Thursday, 25 November, 1943 - A Journey into Italy

2364226
Sergt S. Bristow                                                                            81.
Headquarters
15 L of C Signals
Cen Med Forces

25 Nov 43              

My Very Own Darling,

As I promised you in the air letter which I wrote last night & which you will no doubt have received some time ago, I have put together quite a long letter to describe to you my journey last week.

Even the pages which follow do not describe to the full my experiences, but they will give you a vague idea of things as they occurred to me.

Of one thing I am sure & that is that I should have enjoyed the journey more had it been completed in a civilian car instead of a 3 ton lorry & with you by my side to share the thrilling scenery that I experienced.

However, as I have often said, such pleasures may be in store for us when the war is over.  I should certainly like you to have some of the experiences I have had in the past nine months.  Note: I said some and not all!!

The snowy peak of Etna, already half shrouded in low clouds, gradually disappeared into the November haze as our party rattled northwards.  For over 3 months we had lived in the shadow of this great mass of rock & lava which on several occasions in the long & chequered history of Sicily had wiped out so many of its villages & towns with such enormous loss of life.  In the afternoon sun, the snow on its upper slopes glistening like so many great diamonds, however, the volcano lost much of its grimness & looked quite picturesque.

We travelled on, sometimes running along roads lapped almost by the sea & on other occasions perched high up on some cliff-top road, & it was almost twilight as we drew into the town of ------ where we were to stay the night preparatory to making an early start across the straights next day & the Italian mainland.

Our lorries pulled into a compound surrounded by barbed wire, which had in the earlier days of the campaign served as a prisoner of war cage, & those unsung heroes, the cooks, were soon busy preparing supper.

We required no second bidding to the feast, for the keen edge of the November air had sharpened up our appetites.  The steaming stew & mug of tea had never tasted nicer.

The production of  the cooking pot has, wherever I have been since I left England, been the signal for an interested crowd to gather, & they stood around watching us eat, an occasional cry for “mangere” emanating from some ill clad child or aged bystander.

I took stock of the crowd as I sipped my tea & was attracted by a female in whose eyes glimmered the light of despair.  There was something about her which aroused my sympathies & I took the remains of my supper over & shared it with her.  She ate hungrily from an old bully beef tin into which she had motioned me to tip some stew.

As she ate she told me her story.  It may perhaps have been an attempt to gain my sympathies, but from her expression & the way she unfolded the facts, I felt she was telling the truth.

Her husband, she said, was with the Italian Army away in territory occupied by the Boche.  It was many weeks since she had heard from him.

She had given birth to a still-born child the previous day, & now too weak to work, was relying on the kindness of the British soldiers to give her food to eke out her ration of bread.

It was a pitiful story.  For her the world held so little now.  Once it had held so much.  How different her life was now to the happy world she had lived in with her newly-found husband but a few years before.

One could not help but feel sorry for her, more especially when one realized that she was but one of thousands to whom the creed of Fascism has spelt but one thing – ruin.  How she must have hated Mussolini: and the war into which he had plunged her & her kind.

By now the supper was over and the crowd resumed what had been their original job in life – bartering.  The road outside the barbed wire compound soon became a miniature Petticoat Lane.  Eggs, wine, musical instruments, birds in cages, & hosts of other varied items were produced as from nowhere & business commenced!

The moon had risen high into the cloudless sky & cast a pale glimmer on the proceedings.

Energetic salesmen, women & children endeavoured to persuade me to take all manner of things, but not once was money suggested.  Here this once all-important commodity appeared to have lost its value, & all dealing was done in either cigarettes or chocolate.

The production of a packet of cigarettes assured you of almost anything, in fact later when the crowd had somewhat diminished, I was approached by a woman who offered to sell herself to me.  The price?  ONE cigarette!

She stood there, the moonlight accentuating the hard lines of her face.  She had certainly sunk to the lowest depths it was possible for a woman to sink.  Perhaps I should have been sorry for her, but I wasn’t particularly.  My only thought on the matter was that if that was her only source of supply, she must virtually have been a non-smoker!

I went back to my lorry & joined my pals & we sat for a while drinking vermouth from enamel mugs forgetting those sordid surroundings as we talked of home.

