“We better get something to eat,” said the soft voice of Bombardier Ken Carter.
Belvedere del Cimbrone
“Where?”
“Let’s go back to the Piazza,” I said. “There might be something there.”
“I don’t remember seeing anything there,” said Edgington.
“You must remember seeing something, Harry, if it’s only the floor. I mean we were only there half an hour ago.”
“Your power to bend words,” he said, “will one day end you in the nick, nuthouse or graveyard.”
We reached the Piazza as the twilight was touching the adjacent hills.
“You lads lookin’ fer sumfink?” A wavery female cockney voice! Standing by the gate of a whitewashed wall was a small, skinny lady of about fifty or a thousand.
“She’s speakin’ cockney,” whispered Edgington from the corner of his mouth.
“Perhaps she’s lost,” I said. “We’re lookin’ for mangiare,” and I automatically did the sign of eating.
“No need to make signs fer me, darlin’,” said the amazing cockney voice. “I lived in London forty years.”
With the Romans, I thought. She then told us the good news that was to lead to an unforgettable night.
“Come on in, we can fix you up wiv eggs and chips and some wine, that’ll do yer, won’t it?”, she said and gave that forced cockney laughter of embarrassment.
Soldier buying a dress in hopes of an early release, apparently to Arabia.
We followed her on to a terrace that had a sensational view down a precipitous mountain that concluded with the sea. In a small, plain, wine-coloured walled room, adorned with a few religious pictures and a mixture of stern-faced Neapolitan grandfathers, grandmothers and children in communion white, we sat around a central table with a tablecloth that looked suspiciously like a sheet. I hoped I wasn’t at the feet end. Chattering, she plonked down two large carafes of red wine. “There, that’ll keep yer goin’ till din-dins,” and disappeared into the back room where she reverted to broad Neapolitan and shouting. She was answered by a male voice that appeared to have sandpaper lining his throat, that or his appliance had slipped.
To Edgington’s joy, there was a piano against the wall. The first notes of ‘Tangerine’, and we all joined in, a memory of our North African Concert Party days. Outside, twilight was crepuscularly moving along the Amalfian coast. Ah ha, eggs and chips Italian-style, with spaghetti!
“Heavens alive!” exclaimed Edgington, a man brought up on roast beef and two. “Spaghetti with eggs?” he chortled, “that’s what Catholicism does for you.”
I observed the faces of my comrades, the same expression I had observed a thousand times; it is when for a moment conversation stills at the sight of the food, the communal spirit is temporarily forgotten, and each man is only aware of himself, his stomach, and the pleasant preparatory taste of salivary juices in his mouth. A half-smile was on the face of them all except Jam-Jar. His face took on the appearance of a Cougar about to kill.
“There yer are, me darlins,” said our little lady, balancing four plates along one arm.
There followed that urgent rattling of cutlery knives and forks foraging like hungry wolves among the repast. There’s the usual English insult to culinary art, snowstorms of salt and pepper. I saw her wince at the request for ‘Tomato Sauce’. Her husband appeared, a replica of Henry Armetta,* short, fat, greasy, amicable; he grinned and made the little nodding gesture of the head peculiar to Italians.
≡ Hollywood support star of the Thirties.
On reflection, it would look peculiar on anybody.
“Buona, eh?”
“Si, molto buona,” we chorused.
Pressing my linguistic abilities I said, “Te voglio un becairi de vino’?”
By his facial reaction I could have been speaking Chinese; even worse, he said, “Scusi, ma Io non parla Francese.”
They had a drink with us. “‘Ere’s Victory for the Allies,” she said.
That got rid of all the wine. Two more carafes arrived, with them we drank a ‘Salute Italia Viva Il Re’ that got rid of two more. From the bread on the table Jam-Jar Griffin was wiping the last of the egg off the plates.
“Leave the pattern on, mate,” said Carter.
“Now, would you like a sweet?” said our Lady of the Food. “We got lots of eggs ‘ere and a barrel of Marsala in the cellar and, as a special treat, we could give you all a Zabiglione.”
