My Italian Adventures

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

  All British uniforms and nationalities could be seen at the shop, and these included Sikhs and Gurkhas. Rome was beginning to develop into a busy centre for leave, hospitals, base-troops of all descriptions, and all in all it was becoming a sort of second Cairo.

  More members of the Women’s Forces were arriving, including a batch of South African sergeants, whom we called ‘wozzies’. There was an ATS company at Caserta, and rumours that there would soon be one in Rome. We heard that some of our own girls were to be shipped over from Cairo, but before that we had a visit from the acting chief of the ATS. It was no longer the Scottish CO, but a general’s daughter, and very smart and correct withal. The AT officers had a polite drink with her in the anteroom and then went up to lunch rather late, and sat at a table specially reserved for us on this auspicious occasion. The room was full of men and hushed expectantly as we all trooped into the mess. Glancing over my shoulder before sitting down, I caught one or two surreptitious winks. But the buzz of conversation was soon resumed, except at our table, where it was rather forced. It would have been very dreary if the colonel had not stimulated it with jovial and hearty quips, which raised a frequent laugh. It is a pity that a senior woman officer’s visit seems to leave one tongue-tied, like a Victorian miss at her first dance, except for a few bold and fearless spirits. Personally I was always one of the tongue-tied ones, and even later I never completely managed to untie my tongue, despite having had much more experience of senior ATs. As they are all, almost without exception, charming persons, it is to be deplored, but there it is.

  With the influx of service girls, the Albergo Vittoria, near the Pincio Gardens, was taken over and opened as the Rome YWCA, and became quite a famous meeting-place for service women, and often men, from all over Italy. We went there on our days off, for tea in the comfortable lounge or for lunch in the cool, spotless dining-room. When there was sleeping accommodation available, we would stay the night in order to enjoy the luxury of a bath. Hot water was usually available there once the water system in Rome had begun operating again, even though electricity was still very precarious. It was heaven to luxuriate in a bath after three months without, but the luxury was at first not often obtainable. This made it the more appreciated, and it was well worth the effort sometimes to go there for dinner after work and to stay the night, getting up early next morning to catch the truck that took one or two officers up to our camp each day.

  Iris was amongst these people, as she and her husband had managed to obtain permission to occupy her parents’ former flat in the Via Venti Settembre, and she came out to work each day, while her husband was at an office in Rome. Occasionally he had to go north on detachment and then she would come back to camp, slightly disgruntled I suspect, but it was fun to have her with us again, with her Italian accent and very English sense of humour. She now went armed and invariably slept with a tiny revolver on her bedside table. She explained that sometimes when her husband had to go off suddenly, she was left alone in the flat and, with things as they were then, it was safer to have this protection. I agreed, though it hardly seemed necessary to continue the practice in our well-guarded camp, inside a six-foot barbed-wire perimeter. Still, it was exciting to have someone sleeping in the next bed with a revolver under her pillow. It was perhaps the nearest I would ever get to firearms, apart from Jimmy’s ramshackle trophies. If at that time I had read Private Angelo6 I should have felt a fellow-feeling for him!

  Note

  6 Erik Linklater’s 1946 novel about an Italian soldier in the Second World War.

  14

  Roman Winter I

  B y the beginning of October, the days were growing palpably shorter, and were cooler and fresher, but at midday it seemed almost as hot as ever, and one could still have lunch on the terrace at the Pincio on a day off and sit in one’s shirt-sleeves in perfect comfort. By the middle of the month, the order had been issued for all ranks to change from khaki drill to winter uniform, and we were certainly glad of the extra warmth in the evenings. The air was purer and rarer than ever, and the line of the Sabine Hills to the east was more clear-cut now that the summer haze had gone. The trees were shedding dried-up brown leaves, but one did not notice this aspect of autumn nearly as much as in England, for there were so many pines, cypresses and other evergreens in proportion to the comparatively small number of deciduous trees that the general impression of the foliage did not alter greatly. The corn had mostly been cut before we left Naples, but the stubble was not yet all ploughed in, and had gone a muddy brown with the constant wear of sun and drought. Still the freshness of the atmosphere and cool breeze from the mountains gave us a new energy, and life seemed to wake up after the long enervating heat of the summer.