It was close on midnight as we bid each other goodnight, & curling myself up in the driving seat of the lorry, I was soon asleep.

The first streaks of light were just showing as we set off for the ferry next morning.  There was a hint of rain in the air as our landing craft churned its way towards the Italian mainland, but as our lorries drove up the shingly beach, the sun broke through as if in welcome.

The cooks prepared a quick breakfast for us by the roadside & as I ate the two eggs (the results, I must confess, of a lively piece of bargaining the previous evening with one of the local populace) I wondered how many people in England would be enjoying the luxury of two eggs for breakfast.

Soon we were on our way again, climbing from the coast and after an uphill drive for roughly two hours one was able to look back upon Sicily which, from the height at which we stood, stretched away to the horizon, looking almost like a large relief map.

Down to the sea again we plunged & the little fishing villages through which we passed, looking serene in the midday sun were most interesting.

Most noticeable was the change in the mode of dress of these hard working folk of the Southern Italian coast.  After the nondescript garb on the average Sicilian the traditional dress of these fisherfolk, not unlike that of our own Northern seafaring folk, was most refreshing.

The men all wear black felt hats & wear capes instead of coats.  The women are more colourful, wearing a vivid scarlet skirt & coloured blouse.  Over their shoulders they have a shawl, whilst a black over-skirt which they gather up at the back to form a bustle.

An amusing incident occurred as soon as we had settle down & got our fire going preparatory to having a “brew-up”.

Along came a hairdresser, complete with a chair under his arm – no mean feat considering the nearest village was some five miles away & proceeded to set up shop.  Soon he was doing brisk business, for none of us had shaved that morning.  A thing that will long stick in my mind is the enormous number of barbers' shops one finds in this part of the world.  The British are known as a “nation of shopkeepers”.  I think there is little doubt that the Sicilians are a nation of hairdressers.

It was in this camp just after we had finished our supper that I had one of the most nauseating experiences I have had since leaving England.

Along came a disreputable looking specimen dragging a small child of no more than 15 years behind him, who he explained we could use for the price of 2s. each.  The girl was apparently his own daughter!!  I have a few “rough diamonds” in my crowd & believe me, they sent the horrid man on his way in no uncertain fashion.

On this night I thought I would really be tough & forsake the cab of the lorry & sleep underneath instead.  The outcome was trying to say the least!  About 3 a.m. in the morning the heavens released torrents of water & before long there was a regular stream running under my back.

Amid much strong language I hastily retreated to the back of the lorry where I sat shivering on a box, the semi-dry blanket which I had managed to pull from the flood draped around my shoulders in an attempt to keep warm.  What a life!

The sun of the morning, & hot cup of tea & more bacon & eggs restored my good spirits & I enjoyed every minute of the grand view we had on this day. 

Towards teatime we had a surprise when we pulled up at a hunting lodge type of building, which had apparently been an hotel in the more happier days.  From the 1,000 feet hill which towered behind it gushed a lively mountain stream, which splashed its way merrily down towards the sea which lay in front of us, some 20 miles away.  A most pleasant scene – to the eyes, but not to the nasal organ, for the stream turned out to be a naturally heated sulphur stream & a strong smell of rotten eggs lay heavily on the air.  (I can’t spell sulphurated hydrogen properly!)

The hotel had apparently been a spa too & it was there we were to spend the third night of our journey we were informed once one got used to the smell it proved to be quite pleasant, actually & it was a comforting thought to know that there would not be a repetition of the previous night's happening.  Hail, rain or snow, I should have a dry bed tonight.  (The sun had more or less dried my blankets during the day.)

After tea we were told that we could avail our selves of the sulphur baths of the hotel if we wished & soon I was wallowing in gallons of naturally heated sulphur water.  It was grand to have a never failing supply of water at 11 degrees.  This was my third hot bath since the end of February & so as you can guess I made the most of it!

An amazing organisation, the British Army, isn’t it.  On one night it gives its men the opportunity of getting “roomaticks” and on the next night it affords facilities for curing them – and all free of charge!  What a lot we have to be thankful for!! 

After supper the interpreter asked me if I should like to go along to the “local” in the hamlet near the hotel.  I jumped at this chance of getting some local “colour” & toddled along with him to have a most enjoyable evening.

