Part 14 (1/2)
”There's the operation,” he says.
”And it's agony,” says I.
”That is true,” says he. Otherwise...what then? He shrugs his shoulders. I'm pretty sure that shrugging your shoulders is no cure for a sore a.r.s.e. He gives me a pot of foul-smelling ointment. ”Apply to the parts.”
Parts? Piles don't have parts. I can have two days in bed and then come and see him again. The pretty Italian lady cleaners want to know why I'm in bed. No way will my romantic soul let me tell them it's piles, not even in Italian. Piles-o! No! I have bronchitis. They want to know why every time I sneeze, I grab my a.r.s.e and scream. It's very difficult. The Duty Officer and Sergeant find me asleep face downwards at midday.
”Why is this man in bed, Sergeant?”
”Piles, sir.”
”Piles?”
”Yes sir, the piles.”
”Have you seen the MO?”
”Yes, sir.”
”What's he say?”
”He said I had piles, bed down for two days.”
The Officer gave me a look of utter disdain. Why? He was jealous jealous. Any man with such a demeaning illness as piles should never be allowed to s.h.i.+rk his duty. Officers never had piles and if they did they went on serving the King.
WHITEHALL. FIELD-MARSHALL ALEXANDER'S OFFICE WHITEHALL. FIELD-MARSHALL ALEXANDER'S OFFICE ALEXANDER ALEXANDER stands in front of a huge war map. stands in front of a huge war map. HIGH-RANKING OFFICERS WAIT ON HIS EVERY WORD, HE POINTS TO THE MAP. HIGH-RANKING OFFICERS WAIT ON HIS EVERY WORD, HE POINTS TO THE MAP. ALEXANDER: ALEXANDER: Gentlemen ( Gentlemen (points to flags on map), there are several outbreaks of pile jealousy in these areas. GENERALS: GENERALS: Scrampson - Scrampson - Scrampson!!! Scrampson - Scrampson - Scrampson!!! ALEXANDER: ALEXANDER: From now on, all cases of piles must be kept top secret. From now on, all cases of piles must be kept top secret.
Romance 'Neath Italian Skies The music of 'Lae thar p.i.s.s tub dawn bab' floats on the air. It's spring in Napoli! Bornheim and I are sipping sweet tea as the sun streams into the golden pilasters of the Banqueting Room of the Royal Palace, Naples NAAFI, having posted a look out on the roof for Gracie Fields. Our waitress is a Maria, and fancying me.
”Wot ewer name?”
”Spike.”
”Spak?”
”Yes, Spike.”
”Spak.”
It sounds like custard hitting a wall. My darling, can we go ”pa.s.sagiere sul la Mare?” Si, si, si. When darling? Sabato. But we must be careful, we must not be seen by her parents or her familyo! Why, Maria, why? Wasn't it I, a British soldier, who has liberated Italy from the Naughty n.a.z.is and let loose a h.o.a.rd of raping, pillaging, Allied soldiers on to your streets. Does her family know I am a Holy Roman Catholic with half a hundredweight of relics of the cross to my credit, and and a cache of secondhand underwear? No, no, no, it would be dangerous. What would happen if they caught us together? They would catch mine together and crush them. We meet then in the mysterious Vomero, she in Sunday best, me in the best I can find on Sunday. Now for a day of high romance. But no. She is in a state of high anxiety, every ten seconds she clutches me with a stifled scream, she imagines one of her family appearing, knife in hand. We spend the day like two people trying to avoid the searchlights at Alcatraz, forever flattening against walls, diving into dark doorways where I give them a quick squeeze, and running across squares.* a cache of secondhand underwear? No, no, no, it would be dangerous. What would happen if they caught us together? They would catch mine together and crush them. We meet then in the mysterious Vomero, she in Sunday best, me in the best I can find on Sunday. Now for a day of high romance. But no. She is in a state of high anxiety, every ten seconds she clutches me with a stifled scream, she imagines one of her family appearing, knife in hand. We spend the day like two people trying to avoid the searchlights at Alcatraz, forever flattening against walls, diving into dark doorways where I give them a quick squeeze, and running across squares.*
* One of the squares I ran across was Reg O'List. * One of the squares I ran across was Reg O'List.
At the end of the day, s.h.a.gged out by a hard day's espionage and squeezing, she says goodbye and catches a tram. Bornheim is sitting on his bed awaiting the results.
”Did you get it?”
”No.”
