My Italian Adventures

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

  Next day, I was back at work with a vengeance, and was slightly disappointed when the colonel told me he had fixed up a room in his villa for me to use as an office. In practice this proved very satisfactory, as there was absolute peace and quiet and it was easy to put through the numerous telephone calls without being disturbed. I went back to the section, about half a mile away, each day for lunch and met whomever was there, sometimes did more work, and heard the news and gossip. In the afternoon I was back at the office again, or perhaps off to the HQ or the Consulate, or on some other errand for the CO. At about 4.30 p.m. I would be invited to have a cup of tea with his family, and was then on my very best behaviour; I found this rather a strain and was relieved when I could escape back to work afterwards. I would then usually return to the section to send off my letters or hand them in to the British OR who was responsible for post, rations and other admin items. After that, I would return to my hotel to change, do the eternal chores, write letters or just chat to a new acquaintance, a SAFA girl, with whom I soon became very friendly. Through her I came to know other people in the place, and what I had thought would be a somewhat depressing period soon became quite cheerful.

  Meanwhile, the work was warming up, and a few days later the CO informed me that he was going over to Verona, to visit the section there for a few hours, and expected me to accompany him. I was delighted at the prospect of seeing somewhere fresh and meeting someone new, and made the necessary arrangements without delay. It was now my job to order the CO’s car, see that the driver was punctual and that everything was laid on when the colonel’s inspections took place. This meant liaising with the officers in charge of the different sections and others, and I began to meet far more people than before. Very soon I knew at least the identity of nearly everyone in the commission, and life became progressively more varied and interesting.

  28

  Verona and other Peregrinations

  I t was on 30 April that we went over to Verona, travelling in the CO’s Chevrolet, a captured enemy vehicle allotted to our commission, like the many such vehicles allotted to various other units. Who had originally possessed the ‘Chev’, as it was affectionately named, and how it fell into British hands, I have no idea – there were a great many of these cars about, some of them really beautiful, others much battered. The Chev had already clocked up a good many miles and had certain peculiarities, some of which manifested themselves at once on that first trip to Verona. We were not far from Brescia, when a sizzling sound came from the engine and steam seemed to be bursting geyser-like from the cap of the bonnet, where water was normally poured in. We stopped and on inspection found that the water was boiling. I had some cold water in a water bottle and this was duly consigned to the tank, and replenished several times by the inevitable small boys who seem to appear from nowhere and be only too ready to help wherever one is in Italy. There was an infuriated spluttering, and then all was quiet. After a while, however, the sizzling resumed and there was nothing for it but to stop and borrow a jug and fill up the engine as far as possible. It was then necessary to proceed at a rather gentle pace, to avoid the same incident recurring. Not long past Brescia, we came to Lake Garda and I was very impressed with its grandiose layout; and although it was a chilly dull day, there was a magnificence about the snow-capped peaks rising majestically behind the lake, and its waters, icy-blue with a slight swell, tinged at the edges with long waving green reeds.

  Our section in Verona was based in what had been a beautiful modern villa, the property of a rich industrialist, but it had been badly hit and looked rather more like a desert fort, with its high concrete walls topped with barbed wire, piles of fallen masonry still scattered about, and its patched windows and generally dusty appearance. Inside, however, it was very clean and fresh – like so many large Italian villas, it was divided into several flats, and the offices and mess were on the first floor. There was plenty of space for transport in the yard, which presumably had been the beginnings of the garden. There was a nice little concrete swimming pool, but it was empty, for here as in so many places still, water was a pressing problem and had to be used with economy. The officers working in this section had to cover the mountainous district north of Lake Garda, such as Trento, Bolzano and Belluno, and their work sometimes lay in the Dolomites proper. Its scenery has since been made famous in the film, The Glass Mountain, the opening theme of which echoes the many stories of our work. As in the film, so many men who came down in planes, or worked their way north having escaped after the Armistice, hid in the mountains and were finally shepherded over the highest passes into Switzerland or were sometimes housed and concealed until the end of the war. The partisans had been well organised in the north and the assistance of Allied escaped prisoners was one of their jobs; altogether about 2,000 of them crossed into Switzerland, in the teeth of the Gestapo, for access to the mountains was closely guarded and patrolled by both Fascists and SS. Numerous certificates of thanks were issued to the peasants and others of this area, many of them sturdy mountaineers, who had risked their lives in assisting with these escapes. And our section at Verona dealt with them all, as well as others at Udine, Venice, Padua and the surrounding low-lying country. Quite a few British or American personnel had taken temporary refuge in Venice itself, and from there and Padua, to mention only two places, Italian men and women had been seized and imprisoned for giving shelter to an escapee of the Allied forces.

