Mid-summer bathed the sprawling military compound outside Rome with mature temperatures as its rays filtered through a haze of dust that seemed to settle into every crevice of the temporary structures. Inside the sweltering administrative building, oscillating fans circled overhead, stirring papers on metal desks. The technical sergeant’s uniform hung loose to breathe with them as he stood at attention and complained with accumulating frustration to the captain of the maintenance company, “The War Department is sending home fathers and replacing them with fresh faced enlistees.” He extended a weathered hand towards the open window behind them where the maintenance yard was seen stretched in its orderly rows with corrugated roofs shimmering in the heat, he continued, “Morale is suffering. Work orders are slow to completion.”
The Captain looked up from a stack of requisition forms, his reading glasses perched focus from the bridge of his nose. Around them the staff section bore the makeshift quality of wartime efficiency with maps tacked to plywood walls, filing cabinets that had seen better days, and a perpetually percolating coffee pot. Removing his glasses and massaging his brows, the captain, by standing emphasized, “We are a linchpin for the 51st Carrier Squadron’s efforts to return men and equipment to peacetime through the Ciampino Airport.” His normally emotionless countenance revealed lines of exasperation as he looked past the sergeant toward the Battalion Commander’s office, where an open door allowed leadership to be heard on its terms. The plaintive look he cast as they walked toward it spoke volumes about the pressure bearing down from above.
From this spartan corner office, the Lieutenant Colonel boomed with the authority that obscured expected mayhem from his motor transport responsibilities, “They will be treated to a USO performance here on September 29th.” He shuffled the consolidated morning reports and then impatiently drummed his fingers on them, the current general orders, and the unit journal, “In the meantime, I have a USAAF liaison officer breathing fire about needing one of our Scout cars for a bigwig. Can we spare anyone to make the delivery?”
Lit up with sudden inspiration, the sergeant resolutely straightened his posture, “By all accounts, our most responsible remaining technician is Private Bill Blythe. He is showing maturity, competence, and is talkative. Moreover, his closest friends are some of those fathers, and he isn’t going home without exception.”
“You are suggesting we give the conscientious private this temporary duty?” The Lieutenant Colonel leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms across his chest to calculate its ease.
“Yes. We can, further, save manpower by having him join one of the transport trucks heading north for demobilization.”
Approval emerged from the Lieutenant Colonel’s demeanor for their collective decision. “This private becomes the goose of liberty for the battalion. Excellent. Sergeant, return to the maintenance park and see to its organization. Blythe should view the assignment and special pass as commendations.”
Corporal Joyce Damico was summoned from her post. Her typewriter sat momentarily silent, a report still awaited finishing keystrokes, and a cup of lukewarm coffee grew cold beside a framed photograph of her family back in West Virginia. She fluidly rose from her chair, brushing her uniform skirt as she approached the Captain, who was already moving toward the door. Her dark eyes took in everything and held a question even before she spoke. “What is the excitement about?” she inquired, watching as the Captain gathered his cap and official documents.
“We are providing a car for the new USO tour set to begin in Tuscany,” he said while pausing in the doorway. “One of our T4s, Private Blythe, will deliver the vehicle this afternoon after completing the preventative maintenance checks and services. We are giving him an overnight pass with the expectation that the trust we are extending will encourage him to help fill the leadership vacuum by example.”
Her face softened and with the soothing cadence of her Appalachian upbringing Joyce replied, “He is affable and sweet. We have shared meals and stories of his childhood in Texas and mine in West Virginia.” as her stature raising expressiveness concluded, “Believe me, he needs this as much as the repair bay needs his fastened diligence.”
The Captain nodded approvingly before heading toward S-3, where operation orders were drafted amid the constant clatter of typewriters and the rustle of carbon paper, and then to S-1, where personnel decisions like leaves and passes were created and recorded.
Directing her back to the present, the commanding officer ordered, “I want to speak to Lt. General Cannon of the USAAF by phone again, please”.
Joyce settled back at her desk, the black Bakelite telephone receiver feeling familiar in her hand as she placed the call, her fingers working the rotary dial with practiced efficiency.
Outside, dust and sand from the Sahara, carried by the hot Sirocco winds, yellowed the morning sky in sepia and promised an uncomfortable day of desert thickened air. The open-sided bays and equipment storage areas of the maintenance park took on an otherworldly quality in the strange light.
