Where Have All The Bullets Gone? Part 2

If, after forty years, our stories differ so much, how many changes has the Bible gone through? Did Jesus meet Paul on the road to Damascus or was it Lance Bombardier Bennett?

"I thought I heard you playing the trumpet, Jesus."

"No," says Jesus, "that was Milligan. You haven't seen Bombardier Bennett, around, have you?"

Reg was in a bad way, tense and lachrymose. I took him down town in the evening and we sat in a Vino Bar drinking white wine. Of an evening, the people of Baiano emptied out on to the streets and sat in little groups at their doors, mothers, fathers, children, uncles, aunts, all chatting away, laughing or lamenting the state of the world. Like we watch 'Dallas', the Italians watched German air-raids over Naples, cheering when some Jerry plane was. .h.i.t and the pilot was having his a.r.s.e burnt off, or parachuting into the Bay of Naples to die of typhoid.

We became friendly with one Franco and his family. He was a shoe salesman in Naples, forty, excused war duties because of ill health, though when I met his giant wife and six kids I couldn't see the reason. She had bosoms like the London Planetarium and was feeding not only her own baby, but wet nursing her neighbours'.

We are invited to partake of the meagre fare. (The last meagre fare I had was a cheap day return to Brockley: Groucho Marx.) Mussels! All bigger than mine. And garlic, phew! Franco's brothers are musicians; they play the mandolin and guitar. I thought they'd like to hear some jazz, so I strummed and sang 'When my sugar walks down the street'. They asked for a translation which was 'Quando mia sucro pa.s.segiare fondo la strada, tutti i piccoli ucelli andato tweet tweet tweet' or, "When my sugar ration walks down the street, it is attended by little birds going tweet tweet tweet." They liked my Players cigarettes. In exchange they offer me the local Italian brand. I forget the name, I think it was Il c.r.a.p.

The village had its resident tart who traded on the outskirts of the town. Her pimp stood outside and shouted: "Thees way, twenty cigarette you f.u.c.k-a my seester."

"Sister?" said Bronx. "She looks more like his grand-mother."

"I think for twenty f.a.gs he'd let you f.u.c.k 'im," says Rogers.

Romance One It was in the New Army Welfare Rest and Recreation Centre, a large rambling Victorian affair at the top of the village, that I found...romance! I had never myself ever had a large rambling Victorian affair, but now, one of the Italian girls serving at the tea bar takes my eye. Arghhh! You've heard of Mars Bars? Forget 'em. She's a ringer for Sophia Loren but six inches shorter and six inches further out. Troubles never come singly, and neither did hers. She likes me, can I have tea with her? There is a smell of burning hairs. I said yes from the waist down. 4 o'clock tomorrow? Si!

I spent all day getting ready. Finally I apply Anzora hair goo and finger-wave my hair. I look lovely. I 'borrow' the jeep and drive to the address. What's this? A magnificent Romano-Greek styled villa; it must be wrong, no, it's right. I drive up the circular drive through embossed iron gates. The great double door: I gently bang the bra.s.s hand-shaped knocker. I've only just arrived and there I am with my hand on her knocker.

