Tarantella: A Love Story Read online

  "For free? Fuori di Testa?" Severino shook his head slowly. "Now I know you're crazy. That's impossible."

  "No it’s not," I replied. "Think of all those bombed out military trucks and jeeps. There's a whole scrap yard right here just waiting to be used."

  "It could work." Marco stood up from the table. "It’s a brilliant idea. Not only would we be creating a good job opportunity, we'd be doing the village a service by clearing all that twisted metal out of the fields. This war's gotta end sometime. Why not start the clean up now?"

  "But we don't know anything about how to build a tractor. Let alone a combine." Primo still wasn't convinced that we could pull it off. "And the fields are full of mines. We'll all end up handicap and in wheelchairs if we try to collect all that scrap."

  "Marco is probably Italy's best mechanic. He could build anything from scrap,” I added. "And besides what do we have to lose? Like Marco said, it’s a win-win situation. We keep ourselves busy, and we do the village a good service at the same time. And who knows, maybe we'll get rich renting out the tractor to everyone who has a farm plot here in the village."

  "And Pietro, besides being a brilliant business man, is the world's best mine clearing specialist!" Marco made his way towards the stairs leading to the ground floor of the Delgobo's house. "I'll start drawing up the blueprints tomorrow. Now who wants to come on the rounds with me?"

  The Delgobo family was responsible for maintaining the main power generator that supplied all the hydro electricity to Limosano and the neighboring villages of St. Angelo and Montagano.

  When the Italian government decided to harness the energy of the Biferno River, they built a small generating station in Limosano. The station was perched on the hillside just on the outskirts of Limosano. For the small, still very medieval, village the electricity meant that candles could now be saved for emergencies, or a romantic evening between lovers.

  Every night, at around ten o'clock, one of the Delgobo brothers would do the rounds of the village. First they would check to see that all the lights were working. And then they would go to the main generating station to shut the power off. The next day, one of the brothers would turn the power back on in the early evening.

  One night in Baldazzi’s hide-out in Trastevere Marco told me that, before he was stationed at the secret airforce base, he really enjoyed doing these rounds. Some nights, as he walked the narrow cobblestone streets, he thought he could hear the lonely drone of the zampogna, or the faint rhythmic pulse of the putipù off in the distance.

  His favorite rounds, by far, were the nights when he would meet Carmella secretly outside the village on the road leading to St. Angelo. They would hold hands, and kiss until Marco would try to take things too far and Carmella would sneak into the night and make her way back home.

  "I'll come with you tonight Marco." I followed him to the door. "Unless you've got special plans. I wouldn't want to get in the way."

  "I wish that were true my friend. Unfortunately, it’s not. But you never know what we may see or hear out on the streets tonight."

  I followed Marco out onto the cobblestones, secretly wishing that we would bump into Carmella on our rounds. Little did I realize that, soon enough, Carmella and I would be having our own secret rendezvous when the lights in Limosano were turned off.

  Chapter Four

  Christmas in Ortona

  My first taste of Italy was just after dawn on July 10, 1943 as we stormed the sun baked beaches of southern Sicily.

  As soon as our unit heard that we were being deployed, there had been a lot of speculation as to our specific destination. Most of the guys thought we were being shipped out to Norway to battle the Germans on the northern front. A few were convinced that we were being posted to Burma, to assist on the Asian front. I hoped that we were going North, dreading the idea of being stuck in the suffocating heat of the jungle, and dying from some strange disease. Ultimately, no one really knew we were going to Sicily. The top brass kept the flow of information to rank and file soldiers like myself on a need to know basis only. The only thing that seemed certain was that Operation Husky was not just another exercise.

  The first part of the trip through the Mediterranean was as perfect as it could have been. The sea was like glass, and not a single enemy plane was spotted. It was too perfect. A lot of the guys were on edge, thinking that this was the calm before the storm.

