My Italian Adventures

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

  The flight took us seven-and-a-half hours from Naples and it must have been about three o’clock when, rather tired and groggy, we touched down at Wallington, Lincolnshire and found ourselves on English soil again, in a damp, typically chilly autumn mist that contrasted forcibly with the sunshine and clear blue sky over southern Italy, which only that morning we had left behind. As I went through Customs, the excise officer asked me jocularly if I intended to set up shop, as I was carrying a grip packed full with small pieces of china – ash-trays, tiny jugs, vases, baskets and other small trinkets for presents and souvenirs – but charged me nothing. We were all given tea and nice crisp biscuits – what a joy, tea with fresh milk once more and really fresh biscuits! – and then we were taken somewhere to wash and tidy up. Arrangements had been made for our further routing, or for accommodation at the camp that night for those who lived too far away to begin their journey home at once. I had relatives in London and therefore decided to ring them up and see whether they could give me a bed that night. They assented at once and so I left on the London train with Charlotte that same afternoon and the two of us parted at Euston. It was about ten o’clock when I eventually reached my destination. How wonderful it felt to be in London again – and London without the blackout!

  My leave was probably just like everyone else’s leave from overseas – a frantic rush to see as many people as possible and fit far too many things into too short a space of time. I enjoyed myself thoroughly, but could not help sometimes wondering how things were going in Cinema City and what it would be like when I got back. How Janet, who was standing in for me, was getting on – and who had been posted to where. And sneakingly I longed to see the blue skies and the bright sun again – and hear the excited Babel of Latin voices and the roar of Allied transport through the ancient streets of Italian cities. I had grown accustomed to the life abroad and things at home seemed different; people seemed to speak a different language now. Like a lot of service men and girls, it looked as though I would find it pretty difficult to settle down to civilian life when I eventually came out of the forces. But I had no real intention of settling down at all – at least not in England. What I had seen in my limited pre-war travels abroad and what I had since seen during the war had just whetted my appetite for more – travel I must, and pay no attention to the proverb about the rolling stone to which some wise people likened me, shaking their heads.

  Still it was with real regret that I again said goodbye to my parents and left our little home and the friendly village where they now lived. But our luck was in, for when we got back to Wallington, it was cold and wet, and the airfield was completely bogged. We had the eternal petrol drum stoves in our dormitories and coconut matting on the floor of the anteroom, but it was far from comfortable and extremely difficult not to bring mud into the huts. It was here that an MO gave me an ‘FFI’, simply by glancing at me and saying, ‘You look all right.’ He then signed a small chit measuring approximately one inch by one-and-a-half inches, and gave it to me. This document I preserved carefully for several years, but no one ever asked to see it.

  After two or three days of the bogginess and grey lowering skies, the powers that be decided to send us all home again. I for one was more than thankful, for I was by that time in the process of developing a mild attack of influenza, and was only too glad for some extra time at home and an opportunity to shake off the germ before we really did set off. Orders came a day or two later, after my parents and I had listened to the wireless carefully several times a day, for us to report to the holding unit in Gower Street, near University College, London. This was a requisitioned student hostel, converted into a most convenient billeting place.

  Here for the first time I encountered that hostility which is too frequently shown by non-overseas ATS to overseas ATS – whether subconsciously they are jealous of those who have been abroad in the service, or whether they find us cocky and showing less respect for discipline, I cannot say. I only know that there is some resentment and I have heard others remark on it too. But among those who were overseas there was undoubtedly something easier, freer, more tolerant and less stickling for minor details of regimental discipline. The essentials of discipline were what mattered first and foremost abroad, not its trappings. I am afraid that, at home, especially after the end of the war, regimentation tended to become an end in itself. As women are not by nature made to be regimented, but rather to develop as individuals in a highly personal environment, that of the family circle, they do not generally take kindly to rigidly enforced rules, regulations and regimentalism, half of it more pertaining to the male army than to the female in any case. But it is a strange fact that a few women do love military routine and even adopt masculine poses to help themselves along with it. They seem to feel that because they wear uniform it is up to them to become as mannish as possible. And so they stand with their legs apart and their hands in their skirt pockets, or they plant themselves with their backs to the fire, dangle lighted cigarettes from their mouths and laugh uproariously at the smallest whiff of a joke, sometimes clapping each other on the back like real ‘bonshommes’. If they had riding crops, they would doubtless be cracking themselves on the shins too! And their language becomes strong and spicy and they refer to the girls under them as ‘chaps and fellows’. I heard tell of a WAAF mess like this, where a colonel and his second-in-command were invited to a drink, and were thumped on the back and asked what they would have. Everyone then drank double whiskies and it was the colonel and the major and not the WAAF officers who felt they had had enough first and beat a hasty retreat! I could probably come up for criticism myself on the grounds of aping men sometimes, even unconsciously; I suppose one cannot be so much with men at work and in a mess and not become somewhat toughened, but to try and be like a man always seemed so ludicrous – it’s bad enough trying to be a woman!

