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.      

NOW AND THEN WE HAVE TO SHOOT THE MULES

By Linda Lee Greene, Author & Artist.



As was his routine, Commanding Officer, Lieutenant General George Smith Patton, Jr. reviewed the troops the night before the July 21 – 23, 1943 offensive into Palermo, Sicily. He stopped right in front of me where I stood in formation and asked me my name and home state.

“Martin Gavin from Ohio, Sir,” I answered.

He looked me over good with those penetrating eyes of his and asked, “Is your mother there in Ohio, Private Gavin?”

“Yes, Sir!” I replied.

“Well, give her my regards in your next letter home. And tell her you’re working for the best damn ass-kicker in this man’s army.”

“Yes, Sir!” I repeated. The jury was still out in my mind as to whether or not I held him in such high esteem. He was all flash and ego, and I couldn’t help wondering if he was in it to bring glory on himself rather than victory over a heinous enemy of his country. An incident a day later decided it for me.

I think he picked me out of the line because the two of us stood eye to eye, and from a distance, we resembled each other. Like Patton, I was tall and my hair and eyebrows and eyelashes had bleached white from the relentless sun in that part of the world. I suspect he also detected by the overoptimistic thrust of my chin the remnants of my stubborn naïveté about the realities of war. I still believed in my bones that the poor SOB next to me might get killed, but not me! I would see absolutely in the next three days up close and personal that war kills—maybe even me, and not just men.

Our charge from the bottom to the top of Sicily took us over its challenging natural terrain in a 200 miles thrust. We broke through the enemy’s immediate front and rolled him back, accomplished by our forward Infantry and supporting tanks. In the mountains southwest of Palermo, the enemy engaged us again, but we drove him back with artillery fire and tanks. The Germans had dug treacherous pits along the sides of the roads concealed by chicken wire and dirt. At the place of each pit, they had strung wire entanglements across the roads in the hope our tanks would drive around them and crash into the roadside pits. But we were on to the enemy’s tricks. We stuck to the road and blasted through the wire entanglements.

All of a sudden, our long column of vehicles and equipment came to an abrupt halt as we approached a bridge that was our only access across a mean river. “WHAT THE F%#%!” the roar of hundreds of men went out. Our commander’s was the loudest of them all. From behind the steering wheel of my half-track in my position near the front of the column, I saw that a cart driven by an old Sicilian man and towed by two mules was parked square in the middle of the narrow bridge. The mules were lowered to their arses, unmoving. Patton jumped down from his Jeep at the front of the column as simultaneously the old Sicilian climbed down from his cart. They met at the heads of the stubborn mules. “GET THESE G#%&$#% MULES OFF THIS BRIDGE!” Patton bawled, his buttermilk face purple with rage, his burly left arm thrusting in the air, and the walking stick in his hand tracing threatening circles at the Sicilian.

 

The Sicilian babbled in Italian and waved his arms wildly, his head swinging back and forth on his shoulders. He grabbed the hackamore of the mule closest to him and pulled with all his strength. He pushed; he pulled; he begged. The mules would not move. In a flash, just like the Cisco Kid, Patton pulled his Colt .45 from his right-hip holster, took aim and shot one mule and then the other dead-center of their foreheads. The mules plopped over on their sides, dead as doornails. Tears sprang to the old Sicilian’s eyes and he bawled like a baby, his shoulders pumping up and down pathetically. Patton put his revolver back in its holster and ordered a cadre of his men to roll the carcasses over the side of the bridge to the deep of the water below. And he wasn’t finished. To stop the old man’s protestations, Patton struck him on his body with his walking stick. The man cowered and turned back to his cart where it was pushed to the side of the road, out of our way.

The knuckles of my hands were white from gripping the steering wheel of the half-track. Strong emotions swept over me like a pounding tide—first shock, and then anger, anger over the loss the poor old Sicilian incurred. “How would he ever replace his mules, his major source of livelihood and transport?” I asked myself. But in only a few seconds I understood what had really happened. This was the very reason George S. Patton was our leader. The mules and their powerless owner at that moment were the enemy. They set up a life and death situation, because the barrier they created not only blocked our advance but made of us sitting ducks for the enemy that was around us everywhere.

It was a big lesson in life I learned that day. A decision had to be made. There was no time to hem and haw over it. Shooting the obstinate mules and sweeping them out of our way was the expedient recourse, and the war, all wars, if nothing else are slave to expediency. It was an act on Patton’s part that added to the controversy that dogged him, but he won my mind that day, if not my heart. My heart—well, it just didn’t want to come along. It wanted to stay down there, cuddled in its soft, sweet greenness. That’s why I was a lowly private and prayed to stay that way.

The hair on the back of my head stood up under my helmet and I hunched low over the steering wheel of my half-track. I wanted to abandon my vehicle and take cover in the nearby bushes. The half-track saved my legs and feet, but put me too high in the enemy’s line of fire. I didn’t want to think or feel anymore. I wanted to get moving again. I wanted to go home.

It was nearing dark as we approached Palermo on day three of our advance. Patton received word that the city had fallen to our forward troops, and he elected to go in. The hills on each side of the long road we traveled were burning. We entered the town and the street was lined thick on both sides with people who shouted, “Down with Mussolini! Long live America!” The flowers and lemons and watermelons tossed at the forward troops in symbols of welcome, littered the street. The governor had skipped town, but we went on to capture two generals, both of whom were added to the close to ten thousand prisoners who were bagged during the course of our march. The scuttlebutt was that when Patton inspected the harbor the following morning, a group of prisoners held in the POW compound there stood up, saluted, and then cheered him.©

Image: Patton in his Jeep conferring with U.S. Army Lt. Col. Lyle Bernard, CO, 30^th Infantry Regiment, a prominent figure in the second daring amphibious landing behind enemy lines on Sicily’s north coast – July 23, 1943.

Note: the above essay is a work of historical fiction based on actual events.

Recommended reading: “War as I Knew It” by Gen. George S. Patton, Jr. and “Max Corvo, OSS Italy, 1942 – 1945” by Max Corvo.

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