A TEENAGER IN ITALY’S BOMBED-OUT CITY OF NAPLES

By Linda Lee Greene, Author & Artist.



With the fall of Salerno to the Allies, my father told us that Naples was next. While all around us bombs had exploded and life had been chaotic, my father had gone to great pains to shield us from the intrigues of the outside world. He had forbidden talk about it in our home, and ordered us to pay no attention to what we saw with our own eyes. Therefore, my view of the current state of affairs was shaped by what my close-lipped father told me to think. But I am almost sixteen now and finished with merely playing at thinking.

There was no hiding from us the fact that my father had made inquiries about smuggling me and my older sister, Maria across the border and into neutral Switzerland. But the Germans had closed the border, and the only way across it was to bribe an official or border guard into looking the other way. My father didn’t have such contacts or resources. Our only recourse was for my parents, Maria, and me to pack a few possessions and escape into the mountains, the lower reaches of which sat at our backs at a distance of 190 km (118 miles). At a pace comfortable for my mother, the journey would take us several days. We knew many other people whom had done it, and although we hadn’t received word from any of them, we felt sure we would find someone we knew, hopefully someone who would help us to find shelter and food among the mountain’s, caves, dense forests, and grassy plains. The mountain range was thick with plants and animals, which, unhappily, included wolves and bears.

We set out on foot. It would be a difficult journey for my mother. She hadn’t been well since contracting pneumonia the winter before. She pulled through it, but her stamina was not the same. The stress of the war was wearing on her, as well. My father carried his rifle across his back, attached to the long, leather strap that crossed his chest and shoulders. My little dog, Tino had the best of it. He was curled up in a cloth sling tied around my neck, which suspended below my breasts. Maria complained with nearly every step of the way. Her shoes were too tight. Her back would break any minute. What if we were attacked by a pack of wolves or eaten by a bear? I loved my sister, but she wasn’t very strong in character. Often were the times that my love for her was tested, and never more so than during our escape from Naples. She was the kind of person only a mother could love, in my estimation. To my eternal surprise, two years later she was married to a lovely man who adored her. But that day in late September, 1943 when we set off for the mountains, I quickened my pace and left my mother to handle Maria.

I caught up with my father at the head of our little procession and set my pace to his. I had known war since I was thirteen. It had become a way of life for me, and now I wanted to understand everything that was happening to us and why. “Babbo, why do the airplanes drop so many bombs on us? The first time it happened I remember it so well because it was two nights after I turned twelve. The loud booms of the bombs sounded throughout the city. I shot awake in my bed and screamed for you.”

“It is complicated for one as young as you to understand, Luciana.” He turned his head to me and the set of his face told me that he recognized the earnestness in my eyes.

“Babbo, I am no longer a child. I have always obeyed your wishes that I ignore what is going on as much as possible. My friends implored me to join in the student uprisings, but I did not do so out of respect for you. I cannot close my eyes to it any longer.”

“Yes, I see that you are no longer so young and that the time has come for you to become informed. I have been dreading it.” He took my hand and brought it to his lips and kissed it. “Do you remember Il Duce?”

“Mussolini, our leader!”

“No more! He was relieved from power a few short weeks ago and we have a new leader now by the name of Pietro Badoglio. He was appointed by our king, Victor Emmanuel. Have you heard of Adolf Hitler?”

“Yes, Babbo. He is the leader of Germany.”

“You are correct, Luciana, and he is a very bad man. He is the leader of the Nazis, who are cruel and dangerous people. Hitler and Mussolini formed an alliance, one in which they agreed to work together to conquer all the rest of the world. For many years now, they have invaded other countries and killed their people and stole their property, and many other terrible things. All of that violence turned into the Second World War.”

“I know what Nazis are. I see them all over Naples. They are mean, just like the bullies at school, only worse. When you say ‘World War’ does that mean that every country in the world is fighting?”

“Yes, I am afraid so, with few exceptions.”

“And the countries that Mussolini and Hitler invaded are dropping bombs on us?!”

“Yes, Great Britain to be specific, and its friends who have come to its aid—mainly the United States. The Germans have a very powerful army. Their fighters are brave and strong and determined. The German people have been brainwashed by Hitler into believing they have the God-given right to own all of the world, and to take it by force if necessary. Hitler and his assistants are very smart, on top of being evil.”

