by Philip Paris
‘Dismissed!’
The men instantly broke up into little groups.
‘Well, he seems different,’ said Buttapasta.
‘And he speaks Italian,’ chipped in Micheloni.
‘Call that Italian!’ said Aldo.
‘He tried,’ said Domenico, ‘and that’s all you can ask of any man.’
‘What now?’ asked Micheloni.
‘Well I’m going to start laying some paths,’ said Buttapasta. ‘There are men sitting around with nothing to do and they all like the idea of paths between the huts, so I’m going to see if Wooden Leg will let us have some tools and help us get some cement from the blockyard. There’s plenty of it.’
‘Wooden Leg?’ asked Domenico.
‘One of the British sergeants,’ answered Aldo, ‘the one with the limp.’
‘He lost his leg in France, but he’s a good man … for a sergeant,’ said Buttapasta. ‘What about you Domenico?’
‘I don’t like this lying around. I’ve an urge to make something.’
‘There speaks a true artist … driven by a desire to create,’ said Buttapasta.
‘What are you planning to make?’ said Aldo. ‘There’s nothing here except mud and huts, but now we might have some cement.’
Domenico’s face took on an almost dream-like appearance. ‘Yes cement. Cement … and barbed wire. It’s perfect.’
‘Barbed wire!’ Aldo was irritated by talk of creativity, unless it could be turned into money and he doubted that was what Domenico had in mind. ‘We’re surrounded by it, Domenico. I’m sure the new British major won’t mind if you take some from the fence, as long as you explain it’s because you’re feeling creative.’
‘I’ll come with you to see Wooden Leg,’ said Domenico to Buttapasta.
‘What about you, Aldo?’ said Micheloni.
‘While we’ve not been working some of the men have been making things, taking ordinary items and turning them into something else. And if they have products to sell then they need buyers. All it takes is someone to put the two together.’
‘And make a profit in the middle,’ said Buttapasta.
‘That’s what life’s about,’ said Aldo.
‘You’ve a lot to learn, Aldo,’ said Buttapasta with a sigh.
6
The men went back to work. Wooden Leg helped them obtain the materials and tools they needed to lay concrete paths between the huts, so that particular cause for unrest was removed. However, there was a last incident of rebellion inspired by the weather, which had been particularly cold and wet for more than a week. That morning, the men in one hut simply refused to get out of bed. When the others went off to work they remained where they were, venturing out only to go to the latrine block or mess hall.
The British left them alone until that night, when soldiers burst into the hut in force and made the inhabitants stand outside while they conducted a ‘search’. Of course, they didn’t find anything, so the men were let back in. An hour later, the process was repeated. It went on throughout the night, with the Italians barely warm in their beds before having to stand outside again.
Like so much in Orkney, destiny was determined not by men but by weather. The following morning dawned clear and bright. The Italians got up, had breakfast and went to work like everyone else. Each side had made its point and the British made no more of the incident.
As the temperature rose so did the general mood and during the spring they transformed the camp by creating flower beds and vegetable plots. Huts competed with each other to have the best borders. The effect was stunning and the camp lost some of its desolate feel. Many of the flowers came from the grounds of nearby Graemeshall whose owner, Patrick Sutherland Graeme, also owned Lamb Holm. He had taken a keen interest in the Italians on his land and small groups had been escorted over several times to gather bulbs and flowers from his own garden. During their visits they had met his daughter Alison and occasionally, to their delight, his small grand-daughters Sheena and Elspeth when they were visiting Orkney.
Men took up hobbies and a variety of groups were formed. They built a stage at one end of the mess hall and most Sunday evenings there was a performance of music from the camp band, which grew in size and stature. A large Nissen hut had been erected within the camp for recreational use and the Italians constructed a billiard table and balls out of leftover concrete. They smoothed the surface of several blankets with razorblades then glued them to the top of the table, using tightly-rolled blankets for side cushions. The POWs also created a concrete bowling alley, whilst several different sporting activities became regular pastimes, as long as they could be carried out within the confines of the perimeter fence.
Every few weeks a selection of books, both English and Italian, arrived from the Red Cross, so an increasing number of men were able to read in their spare time. Some of them used it as a way of trying to improve their English, and Aldo became an avid reader of thrillers. Otherwise, men picked up the language from the construction workers, which left many with a bizarre mixture of slang and swear words, but no understanding of grammar. The POWs also started to receive parcels from their families in Italy. These provided a small source of items that were difficult to obtain from the camp shop and, more importantly, they always contained letters and photographs.
Throughout much of May and into June, Aldo entertained those around him at the end of each working day by bringing back as much gorse as he could carry. Sometimes he could hardly see where he was walking, and as he trudged through the camp gates amidst the other Italians, it looked as though a bush had magically become mobile and set off to explore the land. The guards knew what he was up to but decided to ignore it.
Between the huge pile of stacked wood and the coal bunker at the end of his hut, Aldo made himself a little shelter and he could be found there most fine evenings, happily pulling the petals off the bushes and putting them into a bucket. Along with Dino, who was working in the kitchen, and with some practical advice from Carlo, he had converted a tea urn into a still. At any one time, on the floor by the kitchen ranges, there were several tubs of fermenting liquid containing gorse petals, yeast from the bakery, some of the camp’s valuable sugar ration, plus a few other items that Aldo refused to reveal.
