Sunday, 24 September, 1944, a 'sea letter'
Sergt. S. Bristow
Headquarters
15 L of C Signals
Cen. Med. Forces
24 Sep. 44. 209.
My Very Own Darling,
It’s months since I wrote a sea letter to you, isn’t it, but I thought I’d get down to it and record for you a few impressions of the past few days.
As you will gather, Darling, it was a wonderful time, but it was incomplete because you were not with me to share all the thrills and sights. If you had have been with me, life would really have been heaven.
As the regulations have now been changed to allow views etc to be sent I am also enclosing the views of Naples which didn’t reach you before.
Typewritten pages –
Tired and dusty, but none the less happy, I returned from my “Second Italian Journey” last night. As you’ll have noticed, I haven’t called it “leave”, for believe me, the past eight days have been far from restful.
Besides my 3½ days sojourn in ROME, during which I made a rather futile attempt to crowd in a fortnight’s sightseeing, I’ve covered no less than 1,023 miles in a wide tour of occupied Italy, taking in such places as NAPLES, VASTO, CASSINO, ORTONA, AQUILA and the River SANGRO, all of which have become house-hold names in the past year to you in England.
Looking back over the past eight days, two things stand out in my memory above all others in the host of sights and places that I’ve seen. They are two widely separated things too; one a thing of beauty, handed down through many centuries, the other a scene of horrible desolation which only modern warfare can produce. One thing gave me quite a thrill, the other filled me with depression.
The thing which provided me with a kick was my attendance at one of the Pope’s audiences. I’d just completed a tour of St. Peter’s one morning when I came across the Audience Chamber and managed to gain admittance. There, with many other service people of all nationalities that make up the great Allied Armies, I saw a scene of grandeur which will live long in my thoughts.
The chamber itself was long and lofty, and the floor and friezes round the walls provided grand specimens of the beautiful mosaics for which the Vatican City is famed. A gilt throne on a raised dais, with back cloth of scarlet and white occupied the far end and added more colour to the scene. Swiss Guards in the quaint uniforms consisting of pantaloons and loose fitting blouses in the Vatican colours, orange, blue and red, and Cromwellian looking helmets, stood guard at each corner of the dais, the steel of their hildyards glinting in the light which streamed through the tinted windows. They looked as though they had stepped from the pages of some history book.
A long aisle stretched down the centre of the chamber to the dais. It was along this aisle that the Pope was to enter the chamber and early numbers of people had ranged themselves along its sides. I took my place amongst them and awaited his appearance. Fervent Catholics clutched Rosaries to their breasts hoping that the Pope would pause on his way to bless them. Ushers, in traditional court dress, busily passed to and fro showing distinguished visitors to seats near the dais, as the time drew near for the big moment.
Suddenly the Swiss Guards sprang to attention, a signal that the Pope was on his way. A thrill of expectation rustled through the crowd, necks were strained and all eyes turned to the doors which were flung open wide to admit the ceremonial procession of the Holy Father.
Two more Swiss Guards led the way, followed by two or their officers in full ceremonial dress, several Gentlemen-in-Waiting, the Master of Ceremonies, a Cardinal resplendent in his scarlet cassock, and then, on a chair borne on the shoulders of eight men dressed in uniforms of heavy red satin brocade (hope that’s right), came the man everyone was waiting to see, Pope Pius XII. More guards brought up the rear.
It's not possible to capture all the colour and splendour of that procession moving in such stately manner down towards the dais. Realising that here was a ceremony which had been going on unchanged for countless years, one couldn’t help but get a kick out of it.
Hands, waving rosaries and other religious articles, were all upstretched as the Pope leaned first this way and then that, blessing them by laying his hands upon them, as he moved slowly down the aisle. At the end the chair was lowered and he stepped on to the dais where, sitting on his throne, he addressed us all, speaking first in English and then in French.
It was a simple address of welcome to the Vatican in which he extended to all present and to their wives and families at home his blessing.
As he sat there, one was able to study this man, perhaps the most powerful on earth, whose word sways millions of people in every country and corner of the world. How different he seemed to that other Roman who had for so long imposed his will on the Italian people. Here one did not hear the theatrical outbursts of a pompous fool. Here was simplicity and gentility personified.
He finished speaking and, standing with arms outstretched, gave the papal Benediction before stepping down to move amongst the people, stopping first here and then there, to speak to one of his visitors. I would have stepped forward and kissed his ring of office had I cared to, just as a chap standing by me did. He was from Batley and, a fervent Catholic, was genuinely moved by the proceedings. As the Pope asked “You are English?” he was almost too excited to answer.
Of course, not being a Roman Catholic, I looked upon the scene purely from a materialistic point of view, having little appreciation for the spiritual meaning of the proceedings. As I have mentioned, the style of the dress and the ceremonial must have been handed down through the centuries and, quite naturally from my point of view, it was all very feudal, and although very entertaining, one could not help but compare all this splendour and rich clothing with the poverty and filth in which the peasant class of Italy (and other countries for that matter), who after all are the people who foot the bill for all this and what it stands for, exist. To my mind it’s not a pleasant comparison – but then, that’s an angle I could write about all night and get no further, so I’ll pass it over!