The technical sergeant returned to his domain with renewed purpose. He immediately gathered the tools and parts needed for the next job. Private Bill Blythe joined him with the careful attention to detail that had earned him his reputation. His face, still bearing traces of the Texas sun that had bronzed it during his youth, embossed concentration as he unhesitatingly broomed up the service lane, prepared the portable jacks, and pulled the reconnaissance car with its canvas top rolled back into position with mechanical precision. The sergeant set the tools, brake shoes, spark plugs, and windshield wipers next to the jacks with intended distribution for methodical progression from one task to the next as a chorus to the rhythm of military life. Both men employed proficient alacrity, their movements synchronized by months working together. The Scout Car’s engine ticked as it cooled. Blythe wiped his brow with a rag that had seen better days, leaving a streak of grease across his forehead, when he heard the distinctive hum of the Battalion Commander’s GP Jeep approaching. The sound was unmistakable, “Sergeant, are we being inspected?” His nervous voice hinting at the respect any good soldier feels when senior officers appear.
Wiping his hands on his coveralls, the sergeant pliantly asked “Lt. Colonel Miller, how can we help you today?” as he stepped with purpose from the vehicle to survey the maintenance park with the practiced eye of someone who had spent years evaluating military operations.
“This bay is outstanding, sergeant.” He motioned approval as he noted the organized tool layout, the clean surfaces, and the evident pride the men took in their workspace.
“Private Blythe’s consistently dedicated work ethic has provided leadership for newly arriving mechanics.”
Lieutenant Colonel Miller’s attention turned to Blythe, “Is the scout car ready?”
His men nodded.
“As a trusted Deuce and a half certified mechanic, Blythe, you will deliver this car to the Hassler Villa and, then, at the Via Salaria fuel depot join a convoy of those trucks headed north to Livorno for demobilization.”
Buoyantly, Blythe celebrated, “Yes, Sir!”
“Impressive.” The Lieutenant Colonel seconded his established approval. “The quartermaster is ready to fit you for this detail. Corporal Damico will have your orders and leave.”
As if summoned by the mention of her name, Joyce appeared at the entrance to the maintenance bay. She approached with the careful balance of military protocol and personal affection, and when the Lieutenant Colonel departed, she closed the distance to Blythe. She carried a simple, black, leather-covered prism and two documents. “This is a big moment for you, Billy, but I am hoping you will spend some of your leisure time taking a 35 mm color photo of the altar sanctuary of the Basilica of Santa Maria in Aracoeli. We had an heirloom painting of it lost in a fire before my birth. I have written the details on this note.” she whispered, embracing him in a congratulatory hug. “I will miss seeing you front and center at Roll Call, so hurry back!”
_____________________________________________________________________________
“Underneath the lantern,
By the barrack gate
Darling I remember” Billy hummed incredulously as he slid into the driver’s seat of the M3 Scout Car General Clark personally reserved for the transportation of & the rousing of fanfare for Marlene Dietrich while she dedicated herself to supporting troop morale with performances across Italy. Tasked with delivering the vehicle to her attaché at the requisitioned Hassler Villa, he wondered if he’d see her.
As part of the 2630th Transportation Corps Motor Transport Battalion for the Penisular Base Section, he arrived to its organization, completion of support for Operation Torch, and its landing in Salerno. His battalion had rehabilitated the roads now taking him to the Spanish Steps looked upon by the Hassler Villa. As he drove the busy thoroughfares along Capitoline Hill and pocketed the note Joyce had written, confused emotions tugged him between the listless uncertainties of home life, the pulse she enlivened in him, incessantly barked orders, and discovering for the first time the aura of recognition. The distraction diverted his attention from the landmarks he learned about in his favorite Robert Graves history novels.
Towering above the summit of the Spanish Steps, the cream colored hotel painted itself as a cumulus cloud for the Roman sky, its Renaissance facade catching the amber light of early afternoon. Below the Via Sistina, the hotel’s gardens surged toward the exhaust worn Piazza di Spagna.
In front of the hotel, two women stood with an officer on the sidewalk. The seasoned woman magnetically radiated presence. Her younger companion had softer features, the same yearning intelligence, and flowing auburn hair with a copper sheen given no consideration by Lieutenant General John K. Cannon. The stars on his shoulders gleamed seniority through his set in and scowling gray eyes that had overseen the strategic bombing of Italy and now the complexities of occupation.