A suave white-coated grey-haired flunkey opens the door: "Ah meester Meeligan." He knows my real t.i.tle! "Please come in, the Contessa is waiting." Contessa? I follow him down a cool marble-floored hall, the walls hung with oil paintings broken by wall consoles. He opens the door into a large gasping-with-light room. The decor is Louis XVI with Baroque gilt furniture. She' is sitting against the far wall on a b.u.t.toned couch, a fine white cotton dress to the knee (Arghhhhhhh!) brown satin legs (Arghhhh!) fine topless sandals cross laced up her leg (Arghhhhhhhhh!). Her hair is loose on her shoulder (Arrrrghh!), in her hand she holds an Arum lily that she is waving under her nose (Arghhhhhhhhhhh!) She has been practising this all day. I take off my hat to show her my fine Anzora goo hair-set stuck with flies. "h.e.l.lo and arghhhhhhh," I say. "Seet here," she says. (Arghhhhhhhh!) She pats the Louis XIV couch to which I lower my Milligan trousers. It's all too much. She speaks in slow purring tones. (Arghhhhhhhh!) She is very laid back or is it that I'm leaning forward. She asks me what 'Spike' means. I tell her, I mean business. Her family goes back six hundred years, where do mine go back to? I tell her they go back to 50 Riseldine Road, Brockley. Tea is served on a silver service - how many spoons can I get in my pocket? I ask her where her parents are; they are stopping at Eboli. I tell her I will stop at nothing. Yes, she is is a Countess. Have I ever been to Eboli? No, I have been to Penge, Sidcup, but not to Eboli. She has heard me tinkering on the piano at the Centre, she likes jazz, will I play her piano? I bluff my way through 'A Foggy Day in London town'. She claps her hands. "Whatees that?" I tell her: "It's a piano, don't you remember, you asked me to play it." The flunkey arrives, it's time for me to depart, la Contessa has another appointment. Blast. "Can you come see me again?" Yes I can, but can we try a different room next time. I shake hands. It's like a cool perfumed sponge cake. (Arggggggggg!) a Countess. Have I ever been to Eboli? No, I have been to Penge, Sidcup, but not to Eboli. She has heard me tinkering on the piano at the Centre, she likes jazz, will I play her piano? I bluff my way through 'A Foggy Day in London town'. She claps her hands. "Whatees that?" I tell her: "It's a piano, don't you remember, you asked me to play it." The flunkey arrives, it's time for me to depart, la Contessa has another appointment. Blast. "Can you come see me again?" Yes I can, but can we try a different room next time. I shake hands. It's like a cool perfumed sponge cake. (Arggggggggg!) I'm back at camp lying on my bed smoking, nay steaming, thinking of her. I am besieged with military questions: "Did I get it?" No I didn't. How far did I get? The piano. What is it about the British soldier? He will knock off a German machine-gun nest single-handed and never say a word about it, but if he knocks off some poor innocent scrubber, he gives you every little nitty gritty detail. I don't get it, as in this case I didn't.

I've caught it. Wait. You don't catch catch bronchitis. I mean you don't chase it up the street with a b.u.t.terfly net. No. Bronchitis catches you. So, a bronchitis had caught me. It was suffering from me very badly, I had given the poor thing a high temperature, so I had to get my bronchitis to a hospital. No. 104 General at Nocera. Bingo! You've won the Golden Enema! Another ward, blue jim-jams, female nurses, and mossy nets to stop them dive-bombing. That night I was delirious, but people couldn't tell the difference. bronchitis. I mean you don't chase it up the street with a b.u.t.terfly net. No. Bronchitis catches you. So, a bronchitis had caught me. It was suffering from me very badly, I had given the poor thing a high temperature, so I had to get my bronchitis to a hospital. No. 104 General at Nocera. Bingo! You've won the Golden Enema! Another ward, blue jim-jams, female nurses, and mossy nets to stop them dive-bombing. That night I was delirious, but people couldn't tell the difference.

April 13 Diary: Diary: Feeling better. Wrote to mother giving list of my post-war underwear stock. Feeling better. Wrote to mother giving list of my post-war underwear stock.

I go on record that April 16 is my birthday.

"Given extra medicine as a treat." "Given extra medicine as a treat."

Now dear reader, mystery.

April 21 Diary: Diary: "Bert says his leg is getting better." "Bert says his leg is getting better."

Now I don't remember Bert or his leg. So, if nothing else, the reader will know that on April 21 1944, Bert's leg is getting better. By now I'd say it was totally better and he's snuffed it.

My bronchitis is better and I can take it back to camp.

Necrophiles Outside our camp was the walled cemetery. Alas! the grounds are overgrown with wartime neglect or is it gra.s.s? Latins lavish more attention and emotion on their dead than we do. Every headstone has a photograph of the departed. What was ghoulishly interesting were the wall graves, immured with a gla.s.s panel to show the departed. One was stunningly macabre: the body of a girl of eighteen buried in 1879 in her bridal gown. The hair was red and had grown after death, as had her fingernails, filling the s.p.a.ce like Indian candy floss. The headstones abound with grisly warnings: "As I am now, so will you be." Why does the church allow these nasty after-death threats? Why not go the whole hog?

EARLY MORNING VATICAN RADIO EARLY MORNING VATICAN RADIO HIGH PRIEST: HIGH PRIEST: Hi ya, this is Vatican Radio PIP PIP PIP. Yes, it's nine thirty-one, another moment nearer your death, Byeeeeeeee. Hi ya, this is Vatican Radio PIP PIP PIP. Yes, it's nine thirty-one, another moment nearer your death, Byeeeeeeee.