  While a lot of the soldiers were writing long letters to their sweethearts back home, I had no one to write to. I spent most of my time on the boat and cleaning weapons, and counting ammunition. The closer we got to Sicily, the more contemplative every one seemed to get, and the more discussions about mortality and the meaning of life seemed to circulate around the ship. A lot of the guys started hanging out more and more in the ship’s chapel, making peace with God. Maybe they were asking for some kind of advance solvency for the sins we were all going to commit in the upcoming months. It was clear that anything could happen once we headed out onto the battlefield.

  The day before we landed, the sea began to get rough. We joined the American and British convoys that appeared off the coast of Malta. I remember standing on deck that night and being awed by the sheer number of ships stretching out as far as I could see in two directions.

  The landing in Sicily itself was anti-climatic. After months and months of training, we were prepared for a fierce battle. So we were a little shocked that, instead of fighting, the Italian soldiers surrendered without a shot fired.

  In just over a month, we marched two hundred kilometers across the island, fighting fleas and mosquitoes, which seemed more numerous than the German and Italian soldiers combined. Thirst and dehydration were our biggest enemies that first month. It was hot. The further we marched into the mountains, the harder it was to find clean water.

  During the second month we saw some heavy action, and lost over five hundred brave soldiers. But we were surprised at how swift, efficient and successful our attacks were. In the end Operation Husky freed the Mediterranean Sea lanes and secured the necessary air base from which we could now support the liberation of mainland Italy. The quick efficiency of the operation, however, didn’t fully prepare us for the long arduous marches and fierce battles that awaited us on the boot.

  Just before deploying to the mainland, we spent a few glorious weeks on the beaches of Lentini Lake, drinking freshly made limonada and flirting with the spicy Sicilian women.

  The first two months after we left Sicily were tough. We spent long days advancing inland and north, from Foggia into the rugged Apennine Mountains. A lot of time and energy was spent reconstructing demolished bridges and engaging in small skirmishes with the German rear guards.

  After the battle at Motta, we secured the city of Campobasso, and the next day drove the German forces out of Vinchiaturo, advancing across the Biferno River and further up into the mountains towards Ortona.

  I was part of the advance reconnaissance team of combat engineers sent out to clear the roads of mines, reconstruct bridges and gather intelligence on the German positions. The Germans maintained a strong and well-defended presence in the small medieval mountain villages of central Italy.

  Little did I realize at that time, almost one year later I would be retracing my steps back to this remote part of Italy; not to fight German soldiers, but to win the heart of Carmella, the most beautiful woman in all of Italy.

  As the first snow of winter began to fall, our efforts to drive the German forces north to secure the eastern front of the Gustave line became increasingly difficult. The deep and steep river valleys of the Abruzzi region proved to be treacherous. As our units advanced, the German forces maintained the high ground. Many of our men were killed as we advanced our line across the Moro River, edging forward to Ortona on the coast.

  The medieval town of Ortona, with its castle and stone buildings, was situated on a ledge over looking the Adriatic. I still can’t figure out why the Germans were so keen on defe
nding this city. It had no specific strategic value at all. Its steep, rubble-filled streets limited the use of tanks and artillery, forcing us to utilize street fighting techniques.

  That week in Ortona forced us to dig deeper than we ever had to at that point in the war. I was put in charge of camouflage and making sure our unit had an adequate, and safe, supply of satchel charges for “mouseholing.” We learned quickly after losing dozens of men to the deadly rapid-fire German MG-42 machine gun that smashing our way through walls and buildings was the only effective means of cover. By blowing small holes in buildings, we were able to tunnel our way through the city to eliminate the German sniper posts.

  Mouseholing, however, was slow and dangerous work; you never knew what to expect as you made your way through the maze of buildings, clearing every room top to bottom. Every corner was a surprise.

  The Germans captured me on Christmas Eve 1943. I’m still surprised that they didn’t kill me. We were making our way to the Church of Santa Maria di Constantinopoli. The good boys of the Seaforth Highlanders managed to scrounge up the essentials to put on a full Christmas Eve feast; table cloths and chinaware, beer and wine; roast pork and applesauce; cauliflower, mashed potatoes and gravy; chocolate, oranges, nuts; and even cigarettes.