After parking in front of them, Blythe saluted the Air Force Lieutenant General. The women quickly stepped forward. The older of the two commanded “I expect to be saluted as well private or I will have you court-martialed for insubordination.”
Blythe guffawed, “Ma’am?”
To which she promptly flashed her captain credentials.
Shaken, embarrassed, and scarleting, he murmured an apology as the younger woman, equally crimsoned cried out in laughter, “Mom don’t torture the poor sop.”
Sympathetically, she offered her hand with the practiced grace of a woman who charmed kings and generals, her voice carrying just a trace of the Berlin accent she never wanted to lose. “I am Marlene. This is my daughter Maria. We were only having a bit of fun to see if it would evoke a smile from Lieutenant General Cannon who has been quite stern in our company.” All looked at Cannon whose attention followed the approach of a company grade officer.
Captain Rosenthal strode with the measured pace of a man who had survived fifty-two bombing missions. His dark hair was combed back neatly, his uniform impeccable despite the dust of Roman streets, and his eyes held the sharp acumen that had made him invaluable in the cockpit of a B-17 and soon fair-minded purpose in an adversarial pursuit of justice. He crossed the stone terrace, two sealed envelopes in his left hand and handed the messages to Cannon. “You serve with distinction Captain. Do not disappoint me in your prestigiously hand-picked prosecutorial assignments. Prove they suit you better than B-29 flight training and its sorties. Continue in your charge to see Captain Dietrich and her daughter to Livorno.”
Turning, “Blythe.” He frowned in guidance, “You will join a ‘Deuce and a Half’ in its convoy tomorrow at 0:500 en route for the demobilization of divisions in the IV corps.” Reaching into his pocket, “Tonight, this social calling card will get you quartered. Keep it clean. It will also gain you entrance to the Officers’ Club Rome. Do not overstay your welcome or embarrass me.”
He bowed, “Ladies.” and returned to his expected duties.
Marlene swiftly moved, as if pre-arranged, to give Rosie, Captain Rosenthal, a hero’s welcome, but he winced a bit “Still tender?”
“It is nothing,” he replied.
“Private, you are in for a rough ride tomorrow. Not only that but you will need to find your way to the fuel supply depot at the intersection of the Via Salaria and Via Flaminia, Cannon’s card will instruct a motor pool officer to drive you there in a Willys.”
“Yes, sir. I understand my duty to keep the rig steady,” Billy responded.
Smiling broadly between the tousles of her strawberry blonde hair being neatly tucked behind her ears, Marlene asked “Are we really in such a hurry? Couldn’t we drop him there as we get underway? I’ve just arrived back in Rome. I want to introduce my daughter to the city. Besides a drink or two and a nice meal might soften the ride north for us all.”
With empathic precision, Maria prayerfully grabbed Billy’s hand to plead “The war has spared no one” as the perfumed aroma from her loosened chiffon bound the new companions in memories of silent gardens.
Stoically, Rosie misted discontentment for his crew killed by enemy fire over Germany. His eyes abruptly met Billy’s to acknowledge war’s equality. “You are in for a treat tonight my friend. The fillets, desserts, drinks, and entertainment are rarely surpassed. Let’s go inside.”
The marble-floored lobby filled with footsteps as the four figures moved beneath chandeliers dimmed by rationing. The frescoed walls now centrally bore military notices and directional signs in both Italian and English.
“Will there be pen and paper in the room for a letter to my wife?” Billy peccantly asked.
Marlene and Maria tittered the boff.
“Hotel stationary is everywhere. Finish your letter before orders. I will have it airmailed.”
“I recently met Lt. Colonel Charity Adams. The Six Triple Eight will see it delivered within a week”
“The Central Postal Directory Battalion is exceptionally commendable. You two better have honed afternoon itinerary”
“Thank You”
“It is only a few stops” Marlene sarcastically protested. “It begins in the highly praised courtyard. Meet us there.”
Rosie instructively oriented Billy’s nescience with the administrative wing. “First Lieutenant Fred Seymour supervises the Billeting Office in room 101. It replaced the concierge here on the ground floor,” he explained, gesturing past temporary partitions that had converted former guest suites into various military quarters. Behind repurposed reception counters, clerks processed housing assignments.