  The CO had a great many matters to discuss on this brief visit: administrative problems, personnel, transport (the thorn in our flesh, for the car was always needing something, or having something stolen from it, or breaking down). The roads, although improving, were far from perfection and the out-of-the-way tracks and paths that our people often had to use were frequently so unsuitable for motorised vehicles that it was sometimes even necessary to abandon ship and go on mules or on foot. Then there were problems arising from the nature of the work itself, ‘difficult’ or borderline cases of helpers, special claims including the replacement of vehicles used in the escape of prisoners, dependants’ claims, when perhaps the breadwinner had lost his life, and so on. I took some notes, which would later be typed, and filed any necessary information being passed on by letter or phone to the GSO II in Rome.

  We were of course given lunch at the section and the head of the section produced some local red wine, frothy like champagne, and the meal passed pleasantly enough. There was always plenty to talk about regarding the condition of the country, anecdotes concerning the work, and the scenery and historic monuments, which are nearly always within easy reach in Italy. I did not join in the conversation much, being unsure of myself and a stranger to one or two of those present. But I tried not to miss anything, and to notice names, people and anything which might be of use in the future. It was fairly late when we arrived back in Milan that night, but I had thoroughly enjoyed the day. I was given a meal at the section and was then taken back to my hotel by one of the Yugoslav civilian employees, who acted mainly as driver-mechanics, but also did the few odd jobs and errands that came their way.

  Next day was very busy and we worked late; the following morning the CO and I were on the move again, down to Rome by air, back to HQ. A few hectic days ensued and, finding that I was assumed to have all sorts of answers at my fingertips, I decided to give myself a mental brush-up. Things were made difficult for me, as the files were for general use and in my absence all sorts of things could happen to them, and usually did. In consequence, when the colonel demanded an important letter on policy, ten to one it was not to be found, or some unthinking person had whisked the file off to his office, perhaps to study a letter on Signor So-and-So and the Topolino, which was smashed when an Australian sergeant made a getaway in it in 1943. The filing system, as it then was, did not fulfil the expanding and developing needs of the commission, and so the CO ordered me to create a new one for his own use, mainly on policy matters, and comprehensively cross-referenced with numerous copies of each letter. This was
formulated after our return to Milan a few days later, and for some months I carried most of it about with me until it became too bulky. But from then on, at least I was the only person with access to the CO’s files – the disadvantage being that if a letter could not be found when a visiting brigadier was waiting in the office while I was feverishly scrabbling amid sheaves of paper next door, I was the only one responsible.

  On one occasion, before the special system came into being, I went up to Rome and found the files in some confusion, and without much warning a senior officer came from the War Office to call on our CO and discuss various weighty matters with him. I was caught on the back foot, and a certain crucial letter could not be traced. My CO began to look extremely grim and my heart failed me. In a panic, I rushed over to see the admin captain on the other side of the passage, exclaiming, ‘Mark, I can’t go back, I can’t find the beastly letter, whatever shall I do? I’m sure he’ll sack me now, oh dear, oh dear, mamma mia!’ etc. ‘Pull yourself together, old girl’, he said heartily, ‘Keep calm, go in there with your chin up and let them see you don’t care a fig for them, and tell them you just haven’t got the ruddy letter.’ I could not help laughing at this horrific lack of respect, but he cheered me up and with more such good advice, I quickly plucked up courage enough to brave the presence once more. With infinite tact, neither senior officer referred again to the missing link and I breathed a sigh of relief. But it did not prevent me from passing a perfectly miserable lunch-hour and confiding in the finance officer, Phoebe, that I was sure I would not last much longer!