Nasty things are happening - some of the loonies are digging up the graves, or breaking the gla.s.s and knocking off the rings. (In the case of bankruptcy break gla.s.s?) Jock Rogers is horrified. "Och, this'll get us a terrible name." Terrible name? How about Tom Crabs or Doris Herpes? d.i.c.k Scratcher?

Private Andrews is more suspicious. "They're f.u.c.kin' the stiffs." Surely not. "Aye, they're not after the jewellery, they're after a f.u.c.k." It wasn't so, but we didn't want to spoil Andrews' fun. He was an argumentative b.u.g.g.e.r, especially on sport. He was a fitba' freak and when he found I liked rugby, gave me h.e.l.l.

"It's fer bleedin' sn.o.bs Jamie, and that ball, like a b.l.o.o.d.y duck's egg, no wonder you ha' to carry the b.l.o.o.d.y thing."

I still wasn't a well person. In May I had three bad depressions. I had heard via the grapevine that some of my mates from 19 Battery were having leave at Amalfi, just an hour up the road. I asked 'Trickcyclist' if I could go and see them, but he said no, we were not to leave the confines of Baiano. It was nonsense. Now I realize I could have gone and taken the quinciquonces. Depressed by the decision, I went straight out, got smashed, came back late, got into the Nissen hut, bolted the door, went on drinking and shouted abuse. Finally I cut my face with a razor blade then fell asleep, all done for effect, a cri de coeur. They broke down the door and took me to the sick bay. When I awoke, Private Shepherd gave me some pills that sent me off again. His exact words were: "Take these yer daft b.u.g.g.e.r." However a letter written at the time showed me to be quite lucid.

ED: Transcribed faithfully including error. Added some s.p.a.ces to improve reflowability.

MY DEAR DAD,.

SORRY TO HAVE DELAYED IN ANWERING YOUR LAST LETTER, BUT WORK IN THIS OFFICE IS HANDS HIGH. I NEARLY DROPPED DOWN WITH SHOCK WHEN YOU TOLD ME THAT DES WAS NOW IN THE ULSTER RIFLES, UO TO THEN I HAD NO IDEA HE AS EVEN ON THE VERGE OF JOINING THE ARME...BUT INFANTRY, THATS NO JOKE, BELIVE ME, IN THIS THEATERE THE INFANTRY GET ALL THE MUCK, KNOWING DESMONDS PSYCHOLOGICAL CHARACTER AS I DO IT IS OBVIOUS HE WILL NEVER STICK IT, IF HE COMES OUT HERE I WILL MAKE IT MY DUTY TO CLAIM HIM, PRETTY SHARP. AS YOU ALREADY KNOW I AM NOW DOWNGRADED TO BI, FOR THE DURATION, THAT MEANS MY RETURN TO ENGLAND IN ONE PIECE IS ENSURED. STILL IVE DONE MY BIT, IVE NEVER S[x.x.xX] MY DUTY, I WOULD STILL BE UP THERE NOW, BUT THAT Sh.e.l.l BURST SO CLOSE THAT IT DID MOTE DAMAGE TO MY NERVOUS SYSTEM THAN MY PSYSICAL SELF.STILL IM GETTING BETTER NOW,BUT STILL SUFFER FROM DEPRESSIONS,WHICH MAKE ME UNBEARABLE AS A COMPANION. TIME IS THE ONLY DOCTOR,AND OF COURSE MYSELF.WELL DAD HOW IS THE OLD WAR HORSE, I WAS DISAPOINTED TO HEAR THAT YOU BOOK COULD NOT BE PRINTED, THE SHORTAGE OF PAPER YOU SAY, IS IT A BOOK THAT WILL KEEP POST WAR ? OR IS IT A MOOD OF THE MOMENT? GIVE ME A FEW MORE DETAILS, ABOUT SAME. LILY WRITES REGULAR,AND SO DO ALL MY FRIENDS. I HAVE LEARNT A LITTLE ITALIAN,AND CAN CARRY ON A REASONABLE CONVERSATION WITH THE LOCAL NATIVES...ALL ITALIANS CAN SING, KIDS, GRANDMONTHERS, FATHERS, DUSTMEN, ALL SING. I HAVE BEEN TO SOME FIRST CLa.s.s OPERAS SINCE BEING BASE DEPORTED, AND THEY WERE TRULY MAGNIFIQUE MON PERE. THE FOOD IS VERY GOOD IN THIS CAMP EGGS FOR BREAKFAST EVERY DAY, A CINEMA NEAR BY, A SMALL SWIMING POOL, AND A CANTEEN WHICH IS LOCATED IN A LOVELY VILLA, ADJOINING A GARDEN, IN THIS GARDEN A RATHER ATRACTIVE BAND PLAY ITALIAN FOLK MUSIC DURING THE EVENINGS, IT IS VERY PLEASENT. THERE IS ALSO A QUITE ROOM WHERE ONE CAN WRIT, STUDY ECT.A TRAIN SERVICE IS AVAILABLE TO BIG TOWNS, AND TRAVELLING ON ONE OF THESE IS A REAL EXPERIENCE, EVERY ONE TALKS ALOUD SINGS FIGHTS AND IF THE ROOM IS FULL, THEY JUST HANG ON THE OUTSIDE,ALL VERY UNSTAID AS COMPARED WITH ENGLISH TRAVEL. TAKEN ON THE WHOLE ITALY IS VERY VERY ATTRACTIVE, THE DIVINE COAST FOR INSTANCE A STRETCH OF COAST FORM SALERNO TO SORRENTO, THER IS SCENERY THAT HAS INSPIRED POETS PAINTERS MUSICIANS FOR CENTURIES, IT IS STEEPED IN HISTORY, I HAVE RECORDED MANY INTERESTING FACT ABOUT THESE QUAINT PLACES I HAVE VISITED, DURING MY LEAVE PERIODS IN THIS COUNTRY,MY POST CARD COLLECTION IS NOW ENOURMOUS, I'M SURE YOU WILL BE DELIGHTED TO SEE MY COLLECTION. I HAVE ALSO MANAGED TO OBTAIN A PIECE OF MOSAIC FROM ONE OF THE VILLAS IN RUINED POMPEII.