“If you don’t mind me asking, Sir, how do you know the billeting officer?”Just call me Rosie. He was at Thorpe Abbots, England when I arrived for duties with the 418th Bomber Squadron. He is genuine, honest, trustworthy, kind, and surprisingly still a bachelor.”
Appearing from behind them, the short and thin lieutenant with a receding hairline greeted Rosie with awestruck humility, “Every one always praised your flying skills. I never thought I read about them.”
“Fred, let me introduce the married private, Billy Blythe. He is eager to write home.”
“Private,” Fred said while generously offering his hand, “Lt, General Cannon has informed me of your needs. At the moment, the room formerly used by Major General Twining is the only available native suite returned to service. It is on the sixth floor; it has hotel stationary; and there are spectacular views of the city from it. Here is your key.”
“Who did you impress Billy and how?” Rosie affably chuckled rhetorically with inimitable respect. “Find your way to the room and meet us downstairs in an hour.”
“Do you know where I can get a car for tonight? The private delivered an MP car for the USO tour. Its rear mounted machine gun makes it unsuitable for leisure with the show’s star performer Marlene Dietrich.”
“The departure of senior staff has left my office responsible for the security of a 1942 Buick Century Series 61. Its tank is full and at your disposal if you get her autograph on a publicity photo for her guest appearance at The American Red Cross Paramount Theatre I have on my desk.”
“Get the keys, the picture, and dress for the Officer’s Club Rome. We have a few stops to make, but will return for your front door pick up shortly after 1900.”
“I’ll walk you to the car now. We will use the Via Sistina entrance to recover it from Villa Borghese.” The friends exited the building in hushed conversation on a swift uphill path lined with sycamores and umbrella pines and accented by oleander toward the grand park waiting for its escape from wartime.
Marlene and Maria moved knowingly toward the central staircase with its burgundy velvet runners, familiar with their route to their second floor room. The hallways retained their original sconces, though bulbs had been replaced with lower wattage for conservation.
“You are leading us back to our room. Were you surprised to see the Captain again, Mom?”
“Of the many heroes in this war, I admit, his fulminant courage pitches for crests. There is privilege in the enticements from his staid eloquence.”
“Did you pack your teal rayon crepe, your linen fedora, and silk scarf to keep the hounds aloof and unsuspecting?”
“You know my mind and, though you will need a wide-brimmed hat to save you from the aeolian sky, was quicker to expectations for the evening with your decision to wear that A-line skirt with … my ivory silk blouse. I would complain bitterly if it were just a tuxedo night. This Roman air will also keep unpowdering us, so we should share to keep our clutch bags light.”
“How are we going to keep the private focused?”
“More food than spirits and encourage his homesickness to breathe. They will manage him as well a key fob,” she said as they entered the room.
Billy found the suite and knew it was beyond his ability for description. The air, still and perfumed by cypress, was a balm for his anxieties, but not his restlessness. Its decor was a masterclass in grandness, reflecting a richness unscathed by war. He drew back the heavy damask curtains, a pair of starlings could be seen resting on the window sill, and tied them open with their silken cords to look on to the city through the tall and arched framed windows. Sunlight spilled from the haze across the polished floor. Its shine filled walls adorned with demure portraits and silk tapestries depicting classic scenes.
Breathless, he sat on the inviting velvet sofa flanked by two upholstered armchairs to read Joyce’s letter and understand her instructions.
Billy,
The Colonel and the General you will meet today are cousins. During
their phone call this morning, it was learned that you would be
quartered in the Hassler’s Presidential Suite San Pietro. I haven’t used
any of the film included with my new camera. All but one of the
exposures is yours to use. My family’s heirloom painting included the
entire Basilica of Santa Maria in Aracoeli altar with the first Damico wedding held at the foot of its
sanctuary. It encapsulated divine love with doves and eternity with a
flaming heart. A broad an unobstructed photo is needed for an oil
painted recreation.
See you soon,
Joyce
He rose quickly and placed the letter and stationary together on the carved desk stirring history from the corner it occupied in the room. He planned not to disturb the master bedroom or its four-poster bed with sleep. Still unsettled, he opened a hinged French door and walked onto the terrace to observe church bells scattered within the checkerboard of rooftops and how the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica controlled the skyline unmuted by the haze of the afternoon. Rome, in its laid bare chaotic beauty, was defiant. He spent an exposure to record the living canvas on the other side of the Spanish Steps then left the suite unexpectedly disconsolate from solitude.
