The Italian Chapel

by Philip Paris

Unless it was to do with a sale, Aldo didn’t analyse a situation too much. But as he looked back at Lamb Holm he acknowledged his fear of being poor again; a horror of being the way he was after his mother had died, when his father had fallen apart. It had been a terrible time until Aldo had taken control of the situation. He sighed. Examining the past was not the purpose of today. The teak would please Domenico and that was enough reason to sacrifice a few hours.

  Turning his back on Lamb Holm, he started across the gangplank to the Emerald Wings, a steamer from the 1920s. The ship had been purposely sunk in 1940 along with the two others in order to block the channel between Lamb Holm and Glimps Holm. Aldo picked up three paraffin lamps stored under cover on the top deck and went down one level. He didn’t like going below and it was only the possibility of finding something to sell that had encouraged him to explore the sunken ships in the first place.

  He lit one of the lamps and walked to the ladder leading to the deck below. He landed in about two feet of water. He had never known such blackness before entering the ship for the first time and the completeness of it had astonished him. A few yards further on Aldo hung the first lamp from a hook in the ceiling, lit the second lamp and set off again.

  He had a mental plan of how to get to the room that contained the teak cabinet and walked upwards, back towards the bow, which remained dry even at high tide. Stopping at a crosssection of corridors, he hung the second lamp from a peg on the wall before lighting the third. He quickly found the room he wanted. It may have been an officer’s cabin, perhaps even the captain’s. He didn’t really care. What mattered was that it had a beautiful teak cabinet that would provide the perfect material for the tabernacle.

  Aldo took off his rucksack from which he produced a torch and tools. He knew he would have to be methodical or would end up damaging the wood, as he had no aptitude for this sort of work. He shivered. The ship groaned as a gentle movement of the water caused it to rock where it lay on the seabed, reminding him of that fateful journey across the Pentland Firth. He stopped.

  When was that? He thought about it. He had been on the island for two and a half years. In a few weeks it would be his twenty-second birthday. Perhaps he would celebrate with Domenico and Buttapasta. His latest batch of spirit was the best yet. This was not the place to daydream. He picked up a screwdriver.

  On the field where the competitions were about to take place, close to 2,000 people were determined to have a good time. Even before events began there was a huge amount of activity. One Italian from Camp 34 had gone to great effort to make a suitable clown’s costume and paint his face.

  Both children and adults stood open-mouthed as a group of Italians performed mid-air somersaults and other acrobatics. The bands from both camps had set up at opposite ends of the field and took it in turns to play. Men from each camp looked out for old friends and the reunions taking place around the field added to the carnival feel.

  It wasn’t long before the four Italian teams marched on to the centre of the field. The applause almost drowned out the loud speaker system.

  ‘And here we have Sergeant Rizzato, the sports instructor, leading the four teams on to the field. Here they are: Sparvieri, Ardente, Limatori and Disperata.’ The corporal who had provided commentary for the football match was once more behind the microphone.

  The teams lined up in front of the highly decorated podium and Major Buckland returned Sergeant Rizzato’s salute, then they dispersed, running to various points around the field. In addition to their training, Sergeant Rizzato had ensured men knew the sequence of races and how they fitted into other competitor events. British and Italian sergeants acted as stewards.

  Domenico and Buttapasta found a good position near the starting line and waited patiently for the runners, who were currently gathered around one of the stewards a short distance away. Their ‘pre-race’ lecture over, the eight men walked to the start line and began a series of stretches and exercises. One man in particular stood out because of his vigorous and obviously well-practised routine.

  ‘Look!’ said Buttapasta, pointing.

  ‘I don’t believe my eyes,’ said Domenico.

  ‘Is it a joke?’

  Other men from Camp 60 who had seen the same individual started to cheer. The Orkney families standing nearby and the men from Camp 34 couldn’t understand why people were laughing at the athletic-looking man, limbering up with such precision. They didn’t know him, didn’t know that he was called…Shipwreck.

