by Annie Murray
She latched on to them straight away. ‘My name’s Wilhelmina,’ she announced.
Rose grimaced and said, ‘Oh my God,’ flinging her kit-bag on the bed.
‘Is she always so rude?’ Wilhelmina asked Gwen.
Rose grinned repentantly. ‘Only when there’s an R in the month. But for heaven’s sake, we can’t carry on calling you Wilhel— whatever it is. What in God’s name did they call you that for?’
‘Most people call me Willy,’ the girl said apologetically.
‘And what’s your name?’ Gwen asked the solidly built young woman who had taken the bed on the other side of her. She had dark brown, rather greasy hair, cut in an abrupt bob round the bottom of her ears.
‘I’m Madge,’ she said gruffly. ‘And before you ask, I’m a driver, and I come from Leeds.’
‘Rose is a driver.’ Gwen pointed her out.
Madge put her hands on her broad waistline and stared at Rose. ‘Where you from, then?’
When Rose told her, she said, ‘You look all right. At least you’re not from down south – well, not quite, anyway.’
‘Glad I qualify for the human race,’ Rose quipped. She took to Madge straight away with her straight talking. Eyeing her up and down she asked, ‘Do they use you to jack up the trucks when a wheel needs changing? You could do it with one hand I should think!’
Gwen and Willy looked anxiously at Madge to see how she’d take this. She gave a great snort of laughter. ‘They just call me in when the blokes can’t get their nuts undone!’
Everyone else joined in the shrieks of laughter.
After they had returned to their unpacking there was a sudden squeak from Willy. ‘This is blood here – look!’
They went over to where she was kneeling by the bed, peering anxiously at some reddish brown stains on the wall. ‘Doesn’t that look like blood to you?’
‘It does rather,’ Gwen said. ‘Goodness, what a thought!’
‘Well, what do you expect in a hospital?’ Madge said. ‘That’s why the beds still feel warm.’ She gave her great bellow of laughter again. ‘Don’t worry. I think some American WACs have stayed here already. You won’t catch anything!’
Life soon began to settle into a routine. Rose was assigned a three-ton truck and was soon occupied in taking people from their billets to the palace for work and back, bringing in the loads of rations from the Divisional Headquarters and transporting the laundry and all the other requirements of the huge community they lived in. It was often her job to carry the German prisoners from the POW camp near by to the compound where they worked. And there were nurses to transport to the hospital, lifts to be given to officers in pick-up trucks, and messages to be relayed. All day she was in and out of some vehicle or other, refuelling them, sometimes repairing them, but, more often than not, on the move.
She wouldn’t have changed her job with anyone in the service. At the beginning of the day she climbed up on to the hard bench seat of her truck to handle the big steering wheel, with a load of passengers in the canvas-covered area behind. The seats in the trucks were high, but she still needed to add a firm cushion to give her a good view out. Even though most of the journeys were fairly short, she was exhilarated seeing this new place, the villages around Caserta strung together by muddy tracks, the ragged contadini working the fields, mules pulling carts and hens bustling in consternation across the road in front of the truck.
Though it was winter the weather was better by far than it would be at home. The cool, often sunny days were more like an English spring, so there was not the struggle to wield a spanner with hands she could barely move for the cold. She felt no envy at all of Gwen, who spent her shifts on duty receiving the coded messages from her wireless set deep in the cavernous basement area of the palace.
‘It’s odd, isn’t it,’ Willy said to Rose and Madge one day, ‘how whenever we go out anywhere for fun we have to be chaperoned to the hilt, yet you two go driving off all over the place on your own.’
‘Typical army logic I’d say,’ Gwen commented.
At Christmas they did the best they could to brighten up their sleeping block. They hung home-made coloured paper streamers across the bare white walls and brought in cuttings of greenery from outside to decorate the corners and windows. Some of the German POWs had also made little wooden Christmas trees which they put on the windowsills. The place still looked pretty bleak, but the decorations did something to soften the hard angles of the room.
