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  They were penetrating into the huddle of slums that bordered on the docks. Occasionally they glimpsed the sea and the masts of naval craft at a street’s end. It was cooler now, for the streets were so narrow that the sunlight was excluded; but there was little relief in the air, which was heavy with a graveyard dankness. Great heaps of refuse stank against the walls and the air was full of the reek of urine. The houses leaned crazily against each other, their rough plaster walls cracked and dirtied and stained with red and green patches of lichen. Wooden doors hung open to reveal dark and cave-like interiors. The windows were mere holes, unglazed and barred. Water dripped from ancient pumps on the street corners. In the doorways and on the steps crowded children, filthy and half-naked, their faces pale and bloated with hunger; children in such multitudes as the men had never seen crammed into so small an area; all staring and subdued. The women were gathered on the balconies that projected from the upper storeys; gaunt, dark-skinned women with black and unkempt hair, screeching to each other across the narrow streets to add to the clamour of the soldiers marching below. Even worse than these streets were the alleys which the passing soldiers sometimes glimpsed, so narrow that a man might touch both walls at once, unpaved, and lined with onestorey dwellings that were little more than caves of crudely hewn lava blocks. The people who lurked in these alleys stared out at the sunlit world with hate.

  At last the head of the column reached the corner of a street leading down to the waterfront. It was a short street, but broader than most – broad enough to admit the glare and the warmth of the sun. It was lined with single-storey dwellings, which all leaned away towards the far end of the street as if struggling to support the two taller buildings which formed the seaward corners of the street. One of these buildings had been wrecked by a bomb but the other, on the left-hand side, was intact, although its walls were chipped and battered. It was a four-storey tenement, built around a central courtyard into which a big wooden gate gave entry. In the middle of the cobbled roadway there rose a tunnel-shaped air-raid shelter, around the door of which were clustered some civilians. There were the usual piles of decaying rubbish against the walls, but the light afternoon breeze that came from the sea challenged the stench.

  ‘Here it is,’ said Captain Rumbold.

  Sergeant Craddock looked up at the name-plate at the street corner. ‘Via dei Martiri,’ he read.

  ‘That means the street of the martyrs,’ Geoff Jobling informed his neighbours.

  Private Ling’s comment was a characteristic one. ‘It don’t ’alf pong,’ he observed, and leaned unhappily on his rifle.

  Chapter Two

  THE people of the Via dei Martiri had been standing in the sunshine, listless, trying to absorb the fact that there would be no more bombardment. When the sound of tramping boots had come to them, only thirteen-year-old Ciccio Martinelli had possessed the energy to cry, ‘Soldiers!’ and to hurry towards the street corner. He had come running back. ‘Englishmen!’

  Paloma, a young woman dressed in widow’s black, with a big bosom and brawny arms, was the first to respond to his cry. She exclaimed, ‘Men!’ With both hands she swept a tangle of black hair back from her full, handsome face. She smoothed the dress down over her body and stepped out of her house on to the pavement.

  There were a score of men and women waiting in the street. Another dozen or so emerged from the shelter. They had been living there for the last three weeks, never daring to come up out of the darkness, stifling in the foul air and the accumulation of human filth. They were so weak and dazed that even now, several hours after the need had ended, they had not yet bestirred themselves to plod back to their own houses. Thirty or so women and old men (the young men had been scattered by war) and a clutter of children; these were the only inhabitants of the street. The rest had fled from the city, during the three weeks of shelling and air bombardment, into the surrounding hills.

  The soldiers marched into the street and halted in three ranks on one pavement. The people fell back and gathered in silence on the opposite side. The two groups looked at each other.