  ‘If it’s a joke, it’s on the British,’ said Domenico.

  Then they both started laughing and cheering and clapping. The runners lined up and the sergeant called for quiet before he fired the starting pistol.

  ‘And they’re off, with Meozzi and Marinucci taking an early lead, and Malvolti a close third,’ said the corporal at the microphone. ‘It’s quickly developing into a race between the two team mates from Ardente. And it’s Marinucci at the line, Meozzi second, ensuring Ardente gets off to a huge lead. Malvolti coming in an impressive third.’

  It did not take long for the other events to get underway, accompanied by constant bursts of applause from around the field.

  ‘Well, the excellent weather is certainly being matched by some brilliant performances in the javelin, including some good throws from Malvolti, who I have just been informed has entered virtually every discipline,’ said the voice from the speakers.

  The only sound on the Emerald Wings was from a blackheaded gull, sitting by the hatch that Aldo had descended earlier, and of water lapping against the deck. Each time the sea covered a few more inches before retreating. Below decks, Aldo found his mind wandering, going over events earlier in his life. Memories that hadn’t surfaced for years invaded his thoughts.

  Back at the field the crowd hardly had a moment when they were not being entertained.

  ‘There’s certainly some good skill on the field,’ said Buttapasta. ‘And what about Shipwreck? I bet he’s in for some trouble after today. He looks as though he could have been a successful sportsman if there hadn’t been a war.’

  ‘All our lives would have been different if there hadn’t been a war,’ answered Domenico. ‘We wouldn’t be on this tiny island so far from home.’

  ‘And we wouldn’t be here had the German U-boat not sunk the British battleship in Scapa Flow.’

  ‘I wonder where we would have ended up,’ said Domenico. ‘I should have been transferred from an Egyptian camp to India, along with the others, but I got to know a Scottish corporal and, at the last minute, he included me in the group being sent to Britain. I never saw him again but here I am.’

  ‘Maybe if you’d gone to India, you’d have helped to build a chapel there. You’d at least have been a bit warmer.’

  * * *

  On the Emerald Wings the gull had taken off, its warnings replaced by the sound of water pouring into the open hatch.

  Domenico was enjoying the day, but something kept tugging at the back of his mind, putting him in a reflective mood.

  ‘When we eventually leave the island, there’ll be no one who will know…There’ll be nobody to tell our story. What will we leave behind?’

  ‘A chapel in which people can pray? Causeways for the locals to drive over?’ offered Buttapasta.

  ‘Helping to create the chapel has been the noblest thing I’ve ever done. But it’s still a Nissen hut and will one day collapse and be lost.’

  ‘But at least while it survives it will touch people here,’ said Buttapasta tapping Domenico on the chest.

  A voice boomed over the loud speaker system, effectively interrupting normal speech.

  ‘And now we have one of the highlights of the whole day, the four by four hundred yards relay.’

  Buttapasta put his arm around Domenico’s shoulders.

  ‘Come on, my friend. Let’s go and watch the runners and leave the cares of the world behind us for a few minutes. I wonder how Shipwreck will do in this event.’

  As the third group of
athletes began running around the track, Aldo tied together the bundle of teak he had so carefully removed. He replaced his tools and torch in the rucksack, tucked the wood under his arm and picked up the lantern, wanting to get into daylight and fresh air once more. The rusty metal walls were beginning to press in on him and the ship was groaning and moving more than it had earlier. But he had no doubt that the sight of Domenico’s face, when he presented him with the quality teak, would be worth any discomfort he had put up with.

  By the time the athletes were running the end of the third leg the crowd were screaming wildly.

  The commentator, almost hysterical by this point, could hardly be heard.

  ‘And here we have Meozzi about to hand over the baton for the final leg to his team mate Marinucci.’

  Marinucci took the baton in a text book changeover and set off at a blistering pace, the ground seeming to disappear before him. When he was fifty yards from the finishing line nobody could make out anything coming over the loud speaker system, but the corporal screamed into his microphone nonetheless.