The Pope finished his talks in the crowd, and being re-seated in his chair, was borne off on the shoulders of his richly dressed bearers in the same stately manner as that in which he had effected his entrance.
His exit was the signal for a general outburst of conversation and move towards the outside world. I personally left the Audience Chamber feeling very sorry for His Holiness, who having become one of the established “sights” of Rome, has daily to endure the gaze of an inquisitive bunch of service men and women of whom I should imagine barely 25 per cent have any feeling for the religious meaning of the Audience. Such is the life of the famous!
The second highlight to which I referred earlier in this missive was my visit to Cassino, as you already know, scene of one of, if not the, most savage affrays of the whole Italian campaign. In my travels in Africa, Sicily and Italy, I’ve seen some scenes of devastation, but never one as bad as that which enfolded itself before me as I approached what had been, several months earlier, a peaceful agricultural village, but was now nothing more than an ugly heap of rubble.
Picture if you can a scene from a Hollywood war film and you have an idea of what Cassino looks like, for the village is now the nearest approach I’ve yet seen to a Hollywood director’s conception of the havoc caused by war.
It is not an exaggeration to say that not one house is standing or habitable. Reduced to more piles of stone and dust, Cassino stands there, a city of the dead; a good example of one is needed to prove the futility of war.
Dominating the village and the country for miles around is (or perhaps 'was' is a more accurate description) the monastery, perched on top of the famous hill, a marvellous vantage point as the Boche realised when he fought so tenaciously to hold it. Looking at the hill, one marvelled at the courage of the Poles who stormed its heights to capture the remains of the old building. It must have been an unenviable task.
For miles around the countryside was littered with tanks, lorries and other wreckage of war. The trees, shorn of the branches and reduced to stumps some two or three feet in height, were trying their best to cover up their wounds, one noticed. Already green foliage was sprouting from the shattered trunks.
But in the midst of all this waste that unquenchable cynical humour so characteristic of the British Tommy was still to be found. It has been said that his humour is always brightest when his conditions are toughest. One choice set of ruins was labelled “The Coliseum”, whilst at the entrance to the plain beyond the village, a board informed travellers that they were entering “The Ampitheatre”. From the wreckage which remained, it was quite evident that a battle far greater and more deadly than any gladiatorial meeting had been enjoined in that vast natural arena.
As we pulled away from the village there was a silence in the truck in which I was travelling. It lasted fully ten minutes. It’s almost impossible I should imagine to see Cassino and not be moved by desolation which surrounds the area.
Another place worthy of mention is AQUILLA, hill town and scene of Musso’s escape to Germany. I didn’t see much of the town as it was getting dark when we arrived and we were off again very early next day. It is apparently the winter sports centre for Rome and on that late summer morning as we left it, it reminded one rather of Harrogate or Buxton. Away in the background wreathed in clouds was the mountain at the top of which stands the hotel where Musso was held captive until released by German paratroops and flown off to the Reich.
The most energetic morning of the whole eight days was that spent looking round St. Peter’s, largest Christian church in the world covering a space of 240,000 sq. ft., which has cost Christendom over ten million pounds since it was founded three and a half centuries ago. Much sweat and energy was expended in climbing into the ball which surmounts the dome at a height of 500 feet above ground. It was worth it however, for from the top one got a fine view of the city.
On another morning during a walk round the city we took in the Palace of Justice and arrived just too late for the lynching, which you have since heard all about. Were we disappointed!
One thing that I noticed whilst visiting Musso’s late H.Q., the Palazzo Venezia, to see the interior and an extremely good exhibition of Italian art was the enormous amount of loudspeakers set on the tops of all the high buildings for quite a quarter of a mile around. Even the old Roman ruins had been pressed into service to hold a battery of speakers through which the Bullfrog's ravings had been loosed on the Roman air. I should imagine all Rome could hear him when he made one of his frequent pronouncements.
In passing there’s an amusing note to our visit to the Palazzo. For some time one of our party had sworn a solemn oath that when we stood on Musso’s balcony from which he had made most of his important speeches, he would commit an obscenity (to be polite). I don’t know if his courage failed him at the last moment or whether he took that line that discretion was the better part of valour, but our visit to the balcony proved uneventful!!
I could go on describing all the places I’ve seen during my stay in the capital, but I think the guide book which I am enclosing does it quite as well as I could do, so I’ll leave you to read of them from that.
Unlike my earlier visit to Naples, I didn’t find the Eternal City disappointing. It’s wide streets, beautiful bridges and classical buildings all blend to make the city really beautiful.
It was, therefore, a most pleasant eight days, the memory of which will remain with me for many years to come.
Return to handwriting
I think that’s just about covered everything, Darling. Hope you’ve been interested. Of course I’ll be able to give you a much more detailed description once I get back to you. Wonder how long it will be?
Until then, Angel, keep loving me
always. Your own, Stan xxxxxxxx
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