Domenico sat with him one evening, reading a copy of Il Corriere del Prigioniero, one of two regular newspapers printed in London by the British government for the tens of thousands of Italians held in camps around the country. News of what was happening in Europe was readily available as the mess hall contained a radio they could listen to whenever free of work. The battle lines in Africa seemed to shift constantly backwards and forwards. During June the Germans had retaken the Libyan port of Tobruk, capturing thousands of Allied troops. It was the very place at which many of the Italians in Camp 60 had been taken prisoner the previous year.
In other ways the Italians on Lamb Holm were isolated. Physical contact with outsiders was normally only with the guards or Balfour Beatty workers. No communication was allowed with their fellow Italians in the Burray camp and, apart from those fortunate to be given a rare trip to Graemeshall, there were few opportunities to meet Orkney people other than the locals working on the causeways. Aldo chattered away, apparently unconcerned that he was getting no response from Domenico.
‘I hope you’re going to try my gorse spirit when it’s finished. According to one of the guards, this year has been particularly good for gorse on the island. However, Dino and I need to improve the output of our still. It’s too slow. Maybe we should get a second one going. I’m already getting orders from other huts, including one that wants to buy the entire stock. I tell you, it’s becoming quite a business.’
Domenico listened with half an ear. He thought Aldo was happy enough talking to himself.
‘If you give it all to one hut there’s a chance they will get too drunk and the British will probably only ignore your little venture as long as men aren’t incapacitated because of it. Also, you’ll annoy pe
ople in other huts who may not be keen to buy from you in the future. They might even start their own stills.’
The latter possibility, which Aldo had not considered, caused him a moment’s concern and he paused in his petal picking.
‘You’re right. I’ll only allow so much per hut and if I run out it will be the turn of the other huts the next time. I’ll keep a list.’
Aldo kept lots of lists, the most important showing who owed him money or goods such as cigarettes, which he bartered for other saleable items.
Domenico stood up. ‘Well, I’m off to see Shipwreck before he closes the shop. I’ll see you later.’
‘Domenico,’ shouted Shipwreck, as Domenico walked into the canteen. He was sitting at a table talking to a couple of men, which was virtually his sole occupation when he wasn’t playing chess with Domenico. ‘How about a game tonight? Perhaps I’ll let you win.’
Domenico nodded to the other Italians. ‘Yes, I’ll give you a game.’
‘What can I do for you today? I was just about to lock up.’
‘Toothpaste please.’
Shipwreck’s real name was Primiano Malvolti. He had been an outstanding sportsman before the war but arrived on Lamb Holm leaning on a heavy, knotty stick and had never been without it since. He refused to discuss the injury to his leg, but due to his disability he had been given the shop and canteen to run. Domenico almost felt guilty as Shipwreck struggled to his feet and walked behind the counter.
Shipwreck rarely left the camp and was such an easy figure to spot that he had become quite well known, and liked, by the guards. He had gained his nickname due to an incident with a ‘peedie’ boat that had sunk, leaving him to swim ashore holding a carton of cigarettes above his head all the way. The name had stuck.
‘Here,’ said Shipwreck handing over the tube of toothpaste.
Domenico put a one shilling token on the counter.
‘I suppose you want the balance made up in paper so you can do your drawings?’
Domenico smiled. The little shop sold an assortment of toiletries, stationery and food, and even had a few musical instruments. The POWs could purchase items with their camp tokens, which they received once a week in the mess hall. Italians had gradually taken over an increasing number of skilled jobs from the construction workers and several were now driving the steam and diesel trains, or operating the diggers and dumper trucks.
The summer rolled by and the war in Europe continued without the men in Camp 60. German planes targeted the ships moored far to the west of Lamb Holm, and were not interested in camps on small islands. For the POWs, life centred on building the barriers, or ‘causeways’ as they were now officially called. They worked their eight-hour shifts, six days a week, making five-ton concrete blocks in the block-making yard, putting together wire bolster nets, filling them at the quarry, working on the railway lines or the workshops and unloading supplies from the never-ending stream of barges.
The blocks and bolsters were dropped constantly into the sea from the huge cableways; two across Kirk Sound, which included the greatest depths, and one each across Skerry, Weddel and Water Sound. The huge cableways that stretched between the islands were known as ‘Blondins’ after a famous nineteenth-century tightrope walker. Four of the five cableways had been transported all the way from Iraq, where they had been used to build a barrier across the River Tigris. The fifth had travelled less far, having been last used to construct the Dornie Bridge in Ross-Shire.
Despite the tens of thousands of tons of rock and concrete blocks dropped into the channels along the line of the cables, nothing was visible above the water. By the autumn, many people working on the project were beginning to lose heart so it was decided that, in two of the channels, everything would be dropped in one particular spot.
‘I still think they’re mad,’ said Aldo, who had never forgiven the British for cutting holes in his uniform.