  ‘What a performance. It’s going to be Marinucci. No one can touch him now. What a race. It’s Marinucci! It’s Marinucci!’

  Aldo sensed something was wrong. The ship felt different. He took the second lamp off its peg and carried on at a faster pace with both lamps in one hand. At the next corner he stopped. The bundle of wood fell to the floor with a sickening thud.

  25

  The edge of the water was only yards away from him and as he stared, it crept even nearer, little icy fingers of death reaching out for his toes. To get out of the ship Aldo had to head towards the stern, but this now appeared to be totally submerged. The ship had become a giant, rusty coffin.

  Aldo had not shirked from the fighting in North Africa but he had faced those dangers along with his friends. But to die alone … One lamp slipped and went out as it crashed to the floor. It catapulted him from immobility to action and he began to splash wildly through the water, distorted echoes and shadows following his flight.

  When he reached the last corridor the water was up to his chest, but the first lamp, hanging from the ceiling, was still lit, like a beacon. He threw away the one he was carrying so he could use both hands to pull himself along. The seawater was pouring down the steps from the deck above. This was the way out.

  Aldo felt his body going numb. His chest seemed to be encased in iron straps. Aldo knew he was going to die. He wouldn’t be handing over the wood for his tabernacle or see the chapel completed. He would never again lie in the heat of an Italian sun and drink wine with Domenico and Buttapasta, as they had talked about so often. Instead, he would be left behind, buried in the cemetery like Dino.

  By the time Aldo reached the steps, the water was almost at the base of the lamp. He would only get one attempt at climbing the steps. Stretching out, he took hold of the handrail, his arm instantly pummelled by the force of the water, but there was no going back. He launched himself and grabbed the second rail, but his feet were swept off the steps and he remained purely by the strength in his arms.

  He fought desperately to get a foot hold. It was now a race in slow motion to climb the steps with speed and caution. He managed four steps when everything went dark and in that one instant of surprise he slipped. His leg seemed to explode as it hit something then Aldo was swept back, down into the blackness below.

  Domenico and Buttapasta met Major Buckland, who had left the podium to stretch his legs and talk to the men.

  ‘I see our Shipwreck isn’t as wrecked as we thought,’ said Major Buckland amicably.

  They looked at him in silence, feeling rather embarrassed, as if they had been in on the deception. However, the British officer continued without any hint of accusation.

  ‘I’ve never known such a day. It makes me feel old watching them sprinting around like that.’

  ‘Sometimes it feels as though we’ll all be old before we return home and our lives will have been spent on this little island,’ said Domenico. ‘I was just explaining earlier, sir, how a chance meeting with a Scottish corporal in Egypt resulted in me being sent to Lamb Holm and not to India.’

  ‘Perhaps it was your fate,’ offered Buttapasta.

  ‘Ah yes … fate,’ said Major Buckland. ‘We all like to believe we control our lives and destiny, particularly when we’re young and full of energy and certainty. But we often have no more control than a leaf blown by the wind.’

  The three fell silent. Domenico and Buttapasta weren’t quite sure if the officer had more to add, or had said what he intended. Major Buckland seemed to be considering something else. Eventually he spoke.

  ‘When I was a young man I worked as a steward on board the great ocean liners, which ran between England and America.’

  ‘That must have been quite an experience, sir,’ said Domenico.

  ‘Indeed, I met people from all walks of life. A new world was opening up and with it previously unheard of opportunities. By 1912, I was working on the SS Cedric doing regular trips between Liverpool and New York, when I was offered the chance to sail on a much grander ship, about to make its maiden voyage across the Atlantic. I was beside myself with excitement, then at the last minute another steward was sick and I had to remain where I was.’

  Major Buckland paused for a while, so lost in the memory of what he was recalling that he was almost talking to himself.

  ‘Yes, and on the night of 14th April, I was so very disappointed that fate decided I should be stuck on the Cedric. I could have been part of history and felt cheated.’

