© Michael Page · Permission to share the memoirs of Arthur Page, Una Bella Passeggiata (A Walk in Wartime Italy), has been granted by the family of Arthur Page.

Read also “Arthur Page’s Memorable Walk,” “Una Bella Passeggiata (A Walk in Wartime Italy)—Installment 1,” and “Una Bella Passeggiata (A Walk in Wartime Italy)—Installment 2.”

Chapter 9—Vicissitudes

I left the Caprese Michelangelo district and decided to continue in an easterly direction in order to place myself alongside the main crenella or ridge of the Apennines proper and then use its southerly direction to bring me to the front line. I was entering the Val Tiberino, the valley formed by the River Tevere (Tiber), and would have to cross this and the Strada Statale which hugged its course in order to carry out my intention. The Tiber, of course, flowed down to Rome—exciting thought—and the road, too, joined the Via Flaminia at Terni and this ancient route was the old entrance to the capital. With thoughts of helmeted and kilted Roman legions, Horatio, toga clad citizens and the like running through my mind I cross the Tevere a few kilometres south of the townlet of Pieve San Stefano.

On this occasion I waded the river. These rivers in the mountain districts were wide but not in terms of water so much as dry, boulder-strewn beds only occasionally inundated by huge torrents resulting from sudden thaws in the snow-covered peaks. The Tevere was typically so. From the very edge it looked as though one merely walked dry shod across its great, rocky width and, with many lesser rivers you very nearly could.

Not so the Tevere, however. After rock and boulder scrambling for about 100 metres I came to the water’s edge. The trick now was to find the safest and easiest crossing point. With socks in boots and boots hanging around neck, pack on back, long stout stick in hand, having made my choice I hopefully stepped from rock to rock so as to avoid a wetting. At the centre of the flow the water was at its deepest, was running at its fastest and, indeed, was a narrow but raging torrent as it plunged from boulder to boulder. With my eye I measured the distance from the boulder I stood on to the most convenient rock the far side of the race. Could my rather short legs span the gap? With the help of my staff, I achieved that but only to find my legs so stretched to their limits that I could not move the nether one to join the foremost one without risking a plunge into a nasty deep torrent. This might only mean a ducking, but it would certainly be wet, cold, and very embarrassing for all my spare clothing in my pack would probably get a wetting into the bargain.

I stood postured with the icy water surging almost up to my knees and then, along the road on the far bank, came a military looking car. Thank heavens the road was over 100 metres away, perhaps more. Finely balanced I angled my stick and posed as an angler plumbing the waters for a trout, not that I knew anything about fishing. It must have looked ridiculous, but I persisted and prayed; there was nothing else I could do. I was positive that the car was slowing down, but I dare not risk a turn of the head to see. Then, to my relief, above the noise of the rush of the river, I heard the car accelerate away and glimpsed it gathering speed as it continued south toward Citta di Castello. Whoever it was, and it must have been at the least fascisti, they must have considered it too much trouble to interfere with some fool stuck in the middle of a wide river. With the help of my sturdy stick, my rear leg regained my front leg and I finished crossing the Tevere as fast as I could manage.

Helped by my map I set my sights on Gubbio, 40 to 50 kms further south, as the next stage of my journey. As I trekked these kilometres and despite the homely cheer of the Italian families who succoured me nightly, loneliness began to assail me in peculiar ways. I began to seek diversion and company for their own sake. This sometimes induced me into predicaments and sometimes provided pleasure.

Once, fancying a glass of wine and a chat, even in my meagre Italian, I climbed a hillock to what I thought was a farm, generally a place of welcome. Instead, it turned out to be some kind of business. I entered the yard fringed by house and outhouses and then froze. In the middle of the yard was parked a large lorry and around it thronged a considerable work force of about six or eight men. They eyed me with curiosity, and I said “Buon giorno” as a matter of course, but something was wrong. They seemed unable or unwilling to reply, as though embarrassed. One bossy looking fellow strode off and my eyes followed him into the house which I appraised and quickly spotted the telephone wire leading from poles to house.

My first impression of unease and suspicion changed to certainty. This was the enemy: Fascists! This was straightaway confirmed for, with the ‘Padrone’ (Boss man) out of sight, one of the group of men, the skinniest and smallest, but a saint of a fellow for all that, made a sign to me. It was an Italian sign of some significance. It was made by bringing the left arm across one’s chest, thrusting the open left hand in a chopping motion into the crook of the right elbow joint, at the same time swinging the lower right arm and hand upwards. The sign had subtle nuances of meaning according to how it was made, such as: ‘Go to hell; buzz off’ (to put it politely), or ‘Run for dear life.’ The man intended this last meaning, bless him.

I saluted my thanks to him with a wave of my hand and was off in a flash before the padrone’s telephone call had caused the ’phone in the local fascisti’s office to ring. After this I continued my way in a more sober and less trusting frame of mind.

On another occasion I went through a small town without need except for the want of human companionship and a taste for some civilised life. It was a Sunday, dressing up for church-going day, the day for visiting friends or relations; and what is more it was nearing time for lunch. I had visions of the splendid Italian Sunday lunch, the Italian counterpart of the English roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, a hot pastasciuta of one kind or another probably cooked ‘Alla casalinga’ (home-made) with eggs beaten into the pasta mixture to provide it with that yellow tinge and titillating taste, to be followed by fried chicken ‘Alla campagnia’ including head, comb, claws, and all. 

Drawn by such meals the narrow medieval streets were emptying of people. But one small group was still abroad making its way toward a lunchtime assignation. As I recall there were two men and one lady. As they came toward me, I kept a suspicious eye on them and edged to the side of the narrow, alley-like street. In passing I uttered a “Buon giorno,” and after the slightest pause there came a response of “Inglese?”—this from a middle-aged man, obviously husband of the lady. I admitted that this was so, still a little wary and inwardly cursing myself in case I was landing myself into trouble. 

But this time all was well. After a few words, the question “Fame?” (Hungry?) was directed at me. Again, for the second time, I admitted that this was so, and we made our way to a nearby dwelling. The meal that followed made it all so worth the risk taken. After lunch I spoke of home, England, and family and we discussed the war situation and the usual war talk. It gradually came out that the married couple I had met in the street had a son abroad in the forces from whom they had received no word for many a month.

They, on bidding farewell to our hosts, accompanied me out in order to show me the best route out of town on their way home. On our parting I shook hands with the signora—a quiet, subdued lady—and then with her husband. But then he did a surprising thing for he turned once again toward me, clasped me in his arms, kissed me on both cheeks and began to weep. I felt the Englishman’s embarrassment at public emotional display but realised its cause. “Mi rincresce tanto signore, sua tristezza,” (“I deeply regret your sadness”) I stammered and hugged him in my turn for in me he could see his own son for whom he was weeping. Perhaps he visualised his footing it, like me, through alien land in Yugoslavia, and with little chance of making it back home. How I hope he did.