“If Mussolini no longer has power over us, why are we still getting bombed?” My father looked over his shoulder, and said, “Mamma needs to rest. We will sit under this nice tree for a while.” We walked the few paces back to my mother and sister and helped Mamma to the tree. She lowered to a blanket that Babbo spread on the ground. We gathered around Mamma on the blanket. I pulled Tino out of his sling and he ran to the tree, hiked his leg, and urinated on it. He ran back to me and plopped down next to my leg. Babbo loosened the kerchief around his neck and moistened it with water from his canteen. He handed the kerchief to Mamma and she swiped her sweaty face and neck with it. He then passed his canteen to each of us and finally took a sip of water when the canteen came back to him. He pulled a little tin cup from his pack and poured it half full for Tino.

“Naples is a very important part of this whole story,” my father continued. “But I need to back up a little to allow you to envision the entire picture. You will recall from your geography lessons at school that the toe and instep and heel of Italy lie in the Mediterranean Sea, and that North Africa borders it, as well?” I nodded my head in acknowledgement.

“Not only has Hitler conquered nearly all of Europe, but he and Mussolini marched into those North African countries and took them over, as well. One of the several reasons they wanted North Africa is because of its enormous crude oil reserves. Airplanes and tanks and other machines of war cannot continue to run without masses of oil, which is refined into petrol. Russia is another country that has a lot of oil reserves. Germany is fighting Russia right now to get control of that oil, and for other reasons. In addition, unlike many of Italy’s coastal cities, Naples has an enormous harbor, one that can receive the biggest ships.”

“Our Bay of Naples!”

“Yes, and for that reason, our city was one of Hitler’s central distribution points of material and machines and troops and other necessities of war. His ships anchored in our harbor, unloaded, and then all of it was distributed among the nations he and Mussolini occupied throughout the Mediterranean area. That is one of the reasons Great Britain has been bombing Naples since you were twelve. They were, and still are, trying to stop Hitler’s flow of war material and troops through Naples. Of course, Germany and Italy have been thrown out of North Africa and Sicily by the Allies now. Even though our new government has signed a peace treaty with the Allies, and is fighting the Nazis alongside them, the Germans refuse to give up and are still here in Naples and all of Italy north of us.”

“Even in Rome?”

“Oh yes. The Nazis are fighting the Allies to hold onto what they can of Italy. In one way, Italy’s war with the Allies is over, but in another way it continues. It seems certain that Italy will descend into civil war.”

“What is civil war, Babbo?”

 “It is when the citizens of a country fight each other.”  

“How are we going to get the Nazis out of Italy, Babbo?”

“We have the most powerful fighters in the world helping us now, but we have to do our part, too.”

“How, Babbo?”

“Private Italian citizens have to fight in a variety of ways. We have to stand firm against the Nazis, and even take up arms against them if we have to.”

“You are talking about joining the resistance, right, Babbo?”

“How do you know about the resistance, Luciana?”

“Some of my friends say that Guido Martinelli and his sister, Sophia are fighting the Germans with many people who are members of the resistance. I didn’t realize for sure what that meant until now.”

Luciana and her little family got to their feet and continued their march into the mountains. As they walked, Luciana hatched a plan. She would find Guido Martinelli as soon as they returned to their beloved city.©

Note: the above essay is a work of historical fiction inspired by true events.



Image: Bombing of Piazza del Martiri, Naples, Italy



Recommended Reading: In her novel, BRIDGE OF SIGHS AND DREAMS, acclaimed author Pamela Allegretto weaves a fascinating tale of life in Italy during the Fascist and Nazi occupations. Central to her story is the Italian Resistance.



Books by Linda Lee Greene are available for purchase in eBook and soft cover at Amazon.com and by request at other booksellers.      

U.S. ARMY NURSES EVACUATE THE WOUNDED

By Linda Lee Greene, Author & Artist.



