When we were in the restaurant, the head AT of the Command arrived with an ATS major and her ADC. Pat became very worried, for she was far from ‘properly dressed’ in Army parlance: she was wearing white shoes, her sleeves were rolled up (forbidden at night), her legs were clad in the sheerest of silk stockings and her hands displayed three rings and deep crimson nail varnish. While we were sipping our coffee, Commander Turner came over to speak to us and was very charming. Pat had thrust her feet well under the table, hastily placed one ring under her plate and with the utmost sangfroid greeted the chief and offered her a liqueur. As someone remarked afterwards, had she forgotten the ring under the plate, the waiter doubtless would have taken it for a tip! Ma Turner stayed and chatted for a few minutes, probably not in the least deceived by Pat’s subterfuge, and then got up to go and we were once more on our own to listen to the band and carry on interminable discussions pro and contra the unfortunate ring. That night, after saying goodnight to me in my room, she got locked out of her own and I found her wandering disconsolately about in the corridor munching a green apple and musing on the romanticism of Venice at night. ‘How shall I get back to bed?’ she asked. ‘My door has locked itself by banging shut and my key is inside.’ My key was no good and so we had to telephone the night porter to let her in.
That evening we had listened to a glorious orchestral concert on the Piazza San Marco, whose ample proportions were illumined to great effect by enormous glowing brackets of light, set at regular intervals along the edge of the colonnades which framed the square on three sides. The audience sat at tables in cafés under the arches, or congregated in a large crowd around the musicians. There was silence except for the music and the footsteps of strollers promenading up and down the square, lingering to listen. Overhead the sky was a deep indigo blue, star-spangled, and the oriental domes of the cathedral outlined dimly against it, flanked by the ornate battlements of the Doge’s Palace, provided a background to the scene that seemed reminiscent of the Arabian Nights. In Italy one does not just see scenes from opera, one experiences them.
After that, in spite of fatigue, we took a short gondola trip, for we were determined to see Venice in the moonlight, and it was worthwhile to breathe in the fresh evening air and sea-breezes and see the beautiful old palazzi, their delicately sculpted façades illuminated by lanterns and moonbeams.
The following morning I noticed a handsome, freshly painted black gondola, propelled by a smart-looking gondoliere in a white suit with a red sash. In the gondola sat a beautiful girl with long fair hair, tied in a red ribbon, and classical refined features. She wore a white dress and sat with head bent, studiously engrossed in a book. She seemed to belong to a former age, perhaps to the period just over a hundred years ago, when Lord Byron lived riotously and notoriously at the Palazzo Mocenigo, and Venice society prided itself on its elegance, culture and distinction. Probably it still does, and perhaps this beautiful young Italian girl belonged to it, but we had not time to stay and find out. She belonged, we did not; we were mere birds of passage and could only glean impressions.
We managed to scrounge a lift up to our sister unit in Austria and passed through the vividly green country north of Venice, which acted on the eyes like a soothing lotion after the dazzling glare of the south. The air was much cooler and the mountains were shrouded in mist, which rather spoilt the approach to the frontier. We passed along miles and miles of flat green country, in an endless stream of traffic, mainly military, pounding north. But there were a few civilian cars and lorries, and some horses and carts too, though how their drivers had the courage to enter into the vehicle stream that almost engulfed them, we found hard to grasp. Italians seem to have nerves of steel when it comes to road safety. Every few hundred yards along the road there were enormous placards saying, ‘No halting – malarial area’, and so we dared not stop, for the road was well policed.