Chapter 10—The Girl in Gubbio

Hardly ever seeing a calendar, I kept little track of time. Winter must have been approaching, but as far as I can remember the weather still seemed to be mainly warm and sunny. It was just as well for I had no greatcoat or waterproofs. The long hike continued uphill and downhill, always by way of the little tracks between farmsteads, seldom using the straighter, easier well-metalled routes. My way of going was similar in character to routes I would have chosen in my earlier years when, every weekend, I hike-camped across country back in rural Essex. But for the occasional alarm and one or two real frights it was just like a hiking holiday using one-to-four-star accommodation.

Traversing the Val Tiberino and on to Gubbio I passed near and occasionally through some pretty, medieval townlets with beautiful and intriguing names:  Castelnuovo (Newcastle), Sanssepolchro (Sainted sepulchre), Valdimonte (Valley of the mountain), Vallurbana (Town valley), Pietra Lunga (Long rock), Badia di San Benedetto (Abbey of Saint Benedict) and so on. For some time I had been approaching the domain of Saint Francis of Assisi. In a land of bullock carts, mules, campanelli (belltowers), castelli, monasteries, abbeys it was easy to imagine walking in his footsteps. Round a contadino fireside I had already been told the story of the wolf of Gubbio (La lupa di Gubbio) and how San Francesco made it his ‘brother’. Assisi itself was only 40 to 50 kms to the south but likely to attract too many Bavarian Catholic soldiery for me to go there.

But one morning, quite abruptly, I stepped out of the rolling foothills into a long, flat, narrow plain. Except for the steep sided mountain to the east, it reminded me of the Fenland of Eastern England. The roads were very straight and there were the same drainage ditches at their sides or edging the fields. The plain was in a valley running northwest to southeast, about two miles wide and twelve miles long. I could see Gubbio about halfway down the valley clinging to the bottom edge of a steep, inelegant chunk of mountain. At that time of day, early morning, it still lay in the mountain’s shadow.

I walked down a road heading toward Gubbio. It was tarmacked and this never failed to make me nervous. There was worry enough without having to prick one’s ears for the sound of fast-moving petrol traffic. The fields were cultivated to their very edges, lacking the footpaths of the hilly country. On seeing a car moving some way down the valley (one can be seen from—and see for—long distances in flat country) I attempted to walk through the fields, but I must have stuck out like a sore thumb using rough fields when a few yards away was a good road. The ditches, too, were a damned nuisance, so I returned to the road and put my trust in Mother Luck. She stayed with me until I was quite near Gubbio, when a motor vehicle, probably the same one I had seen earlier, approached me from the direction of the town. I had just reached a T-junction and the car was coming from the left, but I had sufficient time to cross the road at an unsuspicious walking pace and, by the time it reached the junction of the roads, I had been out of sight for some seconds. My objective had been to pass through the entrance to the grounds of a pleasant looking old house, take cover, and await events.

The car went by, and I looked around to find myself in a lovely, old-world patio with a nicely architectured well at its centre. This was no ordinary farmyard, but something suited to a far more leisurely style of living. An elderly lady was sitting in the shade of the house, so I made my greeting and asked if I might take a draught of water at the well, the usual opening ploy made in the hope of something better, and a good test of character.

Before the good lady had a chance to show the degree of her generosity a very good-looking, well-dressed young signorina whom I had not noticed in the shadow of the doorway responded to my greeting and asked who I was. She was what the Italians call, “Un bel’ pezzo di donna,” which, literally, means a nice piece of woman, the phrase often being preceded by a long, low whistle. I immediately sinned, introducing myself as a two-pip lieutenant; self-promotion to a Captaincy would perhaps have aged me I thought, and she was only about 18 years old. At the same time, I inwardly cursed my bristled chin. Whether it was the precipitate promotion that did it I cannot say, but I was soon bibbing a glass of unusually good wine.

Mother Luck had arranged some slick timing for me that day as it became obvious that lunch would soon be on the table. Perhaps she would make one more effort on my behalf or I would have to do the polite thing and make my departure. Good old girl, she was on my side still. “Vorebbe prender’ pranzo con noi?” asked the signorina (Would you like to lunch with us?). Not half I would—and did.

There were no others about, just the middle-aged servant woman and this lovely young woman. They reminded me of Shakespeare’s Juliet and her nurse, although Juliet, I believe, was a less curvaceous 14-year-old. Conversation, always arduous but now especially enjoyable, confirmed that this gracious young lady did not hail from Verona but from Rome. I was glad that I had promoted myself from humble sergeant for it soon was clear that she came from a high-class family. (I suppose a lot of POWs exaggerated their rank; the Italians had a certain ‘respect’ for such things. It became the standing joke between them and us and they delighted in asking why there were no privates in the British Army.)

I asked if I might wash and shave before lunch and it was a delight to do this in a modern bathroom. Shaving at the well-side had tempted me to reduce the habit to twice or so a week in contadino style. Anyway, it saved soap and blades from my depleting Red Cross parcel store. It was worse for the Contadini who relied on home-made soap and so shaved only on Sunday morning before Mass ‘per rispetto’ for Holy Mother Church.

We dined tête-à-tête under the eye of, and attended by, Juliet’s bambinaia (nurse). She, the signorina, was indeed the daughter of a not unnotable family being sent away from the zone of political and social upheaval, war risks, etc., to the safe haven of an extended holiday in the country in the charge of a trusted member of the household staff.

In this romantic atmosphere we played out our charade and in a tiny corner of make-believe we forgot the road outside, the Tedeschi and fascisti, rastrellamentos—the war—and, mustering all my social graces despite my upbringing in Warner’s Housing Estate, Walthamstow E17, and with her small English and my meagre Italian, we relaxed for a while. We spoke of Bond Street, the ‘Parks’, Buck House (she had been to London) and her family’s friend in the Guards! She had been leading a very quiet life. It was a welcome break for both of us, certainly for me.

By mid-afternoon I was back to reality and climbing uphill out of the plain. To overplay a charade can lead only to embarrassment.

Chapter 11—A Hint of Winter

Having left Gubbio behind me, I had to re-examine my map to decide on my next objective along the route south. It was clear that the main ‘crenella’ (ridge) of the Apennines had changed direction from south-southeast to due south, so I decided to continue on a rough south-southeast course and thereby close with it. I would cross Strada Statale Route 3 just north of Nocera Umbra then follow the southerly trend of the Apennine crenella passing the important town and rail centre of Foligno on my right. West of Foligno was a large area of relatively low plain which was best avoided: “Sempre giu alle montagne,” was the Italian advice. After that I really would be back in the ‘high country’ once again but intended to take chances and use second- and third-class roads more, or the clearly defined ‘mulattiere’ tracks better still. I would certainly try to avoid the mountain footpaths unless I could find a guide. It would be “Goodbye” to the soft life of the foothills. I had been dreading this, but at least this time I would have a map to guide me through the lower valleys and guard me from blundering over 9,000 feet crests. The weather was gradually changing, but I intended to keep going and beat the oncoming winter.