(AT THIS STAGE YOU MUST EXCUSE THE ERRATIC s.p.a.cING BUT THIS MISSIVE HAS BEEN REMOVED FROM THE TYPEWRITE TO ALLOW THE DISPATCHES OF WAR TO TAKE PRECEDENCE), ANY HOW POMPEII...I SPENT THREE DAYS OF MY FOUR DAY LEAVE IN THIS ENCHANTING TOWN OF YESTERYEAR, I TOOK PARTICULAR NOTE OF THE ARCHETICTURE ARCHETICTURE ARCITECTURE OF THAT IDOM, AND STRANGE TO SAY THE COUNTRY BUILDINGS OF TO DAY( IN ITALY 0 ARE DEFINATELY A PROTOTYPE, OF POMPEII'S VILLAS. THE FARMERS OUT HERE ARE MASTERS OF THEIR CRAFT, STILL EMPLOYING METHODS CONSIDERED ANCIENT BY OUR STANDARDS, BUT NEVER THE LESS PRODUCING THE SAME FULL HARVEST. THE LATINS ARE NOT LIVING A LIFE BASEDON THE GLORIFICATION IN MY PAST FEW LINES ..ON THE CONTRARY, I SHOULD SAY BY MERE OPTICAL DEDUCTION, THAT 30 % OF ITALIAN FAMILIES ARE BARELY EXISTING. THE REST LIVE ON EITHER BLACK MARKET, THEIR WITS, OR WORKING FOR THE ANGLO-AMERICAN FORCE. I AHVE A REALLY GOOD FRIENDIN THE LOCAL TOWN.. HE IS A FAMILY MAN, A CHARMING AND FAITHFUL WIFE(A RARITY IN ENGLAND) AND 5 BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN, ONE OF WHICH (ANNA BY NAME) I AM VERY MUCH ATTACHED TOO, SHE IS 5 YEARS OF AGE, A TYPICAL LATIN/ BROWN EYES THAT HAVE PATHOS, SINCERETY, WARMTH AND ALL THAT FO TO MAKE THE FEATURES WORTHY OF THEIR ROMAN ANCESTORS, FRANCE HAS 3 BROTHERS, ALL THINK THE WORLD OF ME, THEY ARE MUSICAL, EACH BEING A COMPETENT SOLOIST ON THE GUITAR, I SPEND EVERY EVENING AT THEIR HOME, WITH THE TRADITONAL VINO BLANCA (WHITE WINE) AND FRUIT THAT WOULD DRIVE AN ENGLISH HOUSE WIFE OFF HER HEAD WITH JOY. WELL DAD YOU HAVE HEARDENOUGH FOR TO NIGHT(THE CANDLE IS RUNNING LOW) I MUST FINI POURA SA SARA. ARE FER TEACHI(SEEIN YA) ARCITECTURE OF THAT IDOM, AND STRANGE TO SAY THE COUNTRY BUILDINGS OF TO DAY( IN ITALY 0 ARE DEFINATELY A PROTOTYPE, OF POMPEII'S VILLAS. THE FARMERS OUT HERE ARE MASTERS OF THEIR CRAFT, STILL EMPLOYING METHODS CONSIDERED ANCIENT BY OUR STANDARDS, BUT NEVER THE LESS PRODUCING THE SAME FULL HARVEST. THE LATINS ARE NOT LIVING A LIFE BASEDON THE GLORIFICATION IN MY PAST FEW LINES ..ON THE CONTRARY, I SHOULD SAY BY MERE OPTICAL DEDUCTION, THAT 30 % OF ITALIAN FAMILIES ARE BARELY EXISTING. THE REST LIVE ON EITHER BLACK MARKET, THEIR WITS, OR WORKING FOR THE ANGLO-AMERICAN FORCE. I AHVE A REALLY GOOD FRIENDIN THE LOCAL TOWN.. HE IS A FAMILY MAN, A CHARMING AND FAITHFUL WIFE(A RARITY IN ENGLAND) AND 5 BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN, ONE OF WHICH (ANNA BY NAME) I AM VERY MUCH ATTACHED TOO, SHE IS 5 YEARS OF AGE, A TYPICAL LATIN/ BROWN EYES THAT HAVE PATHOS, SINCERETY, WARMTH AND ALL THAT FO TO MAKE THE FEATURES WORTHY OF THEIR ROMAN ANCESTORS, FRANCE HAS 3 BROTHERS, ALL THINK THE WORLD OF ME, THEY ARE MUSICAL, EACH BEING A COMPETENT SOLOIST ON THE GUITAR, I SPEND EVERY EVENING AT THEIR HOME, WITH THE TRADITONAL VINO BLANCA (WHITE WINE) AND FRUIT THAT WOULD DRIVE AN ENGLISH HOUSE WIFE OFF HER HEAD WITH JOY. WELL DAD YOU HAVE HEARDENOUGH FOR TO NIGHT(THE CANDLE IS RUNNING LOW) I MUST FINI POURA SA SARA. ARE FER TEACHI(SEEIN YA) YOUR AFFECTIONATE SON.