  Considering we’d lost more men in the last five days than over the last few months, the prospects of having a bit of good food and some time to relax did wonders for our moral. Over the course of the few days in Ortona, I developed a very detailed map system of our mouseholes, showing the linking tunnels and referencing the hotspots and danger zones. The map gave us the ability to maneuver quickly through the friendly parts of the city, and know which zones still needed to be cleared of German snipers.

  That night I had a bad feeling. My Sergeant was too keen on finding the most direct route to the church so we could get there before all the Christmas goodies were gone. On one of the first days in Ortona, the Lieutenant divided our unit into small sections of five men to make the process of mouseholing more efficient. His theory was that we could cover more ground in small units. It was also a lot easier to maneuver through the tight, cramped spaces with fewer men.

  “Hey McMillian, find the quickest route to Santa Maria. We need to get there before those Highlanders eat all the roast pork.” Sergeant Galt was a big man, someone who was just as comfortable driving a tank as he was driving a tractor through the Manitoba wheat fields.

  “Sarg, I think the best route is to back track through these points, and circle around to the church from the east.” I laid the map down on the cobblestone, and traced out the route. “It’s the safest and most efficient.”

  “That’ll take too long.” Galt studied the map. “Why don’t we take the direct route through the middle of town.” He pointed to an empty spot on the map. “That way we’ll make sure we get at least a couple of glasses of wine with our diner.”

  “But Sarg, that’s a hot zone,” I protested. “We’d be much better off circling back through our mouseholes and approaching the church from the east. It’s a lot safer.”

  “Nonsense.” The Sergeant checked his rifle and slung it back on his shoulder. “We’re going to earn this meal Private. Now let’s move.”

  I rolled the map back into its case and tucked it into my kit. As we made our way slowly towards the church, blasting holes through the buildings, I took mental notes so I could update the map later that evening.

  The closer we got to the centre of town, the more intense the fighting became.

  “Steady as she goes boys.” The Sergeant was always good at maintaining a strong positive attitude. “We’re almost there. I can smell the roast pork and oranges.”

  “You sure that’s not roast German yer smellin’ sarg?” Private Patrick O’Callahan was the first one to die that night. He was the unit’s comedian and always seemed to find the humour in the deep, dark nightmare of Ortona. “I bet there’s a lot of them roasting out there tonight. Especially after last night’s bombing.”

  “Watch the line O’Callahan.” But it was too late.

  A round from an MG-42 pierced through O’Callahan’s neck and his blood spurted everywhere. There was no way to save him.

  “Move! Move!” The Sergeant was quick to respond. “I don’t want to lose any more of you boys tonight.”

  We left O’Callahan’s body and followed the Sergeant to a pile of rubble down the street, but we weren’t fast enough. Private Albert Barber stepped on a land mine and pieces of his body scattered in all direction.

  Private Peter Donolly was the third man from my unit to die that Christmas Eve. He caught a bullet from a German sniper right between the eyes.

  “McMillian, get us out of here,” yelled the Sergeant. “We need an escape route now!”

  I dug into my bag and produced a couple of satchel charges. A few seconds later, there was a hole as big as a door in the building behind us.

  Private Stow and I followed Sergeant Galt through the mouse hole right into the barrels of three FG-42s. Galt was instantly shot by one of the German paratroopers. Stow and I dropped our weapons and raised our hands.

  “Come on, it’s Christmas, you’re not going to shoot us are you?”

  Stow was the smoothest talker I’d ever met. A lot of the men in our platoon joked that he had horseshoes up is ass because he survived so many close calls in combat since we arrived in Italy.

  “Here, I got a present for you. You like chocolate?”

  As Stow reached inside of his coat, a bullet went clean through his skull and into the plaster in the wall behind him.

  “No funny business.” The Paratrooper who killed Stow pointed his FG-42 at me as his two comrades searched Galt and Stow. One of the paratroopers laughed as he pulled a half-eaten chocolate bar out of Stow’s hand.