Nothing? No. What did I do? About eighteen miles, I said.
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Maria in a state of High Anxiety at the start of our day out
CAPRI.
'Twas on the Isle of Capri Private Bornheim is singing the theme from the 'Pathetique' and cutting his toe-nails with what look like garden shears. ”The good weather is coming, we should go for a trip to Capri.” Good idea, but we must choose a day when Gracie Fields is singing on the mainland. Ha ha ha. ”When should we go?” As soon as he's finished cutting his toe-nails. That could be weeks.
[image]
The quay for the ferry to Capri - left is the Castel Uovo One fine warm spring morning, we board the ferry Cavallo del Mare Cavallo del Mare, and set fair for the Isle of Capri. Bornheim feels fine: with toe-nails clipped he's about ten pounds lighter. A bar on board sells cigarettes, fruit juices and flies.
I watch as the magic isle heaves into view, blue and purple in the morning mist, the old village in the centre, the houses huddled together like frightened children. On the bridge an unshaven captain in a vest, oily peaked cap and flies, shouts to the sh.o.r.eman. We approach Marina Grande, he cuts the engines, we glide to the quay; all the while Private Bornheim has been immersed in his Union Jack, calling out bits of news: ”They've increased the fat allowance back home.” All that and Capri!
[image]
Bornheim holding his eternal Union Jack Union Jack newspaper - with a pa.s.sing Maria newspaper - with a pa.s.sing Maria As we disembark, Italian Dragomen and flies are waiting. ”Do you like a donkey?” No thanks, I'm a vegetarian. We board the Funicolare - up up up. At the top we walk out into the most famous square in the world, Captain Reg O'List. How are we? - he's just returning. Goodbye Reg, no - no need to sing 'Begin the Beguine', no, thank mother for the rabbit.
The main square is set up with cafes and outdoor tables, no piped music or transistors. We choose the Cafe Azzura because it's nearest, and order two icecreams. What ice-creams!!! Wow, a foot high, multi-coloured, and covered in cream and flies. We are the only two soldiers in the Square.
My G.o.d! the impossible! ”Ello lads.” It's her her! It's our Gracie! I wished it was theirs theirs. She insists we come and have a 'nice cup of tea'. Down the lanes she takes us to her Villa Canzone del t'mare; the view is stunning but the house is rather like a very good cla.s.s boarding-house in Sc.u.n.thorpe. She's wonderfully warm-hearted. We sit on the balcony admiring the view; please G.o.d, don't let her sing. Is she going to say it? She does. ”Ee Bai Gom, a bit different from Blackpool.” She must must be working from a script. We escape without any singing. ”Good luck lads, give my love t'folks back t'ome.” We'd escaped! Not even 'Sally'! be working from a script. We escape without any singing. ”Good luck lads, give my love t'folks back t'ome.” We'd escaped! Not even 'Sally'!
I wanted to see San Michele. It's closed, says a caretaker who looked like Frankenstein's monster without the bolts. On to the site of the Villa of Tiberius, now carefully converted into cowsheds. Slos.h.i.+ng thru' cow dung, a local shows where Tiberius threw his victims over the cliff.
”I don't see what's dangerous about that,” said Bornheim. ”It's perfectly safe until you hit the rocks.”
Lunch, midday and that warm torpor was implemented as we ate Spaghetti Marinara and drank Ruffino at a little restaurant, high over the sea.
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Me after the meal, well fed and p.i.s.sed. Observe geranium.
As I write this nearly forty years later, I can still feel the warmth of that day; that one day can cast such a lasting spell speaks either for my appreciation of life, or that ancient Capri was indeed as charged with such beauty that it left itself tattooed on your mind, soul and spirit. I know I was quite a simple soldier, unsophisticated, but as I grew older, my mind took up the slack of that past time and computed it into a finely honed memory, leaving every colour, taste, sound and sight as crisp and as electric as though it happened yesterday; and to me as I write, it did.
I remember a potted geranium on the wall. I wonder if it remembers me. It's scarlet luminescence, projected against a fibrillating azure sea, seemed to hypnotize me. Like all idiots with a camera, I had to photograph it, and like all dodos who think they can capture their emotions on a holiday snap, I took a colour picture, in black and white...
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The world's first colour photograph in black and white I must be Irish. Well, I was that day.
”It's the colour of the sea,” said Bornheim, equally p.i.s.sed.
”What about the colour?” I'm asking.