Monday marked a year since Dad passed away, so he is understandably on my mind as of late. In sorting through Dad’s things this summer, I found a couple issues of Modern Languages Magazine that he helped produce in college. The piece he wrote for the debut issue about Much Ado About Nothing was fairly typical for him, dissecting literature and finding something typically overlooked. This, however, is the only piece of fiction I’ve found in his writing.
“Il Ritorno Dei Legionari“
And so he had come to Naples. Rome was delightful, too delightful; its glories too numerous to be viewed in the meagre fortnight at his disposal. But there were other places, not to be neglected; it would be a crime to miss Capri. So he was in Naples. But wherever he went, it was an entirely new world to him: he had never before been abroad; and only just in time did he taste the luxury of the Mediterranean. It was June, 1939. We all know what we should find there now – the rubble-scattered towns and the cemeteries filled with rows of new crosses, which seem to be the only legacies left to us from the bankruptcy of war.
War? All was peaceful then – yet war was abroad. The whitewashed walls, that shine so brilliantly in the unclouded Italian sun – these were belaboured with slogans, from a simple “Via il Duce” to an excerpt from one of his speeches. A news-boy passed him, waving a neatly-folded copy of the Corriere di Napoli, fresh from the Press. He bought one. He had never learned Italian, apart from a few conversational phrases, but it was simple enough to read – at any rate, the headlines.
“Il ritorno dei Legionari… Tremila Legionari Reduci dalla Spagna.“
Impossible to quote all of it – they had no notion of compressing or spacing a headline, but must needs extend it. He counted the words of the “headline,” and there were forty-five. He gathered that a large contingent of the Volunteers and the Fleet had arrived from Spain. “Il Re Imperatore” and Mussolini had been in Naples to review the troops. This he had missed: a pity, he thought, but the Fleet might be worth seeing.
The carabinieri at the barrier looked impressive, forbidding; but at the age of twenty, one is not impressed, still less forbidden. And so he approached them, producing a gloriously inscribed card – an exotic masterpiece – which he had obtained from the Italian Tourist Agency in London. Its purpose was to gain admittance to art galleries and places of amusement at half-price; no more then that. But it served its purpose with the military. Moreover, he was British – an English visitor. They would admin him where they might suspect a German.
Go where he would, everything was impressive. The submarines yonder – there must have been thirty of them, side by side: he must have a photo of those, if it were permitted. Then there were the destroyers and the flagship R.I. “Gorizia” – that was certainly worth a snap. But an official had been eyeing him for the last moment or two, and the camera slung over his shoulder was, he suspected, the reason. And there were two more carabinieri at the foot of the gangway.
He paused. The official approached, was very voluble, but quite incomprehensible. A certain amount of gesticulation on both sides, however, confirmed his suspicion that he would not be allowed to take a photo. But he was English, the official would see… and he disappeared about the battleship. In a few moments he was back with another whose appearance was smarter, and whose arms were possessed of some gold braid. His English was meagre, his message brief: it was forbidden to take a photograph; would the Englishman oblige by following him aboard ship.
The atmosphere was far from reassuring. He was in a small and bare cabin – alone: there the officer had required him to wait. The door was open, and the sun cast a sharp light into the centre, leaving the rest of the cabin quite dark. Just outside was one of the carabinieri who had followed them when they came on board, and now stood silent, never glancing towards him, but always on the alert. Overhead, an aeroplane passed, quite low. He moved towards the door to look at it, changed his mind, and returned to the centre.
The guard stood to attention – another officer entered, obviously of superior rank. His dress was perfect, his gold braid more extensive: surely he must be the captain. At any rate, he was someone of importance. His English was flawless: it was a great honour to receive an English visitor so soon after their return, victorious, from the Spanish affair. He understood the Englishman had desired to take a photo – he regretted that it was out of the question. But… he had not already taken any? No? That was very well; for there would have been difficulties. If the Englishman would wait until his return… there would be no further delays….
Once more alone. He glanced once or twice at his watch, but the seconds crept by reluctantly. The guard did not move, except to flick a fly off his nose. Was it permitted to smoke, he wondered. But that reminded him – at least he could take a photo of Vesuvius, with the heavy smoke rolling from its summit; that is to say, once he was out of this spot.
But a sudden shadow fell across the door and he looked up. The officer stood once again in the entrance, his arm slightly extended, his had gripping – an exquisite picture postcard of the battleship!