There was the stunned silence of culinary illiterates. Tactfully she explained what it was, how it was made and how it tasted. “It was made in honour of a General Zabiglione, I believe he was one of Garibaldi’s Generals.” How could we refuse?
In great anticipation we proceeded to destroy our taste-buds with State Express 555. Overwhelmed by my musical ego, I sat at the piano and played a very dodgy version of ‘Body and Soul’, leaving out the difficult key-change in the middle eight.
“That’s a lovely tune,” said Carter.
“Yes it is,” I said.
“Then why play?”
“It’s coming,” said Edgington cupping his ear in the direction of the kitchen, from whence came noises in the wake of which our Madonna of the seven Teeth came forth with a tray on which were six glasses of yellowish stuff. Slight apprehension, except Jam-Jar who is into it like Dracula into a throat. “It’s custard,” he said, “That’s it, zabiglione is Italian for custard.”
It was the turn of Lance-Bombardier Carter to play.
“They laughed when I sat down to play the piano,” he said. “But when I played…they became hysterical.”
We all giggled and laughed, mind you, at this stage we would have all giggled and laughed if we’d been told we had a week to live. He played his own composition, called ‘Candlelight’.* I still, to this day, sometimes find myself humming it.
*Strange, when I was writing about this particular incident, I phoned Ken and asked if he remembered the words. He said, “Yes I’ve got them somewhere. I’ll dig them out and let you have them.” That night Ken died in his sleep.
The man on the right is Bombardier K, Carter and the man on the left isn’t—but with promotion could be!
We were now introduced to an exotic Italian after-dinner drink, Sambuca, which is set alight.
“Christ,” said Edgington, “how do you drink that without first-degree burns?”
Outside, night had fallen along the Amalfian coast. With Ken still playing those incredibly romantic tunes of the Forties, Harry and I went and looked at the view outside. It was a vast, velvety panorama. The moon lit the whole scene, the clarity was startling, like sunlight through a blue-tinted glass. I could hear distant singing drifting upwards from the sea. I noticed boats with tiny yellow lamps like fairy lanterns on the water, and a rhythmic beating, of course! it was the pescatores attracting the fish. It was like a magic canvas.
I include Harry Edgington’s recollection of that evening, written in 1977!!
But to the memories of the evening of that day, which as I’ve already said are not continuous or consecutive in their order. How we got to that establishment virtually on the brink of a 2,000-foot-high coastline, I haven’t a clue. Whether it was a private house or a cafe I couldn’t tell you. I can recall that we sat out on that stone-flagged terrace with disconcertingly thin wrought-iron railings; we were there for perhaps an hour while evening gave way to twilight and eventually to a fine calm night over which mistress moon queened it in spectacular fashion, cutting a massive fan-shaped swathe across the millpond calmness of the Med., directly towards us so it seemed.
We were too overawed by the scene to talk much. Far below the fishermen’s boats were intriguing us, lanterns on the prow; the singing of the fishermen came wafting up the 2,000 feet as they banged on the sides of their boats with pieces of wood. The sounds and sights came to us perfectly focused, so clear was the moonlight, so we just drank in the scene, which I would say was starkly rather than restfully beautiful.
Back in the little dining-room the romantic mood had gone, and Jam-Jar Griffin was in the middle of a magnificent rending of ‘Poor Blind Nell’, who in thirty-two bars of music had more perversions committed on her than a victim of Caligula. Reg Bennett played ‘ ‘Blue Moon’, then ‘ ‘Follow my heart my dancing feet’, while I danced with the hat-stand, and Edgington a chair.
The denouement. Rosie says, “‘Ow about some Iti champagne?”
Champagne??? Gunners drinking Champagne? It was called Asti Spumanti, more like Proof Lemonade, but the sheer feeling of luxury made it even more heady.
“Cor. Champagne,” said Edgington, making it disappear at a great rate.
