The Winter Sea (3 page)

‘Giuseppe,’ said Alfonso one day as the two sat at the shepherd’s table, ‘you know that Italy is quite a new country, only about fifty years old?’ Alfonso often liked to raise subjects that he suspected Giuseppe knew little about and Giuseppe liked to listen and learn.

‘But that can’t be true,’ replied Giuseppe. ‘I know that it must be old because there are lots of ruins on our island. Some of them must be older than fifty years.’

Alfonso smiled. ‘Of course they are. For centuries many different people have lived on this island – Greeks, Romans, Moors and Christians – and they all left a legacy of their time here through the buildings they made. No, what I am saying is that before 1861 Italy was made up of a lot of independent states – Sicily, Piedmont, Naples, Calabria and so on – but they became united as one country under Victor Emmanuel II.’

‘But Father, you have told me that the country is not united,’ said Angelica as she joined them at the table. ‘You said that the people don’t feel like Italians at all.’

‘You are right. I have travelled throughout this land and I have found that it is full of divisions. People are loyal first to their village, then to their region and finally, if they think of it at all, they are loyal to Italy.’

‘My father says that when he travelled to the north of Italy, the people there could barely understand him.’

‘Why was that?’ asked Giuseppe, who thought that it would be impossible not to understand the clear-speaking Alfonso. ‘I never have any trouble understanding what you say.’

‘Thank you, Giuseppe. No, what Angelica means is that our dialect here in the south is so different from the way they speak in the north that we are virtually speaking a different language.’

‘So the north is really different from here?’

‘Places like Turin have very modern ideas. There is even a factory there that makes Fiat motor cars. Some in the north look down on people from the south and think that they are ill-educated peasants.’

Giuseppe looked embarrassed because he knew that this was true of his family.

‘Cheer up, Giuseppe, not all the people of the north are as advanced as the people of Turin. I worked for a while in Venice. It is a mighty sea port, but it struggles with modernity, just as we do in the south. Ten-year-old children work such long hours in the glass factories
that they fall asleep beside the ovens. Venice is a very
unhealthy city and many people there die from tuberculosis and malaria.’

‘But the people in the north don’t suffer the hardships that we do here. Tell us again about the earthquake in Messina,’ said Angelica.

‘I’ve told you that story many times over, though I suppose I can tell it once more – but only quickly. We have work to do and Giuseppe must get home before it is dark,’ said Alfonso as he settled back into his chair.

‘I was not in Messina when the earthquake occurred, Giuseppe, but I went there only a few weeks later and I saw the terrible destruction. Before the earthquake, Messina was a thriving port city, then disaster struck one morning in December 1908. In thirty seconds, one hundred thousand people perished and all the buildings in the city were destroyed. At first the government did not believe what had happened and they did very little to help, although the king visited the site. Now the government is supposed to be rebuilding the city, but everyone knows that such reconstruction just presents an opportunity for some people to make a lot of money through graft, fraud and embezzlement.’

‘That is terrible,’ said Giuseppe. ‘Why don’t the people do something?’

‘When Sicily first became part of a united Italy, Sicilians were very excited. They thought that the government would help them rise out of poverty, but instead they were burdened with heavy taxes and conscripted into the army. Because of the mountainous terrain in Sicily and lack of government interest, policing was poor and violent gangs developed.’

‘Mafiosi,’ said Giuseppe, for everyone knew of these gang members’ stranglehold on power in Sicily and on the nearby islands.

‘Most Sicilians are very accepting of the natural disasters that occur in this region. They think that there is nothing that can be done about them. But they are very disillusioned by the government in Rome and don’t like the unrestrained violence at home, so many of them emigrate.’

‘They go to America, don’t they, Father?’

‘Yes, thousands of Sicilians leave every year, knowing that they will make a better life for themselves there.’

‘A cousin of my brother-in-law’s went and wrote back to say that he owns two suits,’ said Giuseppe, looking down at his ill-fitting trousers that had already been worn by two of his brothers. ‘I think he is lying as I don’t see how that is possible.’