  By this time we were for the most part adequately familiar with our way about Rome. A very good brief guide was published in English for the forces, and vendors of town plans were to be seen at every corner, pressing khaki-clad passers-by to buy a ‘Pianta di Roma’. Guides were also becoming numerous, and you had to be careful not to get into the clutches of any such person, for you never knew how far you would be taken, or at what price. But mostly we did not have time for such tours.

  Some of the shops were reopening, and I discovered one offering the most fascinating tiny china or pottery souvenirs, with flowers painted on them, and ‘Assisi’, ‘Roma’ and other place names painted in gay colours. There were minute baskets, and other small, similarly ornamented, but unmentionable objects. There were ashtrays, brightly decorated, with traditional proverbs and sayings on them, some of them in dialect. And then there were the characteristic ornaments and useful articles, such as egg-cups, spoons, paper-knives, and various beaten silver wares, embossed with crests and patterns. Lace-work was beginning to appear, and Venetian silk. Leather of all kinds, exquisitely worked, filled other windows.

  Even the food situation was easing up a little. Some small cake-shops sold rich delicacies, cream buns, meringues and all sorts of sweets and chocolates. Everything was extremely expensive, and for the most part the Italian population could not afford such luxuries – I often wondered who could. On one or two occasions, Jacky and I defied the regulations and went into a tiny little cake-shop in the Via Sistina to eat brandy-snaps filled with cream – a risk both from the health and the discipline points of view, but Army rations, although excellent and generally sufficient, did not allow for many delicacies, and hardly satisfied a sweet tooth. Our chocolate ration was rather dull, and sometimes one just longed for something really luscious. The brandy snaps fulfilled this physical need, and gave one the gratuitous thrill of disobedience at the same time. One could eat cream buns with so much more enjoyment if one knew that at any moment the military police might appear and take one’s names – it was definitely a case of ‘forbidden fruits tasting sweetest’.

  By now of course we had mastered the rudiments of colloquial Italian. The mysterious repetition of the word ‘prego’ had been explained to us, but for a long time it was puzzling. Each time you thanked an Italian for anything, when you made a purchase, if you were served in a restaurant or whenever you asked the way somewhere, the person you were talking to said ‘prego’. If he was a man, and, wearing a hat, he raised it very politely as well. Having discovered that ‘prego’ meant the equivalent of ‘please don’t mention it’, but was much more concise, we used it too, and were quite surprised when it was taken as a matter of course by the Italians – they did not even raise their eyebrows when we said ‘pray-go’. ‘Ancora’ became a favourite word, and was used when one wanted a second helping at meal times, although a literal translation of it is not ‘more’, but ‘still’. Some people amused themselves by translating English slang into literal Italian, which needless to say would have meant very little to the natives of Italy. Thus ‘nothing doing’ became ‘niente facente’ and ‘hangover’ became ‘sopra-pendente’. There was quite a vocabulary of this kind, but unfortunately my memory has kept no record of the rest. As we had expert Italian speakers amongst o
ur personnel, one could always pick up something useful in the language line; and meal-times became quite an opportunity for practising at least one’s culinary Italian, as well as playing with the language.

  My expanding vocabulary came in useful one day when Jacky suggested that I should join her for tea at the Grand on our day off. I did not know whether it was out of bounds, but we did not stop to ask. We entered the lofty vestibule and took our seats in the great lounge, with its steps and dais opposite the entrance. Ensconced in chintz-covered armchairs, we ate minute sandwiches and the most exquisite and daintiest little cakes imaginable; they were not quite small enough for petits fours, but had all their delicacy. There were only a few people taking tea that day, grand-looking elderly ladies for the most part. For the pleasure of tea drinking in that exalted company and enjoying the comfort of those so very English faded chintz armchairs, we had to pay through the nose. Even the ladies’ cloakroom at the Grand was a magnificent affair, reminiscent of the Medici Chapel in Florence. The washbasins are built into marble frames, and the walls bear a sombre green parchment.