‘I think it’s going to be a good Christmas,’ Gwen said the day before Christmas Eve as they were all getting ready for bed. She sat down on her bed beside Rose’s. ‘In fact, I have to admit I much prefer Christmas in the army to being at home.’
‘It’s not the same without the kids around,’ Rose said sadly. ‘That’s what I really miss. But they’re not even at home any more.’
Gwen reached over and took Rose’s hand. ‘Come on – let’s try and be cheerful,’ she said. ‘I know it’s not the New Year yet, but let’s talk about resolutions. What great things are you going to do in 1944?’
Rose, her chin set in her determined way, and just waiting for Willy’s look of bewilderment, said, ‘I’m going to learn to speak Italian.’
Eighteen
By the beginning of January 1944 the Germans had established a defensive line across the shin of Italy known as the Gustav Line. At its central point was the Benedictine monastery set in craggy isolation on the peak of a high mountain called Monte Cassino. The Allied troops, made up of British, American and many other nationalities, found themselves unable to progress further north. They were enduring a gruelling winter camped out among the sharp ridges and muddy gullies of the Abruzzi Mountains.
In the middle of the month the Allies, convinced that the Germans had taken possession of the monastery as an observation post, began to bombard Monte Cassino. It was the beginning of a long, mainly futile and mutually destructive battle. And on 22 January, Allied forces landed on the coast at Anzio, a point north of the Gustav Line, as a way of trying to break the stalemate. However, instead of moving immediately north from there, they delayed, became trapped by German forces, and were once again unable to make progress. The destruction of Monte Cassino continued.
In Caserta, in the Allied-occupied south, things remained relatively peaceful. It was possible to work each day at the royal palace and almost forget that there was a war going on.
One morning in late January, a REME engineer, Tony Schaffer, was walking across the open area at the front of the palace, enjoying the feel of the sun through his cotton shirt. He noticed a three-ton army truck pull up in front of the building. The small figure of Rose Lucas jumped from the cab. Tony smiled and headed over to her. She flexed her legs, stiff after sitting for several hours, and reached up into the cab for her canvas bag.
‘Hello Rose,’ Tony said. ‘Buzzing about as usual?’
She turned to look at him and a smile transformed her thoughtful face. ‘Hello Tony. Yes, I’ve been trying to keep the army fed again.’
Since she had been in Caserta she had a number of times run into this young man with whom she’d had her first sight of Naples on the Donata Castle.
‘I’m just off for a cuppa,’ she said. ‘You got time for one?’
The more Rose saw of Tony, the more she liked him. Her automatic caution in relating to men had been allayed by his own obvious shyness. He wasn’t one of those cocky sods, she thought. He didn’t put any pressure on you. He wasn’t like some of the other blokes who wanted to kiss you the minute they’d said hello, if not before. He seemed to want friendship, and he was interesting to talk to.
They strolled down the curving path to the palace which ran along the front of one of the stable buildings. Rose was telling Tony about where she’d been. He liked the directness of her conversation, the spontaneity which had not been curbed by too much education, but which made her seem to him somehow vulnerable. He felt very protective towards Rose, unlike a number of other chaps a
round who were put off by the sharpness of her tongue.
‘You really enjoy your job, don’t you?’ he said. ‘It’s good to hear someone who’s not constantly full of complaints. That’s the trouble with institutional life – the way it leads to this constant carping about everything.’
‘I do like it,’ Rose agreed, thinking suddenly what a solid person Tony was. He reminded her with a pang of Sam, though he was less stodgy. ‘I never thought I’d do something like this,’ she went on. ‘I mean what other job gives you the chance to—?’
She stopped talking abruptly, with a gasp that made Tony look round, concerned that she was in pain.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. She didn’t answer.
In front of them, a tall figure had turned out of one of the stable doorways close to the palace and was walking towards them. He was dark-haired, with wide, muscular shoulders which looked constrained by the khaki tunic top. Rose noticed he was walking with a slight limp as he came forward whistling ‘Run Rabbit Run’ with extra flourishes and patting his breast pocket as if in search of cigarettes. Despite the limp, she would have recognized the jaunty, slightly bow-legged gait anywhere.