The “local” turned out to be a white washed barn of a place, fitted with rough wooden benches.  One corner of the room was occupied by two large barrels of wine on trestles.  The illumination was provided by three rude lamps which were bowls of oil with lighted wicks floating in them.  They burned away, their smoke adding to the general stuffiness of the atmosphere, but shed a most soothing light on the surroundings, making queer shadows on the walls & making the features of the patrons of the house soft and then fiercesome in rapid succession.

The room was presided over by a withered old woman (who later told me she was 72) in her picturesque traditional dress & lace cap, who served the deep red local wine to the habituees in battered tin mugs.  When we arrived, however, two glasses were found from somewhere in the living quarters.

As one sometimes finds in England, the appearance of two strangers in the room caused a hush, as several pairs of eyes looked at us speculatively.

Over our first glass of wine we had an opportunity of studying the people in the room & found that the company was composed mainly of soldiers.  The hum of conversation had started again by now & it was interesting to learn from the interpreter that almost everyone was discussing the war.

Later when a round of drinks with a party of five Italian soldiers had broken down the feeling of strangeness, I mentioned this fact to them & said they appeared to be absorbed in the war news.

One of the soldiers replied to the effect that it wasn’t so much the fact that they were any more interested in the war than the average person.  Speaking to me through the interpreter he explained:

“When a child gets a new toy he plays with it more than any of his old ones.  With us Italians it is the same.  Never before have we been able to speak of the war and of politics as we do now.  No longer need one be afraid of his neighbour.”

The expression in his voice conveyed to me far more than his words.  It was quite evident that these men were absolutely intoxicated with the opportunity of this freedom of thought and speech.  I suppose their feeling can only be realised to the full by people who have experienced the Fascist and Nazi rule.

I asked if their lives were as ordered as we English had been led to believe & in reply was given this example, by one of the soldiers.  It was his personal experience & was told quite simply & without any trimmings.

He was a machinist in the North of Italy before the war.  The Duce was to visit his factory to address the workers.  All must attend.  Just through lack of interest & not through any malintent he failed to put in an appearance.  But he had committed a grave offence & next day he found himself turned out of the Fascist Party & a few hours later he had lost his job.  Only good members of the fascisti were allowed to work in the factory.

Non-attendance at the meeting cost him much for it was six months before he found work again.

“Is it to be wondered at that I was happy at the downfall of Mussolini and his gang.” he asked.

As always happens when soldiers meet, the Army became the main topic and some interesting facts about the life of the Italian soldier came to light as we talked.

All the men in the circle that had gathered round us were from the North of Italy and all anxious of course to get back to their homes.  Their life at the moment is not a happy one, they told me, for two reasons.

The first reason is because of the lack of news from the Northern half of Italy.  Many of them have not heard of their wives and children for many months, &, having had personal experience of the German soldier whom they loathe, because of his brutal & high handed behaviour towards the Italian People, they are worried for fear they are suffering untold hardships.

Their second worry is financial, for their dependants are receiving no allowances at the moment.  At the best of times their allowances were meagre, but now, their wives & children must needs work to keep themselves.

I asked an Italian soldier how much he received & was amazed when he told me that he received 5 lire (3d) per day & that his wife’s allowance was 8 lire, with an additional 3 for their son.  He in turn was surprised when I told him what a British Tommy & his wife were paid by the British government.  He couldn’t understand when I told him that we were not completely satisfied with our rates of pay.  I suppose to a man like him it must take some comprehending.

I suppose this man could be taken as an average Italian & I analysed what the war had meant to him.

At the beginning of 39 he was happily married, working at his local factory as a machinist & earning £4 a week.  He had his home, his wife & a baby boy – what more could a man wish for?  Mussolini could crave for Corsica, Sardinia and Tunis, but he was happy enough.

When the blow came he was whisked away to the Russian front to endure all manner of hardships, finally being rushed back to his own country in an unsuccessful attempt to stem the Allied invasion.  Instead of £4 a week he now gets 1/9d!  Fascism has brought nothing but misery & hardship to him.

It gave me plenty to think about as I walked back to the billet, but as soon as I got to bed I fell asleep.  The wine had made me unconscious of the hard boards upon which I lay.