Near the frontier we halted for a few minutes while the driver looked at the engine, and a crowd of young men and girls came along the road, ostensibly from some camp. Some of them greeted us and offered help and we entered into conversation with them. They did not speak Italian, but German. I asked them if they were Austrians and they said, no, they were heimatslose, (literally, ‘without homes’). They were Jews whom the Allied troops had freed from concentration camps and who were now making their way south in organised stages, in camps looked after by British soldiers, while the Allied governments meanwhile decided what to do with them. One nice girl, a Czech, told me she had passed through Prague on her way down, and I asked if she had seen any of her family. Oh no, she said, they had all been burnt in incinerators by the Germans. This she said in quite a matter-of-fact way, as if she was telling me that her shoes needed heeling. I suspect that if she had not been matter-of-fact about it she would have gone mad. An officer once told me that he saw a tank knock over a camionetta somewhere in Central Italy, soon after the end of the war. One woman, he said, lost her husband but she survived. In the moment of horror and before she fully realised the ghastly occurrence, she stooped to the ground to pick up the loaves which had fallen from her basket. That simple homely action saved her sanity. Perhaps at times of direst stress, nature temporarily blocks one’s mind, so that only day-to-day matters are clearly focused, until the worst is past and the physical shock has been absorbed by the system.
Pat and I had a fierce argument as to how much the scenery altered as we sped on north. She claimed that the moment we were over the border, everything was different. I maintained that the change took place gradually. This discussion must have occupied us for an hour or two. Certainly by the time we got to Villach there was nothing Italian about the countryside, which was rich green pastureland with thick pine woods, green hedgerows, and solid two-storey houses with overhanging eaves and thick walls, which would doubtless be very cosy in winter. There were healthy-looking herds of cows about with bells attached to their necks, and the tinkling of the cowbells was almost the only sound which filled the evening air, other than the continual purr of military vehicles along the main road, a noise so familiar that one scarcely noticed it. We had passed through the mountain gorges with their glacial riverbeds and roaring torrents, and were now in the depression that holds the attractive Wörthersee, which was our ultimate destination.
When we were eventually parked at the officers’ hotel that night by one of our colleagues, it was about ten o’clock and we were both very tired. It was long past the hour for a meal, though we had been given some gin-and-lemon and raw cheese in the mess. But the head waiter found some salad and the inevitable German sausage, and while waiting for this repast we enjoyed a very jolly evening, watching music and dancing taking place in the hotel. Mostly men and a few girls were present, and after a short while the party became somewhat rowdy, and we got involved to the extent that Pat was unaccountably and quite mistakenly sprayed by a soda-water siphon. This was the last straw at the end of a long tiring day; she was more than disgusted and insisted on moving to the bar to eat our meal in peace. There it was much quieter, but rather too deserted.
We had just one day in Austria, as the transport was leaving again for the return journey, and unfortunately there was a terrible thunderstorm that night. By the next morning it had cleared considerably and we were able to see something of the surrounding country, which was unbelievably green and fresh. The air was crisp and invigorating, and at the lake’s edge there was a slight breeze, which whipped up the blue water to a gentle swell. We were lucky enough to stay for our second night in Marienwerth, which is a tiny village on a small promontory of the Wörthersee, consisting of one or two hotels and a few houses, all in Tyrolean style, with gables, shutters and gay window-boxes, and a small church with the traditional ‘Zwiebel’ or onion tower. Our hotel was at the lake’s edge, with only a gravelled stretch of ground between it and the water. On this were set trestle tables and benches, so that in fine weather guests could eat and drink out of doors. Behind and around the lake rose grassy slop
es, orchards and thick woods of pines, beeches and oaks. It was a scene of absolute rural tranquillity. In the village, which appeared purely residential, for we saw no shops, I met a young girl acting as governess to a party of young children, two little boys and three little girls. I asked if I might photograph them, they were such an attractive happy crowd, all ash-blonde and clean and neat. They were thrilled to be photographed, but unfortunately the result was not successful. I walked back towards the lake with them and the governess told me their history, which was tragic enough, for they were all war-orphans. Meanwhile, the children joked and chatted and when a large black dog came along, they all ran around shrieking in high-pitched voices, ‘Der Wolf! Der Wolf!’
That evening, we heard an Austrian cabaret, the highlight of which was a couple of yodellers, who took the British off very wittily and very charmingly, especially with a song entitled, ‘How do you do?’ All the British present of course hugely enjoyed the jokes.