He was at the old piano again; we stood around and sang tunes that put an emotional seal on our generation. Along about two in the morning we paid the bill, bade noisy good-nights to Rosie and her husband, and started down the long winding road to Amalfi. It looked like a silver river. No one was drunk but we certainly weren’t all that steady, there was a lot of sliding and slipping on a sharp gradient…It was a mile to the bottom, and I think our gyrations added another three. The seafront was quiet, a few chinks of light showed through late windows. I slept to the sound of the sea and a tide of thunderous snoring from a Neolithic gunner in the next bed who was fully clothed and sick down the front of his battle dress, a perfect end to a memorable night.
Jam-Jar Griffin and Reg Bennett appearing as extras in a picture featuring a horse and driver.
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 29, 1943
MY DIARY:
NOTHING.
FILDES’:
Memorable because saw the remains of Pompeii.
This day was memorable. All the lads left early for Pompeii; having seen it I opted to stay in bed. It’s a cold sunny day on this delightful coast. I miss ‘official’ breakfast, so go to the little cafe by the Cathedral steps; inside I find Gunner White, and a drunken Scot from 64 Mediums. I joined them.
“Aren’t you seeing Pompeii?” says White.
“Not from here—anyhows, I hate conducted tours.”
I order two eggs-a-cheeps from the Signorina.
“This place gets a bit boring after twenty-four hours,” says White.
For the first time the drunken Scot talks. “Aye—fookin toors—nae bloody gude—s’better here, ah fuck.”
Let me describe him. Short, stocky, black hair, red face and staring blue eyes in a sea of red veins, he had no mouth as such—it looked more like an incision. He reeked of alcohol. The front of his battle dress was a mass of red wine-stains—his teeth were Van Gogh yellow—he hadn’t a penny, and sat with anyone who could stand the smell.
“I can’t get rid of him,” said White.
I ate my eggs and yarned with White. The drunken Scot kept interjecting, with unintelligible Scots rubbish. “Yerur—nae—narraer—getar—arrr—Glasgae arrhh—fuck.”
Left to right: Edgington—Bennett—Iti Guide; behind them Ken Carter and Spike Deans. They are outside Pompeii Cathedral, where they belong.
We get on to the beach and hire a boat. “Yem—nae ach—aye, Glasgae—abl—fuck.” I took the oars and we pulled gently from the shore. Out loud I quote, “All in the lazy golden afternoon—full leisurely we glide.”
“Yer nae sael ger—Glasgae—ah—fuck.”
A hundred yards offshore, I stack the oars and we just drifted—wonderful! peace! smoking, with our feet up. The sun is warm, the air balmy, the waters calm, the terrible Scot is sick—not in the sea, in the boat. We rowed back hurriedly, with him downwind. “Arragh—wae gal—ferrr—Glasgae ah fuck,” he said.
Left to right: Jam-Jar Griffin, Vic Nash, Spike Deans.
We climbed the sea wall and ran away from the reeking Scot. The afternoon we walked along the coastal road towards Positano—the afternoon sun was like a warm caress, we slung our jackets over our shoulders.
To our right are granite cliffs—“What’s caused that?” White points to a great cleavage in a hill.
“That’s a fault.”
“Fault? Whose bloody fault?”
Carefully I explain its geological origins.
“Oh,” he said.
It was a waste of bloody time. If I had answered ‘Mussolini’s fault’ he’d have been satisfied.
“Agh—ah—weel—Glasgae—ah fuck,” he’d caught up with us. We watch men catching octopus along the shore, to kill them they pulled them inside out. It was obscenely cruel, but then Man is.
“Do they eat those bloody things?”
“Yes.”
White shuddered. “Ugg—like eatin’ bloody worms.”
The Anglo-Saxon will devour stale bread, bully beef, hard rolls, food boiled to death and obliterated with artificial seasoning—yet delightfully cooked octopus in garlic, No. You are what you eat, that’s why we all look so bloody ugly. Back to billets to see if the showers are hot. Yes! But oh God! the news has got around, crowds of steaming red naked men cram the bathrooms—there’s five men to a shower.