TERRY.

P.S. PLEASE Pa.s.s THIS LETTER ON TO MUM.

T.M.

A stream that runs through the camp has been dammed and a swimming hole is the result. I will recount an incident with one of the more advanced loonies. 'Tis evening, and Milligan takes to the waters; there approaches a loony. The conversation I remember almost to the word.

LOONY.

: Hey you. : Hey you.

ME.

: Yes. : Yes.

LOONY.

: Hey you. Come here. Come here. : Hey you. Come here. Come here.

(I could hear him perfectly from where I was, but I thought perhaps he had something to give me. I drew to the side.) ME:.

Yes? Yes?

LOONY:.

What's it like in there? What's it like in there?

ME:.

( (puzzled) What's it like?

LOONY:.

Aye. Aye.

ME:.

Well, it's wet. Well, it's wet.

LOONY:.

Oh, it's wet, is it? Oh, it's wet, is it?

ME:.

Has that put you off? Has that put you off?

LOONY:.

Is it warm? Is it warm?

ME:.

Yes. Yes.

LOONY:.

It's wet and warm, eh? It's wet and warm, eh?

ME:.

Yes. Yes.

LOONY:.

Is it comfortable? Is it comfortable?

ME:.

Yes. Yes.

(It would appear he wants personal references for the swimming hole.) (It would appear he wants personal references for the swimming hole.) ME:.

Yes, it's very comfortable, it fits well under the arms, it's not too tight in the crutch, and the water reaches down to below the feet. It's a light brown colour, you don't need b.u.t.tons and it doesn't crease. Yes, it's very comfortable, it fits well under the arms, it's not too tight in the crutch, and the water reaches down to below the feet. It's a light brown colour, you don't need b.u.t.tons and it doesn't crease.