Summaries of today’s fighting will go out to newsrooms all across the free world. A gaggle of foreign correspondents follow the battles around like phantoms, uniformed, wolfing down the awful C-rations, chugging the sickening, chemical-tainted water from their canteens, running or crawling on their bellies among the sheets of bullets and overhead bombs, all for the sake of finding a story to send back home. They will report only what will pass the censors, things like the amount of ground gained, the heroic act of an anonymous GI, or excerpts from an official report by General So and So. Tomorrow, families will gather around their radio sets, their ears perked for any nuance in the stories that might give them some clue as to the status of their Johnny or Billy. And they will scan their newspaper hoping for the same revelation, to no avail. Their kid’s name won’t pop out among the sentences of yet another story about the current raging battle in Salerno, Italy. Instead, a telegram handed over by a man at the front door will inform unlucky parents of the missing or dead.

            I know full well that the folks back home have to stay on top of what is going on, not only because they are worried sick about their son or daughter, but because otherwise they just might give in and let the Nazis and Japs win. It’s a sure bet that there are very few mothers and fathers who have slept soundly through the night since World War II began—my parents included, of course. My mother still hasn’t forgiven me completely for joining the US Army as a nurse, and she is even less inclined to let me off the hook since I was deployed overseas. My dad doesn’t believe in sending any female into harm’s way for any reason, no matter how pressing. I literally want to throw up at the idea of my name, or God forbid, a photo of me doing my job of evacuating the wounded from a battlefield and having it show up in our local newspaper. I can’t stand the thought of how that would terrify my mother. So when I see one of those journalists, I turn my head away and pray he will focus his attention elsewhere.

            I sailed abroad in late May, only four months ago now, but it has been another lifetime. I was one of a large contingent of medical personnel, nurses and doctors and aides, onboard an enormous ship, which was a luxury cruise liner in its peacetime identity. It was converted to a troopship ever engaged in transporting troops and other personnel to fields of operation across the Atlantic. The ship and others like it on return trips to New York Harbor are directly connected to my job. They carry the walking-wounded and others back home, among them Prisoners of War who are subject to internment in various camps across America.

            Even though we medical personnel were assigned to specified quarters on the ship, still there were occasions when rubbing elbows with the troops came up. The ship was packed stem to stern with them, short, tall, rail-thin, and brawny, sprawled out in hallways, on decks, stretched out on bunks, all of them uniformed and helmeted and attached like glue to their guns and field packs. A chalked number unique to each one marked on their helmets and linked to a manifest in their commanding officer’s possession gave them a strange individuality. I was careful not to look at any of their faces. I figured there was a chance I would see too many of them again under different circumstances. It was likely that I would carry some of them out of a battlefield on a stretcher; that I would stitch-up for some of them bullet-shattered arms and legs, or stuff their guts back through gaping holes in their bellies. Some of them I might not be able to save at all.

            Today, September 17, 1943 was my first assignment on a field of battle in Salerno, Italy, and a weird coincidence happened. A young lieutenant among a group of soldiers lifting a wounded comrade on a stretcher to my outstretched hands where I stood at the open door of the evacuation plane called out my name and touched my hand. “Evelyn!” the lieutenant shouted. “It’s me, Benny.” I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was Benny for sure, my neighborhood friend, one of a group of us who had been playmates since we were kids. How many warm afternoons did we play kick the can, hide and seek, and tag, or build snowmen and igloos during our cold Midwest winters? One year Benny got a telescope for Christmas, and one by one he let us look through it—he gave us our first real view at the stars, the same stars we had oohed and aahed over when on hot summer nights we had stretched out on blankets in our back yards. Sleeping under the stars was a happy childhood adventure. Dear God, please keep Benny safe as he beds down under those same stars tonight, somewhere out there on that battle-churned war-site in this hostile, Godforsaken, foreign land.©



Image: Air evacuation from Italy to North Africa

Recommended Reading:          https://history.amedd.army.mil/booksdocs/wwii/MedSvcsinMedtrnMnrThrtrs/chapter3.htm

Note: the above is a work of historical fiction inspired by true events.

Books by Linda Lee Greene are available for purchase in eBook and soft cover at Amazon.com and by request at other booksellers.

