Approach of the storm Chapter 35

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Approach of the storm Chapter 35
By
Thomas Arthur Russell

We, eventually, arrived at the Italian naval base of Taranto where we spent a short while, long enough for a day out where I tried an Italian restaurant and had my first taste of octopus and lemon juice. Then we had to embark on a L.C.I “Landing Craft Infantry”. a narrow flat bottomed craft with a small covered box like bridge; I noticed with some trepidation, a marked lack of A.A. defence. We had a hectic journey of about 14 hours in dirty grey weather with a strong wind piling the waves up. The steel box we were travelling in heaved and pitched, lifting and crashing down until it seemed she would break her back in the short steep seas. We were fed a few bread rolls and biscuits with tins of corned beef and we had hot strong tea. I was quite hungry in spite of the rough weather but years at sea had fitted me for this. The poor old Tommies- I shudder to think how they fared; I’d heard it said by some that they’d sooner be shot at than suffer the dreadful onslaught of sea sickness.

We eventually arrived in Malta and were driven with our gear to Verdala transit camp. I’ve never seen a place like it before or since. The nearest thing to it would be a series of windowless stone fronted caves with stone flagged floors and bar electric light bulbs. The messing arrangements were wooden benches and tables, although there were hammock bars fitted for sleeping. The food was pretty good and we were allowed a ration of Canadian Black Horse beer, a good strong brew. I remember one of our mess mates getting a load on and he was staggering around the place and shouting, in the darkness to all and sundry in that dimly lit mess, “Bring out your dead, bring out your dead.” This caused a chorus of laughs and shouts of “f*** off stupid bastard.”

Once settled in, it wasn’t as bad as it first appeared. Duties were well organised, shore leave was generous and the threat of air raids was long gone, although Malta scars would remain for many years. Rumours of a return to the UK proved groundless. One morning, several of us received orders to have our kit ready for leaving on the following day. At the time, we didn’t know for sure whether it was for replacements for other ships or taking passage to join the Far Eastern Fleet in the Pacific area of conflict against the Japs. Although I didn’t know it, some of my Quail friends had already gone out there to be distributed throughout the fleet and would see some Kamikaze attacks made by the Japanese in a desperate attempt to stop the Allied advance in that area. We ended up being taken by lorry to the harbour and embarking on a fleet mine sweeper. Next day found us through the Straits of Mesina and heading north. We were on the upper deck enjoying the trip when the air alert alarm rattlers sounded. It shook us out of our complacency; memories of Bari still haunted Bill Rice and me, one of my Quail shipmates, who were with me. We gazed upward looking for enemy planes. Then we saw a swarm of planes, a steady throbbing of engines as they slowly passed overhead, glinting in the sunlight and making an impressive sight. They were low enough to make out their shapes and to me, they looked like American Liberator bombers. They passed over on some mission and I wondered who was going to be their target, I know there was a big attack on the Rumanian oilfields of Ploesti at about that time. They could have been on their way there. We were relieved that they were allied planes and the tension passed as the drone of their engines faded.

The sweeper arrived at Maddalena on 19th December 1943, after threading her way through a narrow channel between scrubby barren looking hills. The ship tied up in this ex-Italian naval base. On land, Geordie who was our lorry driver and a good one too, albeit a bit mad at times. A khaki clad petty officer told us to get on board the lorry taking all of our gear. He seemed a decent sort but I got the impression that he wouldn’t stand any skylarking around. His name was Hurst and he was our NCO. The lorry drove out of the dockyard as if we were trying to break some speed record; we had to hold onto its sides with one hand and our hats with the other, meanwhile, our backsides took a beating as we bounced over potholes while the dust behind us marked our trail.

I wondered how we would fit into a shore base, more so when we arrived at our destination, a small one-storey villa that was set aside for our group of eight or so who all appeared to be stokers. We had two sleeping rooms fitted up with a small table and bunk beds placed one over the other in a tier. Our kitbags were stowed away and a few small items went into a drawer, we had a flush toilet and a wash place. We had our bathing over at the “Hospidaldi Garibaldi”, an old 45-gallon oil drum that had been set up to form a type of stove and boiler for heating water to use for washing clothes, or sometimes for using as a bath. We, the newcomers, found the best way to get our washing done was to buy a small bag of flour and we gave this to some Italian lady to do it.