Accommodations for the 2629th WAC Battalion members at the Hassler Villa were tight. The single rooms held four occupied bunks. Equally, Marlene and Maria always anticipated the privilege of having rackmates because it strengthened their bond with perspective. When settling into their room after breakfast, they were briefly introduced to Private First Class Ruth Ann Damico and Corporal Elizabeth Branch whom they listened to and watched prepare for their clerical assignments.
Captain Lillian Harris knocked on the door puzzled by their early return. “Captain Dietrich,” she said impressionably in her battledress blouse with its two imposing epaulet silver captain bars, the gold sleeve bars, and the deservedly displayed service ribbons above her left breast. “I was informed that you had already departed for your weekend performance.”
Thinking quickly Marlene answered, “Our liaison, Captain Rosenthal, received urgent orders about his permanent change of station, so we are delayed while he arranges the transport of his pro-gear. He has set our departure at 0:400. “
“Beth and Ruth Ann will be returning soon. Please watch over them,” she curtly intimated as the door closed behind her.
“Your dress revealed our plans.”
“Captain Harris has seen war. Stylishness won’t keep secrets from her. It celebrates them with a Victory Number. We will follow her suggestion and wait for our NCO friends to return to the room.”
“How will we test the waters with Rosie?”
“We will invite them to the table.”
When given their battlefield promotions, Ruth and Beth realized immediately that their aptitude testing had set them apart from others assigned to Advanced Communications in the Signal Corps, S2, and Operations, S3. Both were, nonetheless, surprised and dismayed when informed by Captain Harris of their selection for transfer to Okinawa as part of her staff until Letters of Commendation were given to them to evoke within them the deep imbue of patriotism and national service. Luminous, they chased regrets away with conversant awe for the fame of the women they imagined juxtaposed in waiting for their return to quarters.
Maria promptly detected lingering tension in their smile curled cheeks. She casually mentioned “We are going downstairs for coffee. Please follow us outside. I have so many questions.”
Her mother nodded emphatically as if coaxing their agreeable “absolutely” given simultaneously.
“We were among the first to have a delightful breakfast within its stone walls. Brigadier General Mollison personally intervened and authorized its verdant restoration days after the war ended in Europe and pushed our installation commander to open it within a month.” Ruth contemplatively noted.
“I told you they were listening.” Beth ruddily interjected.
Fred, as if routine, took the wheel of the stately car in silver trim and conveniently returned them to the hotel where there conversation deepened with discussion of his mixed Polish-Jewish heritage and missing relatives.
Approaching with deliberate grace, Marlene, trailed reminiscently by Maria, uplifted the forlorn commiseration in striking counterpoint, “Our new sisters are joining us here.”
With unbidden enthusiasm plucking his composure, Fred preened, “I am Lt. Seymour, the Billeting Duty Officer.” After Rosie repositioned his coffee, he, befuddled, momentarily closed his eyes and drew, in response, a breath to quell embarrassment, then continued less nervously, “I …” Marlene stealthily kissed his cheek before they opened and he could finish. The move dispensed tension and formalities with laughter.
From the bar, Billy nostalgically watched hierarchies dissipate in the scene until quietly calling out with instinct “Joyce,” as Ruth walked by alone and sidled Maria.
“Where is Beth?” Maria quietly asked.
“She is caviling about your astuteness probably to hide from me misgivings she has about our new duty assignments with Captain Harris in Okinawa.”
Overtaken by curiosity and enticed by the fragrant potted citrus, geraniums, petunias, and shadowing scent of ivy and jasmine from the stone walls, he joined the growing party with a newcomer smile, was welcomed first by Maria, and, with mild shock, introduced to Ruth Damico.
Agreement finalized their evening plans as a party of six. Fred returned to work and Ruth to console Beth upstairs. Marlene thoughtfully announced “I don’t want to absorb your afternoon with my visit to CLN party headquarters at the Lateran Palace in its attempt to meet, thank, and learn from Ivanoe Bonomi and to the Piazza Colonna Liberal Party headquarters to inquire about Benedetto Croce this afternoon.”
“I have just finished reading Croce’s Manifesto of the Anti-Fascist Intellectuals.” Rosie sparked, eagerly anticipating her peek.
Maria demurred, “Mom, you said they were friends. It sounds like an uncertain quest.”