‘It might be,’ said Angelica. ‘I would like to go and find out.’ She looked at Giuseppe. ‘What about you?’

‘Me?’ He shook his head. ‘I will never have the chance.’

‘Don’t be so sure, Giuseppe,’ said Alfonso. ‘Life can be unpredictable.’

The Italian Front, 1917

The small army tents were barely discernible as they clung to the rocks that gave little protection against the sleeting rain. Inside their miserably cold dugouts and dripping canvas caves, the men hunched over damp cigarettes, dissecting the rumours and speculating about what could be happening on the front.

Italy had entered the Great War in May 1915, joining the Allies. Austria, to Italy’s north-east, was convinced that if it attacked Italy along the Alps that divided the two countries, it would overthrow the Italian army. The Italians knew that if the Austrians were allowed to move down from their high vantage point in the mountains and spill out onto the plains below, the Italian army would not be able to contain them. So far eleven battles had been fought between the two armies, but although the Italians had contained the Austrians the enemy remained in the high mountains, an ever-present threat.

The weather closed in over the Julian Alps where the Isonzo River cut through the steep, rocky valley and swept southwards. Giuseppe d’Aquino huddled into his worn army great coat as the shower turned to a downpour. From the chill in the wind he knew snow was falling on the upper peaks. Although he was only twenty-one years old, after months of fighting he felt like a seasoned veteran. Around him were soldiers of many ages, drawn from the countryside, their faces and hands weathered from farming. Initially they were united in their efforts to attack the Austrians, but now they were increasingly discontented. The men felt abandoned in their alpine hellhole near the small town of Caporetto, pawns in a game that, for many, had sapped their respect and will to fight for their country.

He listened quietly, for perhaps the hundredth time, to the endless complaints of his fellow soldiers.

‘General Cadorna, what does he know?’ asked a corporal. ‘He is forever getting rid of officers.’

‘Everyone knows that if they do not immediately succeed in battle, then he fires them. We’ve had five battalion commanders in the last few months, not that the last three were any good,’ responded his friend.

‘Hah,’ said the corporal. ‘Would you want to lead men into battle if you knew that failure meant dismissal? Better to be cautious than sorry.’

‘Well, if you don’t fight properly, you don’t win.’

Giuseppe had heard this argument before. The first time he was shocked. He had assumed that the educated officers would know what they were doing, but now as the fighting wore on it was clear that this was not the case. I’ve changed, he thought to himself. Once I would never have questioned a man so clearly superior to myself, but now I cannot accept that such people know everything.

‘Of course, General Capello is different,’ continued the corporal. Everyone nodded, for they all had great confidence in their area commander who always favoured offensive action. ‘But I heard a rumour that he is ill and has been sent to Padua to recover.’

The other soldiers looked horrified by this information. They were to go into battle the next day.

‘It might not be true,’ said the corporal. ‘Anyway, even if he is well, how can he fight properly with this equipment? It’s rubbish.’

No one argued with this. Italy simply did not have the industrial capability to switch quickly to war-time production and so what weapons the soldiers had were inadequate.

‘It’s the fault of those socialists in Turin. I heard from my brother that they are deliberately sabotaging the factories because they don’t want to be in this war. Well, what about us? We’re in the thick of it and there’s never enough ammunition,’ said another soldier, whose speech clearly identified him as a northerner.

‘And we don’t have enough artillery,’ said the corporal’s friend.

‘I have also heard,’ said the corporal, who seemed to have an unlimited source of gossip, ‘that those socialists have now been sent up here to help with the fighting.’

There was immediate outrage.

‘What good will they be?’

‘Are they being punished, or are we?’

‘We won’t be able to trust those socialists. They won’t fight.’

Although all these complaints were very real and easily justified, Giuseppe knew that the biggest sense of injustice among the soldiers stemmed from the army command’s total neglect of them. No one was interested in their welfare or morale. Between battles there was no attempt to provide the men with any leisure activities, let alone allow them home on furlough, so they had nothing to do but play cards and worry about their families. Who would protect them and make sure that they had enough to eat?