  Speaking of that, it always was a matter of conjecture and anxiety to me as to when one ceased to be a lady and became first and foremost an officer, or vice versa. Was one an officer first and a lady afterwards? ‘Ladies and officers’ or ‘Officers and ladies’? The latter must be right, I suppose, as it is always ‘Officers and gentlemen’. The troops used to call us all sorts of things: ‘Madam’ or ‘ma’am’, which is correct, or ‘miss’, ‘lady’, ‘Captain’, ‘Lootenant’, as well as other exalted ranks that I never reached. The Italians evolved their own titles for us: ‘Tenentessa’, ‘Capitana’, or ‘Capitanessa’ – I have been called them all. And strangely enough, in uniform, I was always ‘Signora’, though unmarried – that is, after I became a junior commander (captain). When I returned to Italy much later, married, it was somewhat trying to hear myself almost invariably addressed as ‘Signorina’. With regard to ‘officers and ladies’, it does lead to complications, such as when the brigadier, being a perfect gentleman, waits for you to pass through a door in front of him, when in fact it should be the other way round. And then there is the ever-thorny problem of when the troops should salute one: some salute you because you are an officer, and others do not salute you because you wear a skirt. Men, irrespective of rank, generally seem to find it difficult to forget that we are women and to think of us as ranks, doing a job, and I suppose in all honesty we would be appalled if they really did completely forget our sex. It seems that one must adjust oneself to particular circumstances and find the happy medium, while doing one’s job to the best of one’s ability. It is best to forget that one belongs to the ‘petticoat army’ and thus not expect special privileges, but try to act like a lady and be appreciative of any privileges or special courtesies that do come one’s way. The poser, ‘officers or ladies’, is basically just one facet of a woman’s eternal problem of behaviour, but the most important thing to remember is never to let it be said, ‘She throws her sex about.’

  All these things and many more we ATs often chatted about among ourselves, over a hot drink or a cigarette in our rooms late at night, or over tea on a day off.

  In Gower Stre
et I met Charlotte again; she was full of beans and to my dismay insisted on our going to see The Seven Veils. No amount of protesting would dissuade her from taking me there, but it was a good film and one could not be depressed for long in Charlotte’s company. Next morning we entrained at Victoria, Charlotte once more wearing her famous tangerine slacks. As the weather was so bad, the authorities had decided that air travel was no longer feasible and so we were travelling by the famous overland route, known as ‘Medloc’, across France, Switzerland and on to Italy. Once installed on the train and caught up in the hustle and bustle of the troop-train, no-one seemed very sorry to be going back.

  22

  Traveller’s Joy

  ‘M edloc’ was the official nomenclature for the long straggling journey across France and Switzerland, and later through Germany instead of Switzerland, to Villach by troops travelling to and from their leave in the UK. It took me nearly a week to reach Rome by this method, but if long and unhurrying, the journey was not without interest. We landed at Calais after a somewhat crowded cross-channel passage, and lugged our cases off the ship and along the quay to the large and efficiently run transit camp in the dock area. Calais had had a terrible time in the last days of Dunkirk, and later suffered a second drubbing, so altogether there was very little of the town left, and the camp was almost entirely formed of Nissen huts and other recent erections. There we stayed for a few hours, but some people stayed longer and were given a NAAFI ration and an evening meal.

  We entrained that night again around eleven o’clock and the train left at about midnight on its rather painful limping, jolting progress through Northern France, over newly laid rails and mended sleepers, plugging wearily along, through bombed towns and badly damaged stations. This time there was a coach full of women, some ATS and some nurses. There may also have been one or two YWCA girls with us.

  As usual, we had the best accommodation possible, but even so our quarters were of necessity rather cramped. We only partially undressed in our compartment – personally, I preferred to remain more or less clothed, as you never knew when you might have to turn out. I was quite surprised at the amount of negligée some of the other girls assumed. Charlotte was caught unprepared when the train conducting officer came to see how we were soon after the start – she was removing her corsets, under her greatcoat, prior to donning pyjamas and making herself ready to doss down thoroughly. I became more than ever convinced that it was better to stay in one’s clothes and not risk being taken unawares, especially as the compartment had no lock to it and theoretically (and practically) anyone could enter at any moment. After that, however, the train conducting officer gave us a wide berth until the following day. We could not sleep much, but dosed fitfully as the train joggled uncomfortably along. No one was sorry when at last we arrived at an enormous junction, where the word ‘Épluches’, written in outsize letters and miraculously still intact, told us that we were not far from Paris – and furthermore that we had reached our first halt and could expect a wash and a meal.

  The washing facilities for the female contingent were excellent throughout the journey, and we had absolutely no cause for complaint. At each stop there was always a place set apart with a female attendant in charge, usually towards the end of a platform and suitably segregated, where we could have a good wash in really piping hot water; this was a marvellous comfort and made the long exhausting journey quite pleasant, whereas otherwise we should have arrived at our destination completely washed out. We had meals with the men, of course, and I remember the stir created by Charlotte’s tangerine slacks, by then quite famous, as she marched along the platform that morning at Épluches, to the ‘ablutions’ and back to the dining-hall, past the queues of waiting soldiers. There were a good many catcalls, winks and whistles, but she took it all in her stride and showed not a trace of embarrassment. We soon got used to the crowd and even the tangerine slacks attracted less attention as time went on, although they could always be calculated to produce a few grins and nudges.