To validate his claim to personal time and possibly solve her despair, Billy handed Maria Joyce’s note to read. “Corporal Joyce Damico is my closest friend in Europe. ” With homespun persuasion, he added, “I just met her sister.”
Maria circulated Joyce’s instructions. “I don’t want to relive the broken history of this war. He is gifting a family continuity I know to be irreplaceable.”
Her mother nodded approval as Rosie clasped his hands as bars to the tips of Billy’s shoulders in a friendly shove before giving him the keys. “You are our driver and will need to help make our visit to the Liberal Party’s headquarters inconspicuous if this unauthorized foray is to successfully use celebrity to coopt the provision of privacy and political security to satisfy curiosity.”
Furthering his analysis, he continued “Though the weather provides another safeguard, Marlene, the military veil that has kept your presence in Rome quiet since your arrival this morning will not last. If we remain intrepid, however, spontaneity will not lose its advantages as we navigate the solemn and imposing thoroughfares and piazzas where the fate of Italy is decided.”
“Are you risking your career for my personal indulgence?” she asked contrivedly.
“Seeking out Croce and Bonomi at this particular moment are not overt political acts, since they do not wield political power. Visiting them in the Capital’s corridors is nuanced but I would be credited for speaking to them at a library, concert, or art event and expected to file an intelligence gathering report. In essence, as long as an embarrassing political incident is avoided, we are tourists.”
The street is relatively quiet as the four settle into comfortable seating within the sleek and powerful automobile for the short drive through the heart of 17th-20th century Roman baroque elegance and its solid facades. Foot and vehicle traffic increasingly complicate their plans for stealth as their destination is neared. “There is an opportune break in crowd flow in front of the main entrance if you time it correctly Billy. Stop, walk around the car, and open Marlene’s door as I exit to prepare our entrance into the party office.” As he steps from the car, he says “Let’s go.”
Billy escorts Marlene and she reminds him, while pointing out the detailed spiral wheel on the Column of Marcus Aurelius, that he is on liberty and has a camera, before directing him back to the car to wait for either their exit within minutes or for a curtain to close in one of the eleven large architraved windows on the main floor as a signal of her mission being ongoing.
Once he’s back in the car, Maria concernedly admits “The uncertainties here are charged and suspenseful. It is exciting and flummoxing. Look! Why would they close a curtain on a main floor window? Is this dangerous?”
“It is our signal to drive to Capitoline Hill, but first I am taking photos of our surroundings here. I am familiar with the Roman Victory Column. Do you know these buildings?”
Getting out of the car, Maria directs his attention. “To your right is the Palazzo Chigi, it is the heart of Italian political power and the location of the Prime Minister’s office. The clean lines of its grand facade have Renaissance origins. Construction of the Palazzo Ferrajoli, where you just left and which stands oppositely, also began during the 16th century. Its floors are separated by string course bands and the four story facade is divided vertically into three parts by four ashlar bands. We are also traveling on Via del Corso, the city’s historic main street dating back to Ancient Rome.”
“That was remarkably effortless and as comparably quick as my decision to marry after being drafted during the summer of 1943. I met my future wife, a nursing student, in a Louisiana hospital emergency room when a St. Paul’s Bottom gambling buddy, Bea Haywood, sought treatment for appendicitis.”
“I studied in Switzerland. Capitoline Hill is historically the most important district of Rome. We should go now. Besides, I want to hear more about your wife, your plans now that this war has been won, and Joyce, who I have not forgotten.”
Inside Marlene is recognized as soon as she removes her hat and walks through the vestibule by a stout figure in a crisp light blue colored shirt, finely woven cotton tie, and with receding and sparse white hair, who felt incumbent, as they walked together, to softly offer Rosie corrective instruction on the subtle intricacies of conjugation in Italian to help him improve upon what he had learned since Operation Frantic.
“Marlene, it is my honor to introduce Signor Benedetto Croce,” he said with evident respect.
“Signora Dietrich. Given my staunch unwillingness to accord artistic, historic, and intellectual merit to or value the escape offered by cinema, you may be surprised by how well you are known to me,” furrowed Croce. “I am happily married with four daughters and we have seen many of your films.”
“In my youth, I aspired to be a concert violinist and studied at the Weimar Conservatory until a wrist injury made my limits known. My training as an actor that followed relied upon the classics, but they did not earn me a living or make me known worldwide. The incomparable admiration I have for you isn’t academic; it is for your political and philosophical acumen. They have earned you my gratitude.”