  The journey back to Milan after this first trip by air with the CO was uneventful, except that our names were so curiously mispronounced and distorted by the airport megaphone that we had to be called several times before we emplaned. After a tot of Kümmel, prescribed by the CO to warm me up, we took off. On arrival back in Milan, we found that there was a minor revolution going on in the Milan City Prison. Some prisoners had escaped, stolen arms and barricaded themselves in one wing of the prison, holding some of their guards as hostages. The carabinieri were fighting the rebels inside the prison enclosure, employing Bren carriers, and the main doors of the prison were shut to prevent intrusion from outside. Wild tales were circulating and from Via Seprio it was quite easy to hear the rat-a-tat-tat of machine-gun bullets. One or two jocular spirits in the mess told me it was not safe for English women and that I would have to return to Rome. I soon referred the matter to the colonel and told him that on no account did I want to be sent away from my job. He smiled and told me he thought it was quite safe for me at present – which it most certainly was, as everyday life, though quiet, was going on more or less as usual in the city. Milan seems to be a place of minor revolutions and uprisings, and the inhabitants take these manifestations as a matter of course. Later on, when an angry demonstration was staged outside the Excelsior Hotel, housing British officers, and all British personnel were ordered to go about armed, I was escorted to and fro for a few days in a jeep with a sergeant, a private and an Italian driver. Complete with my tommy-gun and my Luger, we sped through the almost deserted streets, but to my intense disappointment we might have been in Bayswater for all the excitement we met with, and the danger period soon passed off. This was doubtless due to the very efficient police of the city, trained after the method of the London Metropolitan Police – and incidentally keen footballers – and also to the stabilising presence of the still considerable body of Allied troops. As usual, the British were warned off the streets when trouble was brewing, and as there was no one much to pick a quarrel with, the troublemakers soon calmed down and dispersed.

  As time progressed towards the middle of May, the weather became delightfully warm and at midday it was really hot by English standards. The chestnuts were in full bloom now and lilac, laburnum and other flowering shrubs made our piazza more delightful than ever. After dinner in the evening, one could sit very pleasantly out of doors, enjoying the fresh night air. I met at this time a friend now out of the Army and back with his pre-war business. He was almost a Milanese, having lived there for years, and he not only spoke the language perfectly, but also knew the city thoroughly and had completely adapted himself to its ways and the prevalent mode of life. One evening, he introduced me to a business associate and we all three visited a café in the vicinity and sat outside until nearly midnight, just sipping coffee, chatting and watching the passers-by, and enjoying the mild climate. That, Theo said, was the correct thing to do in Milan and later on, when passing the Galleria at night, I saw that the cafés were crowded and it was difficult to find a seat. In our quarter, near the station, it was quieter and the cafés were not as crowded as in the centre, of which the Galleria seemed the hub.

  On 17 May that year an important ceremony, as far as the commission was concerned, was due to take place in Rome. There was to be a public presentation of Alexander Certificates to Roman helpers, similar to the ceremony held in Milan a few months before, but on a grander style and in Rome, with more important personages present. I motored down from Milan with our CO and his wife and we spent one day in Florence, as the CO wanted to inspect the workings of the section there. I stayed at the section proper, which I much preferred; in this way, I could use the office for my typing and in any spare moments could drink in the view from the terrace or wander in the magical garden.