I must confess to have been rather naive about Italian weather at that time. The days were growing shorter but were still more often sunny than not. It was true that I was sheltering more often from rain but, “After all, this is sunny Italy so it should not be too bad,” I thought and continued to nurse a childish faith in the sunniness of sunny Italy; except, of course, that northern Alpine bit. “I’m glad I’m not up there?”  I thought.

The route I had planned I adhered to and made good time. That lonely feeling I sometimes suffered from assailed me again and caused me to descend into Nocera Umbra for company. It was suddenly there before me at the foot of a steep slope so, on the spur of the moment, I left the footpath and entered the town by a little back road. Since leaving Gubbio I had covered a good 40 kms in a bit over two days and needed a change. Besides, I had reached the main range of the Apennines and needed some advice regarding a mule track route that commenced a few kilometres further on.

The narrow back alleys were quiet and empty but, on stepping into the piazza, or town square, the scene changed abruptly for it was thronged with townsfolk. It must have been market day or some special occasion. My immediate thought was that I had put my foot into trouble again. I frantically scanned the crowd for uniforms or suspicious vehicles and an obvious diffidence plus my Anglo-Saxon appearance, especially my golden locks, soon attracted attention. By the time I had been assured that there were no Tedeschi for miles and not to fear the local polizia (police), quite a curious crowd had gathered around making me feel conspicuous and embarrassed. My inquiry regarding route received such a flurry of response that I could make neither head nor tail of it. One young man made it clear that he was prepared to take me along with him and set me on my route, so I simply grabbed this opportunity and, after a few ‘grazies and ciaos’, he and I moved off. He was one of a small family group of mother, son, and daughter—the offspring being almost or barely out of their teens.

It was a relief to vacate the hurly-burly of the piazza and enter the peace of their home, one of the usual higgledy-piggledy pile of dwellings seemingly thrown together and on top of each other, more by accident than design, and delightfully peculiar to these ancient hill-top townlets. Designed and planned suburbias would not spoil these towns till long after the war.

There followed refreshment, discussion about my best choice of path, and chat. I recall the boy’s eagerness for the Allied troops to arrive as he had ambitions of becoming a Spitfire pilot. Actually, he was a recently joined but now absent member of the Italian air force. Probably I could have bedded down there for the night, but I decided to press on. It was still afternoon when the lad set me on my way.

By early evening I was ascending one of those dusty, chalk metalled, third class strade automobilistiche (poor motor roads), referred to by Italians as strade brute, which needs no translation. It was a dead-end road as far as motors were concerned being the link with civilisation of two tiny communities higher up the mountainside. The mule track that followed on would take me over a pass that reached to about 3,000 feet but promised to be fairly well defined as there were two other small communities along it. The track descended to the level of strada statale, route 77, a highway that crossed the Apennine crenella joining Foligno in the west to Macerata on the eastern side.

Before I reached the mule track, I found lodging for the night with an ancient Darby and Joan, well beyond British retirement age, who still grafted for a living. Age had brought them to poverty level, if they had ever been above it, but they were clearly happy to share what little they had with me.

Their cottage was small and simple, but with a fire burning in the inglenook and its thick walls it could be snug. The cottage rear backed on to a cliff face. As we sat by the open fireplace, the good lady baked the main meal of the day among the embers of a wood fire. It was a kind of bannock made from a dough mixture. Watching her my thoughts drifted to King Alfred burning the same sort of thing, on the same sort of fire, one thousand odd years ago. It was quite easy for me, in a flash of thought, to connect rural, wartime Italy with Saxon England. As I looked at that old couple it seemed to me that their living style had not changed one iota since Alfred’s time. The old lady made no mess of her bannocks, for the embers had burned them to just the right degree deserved of any good bannock. We broke them and shared the pieces, with a course red wine economically poured to wash them down. We were back in the mountains alright, with its hard existence and poverty.

Next day, as I rested for a smoke somewhere along the mule track, I was quietly surprised by a gentle fall of snow. This niggled at my faith in sunny Italy. I had noticed too, earlier that day, that my boots needed attention. The soles were giving out and some sewing required. They were still the ones I had been wearing when I left England a year ago, and they were not new then. From now on it would be mountains all the way and, hopefully, I would be in the high Gran Sasso district within two weeks or so. Add snow to that and even the near future looked grim. On my own I would only have to sprain an ankle and that would be my lot. For the first time I began to consider the possibility of having to shack up somewhere to survive winter.

The next day I crossed route 77 and realised that I was as far south again as my old prison camp at Servigliano but on the opposite side of the Apennines. With this dubiously comforting thought I made my way up another ‘altre strade automobilistiche’, then turned left down a dead end that finished at the town of Verchiano.

Chapter 12—I Bump into a Boer

It was afternoon when I tentatively walked through the main street of Verchiano for the first time. It was just wide enough for two bullock carts to pass each other with care and formed a large part of the village. It was roughly cobbled, having been intended for the use of nothing faster than mules, bullock tumbrils, and pedestrians. Such streets as a rule were generously bedaubed with animal droppings and these mixed with mud and recent rain had formed ample stretches of a dubious, oozing potage difficult to avoid. I selected a careful course through all this with the ravaged state of my boots’ soles in mind rather than their appearance. I felt, not so much as saw, the covert gaze of the occasional legitimate citizen that was cast my way. It seemed to me to reflect a partial resentment of my invasion of their territory; what did I want of them?—what trouble was I bringing upon them?

One of the watchers approached me. “Hey man, are you English?” said he in a noticeably clipped English and there before me was Piet van Renzburg. Piet was a South African Boer from Johannesburg. My last real mate had been Ackerman. Piet would prove to be as good and dependable as Acker’.

He was slightly taller than my five-foot-five, dark-haired, sallow complexioned, and a probable descendant of the French Huguenots who in their troubled past had gone to South Africa with those Netherlanders of similar faith to escape religious persecution. This Boer of French extraction had, perversely it seems to me, opted to volunteer to serve in the kilted Transvaal Scottish Regiment. And why not? He may not have been descended from some Highland kern booted out of his bothy by some Highland Chief in order to buy the latter a residence in Berkeley Square, but a good Scottish soldier he had made in Abyssinia and in the desert. He was at Tobruk when General Klopper surrendered to Rommel. As a POW he had wangled his way into an officers’ prison camp in the Po Valley as part of administrative personnel. He had been settled in Verchiano for some time.

Verchiano was a tiny township typical of the mountains, with a church, a campo santo (cemetery), an osteria (pub), a shop, two or three larger farms owned by erstwhile influential fascists and the rest being made up of a number of tiny, humble households, most of them with their own stable and barn, a yard for the haystack and the like, and some fields outside the town. The haystack doubled as toilet; at night you relied on a vaso di notte (chamber pot) under the bed—if you were lucky. The yard might house some pigs, a goat or two, hutched rabbits, pigeons, hens, geese and ducks, and such food-providing pets. It was, in short, a higgledy-piggledy heap of dwellings, barns, stables, and yards with humans, bullocks, mules and a variety of other animals—even the occasional horse, all living cheek by jowl, left by local authority to cope with their own refuse and dung. The summer heat made the town atmosphere stale, winter’s violent wind, rain and raging blizzard brought it a thorough airing. Despite the dubious salubrity of the town’s medieval sanitation its folk obviously enjoyed rude good health and, tough as nails, quite happily survived the problems and labours of an arduous and uncertain form of high-altitude farming. I like to think of them as Italy’s hillbillies.