“It’s every man fer ‘ees bloody self.” So saying, White and I charge our way in; the bodies are so compressed, I’m sure someone else washed my legs by mistake.
“Arrgg, yer sael nay fuck,” the Scot; he’s under the shower, but still in his underwear.
All clean and glowing, smelling of Wright’s Cold Tar, we are ready for the evening. We’re nearly skint so we have to eat the Army grub; we needed every penny to get pissed.
“Let’s look fer somewhere noo.” White is looking up the steps that run up the centre of Amalfi. “Thank fook we got rid of that bloody Jock.”
It’s evening now, above I spot Hesperides; I didn’t mention this to White, he was already baffled enough by the Geological Fault lecture. All the way up the stairs at intervals were little Trattorias; we ascend half-way up the town and a pretty girl is standing invitingly outside of a house.
“You wanna drinka wine, bebe?”
White needs no second invitation, we go inside; it’s a one-woman brothel. Now these weren’t regular whores, but working-class girls who had fallen on hard times and were doing it just for ‘the duration’. Inside is a square white-washed room with a charcoal burner in the middle; there are simple wooden chairs with rush seats around the walls; several soldiers are drinking red wine from a large bottle on the centre table. There a large middle-aged lady in a black dress, and another young girl of about fifteen, pour us some wine. The girl from outside has come in and points to one of the soldiers; they go into the next room and I hear the lock go in the door. I felt uncomfortable, I’d never had it away with a whore, and being a Roman Catholic by upbringing, the thought of doing it with one horrified me. However…A couple of hours later I had blown all my money on wine, and the girl had been through about six customers, but she kept looking at me and saying ‘You want?” and pointing to the room. I had declined, and each time she got angrier; she was in fact fancying me. (Why not? I was the best-looking one there.) My rejections finally drove her to say, “You, you no-lika-me. Why you no say?” I explained that I hadn’t any money, whereupon in my drunken state she grabbed me, ushered me into the next room and screwed me. At the end I said, “Niente Soldi’, she put her finger to her lips and went ‘Sushhhhh’, then, wait for it, she gave me a thousand lire.
“You no speak other soldiers,” she confided, “you come back again, domani notte, eh.”
Well, well, my male ego was bursting, after all she was not a common whore. Common whores wouldn’t rate me at one thousand lire a go, no! This girl had a fine sense of values and a remarkable understanding of currency. Would I catch something? That’s the question that haunted me in bed that night; however, I had broken the back of my Roman Catholic inhibitions. What would the Pope say? It all reminded me of the story of a fifty-year-old Pioneer Corps soldier who was caught having a knee-trembler in a doorway in Bradford. The Judge had told him he was a disgrace, there was far too much of this thing going on in Town etc., he was going to make an example of him and give him three months for indecency. T
he comment from the Pioneer soldier, “I tell thee summat, you’ll never stop fookin’ in Bradford.”
White is laying back in bed, ecstatic with the evening.
“Oh Mummy,” he suddenly says, “I don’t want to go back to school.”
A much decorated officer
DECEMBER 30, 1943
DIARY:
GOT PISSED ALL DAY.
As requested I went back to the girl the next night, she was delighted and screwed me again. As I dressed I awaited my rightful payment.
“That will be a thousand lire,” she said.
The woman was nothing but a common whore. If she weren’t careful I’d become a practising Catholic again.
DECEMBER 31, 1943
WE LEAVE AMALFI
“All good things must come to an end.” So saying, I slammed the tailboard up, climbed aboard, and we commenced our journey along the muddy Route 6, back to the farm. Ah Amalfi! Ravello! what terrible withdrawal symptoms is produced. We arrived back just after dark, the Sentry challenges us.
“Halt, who goes there?”
We give an incredible mixture of replies. I said, “Hiawatha and Co. Limited,” I think Edgington said, “W. C. Fields, my deeer.”
White dumps his big pack on the deck, flops on to his bed, lights a fag: “Comin’ back to this fooking place—it’s like being taken to the ballet then asked to empty the dustbins.”