We were away to an early start next day & a quick succession of hills, valleys & towns passed by, but the scenery held our interest continually.  Then in the afternoon flowed an exhilarating climb up a winding mountain road to a height of 1,400 feet.

As we neared the top low clouds obliterated the sun & drifted across the road like a typical English fog – in fact the scenery just here made me most nostalgic.  There grew beeches & chestnut trees in plenty & the autumnal tints of their foliage, combined with the nip now in the air & the fog-like cloud made me feel quite homesick.

However, it was pleasant to get back into the warmth of the sun as we descended at the other side.

There a most amusing incident occurred.  My driver had to pull up by the roadside to effect a minor repair to his engine, & applying his brakes he brought the lorry to a stand still alongside of two old dears who were ambling along with a wicker basket apiece on their heads, as is the custom around these parts.

Of course with feminine curiosity they turned round to see what was what, and I, in the middle of getting out of the cab, turned on my famous winning smile all friendly-like.  The next thing I knew was that they had dropped their baskets & had run away screaming into the nearby forest.

I don’t know whether their mothers had told them ‘orrible stories about the British soldiers or, whether my winning smile was interpreted as a sensuous leer, but they certainly beat it quickly for two females who must have both been 60 if they were a day!

A most noticeable thing on today's run through these Italian villages was the pro-Russian sentiment which the villagers appeared to have.

There was hardly one village whose walls did not bear some slogan or other, & if the number of slogans could be taken as a pointer to their feelings, they must have been very ardent communists in this area.

Of course it may have been that the secretariat of the communists had found  their newly-found political freedom intoxicating & had more or less run amok with the pot & paint.

What would have happened to the inhabitants of these quiet villages in Fascist Italy if such slogans as “People of -------- Unite!  Long Live Stalin!” or “Death to the Fascisti!!” had appeared, I tremble to think.

If there is such an active Communist faction in this peaceful agricultural section of Italy, I wonder what the industrial North’s feelings are!

Our journey came to an end later in the day as we pulled into our new “home” – a small school building in a little fishing town.  After the bright lights of Sicily’s second city, the outlook looks very dull.  There is a cinema here, but (and this is quite truthful & not an exaggeration) during the last two nights they have shown a Charlie Chaplin silent film “The White Hope!”

There are talking films, however, & my pal & I honoured the place with our presence last night.  For the cost of 3d each we got a box to ourselves & saw a most dramatic Italian film.  We couldn’t understand a word of it of course, but went more for the experience.

Half way through there was a scuffle in the front two rows & when the lights went up on the scene, there was a mass of arms & legs.  I was waiting for Jerve to shout “Quiet Please” but sadly remembered I was not at Grimethorpe’s palatial house of entertainment!

After the show we went to one of the local wine shops & found that it was owned by an Italian who spent many years in America & now spends his time bemoaning the fact that he came back to Italy in ’38.

He brought to light a queer angle on this war of ours.  One of his sons who went to America with him is in the U.S. Army, whilst another is serving with the Italian army.  Fancy!  Up to a few months ago they were nominal enemies.  He has a third son who is a prisoner in England, being captured in 1940 in the Libyan desert.  Yet another son (great family men these Italians) was drowned when the submarine he was serving in struck a mine in the Mediterranean.

Well, Darling, I don’t know whether you have had the patience to wade through all this, but I hope you have found it interesting.

The days I have described were most pleasant & as I said at the start, lack just one thing, your presence.

I think of you every day, Darling, both of the grand time that we passed & equally exciting times which are to come, “when this blinking war is over”.

Give my regards to your Mother & Father next time you write.  I hope they are all well.

That’s about all for now, Darling.  I’ll write an air letter to-morrow night, so that you don’t have to wait to long for news.

Until then, keep my love, Darling.  I know that I have yours.  Always yours, Stan  xxx

A postcard from the collection showing the town of Catania with Mount Etna in the background

#lovestory  #lovestoryWWII   #lovestoryworldwar2  #1940slovestory #wartimelovestory  #lovestoryinletters  #loveletters 

 #royalsignalsWWII   #royalsignalsworldwar2   #soldierWWII   #Italy1943  #ItalyWW2