During the morning, Pat and I had been saying we did not like Austria, it was so gloomy, wet and depressing, but now we had had a glimpse of it in fine weather and the spell of Marienwerth had gripped us, we were already beginning to regret our departure set for the following morning. Many people greatly preferred being stationed in Austria to Italy. I was never there long enough to be in a position to judge, but in spite of its charm and freshness, there was something melancholic about it. There was an element of sadness about the dense woods and lush green meadows, and one could observe an air of depressed lassitude among the people. The shadow of the Occupation, and of hard times to come, lay on Austria and there was something sombre and almost uncanny about the atmosphere. We longed in spite of everything to get back to the clarity and exuberance of the south. The natural gaiety of the Italians had by no means lessened in the period of hardship; they seemed irrepressible, and perhaps one of their finest qualities noticeable at that time was their courage and cheerfulness in adversity. The Austrians were rather more dour, possibly more like the Scots, who are reputedly a silent and dour people. Was it perhaps the case that many of our own people had a fellow feeling for these Southern Teutons, and for that reason preferred being stationed among them to being stationed among the Latins? Who can tell? But we did not have much time for reflection – we had to pack and be off before my posting to Rome. Pat was shortly to be posted home to the UK for her first home leave in three years, after which she hoped to get abroad again, for once an AT had served overseas, she rarely wanted to settle down in the service in England, unless circumstances forced the issue on her.
Pat and I parted in Florence, as she had a few more days’ leave, and her last gesture was to hand me the famous Venetian ring as the truck bearing me back to Rome was put into gear, ready to start off. ‘Take this,’ she said dramatically. ‘Certainly not,’ I replied. ‘That’s your souvenir and you’ve got to keep it!’ I was sad enough to say goodbye to her. We had been constant companions for over three months, and that is quite long enough in service life to become very well acquainted with someone. And who knew when or whether we would meet up again!
Note
7 Python referred to the length of overseas duty that service personnel had to perform before they would qualify for rotational ‘Python’ leave back to Britain. Originally this was six years, but towards the end of the war it was reduced to four years and nine months. (With grateful thanks to www.ww2talk.com for this information)
20
Back in Harness, But Not For Long
F or a while it seemed strange to be back in Rome, at my old job again, but with a different colonel, though he was perfectly charming to me and I had no cause for complaint. I now shared the PA’s office with another AT who was messing officer – until then the colonel had had a sergeant as his temporary PA, and this man had now gone on Python.7 After a week or so, I had quite settled down in the mess and in my new-old job, enjoying linking up with old friends and making new ones, in particular with some Ack-Ack people, who were now stationed in the bombed cinema studio across the way, where Tony and I had ‘acquired’ peat the previous winter.
The beaches at Ostia and Santa Marinella had been more or less cleared for bathing this summer and recreation at Ostia was organised specially for the troops, with recreational transport regularly run there from units stationed in Rome. We sometimes got lifts with the Ack-Ack transport and it was not long before I was invited to dine in their mess, where some of the other girls had often been most hospitably entertained.
Janet, one of our former sergeants from MEF, had returned commissioned and was a great asset to the small band of AT officers. She was very friendly with the Ack-Ack and it was with her principally that I visited their mess. When she had been a sergeant it had been more difficult to be on really friendly terms, but now that all barriers (however artificial) had been removed I found her a very good pal – where there was only a handful of women, a good girl friend was worth a great deal. Peggy, my office co-worker, was also in on these parties; she had the asset of a fine singing voice, greatly enhanced by a real brogue, for she was from Ireland.