  They studied each other with a hostile curiosity. Each group looked the same to the other: filthy, exhausted, more animal than human, the soldiers swaying over their rifles, the civilians at bay before their houses. Each was looking at ‘the enemy’. There across the road (on whichever side one stood) were the people responsible for these last three weeks of suffering. The roadway was wide – miles wide, it seemed at this moment – sunlit and empty. A baby squalled, and the children began to creep out from amongst their elders. The people looked at their children with a dullness that was worse than a visible agony. The distress that came into the soldiers’ eyes was the first human feeling they had betrayed since their arrival. The children all had the same appearance; heads that seemed monstrous on their shrunken bodies; big, appealing eyes; twisted, scabby little legs; and flesh whose colour, beneath the dirt, was a deathly toadstool whiteness. A couple of the children tottered out into the roadway, tugging at the restraining hands of their parents. Others pressed their faces into their mothers’ thighs and whimpered. One broke loose and went tumbling across towards the soldiers. The officer who was moving up and down amongst his men, a tawny, terrifying giant, raised his hand and roared an incomprehensible threat that sent the little boy scuttling back in terror. More children ventured forward, approached to within a few yards of the soldiers and halted timidly. One of the men leaned forward over his rifle and made conciliatory noises. The officer snarled another command, and the man straightened up; but the children, encouraged, advanced. The officer seemed to be angry. He spoke again, and NCOs pushed the children back, moving self-consciously and without roughness. The children, excited, suddenly came to life; they squealed and dodged and screamed joyously at the soldiers. The officer turned abruptly and struck at a small boy with the back of his hand, and the children came streaming back to their parents in a pack. A woman snatched up the little boy who had been struck, soothed him and dried his tears. The other people muttered. But the children were not annoyed, for several of them were already sucking bars of chocolate; and the rest were hopeful.

  §§§§

  Captain Rumbold was pleased with the billet. The big tenement building was scarcely damaged. The courtyard was big enough to accommodate a company parade; at least, until reinforcements arrived. The wooden gates were strong and could be closed every evening at Lights Out to prevent nocturnal wanderings. The tall porchway had rooms on each side, with barred windows, which would serve as guardroom and cells. The captain indicated to his clerk, who trotted at his heels, in which corners of the yard latrines and ablution benches were to be erected, and which rooms on the ground floor were to serve as company office, stores and cookhouse. Piggott, the clerk, followed the captain through the gloomy corridors marking the doors with chalk to show which rooms the three platoons were to occupy.

  The captain climbed up through a skylight on to the roof. ‘Nice sea view,’ he said. ‘Make a note for Orders, Porky. I want a couple of tarpaulins up here tomorrow morning to cover those damaged patches. I don’t suppose they get much rain here, but we won’t take chances.’

  On his way down to the street he looked into the rooms, telling Piggott to open the French windows which gave on to the balconies. ‘Let’s have some air in the place. Get the smell of these blasted garlic-eaters out of the building.’ He stood for a while on the fourth-floor balcony, testing the rail with his hands and kicking with his heel at the joints of the stone slabs on which he stood. ‘Doesn’t feel too safe,’ he remarked. ‘Probably loosened by the bombing. Take a note for Orders. Men to keep off the balconies for the time being.’

  He dictated instructions for fatigue parties. After his men had had a meal, a wash and a night’s sleep there would be little leisure for them for two or three days. Everyone would be kept busy turning this gloomy, malodorous cavern of echoes into a soldiers’ hive, well-organized, spotless and bustling with life. Captain Rumbold would have do
ne this if his men were twice as exhausted and if only half as many had survived.

  He grimaced at the sunlight as he emerged into the courtyard. ‘Here. Who are they?’

  A group of civilians had crept in through the gateway; a withered old man, three old women, two younger women, all laden with children and big black bundles.

  ‘Clear out, you!’

  The civilians huddled together, a tableau of consternation. They all began to jabber.

  ‘Scram! Go on, beat it!’

  The clamour increased. It expressed incomprehension, inquiry, entreaty. None of the people moved.

  ‘Here,’ said the captain over his shoulder to Piggott, ‘get Craddock. He’s picked up a bit of their lingo. No, wait a minute, I know.’ He pulled his revolver from his holster and brandished it. The civilians fled, screaming. There remained a little puddle where one of the babies had crouched. The captain laughed. ‘What a shower! Come in here.’

  Piggott followed him into the room they had chosen as company office. The captain indicated a dusty, rickety table. ‘One more note for Orders.’ He paused, put a cigarette between his lips and tossed another across to Piggott. ‘Head it, “Civilians”. I want it displayed prominently, at the bottom, double-spaced and in capital letters. All right, light your fag up. Okay? Ready?