  “Now it’s your turn.” The Paratrooper shouldered his machine gun and unholstered his Browning pistol, pointing it to my head.

  “Wait, what’s that.” One of the paratroopers took the map case out of my bag and unrolled the map.

  “This one may be of value to us. Looks like he’s been mapping the tunnel system these rats have been making.”

  “Let’s kill him and bring the map back to the Commandant. I don’t feel like baby siting tonight. It’s Christmas eve.”

  “This map is useless to us without an explanation.” The Paratrooper who was obviously the leader holstered his pistol. “Once we’ve gotten him to explain this map, then we kill him.”

  Chapter Five

  Il Trattore

  We started collecting scrap metal and parts from the fields in the fall before the snow arrived. It was hard work, cutting and hauling all that scrap metal, and making sure we didn’t inadvertently step on a German land mine and blow ourselves up. By the time we finished pressing that year’s crop of grapes into wine, the snow began to fall. Luckily we had collected enough scrap to begin constructing the tractor.

  Many days as Primo, Severino and I worked in the shop, teasing the twisted metal back into shape, Marco was nowhere to be found. He was increasingly preoccupied with Carmella, so we just figured that they were hanging out, getting to known each other again. Of course, I was secretly jealous. I wanted to be hanging out with Carmella, and getting to know her, not cutting scrap metal for the tractor.

  “Come on," Marco took Carmella’s hand from across the small little table in the cafe where they were drinking coffee. “I've waited so long. I don't think I can't wait any longer. All I can think about is the smell of your soft skin, the press of your lips on mine. It's driving me crazy.”

  “I’m not ready Marco.” Carmella drew her hand away. “You’ve been away for a long time. I don’t really know you anymore.”

  “C’ho il dente avvelenato. ” Marco took Carmella’s hand again. “I’m the same man, the same Marco who loves you so much it hurts.”

  “But you’re not.” Carmella squeezed Marco’s hand. “It just doesn’t feel the same Marco. You’ve chang
ed. You’ve seen so much, been all across Italy. I need time. I want to go slow, to hear about your adventures. To build that fire we used to have together.”

  “Oh ma! Is it something I did? I thought we both agreed that we’d get married as soon as I got back from the war.”

  “We did.”

  “Than what’s the problem?”

  “There’s no problem.” Carmella sighed. A deep heavy sigh. The kind of sigh every man knows means trouble.. “It’s just that I don’t want us to rush into anything.”

  “I’d rush into a burning house after you! I’d rush into a field full of land mines after you! All I could think of the last year when I was away was making love to you on our wedding night. Let’s get Father D’Angello to marry us this weekend!”

  “Ah Marco. You’re so sweet. But my wedding is going to be planned. We’re going to have a huge feast, with music and flowers, and dancing. And my dress is going to be the most beautiful dress this small village has ever seen.”

  “Can we at least agree on a date?” Marco ran his hands through his hair, frustrated. “Give me that or kill me now.”

  “Va Bene. Don’t be so dramatic. First you’ve got to fatten up a bit. You’re so skinny! How can a man this skinny ever think he’ll be able to look after me?”

  “Another week of mama’s pasta and I’ll be fatter than a pig. How about the spring, just after Easter? That should give us plenty of time to make all the arrangements.”

  “Ok. But I want to be in charge.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I’ll start after Christmas.”

  “After Christmas?” Marco’s voice carried through the small cafe, turning heads. “There’s so much to do. You won’t be able to get it all done in time for spring if you don’t start today! You could start planning the menu and sourcing out the material for your dress. You could even talk to Father D’Angello. I’m sure he’s going to have many questions for us about our vows and the sacred union of marriage and all that religious stuff.”

  “Piano, piano Marco. There’s plenty of time. I don’t want to rush into this. I need time to think about things. To talk to my mother. To make sure we do this right. Remember I’m in charge. That means you’re going to have to trust me and let me do it my way.”