Piet introduced me to one of the smaller farmers, Attilio Tulli. In his younger days, like many Italian men, he had emigrated to the New World to make his fortune, settling in a wild part of Canada. Consequently, he was one of the few townsmen who could speak some English in which he often reminisced to us of wolves, giant trees, and grizzly bears. It was he who gave me the Italian name of Ettore, it being the nearest he could get to ‘Arthur’. It stuck right through my ‘Italian’ life, although later we realised it was Arturo. He had returned to his home country with sufficient dollars to buy his modest farm, marry, and raise a family of son and daughter, now in their teens.

My memory of Attilio Tulli is of a fairly tall man, strong and capable, but by nature a sensitive man. The fact that he had opted to migrate to Canada in the early twenties in search of work, dollars, and a better future was proof of his grit and determination. To undergo the rigours of a cross-Atlantic migrant ship, then find himself on foreign soil with a strange language to contend with and a job to find in order to eat must have been hard experience indeed. The only obtainable work would have been the least sought after in the semi-frontier areas of the dominion. Life there, for a migrant, must have been lonely and rigorous with lots to undergo and much to be newly learnt, probably by the harshest methods I imagine. 

After such experience one would expect to become a toughened, mean character, hard of eye. Yet Attilio was a soft-spoken, inoffensive-looking man with watery blue eyes and soft, pleasant features, straggly grey hair, and equally straggly moustache. His appearance and ways reminded me of the cartoon character created by Walt Disney for his film “Pinocchio”; that of the granddaddy-style toymaker who carved and strung together, then loved and adopted, the long-nosed puppet as his ‘son’—a person well bestowed with loving kindness but vulnerable to ingratitude and unfairness.

The amazing thing is that these kindly and generous characteristics developed in Attilio during the years of self-negation and hard labour in a rough, tough environment, as he scraped and saved and put aside his dollars. At last he returned to the native land he had left empty-handed years before, but now able to buy his little farm, marry, and make his niche.

As I see it, he had survived a drastic education without it adversely affecting, or indeed which had helped him to build upon, the more sensitive and generous side of his nature. We were lucky fellows to have encountered such a man.

His generosity toward us was to prove unstinting. He vitally improved our knowledge of the Italian language and the habits of its people. Above all he was to find us an isolated haven in which we could better survive the coming assaults of the winter storms and the fascist militia and Nazi activity.

His rough ability in English naturally attracted many ex-POWs, whom he seldom failed to help in big or small ways. He was already feeding and housing Piet and an English chap Piet had some acquaintance with. He could not include me in his hospitality, but he persuaded a neighbour to take me in. This last bedded me down in his stable in the straw on the floor beside a pair of oxen and a mule, with the stern injunction to keep clear of the mule’s stern quarters: it kicked. He added to this two stable blankets.

I was quite used to this but kept waking in the night bothered by that sticky, itching sensation caused by damp blankets and straw. Even brother bullock’s heat was insufficient to cope with it.

In short time I was revisited by the same type of fever that assailed me in the Casentina. Poor Attilio had too big a heart to leave me in that stable and somehow made room for me in his house. I shared a bed with his son but I suspect that the bed, a good-sized double, was that of Attilio and his wife. In it I perspired, shouted and groaned, threw myself about, slept and dreamed horrible things to the discomfort of not only the son but the whole family. They also had great difficulty procuring me quinine, but they got it. I can vaguely remember their voices, seemingly distant, as they discussed and worried about me, standing by my bedside. For all I know they even called a doctor.

The fever abated. I do not remember how long I was in bed but was very weak when I got up. Had there been a sudden rastrellamento the family would not have stood a chance. God knows what would have happened to them; one of those, ‘Arbeit machts frei,’ Belsens at least. I would merely have become a prisoner of war again.

Before I was really out and about again Piet borrowed for me a pair of lady’s pattens from Signora Tulli and, with help from Attilio, took my boots to the village calzolaio, or cobbler, to see what could be done for them. With astounding skill, odd bits and pieces of leather and an old sole from an old boot (for leather was at a premium), he cobbled and sewed them back into service and charged us not a single centessimo. To be well-shod once again was a tremendous uplift to my morale. War-time shortages had made maintenance and provision of adequate footwear a fearful problem for the average Italian. The female sex, and indeed many males, got by chiefly by using wooden ‘flip-flops’ and in dry weather would carry them in hand when out of town and walk bare foot to conserve them as much as possible. With the approach of winter the men turned more to wearing wooden-soled clogs rather in the old Lancashire mill workers’ style. Genuine footwear was used on Sunday or for special occasions, and even then was more often in the hand than on the foot.

Attilio was searching the vicinity for a more remote and safer lodging for us; my boots were repaired and the problems of weathering winter seemed solved. Since leaving Servigliano, they had taken me over rough terrain down south almost to the Gran Sasso. Then they had undergone the long, tough trek from near Bologna to Verchiano, sustained by only an occasional wiping of animal fat. The total walking distance must have approached, in all, the 250- to 300-mile mark, and all this was done in rather more than two months; and they had been well used before the outset. Those army ‘ammunition boots’ had served me well.

Chapter 13—Verchiano Folk

Now I was back in the upper Apennines, an isolated farm was a rarity. Rather farms were grouped in townlets or at least hamlets. It followed that ex-POWs in the area were less scattered and so there were quite a number of British and Empire fellows in Verchiano. For the time being Attilio was somehow managing to look after three of us, far more than his share. By this time Piet and I had struck a firm partnership and the other English chap must have felt rather left out of the acquaintanceship. 

One of the other escapees in town told us of a small cloth factory or mill in the townlet of Rasiglia which was grouped around the road junction from which I had taken the dead-end road to Verchiano on first arriving. They had given him cloth to make a civilian outfit. Within a night or two Piet and I paid it a visit. The nights were drawing out, so it was really early evening and there was still personnel at work.

To a quickly decided plan we walked boldly in and, pretending to be holding some pistols in our pockets, suggested we be given material. They just laughed off our ‘pistols’ and made us welcome and the upshot was we walked out of there with three metres of suiting each, enough for coat and trousers.

In Verchiano there were several refugees from Rome and other cities, who were staying with relations. Amongst these was a very experienced high-class tailor, neat and dapper in appearance, a walking advert for his trade. Again quite free of charge he knocked us up suits in no time; not works of art of course, but they would pass muster at Sunday mass.