MY WEEK WITH CHARLIE, THE LLASA APSO

Charlie, my sister, Sherri’s seventeen-year-old Llasa Apso crossed the rainbow bridge five days ago. The following is a little story I wrote about him for my blog on September 9, 2012. I am reposting it today in tribute to him:

My Week With Charlie, the Llasa Apso

As prearranged, my sister, Sherri and her daughter, Samantha came to my door early in the morning two Fridays ago; Charlie, their Llasa Apso was leading the way from his red leash in Samantha’s hand. While they were out of town for some R & R in the Cumberland area in Tennessee, Charlie was to take up residence with me. Done up in his red collar and his “Late Summer Do,” he sashayed in, fluffy tail wagging excitedly. He’d been at my home before, you see. Often when Sherri goes on vacation, Charlie hangs out with me. 

            At the click of the latch as Sherri and Samantha closed the door upon leaving, Charlie’s enthusiasm flagged and his face rose to mine, his upper lip curled into a snarl. “It’s okay, Charlie. See, here’s your red food bowl and your red water bowl (my sister color coordinates everything…she can’t help it…it’s in the family genes), and I’m putting them right here in their usual place,” I said to him reassuringly.

            “Hrrmmph,” Charlie replied. Turning his tail-side to me, he took off in a trot through the rooms, his nose lowered and swaying back and forth against the floor like a mine sweeper. His investigation completed quite quickly, he returned to me, parked himself on my right foot, and looked up at me with a decided look of disgust on his face. “Hrrmmph,” he informed me again. In Charlie patois, “Hrrmmph” translates as, “I’m mad at you.”

            “I know, Charlie. You’re mad at me because I had that other dog here a couple of weeks ago…you can smell him, can’t you? But I couldn’t help it, Charlie, he’s my granddogger.”

            “Hrrmmph,” Charlie rejoined, and he walked to his bowl that sat empty on the floor of the kitchen. “Mmmmmm,” he whined, which means, “My belly is gnawing at my backbone!”

            “Now Charlie, your mommy told me that you’ve already had your breakfast.”

            “Hrmph!” he spat shortly, and lowered to his belly in front of his bowl, his mournful face resting on his front paws.

            “I’m sorry, Charlie, but I have some computer work to do. So just make yourself at home, and we’ll talk later.”

            “ERRRRRRRR!” Charlie growled. “I’m mad at you” had just escalated to, “I HATE YOU!”

            Repairing to my den, I sat before my laptop and logged onto my email. His toenails clipping on the planks of the wood floor in my hallway, Charlie made his grand entrance into the room, ears perked and red food bowl clutched in his jaws. Stopping abruptly in his tracks when I looked up at him, he dropped his bowl in the middle of the room and plopped to his belly again in front of it. “I told you, Charlie…no food now. Your reputation for finagling extra food from the uninitiated with your cute antics is notorious, but no deal this time. Will a treat get you off of my back for awhile, Charlie?” Springing to all fours again, he trotted to the kitchen and waited patiently for me to catch up. His big brown eyes sparkling with anticipation, he jumped up and caught his treat in his mouth when I tossed it to him. “Now, go back in the den and get your bowl. That’s right, go on now.” Taking a couple of tentative steps toward the hallway, he sat and turned to look at me defiantly over his shoulder. “I told you, Charlie. Go and get your bowl and put it back where it belongs.”  

“Hrrmmph!” he responded, but then he walked slowly to my den. In a couple of minutes, he entered my kitchen with his bowl in his mouth. He dropped it on my right foot instead of putting it where it belonged, but that was good enough for me.

“Good boy, Charlie.” I returned to my work on my laptop. Charlie followed me. Charlie follows me everywhere when he stays with me. It’s in the breeding of Llasa Apsos to stick like glue to their masters and to protect them. When later in the evenings we watched television, Charlie’s protective instinct included dogs and other animals on the TV. Bolting from his favorite place on the back cushions of my sofa, he would charge the screen and bark and growl. One evening I thought he was going to eat my big screen TV. Then he would return to his place on the back of my sofa just behind my head and bury his nose in my hair. Llasa Apsos do this as a way of showing their affection.

Our tug of war over extra food vs a treat after his breakfast continued each morning, and each morning, only his treat would ensue. Despite his disappointment, he was a good sport about it, and he’d follow me to the sofa, where from his favorite perch, he’d bury his nose in my hair, and I’d know that Charlie and I were okay again.

   

  

TROUBLE IN ITALY

By Linda Lee Greene, Author & Artist.