Deflecting, “Your craft revealed its authenticity in your political defiance throughout Europe. It made Bonomi and I admirers. I will be happy to escort you and the Captain to a brief informal meeting with him now.”
“Hermann Göring’s capture will soon be followed by his interrogation. Will you provide me insight into the organization of the Nazi party and the structure of the power it wielded?” Rosie asked.
When leaving, and before Croce gave an incisive answer, Rosie almost inaudibly whispers to her, “You did great. Italian politics are complicating our moral authority for the post-war settlement.”
“Stop for a brief moment Billy and look to your left to see Palazzo Doria Pamphilj . It is where Filippo Andrea VI Doria Pamphilj, the mayor of liberated Rome, and descendant of catholic royalty that includes Pope Innocent X resides,”
“I’ve read the names many times. It is fantastically different to know them with scale as more than narrative. This parallels, as things and events that do not seem real, the less than two month courtship of my wife that began after I received my draft notice on July 1st and my marriage in Texarkana on September 3rd. I reported for the bus to Basic Training at Camp Maxey on September 6th, 1943. The limited mail I have received has subjected me to self-doubts inflated by the constant stream of death pension ribbing from other members of my enlistment class, buck privates, motor heads, and NCOs.”
Maria resumed, “We are approaching the center of Rome. Mussolini was headquartered in the building to our north, Palazzo Venezia, and in the center of the square is the Altar della Patria which is dedicated to the first king of united Italy, Victor Emmanuel II; it has Corinthian columns and a white marble facade. Do you regret the marriage now that you have Joyce, by all intents, as a wife?”
“We are friends and…yes, but no. I’ve traded in love with broken women since I first left home. Joyce and Vee are ideal examples of what love can be. I don’t blame Vee for her waning enthusiasm. It is hard to love someone you don’t experience as real, when it is much easier to simply latch on to next person.”
“Piazza d’Aracoeli begins here at the base of Capitoline Hill. As we climb the marble steps of The Aracoeli Staircase to have a panoramic view of Rome, for a broader look at the palaces, to marvel at how with its simplicity the Fontana di Piazza d’Aracoeli is aggrandized by its placement , and, finally, to reach the basilica, tell me what Joyce thinks of Vee. Have you told her? “
“Honestly, Maria, Joyce has aided the development of my perspective on love a great deal since she arrived in Italy. I mentioned that I was involved with someone, but did not say marriage. Am I being dishonest or am I struggling to define what exists between me and Vee as more than just a notarized document and rings? I am better able to think about this dilemma by talking about it. Thanks for listening and being considerate.”
“Is there anyone else? I know that broken loves linger with unresolved issues. With the war ending and demobilization, if you are to build something with Joyce, you will need to have an ongoing conversation of self-disclosure.”
“My sisters, Pauline and Cora, are documenting two children from broken loves you are right about having linger issues to improve my Adjusted Service Rating Score. Vee knows nothing about my past.”
She paused to admire the picturesque landscape. “The announcement of our victory tour led me idly to envisage exploring these sites with my mother. This pleasing experience, I believe, is providing considerably more freedom to think about the meaningfulness and cultural importance of the architecture, landscapes, and statues as monuments of life than I would have had in the pressing concerns of celebrity.”
A streamlined and aerodynamic black 1939 Alpha Romeo 6C Berlinetta pulled alongside the ground floor exit onto the Piazza Colonna as Rosie, Benedetto, and Marlene stepped outside. The sporty coupe’s passenger door welcomed them into its security as Benedetto directed the driver, “Take us to Lateran Palace.”
Keenly invested in recent High Court sentencings at Forte Bravetta, Rosie spun determinatively in the shared backed seat to Benedetto pointedly asking,” Have there been any other important arrests since the execution of Pietro Koch?”
“Many valuable lives were stolen by Mussolini at Bravetta. Everyone linked to the Committee for National Liberation (CLN) has lost someone. There are partisan formations, like the Garibaldi and Matteotti Brigades, who are unwilling to wait for the full restoration of police order and justice, but they are not seen in Rome. “
“It is my great shame to admit, while pleading for discretion, that I just learned my sister and her husband ran the canteen and cinema at Bergen-Belsen. I compromised their safety and they cooperated in response as so many died. I am as guilty as any.” she trailed in a flood of tears.