  Before the summer was over, we had a visit from our ‘Queen Bee’, the Chief Commander (Lt Colonel) ATS, who had taken the place of the general’s daughter. The new chief was in private life a wife, mother and grandmother, and in CMF she was immensely popular with everyone, not least the ATs. Needless to say, we were all on our best behaviour for her first visit, coloured nail varnish was removed, lipstick was modified, and one or two hair-nets appeared to hide hair growing well below the regulation ‘inch above the collar’ length. Everyone was in lisle stockings for once, for we could buy silk in Rome, and fortunately they soon became permitted, at least in the evenings. The visit went off very amicably, and indeed ‘Ma Turner’, as she was called, proved a good friend to us all, and I do not think there can be any member of the service who knew her and does not remember her with respect and affection.

  By mid-October it was well known that a detachment of ATs from our affiliated unit in MEF (Middle East Forces) would be with us sometime in November. This influx occasioned a great deal of reorganisation, for whereas ATS officers ‘muck in’ in every sense except for actual sleeping quarters, ATS ORs have a whole host of regulations governing their treatment, discipline, welfare and so on, which are difficult to accommodate to the routine of a male personnel unit, run entirely by and for men. The AT staff officers were most affected, for we had to vacate our nice quiet secluded quarters and occupy various rooms around the cloisters, in the neighbourhood of the CO’s bathroom and office, and near the office I worked in. This meant that we lost much of our privacy, and that when wandering down to wash in the morning (or along to the CO’s bathroom, which we were permitted to use, provided we went early) one was liable to meet all sorts of people, from the CO himself to the duty officer or the duty NCO, doing their tour of inspection first thing in the morning. According to my former practice, I got up very early and completed my toilet before there was anyone much about, especially as the bathroom door had no lock, like most of our doors. On one occasion I did meet the company sergeant major, who gave me a smashing salute. I heard afterwards that he had maintained that one must salute an officer, however he or she was attired. I was glad I was wearing my long winter dressing gown. I was, however, determined to offset our losses with some advantage at least, and so I managed to arrange that the batman who called us each morning also brought us early morning tea, if we wanted it. The batmen had not formerly been allowed in our quarters, but had rung a bell at the end of the corridor. It was worth the loss of privacy to have a cup of hot strong ‘chow’ on a cold winter’s morning.

  For the winter was now coming upon us. The clear fresh days were still there, but now there was the tang of frost in the air, and the wind was unpleasantly biting in the cloisters and shooting at all angles through the broken panes. Fuel was already becoming a problem. It was the same throughout Italy that winter. Italy never has much coal, and almost all of it is imported. Imports had stopped during the war and the stocks were almost exhausted. The Allies were already importing a certain amount, but Bari, Taranto and Naples were the only possible ports, all the other big ports either being in German hands or out of commission through war damage. Fuel was therefore extremely scarce. There was a small allocation of coal for cooking, and that was all. Of course our building had radiators, but there was no fuel to work the system, which would have been extravagant in any case, as it would have burned up more than was actually needed. So there was just no heating at all, and as October drew to a close and the evenings became really chilly, we sat in the mess in jerseys, jerkins, wind-jackets and various other garments, and nothing seemed to warm the rooms, with their thin walls and many windows. C/Commander Turner said that the ATS regulations stated that there must be a fire in every room where an AT OR worked, and as the time drew near for the arrival of our detachment of girls, she paid us another visit and then personally went down to Rome Area Command to see the officer i/c fuel and state the case. Our commandant had only been able to obtain the minimum of old petrol drums, which were converted into stoves burning sawdust, and with regard to the ATS he was told there was no extra to be had. It was the same in every unit, and the scrounge for wood was beginning, in the course of which every available remnant of the cinema-set which the Italians had left behind was ruthlessly chopped up and burnt for firewood.