  He dictated: ‘This street is inhabited by civilians full stop Unfortunately full stop They are dirty, diseased and treacherous full stop They are cadgers and cowards full stop They are your enemies full stop Their countrymen killed your comrades full stop Have nothing to do with them full stop’ He put his unlit cigarette down on the table. ‘Right. You find the portable and start typing that lot out. I’ll get the men into the billet.’

  He strode out through the gateway, ignoring the men and women who squatted despairingly among their bundles. He gave an order. A platoon officer spoke, and the soldiers began to file into their new home.

  §§§§

  The people of the Via dei Martiri had little to do. The town was still stunned; there were no shops open yet, no bars or cafés to visit.

  They were too apathetic to spend much time cleaning themselves or the hovels to which they had returned. For the moment they were content to sit on their doorsteps, giving themselves up to the sunshine, watching the comings and goings of the soldiers, and chattering.

  The day’s glare mellowed into the gilded softness of evening. Above the stillness of the sea, the empty blue of the sky was invaded by streaks of purple shadow and a subtle stain of pale green light. The murmur of military traffic passing through the town was continuous and soporific; the thudding of field guns was too distant to be disturbing. All the afternoon soldiers had been hurrying up and down the street, too intent on their business to linger with the natives. Messengers came on motor cycles. A truckload of rations was unloaded. A senior officer arrived in a car (Rosario Dell’Isola who, as a deserter from the Italian army, knew about these things, said that he was a colonel), was greeted with a salute by the sentry who now stood in the porchway, and emerged ten minutes later escorted by the tall, red-headed captain. From within the building came sounds of activity; voices raised in discordant song, the scrape and bump of furniture being moved, the clatter of cooking-equipment, and an occasional command slashing through the cheerful noise.

  ‘These are strange men,’ observed Paloma, as she watched a British soldier crossing the street. ‘They seem without heat.’

  Her neighbour, Graziella Drucci, who sat at her street door suckling a baby, said, ‘If that were true it would be a disaster for you, eh, Paloma?’

  ‘And for you? Aren’t you a woman?’

  ‘I am a wife.’

  A wife without a husband.

  ‘Without news. That is all. He will come back. In Africa many are missing. They are not all dead. Many are prisoners. They will come back.’

  Paloma laughed. ‘But when, Graziella, but when?

  Graziella turned her head away and watched the soldier until he had vanished round the corner. ‘They walk without pride.’

  ‘The Germans had too much pride. They would not even look at us. We were dogs to them. At least these come to live among us.’

  ‘Ba!’ The twanging, explosive exclamation came from Rosario, a tall, gaunt young man with wild, black hair who lounged among the ropes of garlic in the doorway of his mother’s tiny shop. ‘Look who speaks! Paloma, widow to one man, wife to the whole world!’

  ‘Not yours, you ape,’ Paloma replied without rancour.

  Rosario laughed derisively. ‘You’ve been running after me long enough!’

  Paloma grinned – a sly, man’s grin. ‘And who have you been running after?’ She looked meaningly at Graziella.

  ‘At least,’ Rosario mocked, ‘these come to live among us! That pleases you? These thieves? These murderers? They have bombarded us. They have starved us. Now they have come and taken our neighbours’ homes. No, they are not proud. They are simple men. They will take our homes, our bread, our wine, our women. They will be among us to punish whoever speaks against them. But all that, it does not matter, for they have flattered us, they have honoured us, they have shown themselves willing to live in our midst. Madonna!’ He made a clawing gesture of despair with both hands. ‘Give me the proud ones who leave us alone.’

  Graziella had been buttoning up the neck of her blouse. She made the baby comfortable in the crook of her arm and spoke again. ‘My father was in the war of nineteen-fifteen. He says the English are good.’

  ‘The Americans are better,’ said Paloma. ‘They are all rich. They give food, they give cigarettes.’

  ‘You prefer the Germans?’ Graziella was addressing Rosario.

  Rosario shrugged his shoulders. ‘One Pope dies, there is always another. They are all the same. All governments are evil. All soldiers do their bidding. Soldiers are evil.’

  ‘You were a soldier,’ said Paloma.

  ‘My husband is a soldier,’ said Graziella.