With generosity such as this, it began to dawn on me that not only the rural contadini but most Italians who were anti-fascist had drawn the conclusion that much of the responsibility for we wandering POWs would have to be theirs, and this despite or because of the threatening edicts and rastrellamentos inflicted upon them. Because of their efforts 80,000 former enemies disappeared among them. We all drew together as the British did in 1940. Defying risk they took us into their families. It was said they did it to reassure the world as to whose side they were really on and as an insurance to hold up to the eventual arrival of the Allies. Maybe, but I am convinced that they expended their generosity because we were there, we needed their help, and because we were fellow human beings. They even sheltered Werhmacht deserters.

Between my arrival in Verchiano and well into the Christmas period of ‘Advent’ the weather, as far as I can recall, was a mixture of pleasant sunny days, rain, and not too heavy snow falls, rather like changeable English weather. Attilio had already spoilt my wishful thinking regarding winter in ‘sunny Italy’ by assuring me that winter in the Apennines was like winter in the Alps and would soon be with us. In the meantime, weather did not impede travel.

So it was that one day, a trip to Foligno being necessary, Attilio, with a show of daring, invited Piet to join him. This put Piet’s general appearance in his new suit to the test and he certainly looked Italian alongside Attilio on the bullock cart. This was of course the only means of going with a load up, but it helped to ‘Italianise’ Piet even more. Foligno was quite a large town and rail centre, later to be an important target for Allied bombing. It was 12–13 miles away and at oxen speed necessitated staying overnight with a relative of the family. Piet must have felt like a voortrekker. I could not go, of course. They returned safely the next day and, despite Jerry’s presence in town, Piet’s appearance had passed muster, so this made us well pleased with our suits and increased our confidence.

Attilio had the part-time job of postman for the district, delivering mail about once a week. The size of his usual delivery was quite small, but the round was six to ten miles long and needed the mule, especially for bulky stuff. It was an amiable beast with an unusual white coat. I rode it for many of the miles and learnt to trust the mule’s sure-footedness in the mountains. They know all the effort saving tricks, and unless following a defined mule track will only climb and descend gentle slopes direct. Once a gradient steepens over a certain limit they will automatically start to zigzag. By this means also, I learnt quite a bit of the local paths and byways. Also, I became acquainted with the tiny hamlet called Roccafranca, which was to prove a haven for us later on.

As I have mentioned before, a few of the farms were better off materially and financially than the majority. One of these proudly owned a horse and a very smart trap, the horse being a fine-looking animal. The owners had been one of the leading fascist families in the town, but in the contemporary political upheaval were in an uncertain situation with the emergence of opposing political views. A growing resentment was being focused on them by their neighbours.

One particular cause for antipathy was that the fascist regime had provided the village with sacks of rice which, because of the wartime shortages, were to boost the diet of the school children and poorer families. The rice had been placed in the keeping of this family and since the collapse of Mussolini there had been no issues of rice. The charge was, of course, that they were keeping it for their use only.

It happened that this family invited Piet and me to eat with them one evening, possibly out of genuine goodwill or perhaps as an expedient in view of an uncertain political future. Sure enough, rice featured significantly in the meal and certainly was not a staple crop of that area, coming only from the Po Valley. The rumours seemed confirmed.

Although the armistice was only just over three months gone the Italian partigiani (partisans) were becoming a new presence on the scene. The local groups, or ‘bandas’, were strongly influenced by numerous Yugo-Slavian escapees from a prison camp further south (recall that I met up with them in the Monti della Laga). Thus, many of the groups sported the Red Star in their hats.

One day a Slav-Italian partisan group paid this ‘fascist’ family a call and departed taking the horse and trap with them. Needless to say, the trap was laden with sacks of rice. Thus was justice of a kind meted out, not that the villagers ever benefited from the rice again. The horse was retained on a long-term loan to the partisans for I saw it frequently ridden by the young Yugo-Slavian leader of one of the bands. The family were not maltreated but they thenceforward kept a low profile.

By now Mussolini’s ‘Hundred Days’ neo-fascist republic was established at Lake Garda. Resistance to it became more and more apparent as the partigiani organised themselves. Locally one noticed increased evidence of this as more and more lads in the district began to display the hammer and sickle in their hats. At first it was the hunter’s shotgun, the Italian military rifle, and some even carried the miniaturised rifle with folding bayonet attachment as had been issued to the fascist idea of the Boy Scout movement, Il Balilla, modelled on the regular army—in actuality a rifle, it was of very small calibre designed to suit a boy of ten years or so in age and physique and a lot was demanded of it in pitting it against the Wehrmacht. It advertised a desperate need for weapons. Later the British Sten gun was to be seen as ‘drops’ from the air were arranged, and even the occasional ‘borrowed’ Schmeisser.

Thus it was no surprise when a reaction to partisan threats came from the German fascist authority and a series of countermeasures probed into the mountain areas, ours included. Verchiano was hit one morning, a sunny day, by a few mortar bombs which fortunately fell in nearby fields. I was never clear whether it was a deliberate warning or the result of a brush with a partisan ‘banda’. One elderly man out doing some work was reported killed.

Mussolini, titular leader of republican fascist Italy, was being forced by Hitler to take fascist ‘traitors’ such as Count Ciano and Marshall de Bono into custody and rather against his will—for Ciano was his son-in-law, of course—Il Duce was being bullied by der Fuhrer into executing them. By January it was done, in Romeo’s and Juliet’s Verona of all places. Other harsh reprisals were perpetrated. News came of little fights between the enemy and partisans, subsequent casualties, and losses by capture of the latter and, worse still, shootings of civilians for aiding escapees. The ‘paura’ (fear) rekindled and there was a general unease felt by everyone and an embarrassment experienced by us for adding to the contadini’s worries.

Attilio, during his postal peregrinations, had already persuaded another family, high up in Croce della Roccafranca, to keep us for a time. It was the time now.

Verchiano stands at an altitude of rather more than 2,000 feet by the side of a ridge more than 1,000 feet higher. Near the top of this is the tiny collection of dwellings and a minute chiesa, or chapel, that constitute the village of Croce della Roccafranca. From the townlet you climb roughly three miles up a veritable mule track that winds along the edge of a steepish slope. The village was peopled by three or four families all named Spuntarelli. We were to stay with Pietro Spuntarelli, his wife, daughter, and son—these last two of ages five and three respectively, their parents being in their early thirties. I feel sure that not even a bullock cart could climb that path; it was not wide enough. We would winter here fairly safely and await the early spring of 1944. Down south Kesselring’s Winterstellung, the Gustav line, was holding firmly. Not until that line was pierced and Rome taken would Italy be anywhere near an effective alternative to the dying fascist republic of Silo. Meanwhile, it was up to the ‘resistance’ to oppose it as it could, with increasing Allied support.

Chapter 14—High Winter

Down below Rocca Franca, Verchiano stood at the head of its own ‘pian’ alto’ or high plain. In this stretched the town’s fields in slightly undulating terrain. This made ploughing reasonably easy. Ploughing up in ‘Roccafranca’ was a different matter. The fields sloped at amazing angles and the soil was liberally bestrewn with rocky chunks. The fields had been captured from the mountainside over two or three centuries and tamed to the plough by dint of hard manual labour, by clearing the rocks and boulders by hand. One could still discover the debris of this labour lying in steep gullies near at hand. I was not then capable of making sufficient enquiry, but it would not surprise me to learn that Spuntarellis had been up there from the start of the clearance.