“It’ll be okay, Dino. You know Italy, and it knows you. It’s in your blood memory,” I remind myself every time I dive under a bush or duck behind a building for cover. And when I’m shaking in my boots and about to crap in my pants I tell Ma in my mind that this place ain’t like she told me. Ma tucked me in and told me stories about Italy every bedtime when I was a kid. And at the end of every story, she’d say, “Italy’s in your blood memory.” She meant it that way because she and Pa were born here, and as far as I know, all my relatives were born here. My brother and I are the only ones born in America.  

            I trained in the boiling sands of North Africa for this mission to invade Italy and crush Mussolini and Hitler’s mobs. Brooklyn gets hotter than hell in summer but this whole Mediterranean area is blistering hot like I’ve never seen. And it’s lousy with Fascists and Nazis. Brooklyn has it has its turf wars. I got caught up in some of them rumbles when I was a stupid kid, but it was nothing like this. The thing is, I don’t know the difference between Fascists and Nazis. Politics ain’t my gig. The Brooklyn Dodgers, Ebbets Field, my girl in Flatbush, those are my things—and Ma and Pa. My brother, Carmine, he ain’t too bad either—a stupid kid, yeah, but he’s got heart. We better get this damn war won before he hits eighteen, because Ma’s heart couldn’t take it if he has to go in, too. It already kills her that I’m in it.

            Me and my buddies, when we trained in North Africa, we figured we’d be working for Patton on this mission. But things have changed. We’re getting kind of used to change, because it happens a lot in this man’s army. Commanders get shifted around and armies get merged. I hear Patton is in the can or solitary confinement somewhere. He got in trouble with the top brass and they shut him down. A lot of the top brass think he’s a schmuck. He doesn’t fall in line with political correctness. But he’s the Allies’ best general. I don’t get it. In my book, he’d have to assassinate the president before I’d relieve him of command. He outsmarted his bosses and everyone else, including the enemy, and mopped up Sicily while those guys still had their thumbs up their arses. Sometimes I worry that nobody really knows what’s up and what’s down with those highbrow guys from their haughty-taughty military schools. It seems to me that common sense is in short supply at Allied headquarters, at least when it comes to Patton, and maybe lots of other stuff I don’t know about. The worst part of it is that while the top brass were dicking around trying to figure out strategy for the Sicilian campaign, slowing down operations without any need for it, the German’s used that window to fly the coop and set up strong fortifications against me and my buddies here in Salerno, Italy.

I’m with an army that’s got the Brit’s in with us, and French, and guys with the Brazilian Expeditionary Force. There’s also South African and New Zealand and maybe Polish guys, and even native Italians who signed on as co-belligerents against the Axis enemies. One good thing about this multi-national crew is all the different kinds of faces and languages. Sometimes it’s like being back in New York. How I wish!

We’re under the thumb of a British army group, commanded by what I hear is a smooth-talking British aristocrat. I haven’t met the guy and don’t expect to. I just hope he’s one smart guy and gets us out of here real quick. I don’t have my hopes up too much though, because he’s one of the higher-ups that Patton outsmarted in his push to Palermo, and that ultimately got Patton to Messina before anyone else. The difference between Patton and them is that he doesn’t let his foot off the gas. I don’t see any other way to win this war.

I’m what’s called “a foot soldier, a Private First Class, foot soldier.” Guys like me in the Infantry have the privilege of being the lowest of the low in pay and grade, and also get to do most of the dirty work. Ain’t that just the way of the world, all around? Well, I hear the Negro troops make out even worse than we do; and yeah, there you go again: The Way of the World, All Around!

I might be a low-grade, foot soldier, but I’m not stupid. I smell trouble here. I was born and raised in Brooklyn, and that pedigree guarantees a nose that smells trouble. It was dark—middle of the night dark with some moonlight but not a lot of it when we stormed Salerno. The Gerries knew we were coming. They were dug in and ready for us right where we hit the beach. Star-shells streaked up and tracers crisscrossed the sky and lit it up like the Fourth of July. There was no place to hide in all that light. When we hit the shore, it was Hell with a capital H. The sand dunes were thick with Gerry’s .50-caliber machine guns. The .88s up in the hills were cracking and the beach sand where the shells hit all around us shot up in the air. We had to plow through that heavy hailstorm of bullets and sand. In front and back and right and left of me, lots of our guys were blown to bits on land mines, and other guys yelled for their mother when they got hit. There’s talk that some of our guys cut and ran. Only a punk would cut and run! But I didn’t see any of that. I only saw a lot of guys get cut down. But if desertion is a problem, it will only get worse, because the scuttlebutt is that Italy ain’t the highest priority no more, so it doesn’t get the best stuff. It goes to England where bigwigs are building up a gigantic offensive into France and a final victory in this European Theater of World War II.©

Note: the above is a work of historical fiction inspired by true events.