As he reached them he nodded, interrupting the whistling to say ‘Morning’, and was clearly going to carry on past.
‘Michael?’
He stopped and turned, clearly not having any idea who she was.
‘Michael Gillespie.’ It was not even a question. She knew it was him.
He stared at her. ‘You sound like another Brummy but who the—?’
Rose said just one word: ‘Lazenby’s.’
She saw Michael register the word. Then he slowly pointed a finger at her, still unable to believe it. ‘Jesus – if it’s not little Rosie!’
And to her astonishment he came forward and picked her up easily by the waist, swinging her round and laughing, and Rose laughed with him, completely delighted to see him.
‘Oh, Michael,’ she said breathlessly as he finally put her down. ‘You always were a mad sod!’
Suddenly she remembered Tony and introduced him. The two men nodded at each other. Tony muttered, ‘Pleased to meet you,’ and Michael said, ‘All right Tony?’ and they all stood together in the bright morning sunlight.
‘Well,’ Michael laughed. ‘Lazenby’s. That’s real old times now, isn’t it?’ His memories gradually began to come back to him. ‘You did a bunk from Lazenby’s, didn’t you? What got into you? Old Lazenby came in blinding away one morning, saying you’d gone off without a please or a thank you and he’d have to get someone else.’
‘Did he?’ Rose said drily. ‘Well it wasn’t quite like that. Let’s just say me number came up. Anyhow – what on earth are you doing here? Got time for a cuppa?’
‘No – ’fraid not. I’m late already. I’m after having a bath – the first in a long while I can tell you. And now I’m clean and fit, and this is sound again’ – he stamped his left foot – ‘I’ve got to rejoin my unit pronto. I’ve had sick leave. Smashed me ankle up jumping off a wagon soon after we got here. Not much of a war wound eh?’
‘What division are you?’ Tony asked him.
‘Infantry,’ Michael said. ‘One of the poor buggers who goes up front and cops all the shit – ’scuse me, Rosie. These bust-up bones down here have got me out of quite a bit of it so far. There’s no putting it off now though.’
‘You’re not going to Cassino are you?’ Rose asked, horrified.
‘Not Cassino, no. Further east along the front somewhere. Dodging the mines.’
Rose’s eyes showed her dismay, so that Michael bent down and kissed her on the cheek. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes,’ he said. ‘Look at you in that uniform – you’re a picture. I’ve got to go now, but don’t you worry, Rosie. I’ll see you in Corporation Street when it’s all over!’
And he backed away, clowning around and singing ‘We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when!’ with a flourish of his arm, and then he was gone.
‘Mad sod,’ Rose said again, and realized suddenly that she had tears in her eyes.
‘Are you all right?’ Tony asked. ‘You look a bit shaky. I take it Michael is an old flame of yours?’
‘Oh.’ Rose was startled. ‘No. No – not really. I worked with him. It’s just – things keep happening like that. Bits of the past and bits of home blowing in when you’re somewhere else and not expecting it.’
As they sat drinking a cup of tea Rose found herself telling Tony about Lazenby’s and Michael and the sort of work she had done there. She didn’t explain why she’d left. Tony sat listening, his grey eyes attentive, his large hands curved round his mug.
‘Sorry,’ she said after a while. ‘I’m running on again.’
Tony smiled. Rose liked the way his wide mouth with its generous lips made his smile look completely wholehearted.
‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘I was enjoying hearing about it. Your life’s been so different from mine.’
Tony had already told her that he came from a village in Sussex and that his father had died when he was five. He and his brother and sister had been brought up by their mother. Tony had been an apprentice engineer when the war started.
‘You’ve had a decent education, haven’t you?’ she asked him.
‘Well – we had a good local school,’ he agreed. ‘I think I educated myself really. I was the sort of child who sat reading Encyclopaedia Britannica and filled my mind up with a whole collection of apparently useless snippets of information. It’s surprising how often they come in handy though.’