I wasn’t long in befriending one of the Italian workmen, a man of about 45 years, a stocky man, blue eyed and always carrying a fair amount of grey stubble on his face. This man, I’ll always remember, although his name escapes me. I grew to admire him. He was a hard worker, loved his wife “Pasqua”, his son and daughter. He was a gruff man and even though we had acquired some of the local vocabulary, I was hard pressed to understand him, but he was one of the kindest and finest men that I was ever privileged to meet. With his tattered work clothes, neatly patched and his old cap, he was always a gentleman. It became a regular walk down to their casa with my washing and the flour. I also, used to keep the old boy fixed up with a few cigarettes and tobacco. I respected these people and I’m sure that they did me. I remember sitting down to a meal of sardine like fish cooked in oil and black bread, washing it down with a couple of glasses of rough red wine. I was happy to sit down with them and quite literally break bread with them.

The shore base wasn’t such a bad place after all. Discipline was lax; nobody bothered you as long as you did a good job. Food in the dining hall was good; we got crayfish and chickens by simply swapping flour. One summer evening, it was dusk and quite peaceful, no sign of movement. Over the hill, a purple haze began to form as the sun began to set, then the informal noise of the residential donkey as he set off braying. Suddenly, Taffy shot out of our villa, his rifle in his hand, he worked the bolt sending a round into the breach and before anyone could do anything about it, he swung the barrel in the general direction of the donkey and the American tents, and he fired. “That’ll fix you, you b******,” he muttered to himself. We immediately grabbed him, disarmed him and quickly bundled him inside. Some of the lads and I looked round the corner of the building and saw the Yanks with rifles in their hands. We heard shouts and I’m sure one of them was pointing to the top of the tent. We kept mum on what had happened and were thankful that no one was killed by Taffy’s attempt to silence the donkey.

We gradually built up a relationship with some of the families of La Maddalena and were often invited to sample a glass of wine. I learned the merits of vermouth, marsala, different “vinos” and the very Aqua vita, a drink looking like water but there the resemblance ended.

The cold, dull weather changed to summer, it was very warm with the heat haze shimmering over the low stonewalls. Off duty, we would wear khaki drill shorts and sometimes a shirt over a white front sometimes bare to the waist. We, now, had the privilege of a quick dip in the sea whenever we had the chance. Some of the girls were real Italian beauties. One, in particular, had stolen the heart of one of the lads and he was drawn like a fly to the honey pot. I believe that he was married at home. She resembled some dusky Indian queen and the lads nicknamed her the “Squaw”. Her sister, no less pretty but younger, was the young “Squaw”. He became very jealous and he alone was allowed to supply her home with anything he could get hold of and, of course, they played along with him, but the girl was always closely chaperoned.

There was the “Villa Rosa” with it’s white painted walls and rooms fully equipped for action and its bevy of beauties ready to sell their favours for cigarettes or five bob (25p in today’s money) I remember being on duty watch and having the job, one evening, of going down to the brothel to clear it all of all American and British personnel. P.O. Hurst and I drew a Smith and Weston 38 revolver each from the N.O.I.C headquarters and we each had a small stick. We were issued with four bullets and we loaded the weapons, leaving two chambers under the hammer of the trigger clear; this was done under the watchful eye of the Master at Arms. We were warned that on no account must we use these weapons unless absolutely forced and were ourselves in danger. Then, we were issues with white webbing belts and gaiters plus a canvas armband, which was decorated with a crown and the letters N.P. Thus equipped, we had to do a short patrol, then make our way to the “Villa Rosa” and clear it by nine o’clock. What a job that turned out to be.

Everyone in the place was pleading for a few minutes more. They knew the rules but anyone would have thought it was their last chance on earth to have a bang. The whores would still be there tomorrow. I wondered how many had wives at home; many were worse for drink, some even offered money for us to turn a blind eye. We went through each door, finding some on the job, in various stages of undress. We offered them an extra few minutes and then, to loud protests, we ordered them out. Strangely, I didn’t note any aggressiveness whether it was the sight of the stick and pistol, I don’t know. Steadily we got rid of them amid a chorus of lewd jokes and promises to be “back tomorrow, honey” from some of the yanks.

