by Philip Paris
‘And here,’ said Major Buckland, turning to the last man in the group, ‘is Domenico Chiocchetti, whose work you so admired.’
‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Padre. I know the men will be greatly reassured you are here.’
‘I was impressed by your sculpture. It goes beyond an object of artistic skill and materialistic beauty.’
‘Thank you, Padre,’ said Domenico. ‘I hope that we’ll soon be able to attend mass?’
‘Yes, Major Buckland has kindly said we may use the mess hall tomorrow morning … once we’ve cleared away the theatrical props.’
The mess hall that night was full. Major Buckland and Major Booth sat at the front with Padre Giacomo and Sergeant Major Fornasier. Most of the camp guards stood around at the back of the hall but this was to watch the actors rather than the audience. Although none of them spoke Italian they always had the plot explained beforehand, so following the performance wasn’t too difficult. Domenico had been extra busy during the previous few weeks. He ran the ‘northern’ acting group as well as producing the backdrops for each scene and this was one of their performances. After about half an hour everyone in the mess hall was laughing so much that the men on stage could hardly be heard. It didn’t matter.
There was no difficulty the following morning in hearing the strong, clear voice of Padre Giacomo conducting mass in a mixture of Italian and Latin. The mess hall held about 400 men and they ate up the words spoken more readily than any meal that had ever been served.
‘We are all many miles from home, from the people we love, the language, the food and the culture we understand, but never forget that God is everywhere. Never feel He has forgotten you. Keep Him in your heart and your thoughts. One day the war will be over. Many of our countrymen will not return home. So whatever we may eventually find, we are fortunate to be alive. Let us praise God for that and pray to Him to keep our loved ones safe and to end the war.’
Outside the mess hall Aldo leant against a hut, smoking and listening to the subdued voices of the men inside as they prayed. After a few moments he threw the cigarette down and walked away, hands thrust deep into his pockets.
When the service was over Padre Giacomo stood outside so that he could speak to as many of the congregation as possible as they filed out. Domenico was one of the last to leave and by this time there were several small groups of men, standing around the parade ground talking.
‘Domenico,’ said Padre Giacomo.
‘Padre. The service was good. There were a lot of people.’
‘Yes … and then … there were a lot of people not there.’
‘Some will embrace God with joy,’ offered Domenico, ‘but I think there are others who have seen or done things before being captured that could make them feel …’ Domenico’s sentence trailed off partly because he did not know how to finish it, but also because he felt it was not necessary.
‘It is difficult to believe in the goodness of God when you are surrounded by evil acts of men,’ said Padre Giacomo. ‘I know what you are saying, Domenico. There will be men here who I cannot influence, no matter how hard I try. But that will not stop me from trying.’
‘Padre, I wanted to talk to you about something.’
‘And I am here to listen, and be of help if I can. Wait a short while and then let us take a walk around the camp. I didn’t complete my tour with Major Buckland yesterday.’
It wasn’t long before the two men were walking round the inside of the perimeter fence.
‘And there you have it, Padre. The British have a hut for administration purposes, but their camp is only about ten minutes away so they don’t eat or sleep here.’
‘However, the camp has certainly been transformed into something that is more appealing to the Italian eye. And your statue is the centrepiece, Domenico. It’s truly a work of art.’
‘In a way, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Padre. The statue shouldn’t be the centrepiece … there should be a chapel.’
Padre Giacomo stopped walking.
‘A chapel? You mean … build a chapel? In the camp? But how?’
‘Not entirely from scratch. But I’ve been thinking … If we could have a Nissen hut, we could convert it,’ said Domenico with nervous excitement at the unknown reaction he would receive.
‘Convert a Nissen hut into a chapel? Well, it’s an interesting idea … extremely interesting.’
Padre Giacomo had become instantly enthralled at the prospect, but hesitated at asking about the practicalities in case the idea turned out to be no more than a prisoner’s enthusiastic pipe dream.
‘Could you do it, Domenico?’
‘Not alone, Padre, but there are many skilled men in the camp and I’m sure there would be a lot of willing hands. The idea has been in my mind, but without a priest …’
‘And now you have one. How can I help?’ asked Padre Giacomo.
‘Will you speak to Major Buckland and ask him if we can have a Nissen hut? It may be that there is a spare one.’
‘I’ll ask him. I’ll ask him with pleasure. And good luck to both of us,’ said Padre Giacomo with a smile.
At that moment the two men turned towards the centre of the camp where a great deal of shouting could suddenly be heard.
‘I wonder what’s going on,’ asked Padre Giacomo, half expecting Domenico to explain away the noise as if it was a regular event on a Sunday morning.
‘It must be something big,’ said Domenico.
With a silent agreement the two men, drawn by natural curiosity, made their way back to the parade ground. When they got there, they both stood open mouthed at the sight before them.