Once in a while the Signora Spuntarelli would go down to Verchiano with the family mule for shopping and, no doubt, the joy of a change of companionship. For baptisms the priest came up; for burials the corpse was carried down to Verchiano. Their mule was invaluable—no, an essential asset. To a great extent they were self-sufficient, their fields supplying them with pasta, polenta, potatoes, and herbs and greenstuff, their animals with meat and they had sheep and goats’ milk and cheeses from both. The fields and some extras supplied them with some money also.

The largest family of our tiny mountain community was that of Pietro’s oldest brother Santo who, of necessity, lived in the largest house (the main kitchen was capable of supplying sufficient space for the forthcoming winter dances for over thirty people). Their father had died some years before. He owned more beasts than the others put together—mainly bullocks, pigs, poultry, goats, and a few sheep—and tilled more land. This was just as well, as his family group was bigger than all the others put together. The other families were only splinter groups from his own. To some extent they all came under the matriarchal authority of his and Pietro’s mother Katerina, a tall, dignified, capable woman who was also the guardian of the little chapel and its appurtenances. She lived in harmony with her oldest son’s robust, handsome, and fecund wife Maria, who helped keep the little chapel’s existence justified by the necessity of regular baptism services.

Perhaps in obedience to Il Duce’s request for lots of little Italians, or perhaps with the tax reductions consonant with efficacy in this field in mind, or simply because of other reasons; and generously assisted by her ‘marito’ (husband) and a fecundity that never failed to activate her childbearing mechanisms, she soon achieved freedom from all taxes. Thus, the family in the house consisted of the grandmother, her oldest son and his wife, their ten children, and also their youngest brother and sister Anna (this last a slim, wiry pleasant girl of about 20 years who took after her tall, slim mother). The tenth, tax-freeing child, was born while we were there, and Piet Van Rensburg was made godfather despite whatever his religion (if any) was. The baby complemented a loving, happy family.

Being a baptism, the ceremony took place in the hamlet’s tiny chapel, so the priest made the journey ‘up’ from Verchiano. The Spuntarellis filled the austere confines of the chapel, which was bare of any furniture, even a modest bench, except for basic religious essentials. There was a crude stone altar; a quaint, miniature font; and the usual artistic representation of ‘Our Lord’ and ‘Our Lady’ and the cross lit, in eerie fashion, from a single shaft of light afforded by the one tiny window and the open doorway. The atmosphere was cold and dank with disuse, despite blue and sunlit sky outside.

In addition to the families was the unusual presence of Piet and me, and we all stood, perforce, on a mosaic of roughly hewn flagstones. Apart from the priest no others made the ‘up’ climb from Verchiano. The congregation being there provided some warmth, life, and purpose to the otherwise sepulchre-like atmosphere.

The matriarchal ‘nonna’ had also garnished the altar with the altar drapings and cloth which she kept in her care and had set out the ceremonial vestments that the priest would wear. The final touch were the altar candles which brought out the colour woven into the cloth and drapes. A huge, antique of a Bible was set up on its wooden stand; and so the grim cell became functional. I longed to examine the Bible in anticipation of discovering written family records delving back for generations but, alas, the opportunity never presented itself.

The priest offered no objection to Piet’s dubious legitimacy, religious or moral, to act as godfather and thereby be guarantor of the babe’s future spiritual upbringing. His influence stretching from Jo’burg, in the Transvaal would be tenuous indeed. Perhaps the plethora of brand-new entrants to the Catholic Church emerging from Croce della Rocca Franca was causing the neighbourhood to run out of godfather material. Nonna Katerina’s youngest daughter Anna was, in any case, the godmother. She would guard the baby’s religious future.

It was of little importance that much of the ceremony was gibberish to Piet and me. Piet’s signature was his important contribution to the proceedings whereby he pledged himself to his duty. It is still there to be seen in the records.

Whether there has since been any papal protest to the choice of godfather I do not know. We all enthused in its novelty and what is certain was the joy of the occasion and the obvious satisfaction derived from it. The baptised child would enjoy, doubtless, some degree of fame, or even notoriety perhaps, being the only child in all Italy with a South African Boer—not of the faith!—as godfather.

There was another family that included Pietro’s mother’s brother-in-law I believe, and his wife, son, and a daughter or two. There was one more small family, but I cannot quite recall them—except for the father—but they were all Spuntarellis. Dante, the head of this fourth family, was a small, dapper, moustached man, but of intelligent, commending aspect, a brother or brother-in-law. He took a leading part in important decision making affecting the whole community.

Piet, his English acquaintance, and myself settled down happily with this family of families. For a while we slept in the barn which stood alongside the house but separated from it by a wagon-width alley. The entrance to the barn was in the far wall from the house.

As a winter pursuit the Spuntarellis turned to cutting down wood from the scrub forest and turning it into charcoal for sale down below. In short, we (for we helped, of course) became part-time carboniere, or charcoal burners.

Charcoal was the basic fuel for provincial Italians in those days. To produce it one built carefully erected ‘igloos’ shaped from wood chopped into various lengths from not too thick branches. A deep, narrow hole from top of the pile to the bottom was left. Tinder was poked down to the base of this hole and finally lit with a burning piece of rag poked down to the tinder. The whole ‘igloo’ then burnt slowly upwards without mass conflagration leaving a pile of semi-burnt wood or, in other words, charcoal.

It was whilst working at this job that I realised that for the first time since early prison camp days I was becoming lice-ridden again. They were breeding in my crotch. Piet had similar trouble, so we begged that we might borrow the family’s largest cauldron and in it boil up water over the fire in the inglenook-type fireplace. All this they let us do, and it took quite a few bundles of fuel. Then we lowered it into the nether regions, that is the stable quarters below the living quarters.

The family elders were astounded at the idea, despite giving their permission. They were certain we would catch our death of cold to essay such a risk. Their idea of protection against winter’s onslaught was more akin to the old Yorkshire measures whereby children were sewn into layers of brown paper liberally splashed with vinegar and were then cut out again come the spring. Piet and I took turns stepping in and out of the hot water alternately soaping and sluicing down, we even scrubbed each other’s backs. It did the trick. We got rid of the lice. We caught them just in time. Those were the last lice I ever had. Piet’s English chum did not join in, saying that he would take a ‘hammer and chisel’ bath when he got home. He eventually went back to Verchiano and we lost touch.

On the night that the real winter arrived we sat round the fire in the open fireplace, the complete family circle, carbide lamp and fire giving us light and listened to the howl of the blizzard overhead. We had neither heard nor seen the like before. One would not have survived long outside.