  The food on this journey was excellent and indeed the organisation was first-class throughout – scarcely a hitch as far as one could see. We were given haversack rations at Épluches, and all that day the train dragged haltingly on through France, eventually coming to more mountainous parts near evening. There was a brew-up during the afternoon, and very welcome it was too. We knitted, chatted and gazed out of the window at town after town, ravaged or damaged by war. As we neared the south, however, the destruction became less apparent and we began to cheer up – the north under its leaden grey skies had been depressing. That night we stopped for our evening meal at Bellegarde, where we again had a good wash with hot water and ate a good warm dinner. Another hour and we were at the frontier. Strict injunctions had been issued, of course, that no one should leave the train without authority, etc. Why it was that we were allowed across neutral territory, I never quite grasped – probably only on condition that we stayed on the train throughout our travels across Switzerland. The customs officials came on board, but they did not carry out much of a search and it was more a matter of form than anything else.

  All through the night we proceeded, snail-like, through Switzerland, and I saw the names Basle, Lausanne and Brig in between naps. Soon after dawn, we glimpsed the high alps and the snow-capped mountains, and then the sun rose and lit up the snow in all its morning glory, so that the grey rocks seemed coloured purple in the brightness. We had emerged from the Simplon tunnel into this scene of invigorating early morning beauty, and in the clear air one seemed to breathe in fresh energy, and acquire an appetite – most people were more than ready for breakfast with two boiled eggs. It must have been nearly nine o’clock when we finally steamed out of Domodossola, with much puffing and chugging by our hard-worked engine. It gave me quite a thrill to be on Italian soil again and to hear the Italian porters calling gaily to one another, or whistling some catchy air.

  We went on, through valley after valley, some of them filled with hundreds of magnificent apple trees, where the rosy fruit glowed invitingly on the laden boughs. In other valleys, mostly pastureland, were line upon line of poplars, marking the fields, and now falling into ‘the sear, the yellow leaf’. It had been raining and there was a perceptible odour of damp leaves and lush grass. What a rich harvest of leaf-mould there would be under those poplars before many months were out. Meanwhile, they swayed to and fro in the breeze, and gradually and gently shed their browning foliage on to the grassy carpet beneath. Here and there cows would be grazing, watched by a girl or boy sitting on a knoll, the girl perhaps with her knitting. Up aloft the mountain-tops were now shrouded in mist and cloud, through which the sun penetrated intermittently. There was an air of autumn about these valleys, whereas the sunshine we had seen sparkling in Domodossola was overcast – but presently we came into the bright sun again and reached the shores of Lake Maggiore, whose broad expanse of water shimmered in the light.

  There was a slight haze along the shores that left the outlines of trees and houses a trifle blurred, but all the more romantic and attractive for their vagueness. We passed through Ascona, with its window boxes full of pink geraniums and its gaily painted houses, and saw in the distance the well-known outline of Isola Bella. We saw old peasant women carrying enormous cone-shaped baskets on their strong shoulders as they climbed up the mountain paths, and we saw young men and girls on bicycles along the lakeside road. Before long, we were once more passing through green fields, almost as green as English fields, for the area around the Italian Lakes is a fertile countryside. And finally we came at last to the suburbs of Milan, similar to those of any large city, and drew slowly into the great station, built by the Fascists and ornate with interior frescoes and an impressive marble exterior. The usual formalities of ‘de-training’ were gone through, and we were directed to the Albergo Excelsior Gallia, just outside the station on an enormous square. There, Charlotte and I were given a room on the fourth floor, from the balcony of which we could see in the distance the w
hole Alpine chain, including the jagged tooth of the Matterhorn, clearly outlined against the horizon.

  We spent rather a cold night there, for blankets seemed to be scarce and were Army issue. In fact, the hotel had been stripped of all its trappings and the rooms looked bare and inhospitable. The dining-room at breakfast-time, however, was a blaze of sunlight and that made up for much. Next day we visited the ATS postings and movements for the second time and found that we had been allotted accommodation on a train leaving in two days’ time – until then we were free. This was just the job, and we accordingly visited the magnificent cathedral, the Castello Sforzesco and the shops and hairdresser. The Castello is the ancient seat of the Sforza family, who ruled Milan as its dukes for several centuries, and is a testimony to the city’s stormy past, with its moat, portcullis and heavily battlemented walls. It is a most interesting edifice to visit, but unfortunately suffered bomb damage during the war, although it had been some sort of hospital and still showed the red cross on its roofs. We saw an exhibition of modern painting there, but were far more impressed by the architecture of the castle itself and its beautifully decorated ceilings than the modern art on view.