    

Image: Allied troops reach Salerno, Italy


Books by Linda Lee Greene are available for purchase in eBook and soft cover at Amazon.com and by request at other booksellers.       

FRANCE IS ON WINSTON S. CHURCHILL’S MIND

By Linda Lee Greene, Author & Artist.



Winston S. Churchill, Lake of the Snows, Canada, August 27, 1943 – Our reprieve from the clatter of war began three days ago with the end of my conference with Franklin Delano Roosevelt, that great and magnanimous human being who guides the mighty United States of America through this most perilous history. I was delighted with my American counterpart’s choice of Quebec as the location of our war-planning conference. I had seized the opportunity in the evenings of our four-day sail at the opening of the month from Scotland to Canada on the Queen Mary, now the Grey Ghost, to give forth to my wife and daughter on what I consider the copious charms and hallowed history of the ancient citadel of Quebec, at the gateway of Canada, overlooking the mighty St. Lawrence River. My wife and daughter indulged me, as they do always, and listened with great attention while I regaled them with the exploits of British Major General James Wolfe and his seize of Quebec from the French in 1759. Both Montcalm, the French commander, and Wolfe were mortally wounded in the battle. The outcome was France’s ceding most of its territory in eastern North America at the Treaty of Paris in 1763. It paved the way for Great Britain to emerge as the world’s leading colonial power and for Wolfe to be forever remembered by the British as the ‘Hero of Quebec.’ His immortal declaration reads: ‘Who at the Expence of his Life, purchas’d immortal Honour for his Country, and planted with his own Hand, the British Laurel, in the inhospitable Wilds of North America, By the Reduction of Quebec, Septr. 13^th, 1759.’ The time is nigh to plant the British Laurel once more, this time in Germany, at Hitler’s front door.

Britain’s defeat of France at Quebec in 1759 established the Anglophile as the ruling class, however, there is no denying that Quebec’s soul remains that of the Francophile. It is difficult to find any faction of life in Quebec in which the Catholic Church is not dominant. The French culture and language are similarly central. Quebec’s French spirit suffused our fortnight there and stood starkly as a metaphor of the cross the Allies bear toward the good people of France to free them of the Nazi specter that holds them in its yoke of terror. It is an obligation both heavy and inescapable. While the centuries have seen at times a trying relationship between France and Great Britain, we emerged as allies against Germany in the Great War and at the outset of the Second World War.

My thoughts are never far from the ‘Free French Air Forces’ or ‘Forces Aériennes Françaises Libres (FAFL)’, comprised initially of a few, brave, French airmen who undertook the dangerous flight from Bordeaux-Mérignac to England just five days before the signing of the terrible Franco-German Armistice. Some of them joined the Royal Air Force (RAF). During the following seventeen months, others escaped France as well as French North Africa and joined General Charles de Gaulle’s Free French Forces. South Americans volunteered additionally, swelling its ranks from 500 in July, 1940 to 900 in 1941. Under the Allied umbrella, it continues to grow and fight alongside us, to date in the Anglo-American campaign of North Africa and in Sicily.

            The French tricolor with The Cross of Lorraine at its center is ever before my eyes, and never more so than during the hours of my conference in Quebec with President Roosevelt. Our agenda’s primary feature was the cross-channel invasion of Nazi-held France in the coming spring. The collateral damage the French people are sustaining from our air raids over their cities and countryside for the reason of reducing the Nazi defenses among them before our invasion robs me of my sleep. God help them as they will be caught in the crossfire whence we storm their shores.