Sport Captain Peters is of a mind that we are in need of exercise. "Football! Phnut!" The camp is divided into four teams -Red, Blue, White, Yellow. The teams were up to twenty a side. I played for the Reds. I never saw the ball, but I heard it several times. Getting past two goalies presented difficulties, especially as they threatened you if you tried to score a goal. "You score and I'll kill you, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" Still, it was fun. Athletics presented a problem as there was no track. Owing to the terrain, all races had to be run in a straight line. This was OK for the Dash but the mile was a disaster.

Records? Forget it; over the stony pot-holed track it took the winner of the 100 yards 20 seconds! The mile took a quarter of an hour and we had to send a truck out to bring them back. The Marathon was cancelled. As Peters said, "We'd never see them again." The prizes were ideal for those trying to get fit. f.a.gs.

June. A Posting Ah! That Italian summer in the Campania. The mornings, the cool air touching the face like an eider feather, the dawn light under the tent flap vivifying the moment, the aroma of dew on earth, the distant c.o.c.kerel, the sound of the old guard standing down, the clank of the early morning tea bucket. Long before we rose the trundling of ox carts to the fields and the "Aie!" of the calling herdsmen, all this and the lung-bursting coughing of Private Andrews.

"Who's a lucky lad then?" says Sergeant Arnolds.

I pause at my desk and answer: "A lucky lad is the Duke of Windsor now soaking up sea and sun as the Governor of Bermuda." No, no, the lucky boy is me. He throws me a doc.u.ment. From this camp of a thousand loonies I am being posted to the Officers' Club, Portici, as a wine steward. The word gets round. Milligan is leaving!!

The night before I left, Reg Bennett, Jock Rogers, Bronx Weddon, Private Andrews and I had a farewell party at the Welfare Centre. It was eggs and chips and red wine. Reg played the piano, I played the trumpet, then into the back garden to hear the Italian orchestra playing old Neapolitan : Airs - 'Lae ther p.i.s.s tub down bab' ('Lay that Pistol down, Babe').

"The place won't be the same without you," says a tearful Reg Bennett. I tell him it wasn't the same with with me. We stagger home by a hunter's moon, our shadows going before us on the silver ribbon of a road. Me, at an Officers' Club! me. We stagger home by a hunter's moon, our shadows going before us on the silver ribbon of a road. Me, at an Officers' Club!

"I wonder what they'll make me," I said.

"They'll make you an offer," says Bronx.

The Officers' Club, Portici It was a large splendid cla.s.sical-style villa on the main road. I walked up a tessellated path, then right up marble steps with Venetian bal.u.s.trades into a large white foyer, which had pedestalled busts of Apollo, Hermes, Aristotle and several etcs. In a large dining-room I am intercepted by a short squat thick-set Corporal of the Black Watch, complete in clan kilt. He is the image of Jerry Collona.

"I'm Gunner Milligan I -"

He pounces in. "Ahhyes, you've come at an awkward time."

"I could come back...after the war."

No, follow him. Through an arched annexe into a sumptuous room, the beds are on a three-foot raised platform in the middle, surrounded by a Roman-style wooden railing in the St Andrew's Cross design. "It's how the Romans used to sleep, raised up," he explains. "That's my bed, use the mossy-net at night and take Mepacrin." He is Corporal Tom Ross. "You can call me Tom, except near officers." Right, he can call me Spike, except near railings. He is from the 51st Highland Division. Had I heard of them? Yes, we called them the 'Hydraulics' because they would lift anything. He too was bomb-happy. "Alamein, it were tue much fer me." I told him not to worry, it was too much for Rommel as well. Highland Division. Had I heard of them? Yes, we called them the 'Hydraulics' because they would lift anything. He too was bomb-happy. "Alamein, it were tue much fer me." I told him not to worry, it was too much for Rommel as well.

I met the staff. The cook, Franco (all Italian cooks not called Maria are Francos in Italy), two serving girls, Rosa and Maria (all Marias not called Rosa are called Marias in Italy), girl secretary Bianca, Italian barman Carlo (all Italians not called Franco are Carlos except the Pope). The officer in charge is Lieutenant Oliver s.m.u.tts, bomb-happy, balding, with an Adam's apple which looks like a nose further down; slim, as are his chances of promotion. He interviewed me. I was to be receptionist and wine waiter.

s.m.u.tTS:.