When ‘l’ora’ (‘the hour’—time for bed) arrived Piet and I went out into the blizzard to reach our barn entrance. The alley between our house and barn was now blocked by snow to a height well above our heads. The blizzard was so intense one could not see a yard ahead in the dark. We battled through to the barn door, shook off the snow, and bedded down. Thereafter Pietro allowed us to sleep in the cantina, also in the nether regions, but one could reach it by a trap door. Like most farmhouses, you mounted an outside stone staircase to reach the main house entrance. Below were the stables, cantina, storerooms, and workspace. From then on Pietro trusted our temperance and forbearance, and the cantina, which of course contained barrels of wine, became our bedroom. We used a candle for light.

Next day we joined the various youngsters in tobogganing down the slopes on anything toboggan-like from polenta boards to large trays. Menfolk produced homemade skis and I made my first attempt at skiing.

The term ‘polenta board’ perhaps needs some explaining. Polenta is a kind of thick Porridge made from mill-ground ‘Gran Turco’—maize. When chosen for the evening meal, out would come the polenta board and this was laid on the table. Such boards were often almost table surface size themselves. The polenta would have been simmering gently in a large cauldron over the fire and at a signal from the signora two of the men would unhook it, carry it to the table, and pour it directly from cauldron onto polenta board, where it would slowly ooze and spread over its surface. For added taste the signora would spread tomato puree (di pomadoro), pig fat, and crackling or some such over the porridge. Then each trencherman or woman would take their places round the table and armed only with a fork would attack the yellow mass from all sides. Slowly the island of steaming polenta would diminish in size, but I can never recall the board being totally cleared by the consumers. The leftovers went to the pigs.

To refer again to the blizzards, they were in truth a timely blessing bestowed upon the mountain communities in general and upon Piet and me in particular. As a result of their severity, the only way to travel in the higher reaches of the mountains was by walking and that was difficult enough. For the time being only reasonably fit human beings and the mule remained mobile. This put a temporary halt to intrusion by the enemy and, even as the weather eased, their activity would be greatly hampered and robbed of the element of surprise.

Very shortly after arrival in Rocca Franca, news of some local reprisals against people harbouring POWs had scared Pietro Spuntarelli into some demur regarding our continued asylum and he confessed how he feared for his young family. One could well appreciate his unease and it seemed so unfair to press demands on a family’s security by stressing our needs, so we packed our gear and were on the point of leaving when he relented. One can imagine his uneasy sleep at nights, the tossing and turning, the whispered consultation with his wife and then one can realise what a generous and courageous pair they were. He insisted that we stay and so we unpacked, although with little peace of mind. Now the snow gave relief to our state of mind for it was plain to see that he was much happier about the future. So tensions decreased, we became less apprehensive of the moment, and there was a much jollier ‘family’ atmosphere.

A few days before Christmas ’43, one of Pietro’s brothers gave Piet and myself some money. He told us that the family, knowing we had decided to spend the festival at Attilio Tulli’s house in Verchiano, thought we would need some spending money. It was not a lot, but it was a thoughtful and Christian gesture. Piet went down a few days early, but I stayed ‘up top’ until the morning of the Eve. Before leaving I went round offering my seasonal greetings. I was pressed to drink toasts at each house and by the time I was making my way down the mule track felt quite in the spirit of Christmas, alcoholically speaking.

Piet must have been coming up to meet me, for we ran into each other just outside the ‘Campo Santo’ (cemetery). We passed an hour at the osteria drinking vino locale and by the time we reached Artiglio’s house I was so inebriated that I missed the Christmas Eve service in the town ‘chiesa’, much to my regret. During Christmas we ate extra well, played Tombola (better known as Bingo) and the Italian game of cards, the suits being Bastone (Clubs), Coppa (Cups), Spade (Swords) and Denaro (Money). They knew no card tricks, so I made a good contribution of those I knew to the festivities which went down well. I was glad for it was so nice to give something back for a change. I was able to draw some of their faces in pencil (mainly in profile, being easier) and this, too, was well received.

Back ‘up top’, during this season of semi-hibernation for the humans, mules, and brother bullock, it was the fashion to organise dances. The word passed round the district grapevine as if by magic, attracting one and all. Young men and women would travel miles, nay, climb miles, through the thick snow by little known tracks, and when I say miles I mean anything between one and eight or nine. They would arrive at the house of Pietro’s eldest brother, the one with the huge kitchen, in temperatures well below zero, their faces smiling, rosy and nipped with cold. As the steam from their mouths subsided, they were warmly received into the great kitchen after having shed piles of clothing. Chiacchiera (chat) would follow as the assembly anxiously awaited the arrival of the piano accordionists who had back-humped their instruments many a mile.

The accordionists’ repertoire was limited but, despite some repetition of tune, they would see the dancing through to the delight of all and to the time when morning’s light began to show. The dancing was not of the sophisticated ‘ballroom’ style with its “slow, slow, quick, quick, slow” rhythm but mainly waltzes alla Italiana, Italy’s own country style. The simple rural manners and behaviour were impeccable, the enjoyment so sincere without dependence on alcohol. Wine there was, but only taken economically and with thought of the family’s needs until the next Vendemnia (grape harvest). Overseeing the whole proceedings was Pietro’s mother with all her tall, sedate dignity and her understanding of the needs of a young man and a young woman to hold each other and thrill to the contact, rhythm, and swirl of the dance. But sex had no further place; Katerina and custom saw to that. What a delightful opportunity it was to take a woman in one’s arms again, exchanging subtle pressure for subtle pressure, safe from censure in the legitimacy afforded by the dance. The girls were willing partners in the experience, responding generously, especially when the gyrating of the dance gave opportunity for an increase in pressure bringing body close to body and allowing breath to caress cheek.

These gatherings reminded me so much of the Dickensian parties that occur with such frequency in his books, especially at the end of the tale when all is well. But one thing spoils the accuracy of this fantasy, for Dickensian parties were so English; here in the Christmas period—or post-period of 1943—the gathering was so cosmopolitan. There were the locals, Yugo-Slavians, British escapees, the odd Yankee, and it would not have surprised me to meet the unusually odd German deserter, for they were about.

At dawn the visitors would begin to make their way back home through the newly crispened snow and once there to do the chores, for there were animals and poultry to feed. Piet and I would crawl back to our beds in the cantina.

Today I cannot imagine a party going on so long without the enlivener ‘alcohol’. Then they survived simply on the enjoyment of people’s company, even if they did not speak your language so well. Or what else have we today? Why, acid parties! God help us all. Neither can I visualise a housewife of the ’80s or ’90s entertaining such a gathering. They are too occupied in insulating their families from the terrors of the world, such as weaning them from the use of salt, of fatty foods, or whatever the latest health craze there may be, or from dogs’ droppings, inhalation of cigarette smoke, or the influence of Jews, Moslems, or Christians, (according to taste) or AIDS! Can we produce lovers of simple humanity anymore?

It was not long before Piet and I had extended our knowledge of the district as far as the next townlet, that of San Martino on the far side of Monte Cavallo to the east. We stayed there on two or three occasions with a family we befriended.

They were giving shelter to an Italian colonello (colonel) who had sought shelter escaping from who knows what dangers. There was never a word about financial recompense, although the contadini were good businessmen at heart.