  But Ma Turner must have waved her wand to some effect, for she did achieve what she had set out to do, and stoves were provided for the girls’ sleeping quarters and their offices. After that there was some competition to work in an office where there was a girl. Where there was no girl, there would be no fire. Except in our office. Tony was not easily daunted, and he decided that we would construct a fireplace. We went over to another damaged and disused studio on the opposite side of the road and carried out a recce, and as a result we obtained various ‘parts’, such as lead piping, an old grate and loose bricks. Best of all, we discovered a dump of artificial peat, which must have escaped the notice of the local Italians who were fuel hunting, just as we were. There were one or two masons and builders among the troops and Tony got in touch with them, and between himself and Sgt Entwhistle, who was also a thoroughly practical person, a brick stove was constructed, with a pipe going out through the window, and a gap in the top where we put the fuel in. We burned peat, and the smell penetrated almost to the furthest corners of the sprawling buildings. We collected the peat in a jeep (I was able to help with this) and stored it in a cellar. At first the stove smoked horribly and many adjustments were performed on the pipe, necessitating repeated anxious conferences as to the best angle for placing the tubing, exactly where the bend in it should occur, whether it should have a cowl on top, and how long it should be. Our fire was the first one anywhere, even before the installation of the famous sawdust drums. After a few months the stove really settled down and worked quite well, though the smell of peat persisted and our clothes and hair all reeked with it. All sorts of people visited our office, ostensibly to look at maps or reports, but we knew the main attraction was the Heath Robinson erection in the corner, around which we had placed a few chairs, and where one could very satisfactorily warm one’s numb toes and hands.

  Washing water was another problem, for hot water did not exist, but we obtained some empty 7lb margarine tins from the cookhouse, and heated water fairly well on the top of the stove, though not quite to boiling point. If there were a few black specks in it, who cared? As regards hot-water bottles, which almost every English girl considers a necessity in winter, the ATs solved that problem by taking their bottles to the mess kitchen at about nine o’clock and filling them from a hot-water dixie. After that, the fire was allowed to go out until the following morning, when one of the cooks would get up early to light it. Unless it was lit early it would not be hot enough in time for breakfast, which still began at 7.50 a.m., even though the advent of winter weather meant that not many people were up as bright and early as in sum
mer.

  A week or two previously I had been in trouble with the camp commandant on account of my landmine. It was still in the office cupboard where we had stowed it after Jimmy’s departure, and I had just about forgotten its existence. Then one evening, after I had been to Rome for the afternoon, the commandant called me over in the anteroom and asked me what the mine was doing in our office. He said it might blow the whole camp up, and as he was responsible, he would have to ‘carry the can’, and I must get rid of it forthwith. I protested that I had been promised that it was harmless, but he said with great scepticism that it must go. So I assured him that I would get rid of it, come what may. But it was not so easy. I approached various people who were going up north and asked them if they would take the mine to a scrap heap or a bomb disposal unit for me. After repeated efforts of this kind, explaining that I was under orders to dispose of it, I realised that no-one was going to take the risk of loading it on to their vehicle in case it exploded, and so I decided to get rid of it myself. Meanwhile I had taken it down to my room and was using it as a sort of footstool. I had not been nervous about it before, but now I began to wonder whether Jimmy was quite as reliable about bomb fuses as he said he was. Supposing he had only partially defused the mine? The thought was not pleasant, and with the approaching arrival of our ATS girls I decided that at all costs I must get rid of the menace before they came.

  So, the evening before they were due to arrive I asked Cicely if she would like to take an early morning stroll with me next day. She accepted with pleasure and at seven o’clock I knocked on her door, carrying my Army kitbag and in it the mine. We started out, through the cloister, down the steps at the entrance, and out at the gates, past a sentry who looked a trifle surprised to see me carrying such a load at that hour of the morning. We walked down the road towards Rome, and if I had not been so concerned with the business in hand, I should have appreciated the dazzling light of the early morning and the clear sky and fresh air, against which the white buildings stood out like the ice of a glacier. After we had gone a few hundred yards, Cicely said, ‘What’s that you’re carrying? It seems rather heavy.’ ‘It’s a land-mine,’ I said, somewhat fearful of her reaction. But she simply said, ‘Oh really, do let me help you with it,’ and without more ado she gave me one end of her stick, hoisted the bulky kitbag on to it, grasped the other end firmly, and with the fateful load between us, we proceeded down the road, eventually turning off to find a suitable dumping spot. I was very anxious to dump it where it could do no-one any harm, and so we eventually flung it into a running stream, where on account of the current it was unlikely that anyone would put animals to drink or allow children to paddle. The mine itself was sufficiently heavy not to be swept away, and should have sunk deep into the mud of the stream-bed. I sincerely hope it did.