At the bidding of my Canadian friend, Colonel Clarke, whom had been attached to me by the Dominion Government during the conference, Clemmie and I are ensconced seventy-five miles outside of Quebec amid mountains and pine forests at the lovely ‘Lake of the Snows.’ We are assured that the largest trout are abundant, and here we will remain for a well-earned week of rest and relaxation and fishing. I have been invited by Canada’s great Prime Minister, W.L. Mackenzie King, to speak by radio broadcast to my Canadian brothers and sisters, and to all of the Allied world. It will be an opportunity to acknowledge their enormous sacrifices and involvement in the war effort.    

Upon our departure from this wondrous ‘Lake of the Snows’ and its generous trout, we will sally forth to the president’s family home at ‘Hyde Park’ in Upstate New York for a few days, and then to the White House in Washington D.C. There we will surrender ourselves further to the welcome smiles and open arms of our grand friend, Franklin. I dispatched to him my largest catch of yesterday. He sent word that he relished it. We will be glad to take up residence at the White House and submerge ourselves in the posh, air-conditioned suite in which Franklin will install us. It will be propitious for both me and my brother-in-arms to share the good reports we receive from our commanders on the progress of the Mediterranean Theater of the war.©

Note: The above is a work of historical fiction based on true events.



Images: Canada Prime Minister, W.L. Mackenzie King; US President, Franklin Delano Roosevelt; and Great Britain Prime Minister, Winston Spencer Churchill, and the flag of Free France, 1940–1944, made up of the tricolor with a Cross of Lorraine at center field.



Recommended reading: Memoirs of the Second World War by Winston S. Churchill.

CLEMENTINE CHURCHILL, the Biography of a Marriage by Mary [Churchill] Soames.



Books by Linda Lee Greene are available for purchase in eBook and soft cover at Amazon.com and other booksellers.

THE PRIME MINISTER GETS AN EARFUL FROM A YOUNG CANADIAN

By Linda Lee Greene, Author & Artist.



The Citadelle, Quebec, Canada, August 23, 1943 – Over our afternoon tea break, the prime minister was noticeably reflective. I had grown accustomed to the great man’s assorted dispositions. However, his mood today was solemn in a way I had not witnessed in him. Mrs. Churchill had retired to her room, leaving him and me alone at table. The idea flitted across my mind that perhaps Mr. Churchill’s somber tone reflected a concern over his wife’s health. He patted his mouth with his napkin and studied my face as if weighing whether or not to trust me with conversation I felt sure was about to commence, and one that would have to do with matters outside the Second World War business in which both he and I were involved. I was assigned to him as an Attaché from the Canadian government during his war-planning conference with Mr. Roosevelt, President of the United States. It goes without saying that I was flattered that the prime minister had invited me to join him for tea, although it was well-known that he made a practice of doing such as this for the purpose of gaining the perspective of the young people who worked for him. I think he also enjoyed the openness of individuals decades younger than himself.   

Moisture rimmed his eyes. I was horrified that tears would spill down his cheeks, but he got hold of himself and raised his napkin to his face and wiped it. “My Clemmie and I are putting every good effort into distracting our minds from the death of our little daughter, Marigold twenty-two years ago today,” he said. I hadn’t the faintest idea that he and his wife had endured such tragedy. I was at the same time amazed at the personal character of his statement and hadn’t a clue as to how to respond. But then I realized there was no appropriate reply, and I sat back quietly against my chair. I understood then Mrs. Churchill’s low spirit. I was surprised when Mr. Churchill spoke about Marigold further. “Our little ‘Duckadilly’s greatest delight was in serenading us in song in her sweet, true voice: ‘I’m forever blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air…’” In a falsetto voice, he trilled the words of the song and twirled his hand in the air in accompaniment. His hand dropping to his lap, he continued, “Even as she lay dying, she asked Clementine to sing it to her. I wrote to Clemmie in a note at the time, ‘…It is a gaping wound – whenever one touches it and removes the bandages and plasters of daily life.’ The wound wounds evermore!”

His splendid head lowered and his hand rose to his heart. And then he looked around the room as if in search of an answer to life’s cruelties. He turned his face to me again and said, “This has been a year of difficulties for our family, not the least the illnesses that struck down both my wife and me. You are no doubt unaware that I was sent to bed for several days in late February for ‘convalescence.’ I suffered a roaring fever and sore throat, diagnosed finally as pneumonia. It kept me less of my normal self for many weeks. Overcome with concern for me, and exhaustion from these many years of the conflagration that holds the blade at our throats, as well as her demanding duties, Clemmie developed a painful affliction. It required her to endure seemingly endless treatments. She too was ordered to rest and managed to organize a nice seaside retreat for several days. She rallied and we were comforted with the assurance that she would be hale and hearty for this trip. But alas, she has suffered wearying sleeplessness throughout our voyage to Canada. Am I so selfish to wish her near me on these long journeys to foreign lands while I conduct the business of the war?”