At Ostia there was a nice little villa requisitioned for officers where one could change in privacy and then have tea after a bathe. Before going there myself, I heard that two of our people had gone down and ordered tea, but when it came it was just like dishwater. So they explained that the ‘Inglesi’ liked ‘una tazza di thè molto forte’, and the Italian attendant obligingly offered to re-brew. But when the fresh tea came, it would not pour out of the pot, except for a few drops, though they were certainly of a good strong dark colour. On removing the lid, it was discovered that the pot was full to within half an inch of the rim with tea leaves – no wonder the re-brew was strong!
21
Home, Sweet Home
I was just nicely ‘dug in’ once more, when through from HQ came a signal giving my name as being due for ‘LIAP’ or ‘Leave in awaiting Python’. I was not bound to take it, but as my parents badly wanted me to get home to see them now that the war was over, I felt it was my duty to go, as well as being naturally very anxious to see my family, not having been with them since April 1944, eighteen months previously.
Of course the day for my departure would be just the one on which I had arranged to go on a magnificent all-day bathing party in Santa Marinella with the Ack-Ack people. But one cannot have everything, and so after two months I was sent off down to Naples once more and landed up at the ATS transit camp on the Front, a unit which had not been in Naples when I was last there. I met up once again with Charlotte, who had been on the original ATS intelligence course with me and on the journey overseas. The last time I had seen her for a few moments had been at the Katarinetta on the occasion of Hugh and the princesses. Now we had the chance of a good exchange of news and gossip, and how much there was to relate!
I have no recollection of the interior of the building housing the ATs in transit, except that it was seething with girls in khaki, a very dark and overcrowded edifice, but peopled with a joyous throng – some back from the UK, others on the way over there. Tongues were wagging as fast as they could go on a vast range of subjects: ‘What was the journey like? Did you fly?’, ‘What’s it like in the UK now?’, ‘Is London still the same?’, ‘Did you get any tea when you arrived?’, ‘Do you have an FFI (Free From Infection) on the way back?’, ‘Are the Customs bad, or are they decent?’ Questions flowed on and on, and the answers, too, were unceasing.
Next day dawned brilliantly clear, and at about half-past four in the morning our draft were piled into troop-carriers and transported to an airfield outside Naples, where planes were drawn up here and there on the green sward, which sparkled with dewdrops in the early morning sun. It was beautifully fresh and cool. The previous night we had been briefed very thoroughly as to our conduct before and during the flight, what to do if one felt sick, etc., and to be sure to go to the cloakroom before taking off – for this purpose we had had to queue up very obviously on the airfield. We were to
go in RAF planes, converted bombers, though we soon discovered that there was not much converted about them, as there were no seats and you could only see out if you went into the air-gunner’s turret, apart from the cockpit, of course. But we didn’t mind – we were going home! There was a wait of approximately three hours on the airfield, and we seemed to be marshalled continuously hither and thither. Whenever anyone from our particular group got lost or separated from the rest, they only had to look out for Charlotte’s tangerine-coloured slacks, which showed up like a beacon and were the sign, so to speak, of our party. The Italians were most intrigued by all these English girls milling round in trousers, but especially by Charlotte, who in addition spoke their own language extremely well and was quite able to give them a good laugh with some witticism that they could understand, for they knew very little English.
At last it was time to enplane and assisted by the crew about twelve of us climbed, one after the other, up a narrow little rope ladder into a Lancaster bomber and made ourselves as comfortable as possible on the floor, with greatcoats and haversacks as pillows and rugs. We were soon taking off and for most of us it was an intensely thrilling moment – becoming airborne for the first time. We had haversack rations with us, but some of the girls felt ill and could eat nothing. One had very bad earache – my ears hurt too, when we went down. It was the one thing which spoilt the flight for me, and indeed my ears and head buzzed for about a week afterwards. I went up into the turret when we were over France, taking turns with the other girls, and between huge billowing piles of white clouds I could see patches of green ground interspersed with fields neatly laid out, and here and there a house, a road or a level crossing – all so far away. It reminded me rather absurdly of The Water Babies, when young Tom, the chimneysweep, espied the little old lady in the red petticoat, way off from the summit of the crags.
My Italian Adventures Page 25