He was part of a gang working at the Lamb Holm end of causeway number one. Domenico, Buttapasta and Micheloni were standing nearby. They had just attached a skip to the steel wire that hung down from the ‘bicycle’, which ran along the top of the main cable. It stretched 2,400 feet between Lamb Holm and mainland Orkney. They had repeated this task so many times they no longer watched the skip’s progress as it travelled across the water to tip its heavy load with a great splash into the sea. At the beginning they had been fascinated.
‘I hear most of the local people think the British are insane and the channels will never be blocked,’ added Aldo.
‘They say the tide runs at more than ten knots in the channels and under the water’s surface everything is simply being washed out to sea,’ said Micheloni.
‘We’re wasting our time,’ said Aldo.
‘They’re hopeful that dropping everything in one spot will show some results soon,’ offered Buttapasta. ‘Apparently the British divers who go down to check what is happening on the seabed say the blocks are rising steadily.’
‘I don’t believe them,’ said Aldo. ‘They’ve been saying that for months.’
They turned at the sound of shouting and could see several men running towards the shoreline.
‘Come on. Let’s find out what’s happening,’ said Buttapasta.
They jumped from the wagon and headed towards the gathering crowd, where men were pointing excitedly towards mainland Orkney. When Buttapasta and the others arrived, they realised people weren’t pointing at the land opposite, but at a tiny piece of bolster sticking above the water. It had worked. The tide was well out and the few rocks from the quarry, held within their steel cage, would soon be covered again. But it had worked. Bolster upon bolster had been piled all the way up from the seabed. The men, Italians and civilians alike, started clapping and cheering. Balfour Beatty engineers shook hands enthusiastically with nearby Italians. They were not the enemy but fellow workers who had helped achieve what many said was impossible.
‘What’s wrong with Aldo?’ asked Buttapasta of Domenico.
The two were as pleased as anyone that the heavy work they were involved in was not simply a huge waste of effort. Domenico looked over at Aldo, who had moved away from the crowd and was checking the small notebook he always carried in his jacket pocket. Domenico chuckled.
‘Our young friend has taken several bets on when the first bolster would appear above the water’s surface and I think this is rather earlier than he hoped,’ he said.
‘He’ll probably argue the point that it’s only visible at low tide.’
‘No doubt! Come on. Let’s try and cheer him up.’
‘Why do I find so much of my time is taken up looking after Aldo,’ asked Buttapasta, as he walked after Domenico.
Few of the Italians had any idea of the enormous amount of research that had been carried out prior to any actual work starting on the causeways. This had included meticulous experiments by scientists at Manchester University with scaled down models of the islands and tiny blocks of concrete, to calculate the most effective size and weight of blocks and the pattern in which they should be laid. With the construction of the causeways expected to cost more than two million pounds, there was a huge sigh of relief in many official quarters at the success that morning. The bolsters were once more dropped along the entire length of the cable.
Men found it difficult to decide whether the experience of their first few months on the island had helped to prepare them for the forthcoming bad weather or made them more wary of it. Either way, the days grew colder and daylight shorter. The routine of the camp gave the men some structure to their lives, if not actually purpose. In the long dark evenings men stayed close to the stoves in their huts or gathered in the recreation hall, where there were now three concrete billiard tables complete with concrete balls.
The number of interest groups had mushroomed. A writing circle had been formed and the number of men who carved and etched grew constantly. Domenico and Dino started giving sketching lessons and often had a small group around their table after
supper. Most huts had at least one musician and men sang and listened to music around stoves, while outside the wind tried to rip buildings from the steel wires that held them down.
There were even two theatre groups, split between those from northern and southern Italy. Art did not transcend all boundaries when it came to theatre, with the result that the two groups were highly competitive. Those from the north preferred works such as Venetian marionette productions, while the southerners stuck to playwrights from their part of the country, who they knew and understood.
The hobbies were an attempt to overcome the boredom and frustration of their lives and the numerous activities masked the despair that hung around huts like damp on a winter’s night. But no matter how many games or musicals they threw themselves into, and despite pages of sketches and drawers full of carvings, that constant damp seeped into their bones and festered.
7
‘Christmas will be hard,’ said Carlo.
He was washing some spare clothing at one of the large stone sinks in the wash block. Dino was at the next sink, scrubbing equally furiously at a pair of trousers with a bar of hard green soap and a brush.
‘It’s always the worst time to be away from family and home,’ answered Dino. ‘You can see the men feel isolated.’
‘These unnaturally short days would drive anyone to despair,’ said Carlo.
‘I think Doctor Rocco will be busy,’ said Dino.
‘There’s bugger all he can do. A priest would do more good though.’
‘Will you go to the mess hall later?’ asked Dino.
Many Italians gathered in the mess hall on a Sunday morning to pray and read from the bible. It was the best they could do without a priest or a church, the lack of which affected them as severely as the weather. Carlo stopped what he was doing to look at his cousin. He smiled fondly. Since arriving at the camp, the two had always gone to the mess hall on a Sunday to pray. It had become a part of the weekly routine. But Dino asked anyway.