  On our way down from Milan, we had stopped for a snack in Parma and had sat at a table in the square, where there were various cafés with chairs and tables in large numbers in front of them and gaily striped parasols to ward off the midday sun, which was excessive. The CO’s wife knew Italy and spoke Italian like a native – and she told me I should eat a salami sandwich. Until then, I had only heard of salami and had no idea what it was, except that it was regarded as an Italian national food. So I tried it in a roll and discovered it to be a sort of very richly flavoured sausage, with a strong admixture of garlic, whose pungent odour lingered in the mouth for some time afterwards. I did not like it much at first, but became used to it after visiting more Italian houses and encountering it on almost every occasion – sometimes in larger sausages than elsewhere, but always with the same pungent taste and odour. If I had tasted it in 1944, no doubt I would have reeled back in horror, but by now I was getting acclimatised to Italian food, and even salami was not too great a shock.

  The Florence mess put on a very nice dinner party for the CO and his wife and I was made to sit next to the former. ‘You know what to talk to the Old Man about,’ they said (I had long since discovered that colonels, whatever their age, are all referred to as the ‘Old Man’). In point of fact, I always tried to avoid sitting next to my boss, as I was sure he must have seen quite enough of me in the office, and had not the slightest interest in prolonging more than necessary our official relationship outside office hours or travelling time. However, he was always very kind to me, even if a trifle grim at times, but one expected that of a CO anyway. On this occasion, though, he was in a rather morose mood, I did not know why, and when I found myself again sitting next to him on the mess sofa after dinner, he was toying with a glass of port and talking of the way in which he was wont to deal with inefficient officers and how quickly they could be given the sack. I immediately felt a twinge of conscience and felt sure this must be a prelude to my downfall. So apparently did everyone else, for after the colonel and Mrs Colonel had left, the others came round and patted me on the shoulder and said encouragingly, ‘There, there, old girl, never mind, it can happen to anyone’ or, ‘We’d better say goodbye now, let’s have a drink on it’, and other such soothing remarks. I felt very uncertain of myself for a little while to come, and concluded that I was not doing my job properly; and I thereupon took stock of the situation, decided how improvements could be achieved and set about making myself more thorough and efficient from then on. I hoped the effort succeeded, but there was plenty of room for improvement.

  On our way down to Rome from Florence we had the inevitable engine trouble with t
he Chev. We managed to limp as far as a small village – Certaldo, I think, was its name – where the sign ‘Teléfono’ seemed to provide the answer to our troubles. I was instructed to get on the line to Rome and ask the mto (Mechanical Transport Officer) to send out a vehicle to meet us, as it was very doubtful that we would make it to Rome as things were. I entered the small office and saw a dark shiny-haired Italian, with a small clipped moustache. He was behind a counter in a clean and freshly distempered room. This gentleman smiled brightly and said, ‘Buongiorno, Signora.’ ‘Si pùo teléfonare?’ I asked, really only querying to be polite. ‘Non, Signora,’ he replied. I repeated the question, thinking I must have been misunderstood: ‘Si pùo teléfonare?’ ‘Mi dispiace (I am sorry) Signora, ma non si pùo teléfonare.’ But how ridiculous, I was thinking. ‘Ma perché?’ (why?), I asked him indignantly, ‘Ecco!!’ (an expressive word, adopted to a great extent by the Forces, meaning, ‘there you are!’) And I motioned him triumphantly to the door and pointed to the smart blue-and-white sign, ‘it says, “Telephone”.’ But my friend had the last word: ‘Si, é vero Signora, ma non ci sono le linie!’ he countered, smiling broadly (that’s right, Madam, but there are no lines), as I looked at him in disgust and then said good day, shrugging my shoulders, and went back disconsolately to the car. We limped on once more, marvelling at what sometimes seemed to be the comic opera of everyday life in Italy – it was so typical to put up a smart new sign saying ‘Teléfono’ before the lines had been laid – but how optimistic also!