‘We never had books in our house, except a few a friend lent me now and then. I remember reading Treasure Island out in the lav to get a bit of peace. Someone always came knocking on the door sooner or later though. I thought I was going to surprise them all and become a teacher. Some hope.’
‘But just because you haven’t had all the chances doesn’t mean . . .’ Tony saw Rose was watching him very seriously as if hungering to be given assurance. ‘I mean intelligence just shines out of you. Look – there are a lot of well-educated ATS here, but how many of them are taking the trouble to try and learn Italian like you?’
Rose shook her head. ‘I dunno. I don’t understand a lot of the people here. We’ve been given the chance of a lifetime really, haven’t we? To come and live in this country, which is fascinating – to me anyway. And all most of them can think about is the next social and what bloke they can get hold of . . . It’s not the only thing is it? They all live as if they’re still in England. I mean, what the hell’s the point of that? We’ll be back there sooner or later and none of them’ll be any the wiser.’
‘Oh, I agree – although my goodness, it can be a harsh place.’ Into his mind flashed the uncomfortable image of a warehouse in Naples where a misguided friend had taken him a couple of weeks before. All around inside, women waited impassively to give their bodies there and then to any man, in return for tins of army rations. The men had queued awkwardly at the door. Ashamed and revolted, Tony had put down some food and left. He didn’t feel he could tell Rose about this so he just said, ‘You need to be careful.’
‘Yes, but I want to see a lot more,’ she said. ‘More of Naples for a start. Get to know people. I’ve found someone to help with the Italian already.’
She told Tony she had got to know an old woman across the other side of Caserta who did tailoring.
‘She’s called Signora Mandetta. She’s making me a skirt at the moment – you know, she’s only got that black stuff like the old ladies wear. Anyway, she said she’d help with my Italian. I think she likes the company, so I pop down whenever I get the chance.’ Rose sighed as they stepped out into the sunshine. ‘Touble is, to get anywhere much there’s all this ruddy chaperone lark.’
‘Well . . .’ Tony looked at her shyly. ‘Would I do?’
Suddenly Rose felt full of confusion. She had seen Tony as a friend. Was he now asking her on a date? What did he expect from her?
> ‘I . . .’ she stumbled over the words and then decided to cope with anything that happened when the time came. ‘Thank you. That’d be very nice.’
‘Right,’ Tony told her. ‘If you want to see Naples, there’s going to be transport over on Friday evening. Let’s go, shall we?’
Rose nodded, excited, noticing with relief that unlike most people he didn’t refer to the leisure transport as ‘passion wagons’.
It took them just over an hour to reach Naples. The sun was setting over the bay as they wound through the evening clamour of the city’s streets. The uncertain light, and the familiar stench, to which was added a smokiness as evening fires were lit among the rubble, made them hurry towards the familiarity of the Naafi to spend the evening drinking and dancing.
Even over that short distance they were surrounded by a gaggle of children, their hair caked in filth, most wearing the meagrest of rags. The boys gave out gruff adult cries, ‘Ey – ey!’ they shouted, bony hands prodding at the well-fed foreigners, fingers snapping for attention. They wanted food, cigarettes, anything that was on offer.
‘You come!’ one of them shouted at Tony. ‘My sister pretty! Mia sorella molto bella – ey, jig a jig!’
Some members of the party, in slight panic, threw cigarettes and coins. The children scrambled for them like wrangling birds.
‘My God – they’re starving!’ Rose said, horrified, once they had entered the relative comfort of the club. She had been moved almost to tears by the sight of them.
One curly-haired boy who could only have been two or three had stood silently, his huge brown eyes staring, his small hand stretched out to them. He had been covered from head to foot in filth. ‘Oh, I wish I could’ve taken that little one back with me and looked after him!’ she said.
Tony smiled at her. ‘There must be thousands out there like him,’ he told her. ‘You can’t feed them all. Let’s just try and enjoy the evening, shall we?’
Rose was beginning to look disgruntled. ‘We’re not going to see a lot of Naples sat in here, are we? Home from bleeding home again.’