I was startled by his inquiry, and of course, confounded by it. Did he expect me to respond? But then, I realized that in reality he was talking to himself, and that his question was a rhetorical one. I hesitated in the response I wished to interject in our exchange and nearly kept my council. But then I felt I would be doing him a disservice. After all, he had confided in me and perhaps hoped I would offer some contrast that might help him through his darkness. “Sir, mightn’t we allow our spirits to be rallied by the excellent progress of the Mediterranean Campaign of the war,” I suggested to him. “Mussolini has been removed from power and a new government set up in Italy. It began negotiating for peace with us immediately. The news that the Sicilian campaign came to an end just nine days ago with U.S. General Patton’s aggressive push into Messina puts the whole of Sicily under Allied control.” 

His brow relaxed and he sat back in his chair for a moment. And then he moved forward, reached into his cigar box on the table and commenced the fascinating ritual of lighting a cigar. He said in response to me, “It had been decided that Britain’s General Montgomery and his Eighth Army would take the lead in the siege of Messina, but his army was bogged down by German forces at Catania. He had no other choice than to send a message to Patton to go ahead with the offensive. A few days later, Patton and Montgomery met there and posed for photographs, staged for the good of the Allied cause. Montgomery looked none too happy in them. He had courted High Command for the job of taking Messina, and had won the assignment, much to the chagrin of Patton and his comrades. What a great disappointment it was to Montgomery to lose to Patton the honor of taking Messina.”

The prime minister’s summary was not new to me. These events were discussed and celebrated at the conference. He went on to say, “That seaside city will be our launching point for our invasion of the toe of Italy. I fear we lost needless time in the back and forth over Montgomery vs Patton in the Messina situation. Montgomery and his Eighth Army will lead the charge across the Straits of Messina and onto Italy’s shore, a decision of which Patton is unaware.” The prime minister took a deep draw on his cigar and then knitted his brow. “Eisenhower is conflicted over Patton, as are all of us. Nobody does his job better than Patton. In fact, he is the Anglo-American Allies best general, but he is a disciplinary thorn in our sides. Two recent incidents in which he slapped hospitalized soldiers suffering from nervous exhaustion whom he accused of cowardice have created a firestorm of protest against him. ‘I can’t help it, but it makes my blood boil to think of a yellow bastard being babied,’ Patton said in defense of his actions. Surely Eisenhower will sideline him.”

I felt emboldened by the prime minister’s willing acceptance of the shift in our conversation and pressed a point that exercised me. “Sir, with all due respect, has High Command considered that our success in the Allied North Africa campaign was due in perhaps the greatest part to General Patton’s stepping in and taking the situation in hand? Likewise, in my view, it is difficult to deny that our victory over Sicily must be credited mainly to General Patton. Montgomery has served the war effort well, but he is also not the picture of congeniality. This competition between the British and the Americans gives me pause. Does it truly matter who wins the bragging rights for gaining victory on any battlefield of the war?” The prime minister rose to his feet, heavily. I saw without question that I had trod on sacred ground. Nobody dares to argue against the supremacy of the British Empire upon which the sun never sets. Our tea was over! I pushed out of my chair, saluted him, made my way to the door of the room, and said under my breath, “If you didn’t want to hear the truth, you shouldn’t have invited a young Canadian to your table.”©

   

Note: The above is a work of historical fiction conjured by its author from Mr. Churchill’s actual journey to Quebec, Canada in August, 1943.



Image: Winston S. Churchill with his daughter, Mary, Quebec, Canada, August, 1943



Recommended reading: CLEMENTINE CHURCHILL, the Biography of a Marriage by Mary [Churchill] Soames.

A DAUGHTER’S TALE by Mary [Churchill] Soames.



Books by Linda Lee Greene are available for purchase in eBook and soft cover on Amazon.com and by request at other booksellers.