We still had one room upstairs to clear. The noises coming from it made it obvious that more than one man and woman were in there. The door was being held closed by someone and we were told to wait a while. On informing whoever it was that we were shore patrol, the door was opened. What a sight met our eyes! I didn’t know whether to burst out laughing or be sick. Surrounding a double bed, some standing, some sitting on chairs were some American soldiers. On the bed was a well made woman of about thirty years with nothing on except the Italian caretaker; for the life of me, I couldn’t understand men paying to look at this. We cleared the room amid protestations that they’d paid five dollars each for this dubious entertainment.

We continued our easy life of occasional swimming, drinking and visiting Italian friends. The duties were more boring than hard. Monthly, we had our bartering sessions with the black marketers who knew when our slop issue was due. We would display our wares and argue the price until we settled for the highest that we could get. One guy did it on them, he slit the fine tin foil top which sealed the cigarette tobacco in, put some cotton waste back in, braised it back up and then replaced the primary lid after topping the waste with a fine layer of tobacco, to overcome the suspicious inspection of the contents. We said that he would end up with a knife in his ribs but he didn’t. They always had the top off after that.

The signorinas made smart looking coats from the blankets that we sold to them and they set off their dark looks of to perfection. We had plenty of money. We had the wine and the women were available, if you wanted to take a chance, for about five shillings. I never heard of any one “catching the boat up”, so the “Villa Rosa” must have been a well-kept establishment. Not only the Villa Rosa provided women. One evening, I was all on my own and writing a letter home. As I sat at the small table, pen in hand and concentrating on my letter, I heard a small timid kind of knock on the door. I went to the door, expecting to be confronted by one of the local children; instead I found three young women facing me. I’d never noticed these girls around the place before. They looked respectable and well dressed. I wasn’t long in finding out what they wanted. They were offering themselves for money or anything else they could get. I asked them in and I remember telling them to wait until the lads got back. In my heart I knew that some of the lads would be happy to oblige, for they would be feeling good on the vino they had drunk. One of the girls picked up the letter that I had been writing and seeing the photograph she said, “Marito, felio and bambino,” meaning wife and baby. I replied “Si Si” and she said “Bella, bella.” They were polite and well mannered and asked if they could sit and wait. I didn’t see any point in kicking them out, so I carried on writing as they talked among themselves.

It was going on for dark when the sound of voices and singing drew close; some of the boys were back and the other wouldn’t be long after. I realised my folly at not turning the women away, for my bed was the bottom bed of one of the bunks and I was kept awake by noises all night. The next morning the girls tidied themselves up and then came the crunch. They demanded their payment, arguments started, developing over the price and eventually they ended up with a couple of packets of biscuits, which were each only worth three pence, a packet. They played merry hell and things were looking nasty, eventually, they were thrown out. A couple of men came and they went off with them amidst a chorus of Italian curses.

One young girl of about fourteen years, a good looking girl, dark haired, dark eyed and a slightly sallow complexion, used to look at us in a way that made me feel slightly angry. You would speak and she would completely ignore you and give you such a look. Having to pass her home and offering a word of friendship seemed the proper thing to do, yet she just gave you that stare. Jeanetta, for that was her name, had good reason. We found out that her brother had been serving in the Italian navy on a destroyer and he had been killed by a British plane in a strafing attack. I could now understand why; she was so unfriendly.
What struck me was that the locals liked black clothing. The men’s headgear was mostly a black beret or trilby and you could imagine them being members of the Sicilian mafia. For all that, I liked their rough, down to earth attitude. They weren’t without a sense of humour. We acquired a dog, it had been given to one of the London lads and we had picked a name for him. We had a confab on what to call him. Geordio, one of the natives, mentioned Fray Bentos and the name stuck. He was a small smooth haired black and white terrier; a likeable little dog. Alas, poor Fray Bentos hadn’t long to live, for when his master was recalled, he decided against handing him over to a Sardinian family, so Fray Bentos was condemned to death. He was put in a weighted sack and dropped off the jetty. I noticed tears in the workmen’s eyes as the deed took place and I’m sure that they longed to look after him.

Pr-BR

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