12
Men from virtually every hut were spilling on to the parade ground in whatever they happened to be wearing. A couple had come out of the wash block with nothing more than towels around their waists. Some were running around laughing, shouting and slapping each other on the back. A few were trying to tear off the target discs on their clothing. However, many were subdued and some looked utterly shocked. Domenico and Padre Giacomo pushed themselves into the rapidly growing throng of bodies. Domenico stopped the nearest man.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘The news is going around the camp,’ said the man, almost breathless with excitement. ‘Badoglio has signed an armistice with the British and their allies. We’re not at war with Britain anymore. We’re not prisoners. We’re free.’
Major Buckland stood up from his desk and walked over to the window to see what was causing the commotion. There was a knock at the door and Sergeant Slater entered.
‘Sergeant Slater. What the devil’s going on?’
‘It’s just been on the radio, sir. Italy has capitulated.’
‘Good God. Capitulated?’
‘What does it mean, sir?’
‘That’s a bloody good question. If Italy really has capitulated then we’ve got more than 500 men in a POW camp who may no longer be prisoners of war.’
‘Not prisoners, sir? Then what do we do with them?’
‘Damned if I know. You’d better tell Anderson to get the War Office on the phone as quick as you can. Thank you, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Major Buckland moved back to his desk as Sergeant Slater made for the door.
‘And Sergeant Slater.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Spread the word to the men. We don’t want any guards thinking there’s some sort of mass breakout going on. It wouldn’t do to shoot someone now … they’re not the enemy anymore.’
‘Capitulated. Well, who’d have thought it?’ Major Buckland said to the empty room then he smiled and let out a bark of a laugh.
For the next couple of hours, there was complete confusion throughout the camp, with rumour after rumour first raising men’s hopes then dashing them. Some thought they would go back to Italy as they could no longer legitimately be held as prisoners of war, while others thought this was fanciful wishing. Everyone felt unse
ttled and feared what might be happening back home. Countries they had originally gone to war against were now allies, whilst those that had been allies appeared to have become enemies.
Domenico and Padre Giacomo had eventually found Buttapasta, Aldo and Micheloni. The group stood to one side of the parade ground. In the centre men had to shout to be heard by their neighbour as the noise was so great. Aldo was unpicking the large red target disc from the back of his jacket.
‘You look worried, Micheloni,’ said Buttapasta.
‘I was wondering what the Germans might do in Italy,’ he answered.
‘Maybe they’ll send us home and we can kick everyone out of Italy who is not Italian. That would be a good start,’ said Aldo. Although everyone agreed with the sentiment they knew this was not a practical suggestion.
‘I doubt we’ll be going anywhere until the war is over,’ said Domenico. ‘The British aren’t going to find spare ships to take us back to Italy while they’re still fighting the Germans, and it would be too dangerous anyway.’
‘But we can’t be prisoners of war any longer,’ stated Buttapasta with certainty. ‘What do you think, padre?’
‘I don’t know, Domenico,’ answered Padre Giacomo, who insisted on calling Buttapasta by his first name. ‘But I suspect the British won’t know either. In the end, there may be little change in our lives.’
‘No change?’ said Aldo, crestfallen at the thought.
‘Well, we’ve got to be housed and fed somewhere, so I suppose we will stay in the camps. And there is still the task of completing the … causeways. I suppose Major Buckland will tell us as soon as he knows himself.’
But the days passed without news and the mood in the camp became sombre as men worried about loved ones. Italy was set to become even more of a battleground now than it had been before, and the danger to civilians in some areas of the country was greater than ever.
13
‘Build a chapel?’
The question was put by Major Buckland, who sat at his desk facing Padre Giacomo.
‘Here in the camp? Well, it’s certainly an idea, padre. In fact, the Prisoner of War Inspector of Camps from the War Office suggested some time ago that we should provide a chapel for the men. But these things are easier said than done. Gordon Nicol … he’s the civil engineer overseeing the entire causeway project … he and I have been talking recently about the lack of a facility to hold classes.’
Now it was Padre Giacomo’s turn to be surprised.
‘Classes, Major Buckland?’
‘Yes. Several Italians have asked about the possibility of organising classes and there are many highly educated men here who would be eager to help. Perhaps we could look at finding some way of meeting both needs?’
‘That sounds like an excellent proposal,’ said Padre Giacomo, whose mind was already racing with new ideas.
‘I’ll speak to Gordon. If anyone can solve a logistical problem, it’s him.’
‘I am confident of leaving the solution in your and Mr Nicol’s hands … and God’s, of course.’
Anderson knocked on the door and let Domenico into the room. It was a few days after the meeting between Padre Giacomo and Major Buckland and the British officer had requested to see him.
‘Ah, Domenico, come in. Stand easy,’ said Major Buckland in Italian. He still wasn’t fluent but could generally be understood.
‘Sir,’ said Domenico, waiting to hear why he had been summoned to the office, where he had never been before. He stood in the centre of the room, hands behind his back.
‘You’ll be pleased to hear that Mr Nicol has been able to secure two Nissen huts; one for the men to use as a classroom and the other to be transformed into a cathedral,’ said Major Buckland with a smile.
Domenico smiled back. He was amused at the idea of making a cathedral, a word he guessed Major Buckland hadn’t intended to use. However, as he thought about it, the idea appealed to him.