As the men continued to complain, the unit sergeant rose to his feet. He was a small, wiry man, well respected by his men.

‘Best you all get a good night’s sleep now. We’ll be attacking in the morning, but those Austrians won’t worry us, will they?’

‘No, Sergeant Tommasi,’ said the men as they settled themselves into their cold, damp dugouts. As far as they were concerned, the Austrians were inferior soldiers. Giuseppe always felt safe near the sergeant, who was a good leader in battle and knew what to do to stop his men from being killed.

The enemy bombardment started early the next morning and lasted for two hours, but the Italians were used to enemy fire and they stayed safe in their dugouts. But then, everything changed. The bombardment was fiercer than anything they had experienced before and their meagre shelters were quickly destroyed. Suddenly, Giuseppe found that he couldn’t breathe. He clutched at his throat.

‘Mustard gas,’ yelled Sergeant Tommasi to his men, and put his gas mask over his face.

Giuseppe felt paralysed, but the sergeant thrust a gas mask into his hands and did the same with many of the other men. But for some it was too late and they fell, writhing on the ground in agony, the poisonous gas damaging their lungs. Grabbing his rifle Giuseppe followed Tommasi. It was obvious that all their defences were broken; the enemy army came pouring towards them but they were ready to take them on. Then suddenly the Italians realised that these men charging towards them were not Austrian soldiers at all. They were wearing German uniforms!

Everyone believed the Germans were vastly
superior fighters to the Austrians and now their belief was proved true. The Germans moved rapidly down towards the valley, opening up the Italian line. Italian morale plummeted. They could fight the Austrians, but against the Germans they felt powerless. By nightfall thousands of Italians had given themselves up as prisoners. Their war was over.

Tommasi, however, was prepared to take on the Germans. He and his unit fought hard all the next day, but it was clear that they were no match for the superior German tactics and equipment.

As darkness fell, the corporal finally said what they had all been thinking. ‘Should we surrender to the Germans? We can’t beat them.’

‘Do you want to spend the rest of the war as a prisoner or do you want to go home?’ Tommasi asked what remained of his unit. Many of the men were wounded. They were tired and demoralised.

‘Home,’ whispered Giuseppe. The other men silently nodded their heads in agreement.

‘All right, then,’ said Tommasi. ‘Home it is.’

Led by Sergeant Tommasi, Giuseppe and the remains of the unit picked their way along a narrow path. At times Giuseppe struggled to keep up, for the soles of his boots had now given way and sharp stones jabbed his feet. He gave a cry of pain and stopped, leaning on his rifle. The other men sat at the side of the path, sheltered by tall trees, and watched Sergeant Tommasi pull off Giuseppe’s boot to examine his bloodied foot. The combination of a rag, some dry grass and a tattered sock was the best repair Sergeant Tommasi could manage before he told them all to move forward.

Suddenly the corporal grabbed Giuseppe’s rifle and flung it into the trees, and then did the same with his own.

‘
Phhht
!’ He pursed his lips. ‘We don’t need these anymore.’

He gestured to the other men to do the same. After their initial surprise, they quickly followed suit.

Ignoring the pain in his foot and with the aid of a stick, Giuseppe plodded down the valley road, joining an increasing flow of other soldiers who had also decided that war was no longer for them.

Civilians, fleeing the advancing enemy with their possessions in carts and barrows, competed for road space with the retreating soldiers. Italian reinforcements, sent forward in an attempt to retrieve the situation, found it impossible to get through. But the retreat remained leisurely and orderly, as though the troops had all the time in the world to reclaim their own piece of sanity and peace by the fireside of home. The men helped themselves to food and drink as they passed through deserted villages. When they passed an officer, Sergeant Tommasi insisted that the men salute, which they did. Some officers, though surprised, returned the salute, others shouted at them, ordering them to return to the battle. But the men just kept marching south. At one stage, a staff car drove towards them and the men drew to the side of the road to let it pass. They recognised the hated General Cadorna in the back seat and, unbidden, they drew themselves up to attention and saluted as the car went by.