This family were owners of an unusually well-stocked ‘fattoria’ (farm). The major part of their livestock was pigs, and they bred more of these than I had seen hitherto on any single farm. Pig-feeding time was consequently a noisy, riotous affair. The younger part of their herd they fed in the open. On being let out of their stye these fit, healthy, active porkers would charge through the slush, instinctively making a beeline across the yard to where the food troughs were situated. Their voracious squealing and explosion of energy created a spectacle of unleashed pandemonium.

So it was that, late one afternoon, Piet and I stood talking together in the middle of the yard when, whether by accident or design we were never sure, someone let these pigs out. Their sudden burst of enthusiastic squealing as they commenced their dash toward the food-laden troughs was all the warning we had. Our glance flashed up to see a solid mass of a dozen large black pigs bearing down upon us at full pelt, and obviously without the least intention of giving way to any hindrance that lay between them and those troughs. With almost instantaneous reaction we scampered for our lives, leapt over the troughs, and ran on, thereby evading a very nasty accident. Behind the front line in wartime Italy was no place to suffer broken limbs. In fact, quite soon we should be needing every limb we had, especially our legs.

Naturally there followed excuses and regrets and a great deal of laughter. I am sure it provided an amusing sight, but I would sooner face an enraged bull than a dozen hungry, purposeful pigs. 

The family were often visited by a Franciscan friar, who would arrive at any odd time in his brown habit, sandalled feet, with socks I fear—for the severity of the order was being assailed by the modern lust after creature comforts. He would ply us with questions about an ancient monastery that stood on a peak above a town called Monte Cassino, both places endangered by the proximity of the Allied advance. I remember most clearly how accusing and distraught he was when the place was finally bombed. The Anzio landing gave us brief but deferred hope, as its assault turned to another stalemate. The local partigiani, strong in San Martino but very communistic, were suffering the occasional loss but were making their activities felt—and they had taken their first German prisoner.

Despite reminders and occasional intrusion of war into our rural winter high in the Apennines, our time there proved most happy for Piet and me. There seemed no doubt to me that this community of families had been getting on well with each other for generations. We had been welcomed among them in a season when they could relax from the generally severe demands of mountain farm life, and they were at their social best. The families Spuntarelli were pleasant, thoughtful folk, and Piet and I were happy and privileged to have spent this short part of their life with them.

Pietro’s older brother’s vast family, daughters greatly outnumbering sons, always appeared content, perhaps because they were kept busy. All the best wise saws encouraging busy habits seem to have originated from the days of the simple hardworking peasant (not from the overworked): Satan finds work for, etc. Today’s industrial unemployed are far from content. These daughters, handsome little replicas of their mother, were tutored in all the culinary and housekeeping arts by their grandmother (Nonna). Mother was busy enough with the smaller ones. Nonna would make sure they would prove competent in housewifery, ready for the marriage market. Iolanda, the eldest daughter and my favourite, a blossoming 18- or 19-year-old, was already quite capable in that respect.

They were obviously well brought up, dutiful, polite, pleasant girls but, of necessity, with a tinge of earthiness which could at times jar me. But then I was a city fellow, sophisticated in that urban life which had cossetted me from many of the harder facts of life. Here in Croce della Rocca Franca there were no shops. You lived cheek by jowl among your fresh meat: you assisted it at birth, you watered it, guarded it, fed and doctored it, slaughtered it, and ate it. (I feel sure that there were rules, regulations, and abattoirs, but followed and used with difficulty in wartime Italy).

Thus, for example, I never failed to be taken aback when Iolanda, whom I looked upon as rather angelic, would leave some delicate sewing or embroidery at Nonna’s behest, go outside, return holding a dove from the loft, wring the beautiful white creature’s neck and then, by closing the table drawer on its neck, leave its corpse hanging, awaiting the next stage in its preparation for table, Iolanda perhaps chatting the while, quite unconcernedly.

Piet had a great fancy for Anna, the younger sister of our host Pietro. She lived with her mother and oldest brother—in the big house, of course. She was dark, long-haired with oval, rosy face, about twenty-one but, although aunt to Iolanda and her brothers and sisters, seemed more like their oldest sister. Noticing our liking for the two girls, one of the male Spuntarellis had shown us how to make them knitting needle holders as gifts for Christmas. The ladies did not knit with a needle in each hand. One was held in the right hand, which did the major part of the knitting operation. The holder, handily positioned in the lap by being affixed to belt or apron string, held the other needle, and both used in combination leaving the left hand more or less free.

From a thumb-thick branch you cut off a straight, foot-length piece. With sharp pocketknife, you shaped it and adorned it with carved decorated pattern and pierced a hole through one end of it with a red hot, disused needle, down through the softish centre of the stick to about a half needle length. Therein would be inserted the left-hand needle, ready for use. The girls, under Nonna’s watchful but merry eyes, accepted the presents with modest, smiling faces whilst the family audience looked on with broad grins and leg-pulling comment. But that was as far as all parties allowed their mini amours to go. Who knows perhaps they use the holders yet?—even with the occasional nostalgic sigh?

Though Piet and I could not accustom ourselves to seeing the girls killing poultry, we were becoming inured to such business in that we had helped with the pre-Christmas slaughter of a few pigs. We had withstood the knife to the heart, the blood collecting into bowls held by the women and older girls. We had shaved the carcass, helped with the gutting, and watched the butchering into the various cuts: aye, and even enjoyed their form of black pudding, cooked even as we butchered. I was reminded of my old dad’s talk of the autumn slaughter of the family pig back in 19th century ‘Silly Suffolk’ where every family fed a pig as a source of meat. We were to be glad of the experience. Meat was scarce in Italian cities. On one occasion Pietro’s brother sold a young bullock to some city folk, probably from Foligno. He then washed his hands of the matter and left them to deal with the butchering in his barn. I do believe the old fellow was soft about his bullocks. Apparently he would not attend their slaughter. Piet and I decided to watch. To our horror we soon realised that not one of the townies knew the first thing about slaughtering. Within brief moments of watching Piet jumped in with a roar, grabbed the executioner’s weapon and yelled that he would do it. Although horrified at the prospect, I immediately supported him. All I will add is that we managed the business more quickly and humanely than they would have done. I sincerely hope I never have to do it again. But these relatively idyllic days had to come to an end. The Allies’ grand design in the European theatre of the war would be launched this year. The military might now gathered in Britain was stirring and would soon be given the word to launch itself across the channel. Relating more closely to our own situation was the part the Allied armies in Italy would play in the general assault.

Kesselring knew what was coming and, in preparing to meet the onslaught, was thinking of his supply lines and the partisan threat that was building up well behind the front lines in order to hinder his troops. Field Marshall Alexander, commanding the Allies in Italy, also intended to threaten those supply lines with his air wing. Between the two of them, events would be so arranged as would jolt us out of our complacency. One small part of Alexander’s overall design was destined to literally drop upon us from the heavens above. It would cause Piet and me to completely change our plans and location. Meantime, I was recovering strength for the ‘homerun’ effort ahead.