  ‘Your husband is dead. He was a fool. I saved my life and my dignity. I deserted.’

  ‘All the same,’ said Paloma, ‘these do not seem bad men.’

  ‘For you,’ said Rosario bitterly, ‘there are no bad men. There are only men.’

  ‘Porco Dio! We have need of a few men in this street. How many have we now? Only you – the saints have mercy on us!’

  ‘There’s always Francesca’s man,’ jeered Rosario. ‘He’s been here a whole week – haven’t you been able to lay your hands on him yet?’

  ‘That one! She won’t let him out of the house. What jealousy! Or perhaps she keeps him too busy.’

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Graziella.

  ‘Who knows? She never talks about him. I’ve seen him a few times, through the door. He looks a sullen brute.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Rosario, ‘there will soon be plenty for everybody.’ His voice was harsh. ‘A dog for every bitch!’

  ‘Mother of Jesus,’ muttered Graziella wearily. ‘Is that all you think about? When will they bring milk for the babies?’

  §§§§

  The men on guard were drawing their rations. Private Fooks, just off duty, looked at the four hard biscuits and the crumbling lump of pink and yellow corned beef that the guard commander had dropped into his mess tin. ‘Here! What d’you expect me to do with this?’

  The guard commander said, ‘Stick it.’

  ‘Funny, ain’t yer? Tickle me feet an’ I’ll die of laughing.’ He thrust the mess tin under the guard commander’s nose. ‘Look at it. It won’t fill the ’oles in me teeth, an’ me so empty I can feel me backbone touching me bellybutton.’

  ‘Drink some of that tea,’ the corporal advised. ‘That’ll take away your appetite.’

  Private Fooks sipped noisily. ‘Gawd! I’ll say! What they done? Run a pipeline orf the nearest stable?’ The guardroom was crowded and the scrubbed floor was still wet. He walked to the door and seated himself on the step. ‘You don’t need to eat this. You get fed up just lookin’ at i
t!’

  ‘There’s a hot meal coming up in a couple of hours.’

  ‘Yerss. ’Ot meal! I can imagine! They’ll give us the same again, an’ a dollop o’ mustard on top of it. That’s all the ’ot meal we’ll get tonight.’ He broke a biscuit and began to gnaw at it. ‘Must be gettin’ ’ard up for grub in Blighty. They’re puttin’ cement in the biscuits instead of flour.’

  ‘Hand ’em over,’ said the corporal. ‘I’ll eat ’em if you can’t manage ’em.’

  ‘You go an’—’ said Private Fooks, and busied himself with his meal.

  It was pleasant to sit here eating and drinking; like sitting on the doorstep at home, on a summer evening, after a hard day’s work on the wharf. The sun’s warmth was a benign touch against the skin, and the cool breeze from the sea reminded Private Fooks of idle hours on the Wapping waterfront. This street, now, it was kind of nice to look at; not grey and neat like his own little street among the Thames-side docks; it was dirty, and untidy, and – well – foreign – but there was something about the way the houses were all jumbled up, all different sizes, like crazy boxes, the way they lounged against each other, just like the Italians, and the way their mouldering plaster walls glowed pink and green and yellow in the dying sunlight. All day long he had been shut up, mentally as well as bodily, within the four walls of the billet; for the first time the noises of the street entered into his consciousness. It was good to listen to the shrill chatter of voices and the slap of wooden-soled women’s sandals on the pavement. These were the sounds of humanity going about its lawful business; they were the sounds of sanity. Without knowing why, Private Fooks found himself able to relax fully for the first time for weeks, and he puzzled at the tickle that he felt in his arms and stomach, the first inarticulate stirrings of bodily pleasure. He leaned back against the warm wall, his head lolling on one side, and stared at two women who were talking in a doorway across the road. He looked at them with delight but without hunger. He had always imagined that Italian women were plump and beautiful. Not these; they were lean and strong-looking, in their long, black dresses, and their faces were pale and without expression. Except, he thought, as the women returned his stare, for their eyes. There was something about their eyes that challenged a man and made him angry; even at this distance he felt it. New emotions were moving in him, but they were familiar emotions and he grinned, promising himself a stroll across the street later this evening.