‘Each hut is really too small by itself and will need to be moved from where they are currently situated, so I suggest they are placed end to end to make one larger building. I shouldn’t think that will be a problem and joining them together will give you an adequate size. I’m not sure how you plan to convert them,’ said Major Buckland. He paused and as Domenico didn’t say anything he asked the one question that was troubling him. ‘Can you really do it?’
‘There are many skilled men in the camp, sir,’ replied Domenico. ‘I’m confident the work can be done really well, or we will not do it.’
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence in the room during which Major Buckland’s face underwent a transformation of emotions. He reverted to English almost unconsciously.
‘Not do the work? But we’ve gone to a great deal of trouble. Good God, man. I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’
Domenico could speak some English but Major Buckland’s words were blurted out in such a rush that he was hard pushed to understand what had just been said. He certainly had no idea why the British officer had become so agitated.
‘Not unless it’s done well, sir,’ he said again, hoping that this would be the right thing to stress.
‘I’ve never known such ingratitude,’ said Major Buckland picking up the telephone on his desk. ‘Not do the work. No, not you!’ he shouted down the handset. ‘Get me the interpreter at the double.’
Major Buckland slammed down the telephone and glared at Domenico, who was completely at a loss as to what he had done to cause the normally mild officer to be so upset. The meeting was beginning to feel slightly surreal.
‘Not do the work,’ he continued. ‘I can’t believe my ruddy ears.’
The following few minutes passed in agonising slowness, while Major Buckland huffed and Domenico waited with a mixture of alarm and bemusement. It wasn’t long before they heard someone walking quickly through the main office. Major Buckland called out ‘Enter’ before there was even a knock at the door and moments later the interpreter stood in the room alongside Domenico.
‘Major Buckland. You have a problem, sir?’
‘We’ve gone to a great deal of effort to secure two Nissen huts, which this fellow is meant to convert into a chapel and a school, only now he says he’s not going to do the work! It’s outrageous.’
The camp’s interpreter was an English civilian and he always appeared friendly enough, although generally rather harassed, partly as a result of not being able to understand many of the dialects used by the men.
‘Signor Chiocchetti. Major Buckland seems to think you are not willing to do the work to convert the Nissen huts into a chapel and a school.’
‘Not at all,’ said Domenico both surprised and aghast. ‘What I said was that we would not do the work unless we could do it really well.’
‘Ah, you want to make a good job of it?’ he said.
‘Of course.’
‘Like your beautiful statue of St George and the dragon?’
‘But hopefully without the need for barbed wire,’ replied Domenico. It was clear to him now what had happened but not to Major Buckland, who was as lost at the quickly-spoken Italian as Domenico had been at the rapidly-spoken English.
‘A simple misunderstanding, sir,’ said the interpreter in English. ‘Signor Chiocchetti says he will work on the Nissen huts only if he believes he can complete the task to a high standard, which is what he aims to do.’
Major Buckland looked blank for a brief moment then his angry expression evaporated in an instant to be replaced by a huge grin. He stood up and walked around the table.
‘Make a good job of it. Excellent,’ he said and as he reached Domenico he slapped him heartily on the back. ‘Bravo! Make a good job. That’s the spirit, old chap.’
The following Sunday afternoon, Domenico and Buttapasta stood outside a group of Nissen huts situated a short distance from Camp 60. Gordon Nicol had suggested the Italians could have two of the smaller huts but as Domenico stood before one of them, the key in his hand, he hesitate
d. Unlocking the door and stepping inside would be the first physical act he had taken in this quest.
Until now he had talked and planned, bounced ideas off those he respected and obtained agreement from those in authority. But once he opened the door, the chapel would be underway, and much of the responsibility for its success or failure would lie with him. So he hesitated and Buttapasta waited in silence.
If either of them imagined there might be a spiritual feeling at this particular stage of their quest, any such notion was quickly dispelled when Domenico found he couldn’t budge the door. It took Buttapasta’s not inconsiderable strength to push the door inch by inch, until both of them could squeeze inside. They looked around in dismay. The hut was packed from floor to ceiling with old furniture, benches, planks of wood and twisted joists that might at one time have been considered building material. The two men stood in silence. They couldn’t even begin to think of moving the hut until it was emptied.
‘Come on,’ said Buttapasta, seeing the disappointed look on Domenico’s face. ‘Let’s see what the other hut is like. It might not be so bad.’
Moments later they stood in the identical hut, equally crammed with discarded items.
‘Well, that’s okay then. We’ll soon get this sorted,’ said Buttapasta.
Domenico looked at him in alarm. ‘You’re not thinking that we should move all this ourselves?’
‘Don’t be daft, Domenico. I’m just going to round up a few friends who think they’ve nothing better to do this afternoon than laze around on their backsides, while you go and find out where we can put it all.’
Less than an hour later, about 200 Italians in a huge human chain were passing the contents of the huts along to an area of waste ground just outside the camp. While this was taking place, Sergeant Slater gathered half a dozen Italians and took them to the Balfour Beatty workshops, where they collected as many saws, axes and wrecking bars as they could. Scores of men lent a hand to break up and cut any wood suitable for use in the stoves.
