the sandwiches.

  Only about one of our party bathed, for the water did not seem very inviting. When somebody discovered some bones at the lake’s edge, and finally the carcase of a dead dog, fortunately a fair way off, I was more than relieved that I had refused to be persuaded into it. Still, it was pleasant by the lakeside, and to the south, rising steeply, one could discern the shadowy line of Rocca di Papa, for we were just beneath it here. To the north-west were the roofs and turrets of the Pope’s summer residence, Castel Gandolfo. All round the lake, the sides rose steeply and rockily, and immediately above us was a village.

  We got lost again on the way back to camp, and this time things almost took a tragic turn. We were going down what seemed to be a perfectly good main road, when all of a sudden the 15cwt stopped with a violent jolt. We in the back jumped out to see what was wro
ng, and discovered the truck on the verge of a steep drop of at least 100ft. What had appeared to be a bridge was no more, and a railway line lay in shambles below us; the bridge was truncated at each end, but there was no sign of warning to tell the unwary motorist that all was not well. I breathed an inward prayer of gratitude to the Almighty.

  We turned back and knocked at an Italian house for another direction. A man sleepily answered us through a window. All the inhabitants had retired, the doors were barred and bolted and there was not a light to be seen. The atmosphere was almost eerie, so utterly silent were the deserted village streets and the tightly shuttered houses. Not even a baby’s cry broke the stillness, only the chugging of the engine and the clicking of loose stones on the uneven surface of the cobbled streets. It was late when we got back, and at the camp all was quiet, except for the sentry at the gate. Cyril and his friends dropped the three of us at the entrance, and drove back to their unit in the city, leaving the South African girl who had accompanied us at her billet on the way. After that I did not try any evening excursions for some time. Enjoyable as they were, after being bumped about for several hours over cobbled streets and roads gored by tank-tracks and shells, one felt like a wet rag the following morning, and to work in such a condition was, as the Italians used to say, ‘niente di Buono’.