  He looked at the two Italians and saw their slightly confused expressions. It seemed to bring him back to the present.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’m rambling. The other ship… the one I should have been on…it was the Titanic.’

  ‘Mamma mia!’ said Buttapasta.

  ‘My poor mother was frantic because she thought I’d transferred ships and it was several days before I was able to contact her. All because someone else was sick and I had to take his place.’

  On the Lycia, Micheloni and De Vitto were packing away their fishing rods and their best-ever catches, both in excellent spirits.

  ‘Time to go,’ said Micheloni. ‘I don’t think I want to carry much more than this back to camp.’

  ‘I wonder how the sports event is going. I bet there’ll be a few tales to tell over tonight’s meal.’

  They made their way to the ladder that led down to the ground. Micheloni climbed over the side and put out his hand for the catch. But De Vitto was staring at him, the fish held limply by this side.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Micheloni.

  ‘We’ve not seen Aldo,’ he said.

  ‘Aldo?’

  ‘He could only get off by passing us,’ pointed out De Vitto.

  ‘Well he can’t still be on the Emerald Wings,’ said Micheloni. ‘Most of it’s underwater.’

  The two men looked down the length of the Lycia beyond the Ilsenstein to the Emerald Wings. De Vitto dropped the fish and started to sprint.

  ‘Shit!’ exclaimed Micheloni.

  The two men raced from the bow to the stern of the Ilsenstein, across the gangplank and on to the Emerald Wings. The hatch was completely submerged.

  ‘What can we do?’ asked Micheloni.

  ‘British divers,’ screamed De Vitto over his shoulder, running recklessly back on to the Ilsenstein. ‘They’re always training somewhere nearby. Find British divers.’

  * * *

  Buttapasta was just about to say something to Domenico when an army truck came wildly across the ground, horn blaring continuously. The truck screeched to a halt and the door flung open. The driver stood on the step looking out over the crowd.

  ‘Something’s up. Come on,’ said Buttapasta, who started jogging towards the truck.

  Micheloni saw them move away from the gaping crowd and waved at them to run faster. When they were within hearing distance he shouted.

  ‘Aldo is trapped by the tide i
nside the Emerald Wings.’

  Domenico and Buttapasta didn’t wait for further details but raced around to clamber in the other side of the cab. The truck squealed in protest at being turned around in such a tight circle and shot off back down the field.

  A group of people crowded around something lying on the ground under the shadow of the Lycia. Two British divers sat nearby, trying to get their breath back. Buttapasta pushed through the crowd and stared down at the crumpled body. Aldo looked like a child.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said De Vitto. ‘He’s shown no signs of life since he was brought up.’

  Buttapasta was suddenly a frenzy of activity, pushing De Vitto out of the way.

  ‘Aldo! Aldo! You’re not dying on me, you little bastard. You hear me.’

  Domenico was frantically searching for a pulse in Aldo’s neck.

  ‘I’m not sure, but I think there’s something,’ he said.

  The two men looked at each other across the body of their friend.

  ‘The Balfour Hospital is the nearest,’ said Buttapasta.

  Men darted forward, lifted Aldo and ran to the back of the truck. Speed was everything. Buttapasta and Domenico jumped into the back and the others handed up Aldo’s limp body.

  ‘The Balfour Hospital,’ shouted Domenico.

  Micheloni had remained in the cab with the engine running, and on hearing Domenico he slammed the truck into gear and once more had it screaming in protest.

  He drove like a man possessed and kept his hand on the horn virtually for the entire journey, so when they slithered to a halt at the hospital entrance a doctor and nurse were already running out before Buttapasta had jumped down.

  ‘His name’s Aldo Tolino and he’s been trapped inside a blockship by the tide,’ blurted Buttapasta who, with Domenico, was helping to lift Aldo’s body. Micheloni ran from the cab just as a sister came charging out of the hospital doors pushing a trolley.

  Aldo was transferred quickly and the sister and doctor shot back inside the building, pushing the trolley between them with practised efficiency, despite the doctor’s terrible limp.