The car stopped and two weathered-faced Italian State Police officers moved forward from the grand entrance steps with one opening and extending the brace of the door with his full shadow to conceal the exiting passengers. Rosie comforts Marlene during the quick ascent and entrance as Benedetto parried in diversion, “If I were welcome, we could take in the aesthetics of the Holy Stairs across streets and the magnificent Cathedral of Rome on our left.”
Marlene brushed Benedetto’s elbow compassionately to disclose her disillusionment as heavy boots cordoned dragged feet in echoes. Her askance look murmured “there is blood on the floor” to Rosie.
Gunfire resounded as Luigi Longo and Sandro Pertini hurried from the Hall of Emperors with martial ethos to rein in an excoriating tempest from Ivanoe Bonomi, who, while noting the guests from the doorway to the Hall of Pontiffs, furiously decried under the impediments of growing political embarrassment, “Must the brigades be so strident in their defensive training? Pope Pius XII may be on retreat to Castel Gandolfo, but Monsignor Giovanni Battista Montini will bring the Vatican Gendarmerie.”
With processional deliberateness, Benedetto registered Bonomi’s raw indignation and fixed stern agreement with it to counsel expedience from imprudent chaos. The commanders shifted under its weight to strategically regroup in familiar responsibilities.
Bonomi had announced his resignation on the preceding day because summary executions by the brigades had quavered the support and trust given to him by Lt. General Ira Eaker and General Mark W. Clark by failing their expectations for a greater number of Operation Sunrise arrests and newsworthy prosecutions. Benedetto’s decision to bring Marlene Dietrich and a USAAF Captain to party headquarters, he reasoned, must have foreseen an opportunity to use Allen Dulles, the head of OSS, America’s interventionist hands, to reclaim its power by affirming the legitimacy of the emerging Italian criminal justice system with custodial transfers of high profile war criminals, like Rodolfo Grazian, who is being held in a POW camp in Algeria.
Ushering the three visitors forward, “Your arrival, Maestro, is timely. Please, come in here. You are all welcome. I can offer confiscated cuvée cognac to hearten us past misgivings and the pathos of unease you, signora Dietrich, are struggling to hide.”
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Ruth Ann found Beth hunched in a walled corner against her bunk despondent and tear-stained. “You aren’t fearing the transfer to Okinawa. It is your handsome pilot.”
With her fingers entangled in her long blonde locks, Beth lengthened herself and said “I am pregnant. Larry and the 15th Air Force are awaiting orders.”
“You have to tell him and Captain Harris. She will ensure that you obtain an honorable discharge to protect your benefits.”
“My mother was in the Army Nurse Corps. She endured the stigma of being an unmarried single parent without a death benefit. It is difficult. While I am grateful for Director Oveta Culp Hobby for freeing us from the burden of having a dishonorable discharge stigmatize our career and social path, my mind is on fire with all possibilities, especially for how my family will react to me inevitably being an unmarried Inland Empire mother. I have never before been made vulnerable by anxiety until now. I am fidgeting when not learning new tasks in S3.”
After untying her olive-drab, Ruth Ann consolingly knelt beside Beth to gently pat the salt burns from her cheeks. “Larry is as shamelessly devoted to you as he is his own family. With as much allure and charm, the NAAFI Girls of the British Eighth Army blended the colors of its ranks. Their love isn’t a hideaway. Neither is yours. It can defiantly help realize the future.”
Slouched by the embrace of comfort, Beth sought hope from her friend’s shoulder, “Where do you find strength for your faith?”
“Holding an infant, especially yours, is a always a humbling miracle. Last summer, my nephew was in my care for less than five minutes before he departed with his parents and brother back to the Thompson home in Huntington, but I held his wrists and saw his eyes track mine in wonderment.” To herself she repeated, “You can tell him,” while still wrestling with the memory’s indecision.
Silence engulfed the finish of their staircase climb until the Basilica’s bell tower, emerging with the horizon on their right, rung out to startle their attention to a concern with the elapse of time. “It is too early for Vespers,” Maria recalled from A level, world religions studies, at Brillantmont.
Fearing word of his womanizing would get back to Velma, Floyd would book his sons’ band identifying as Dalton. With the war ending, demand for musical performers for holiday events paused for it surged and their AM radio notoriety did not go unnoticed. Hot Springs offered to make them the headliner for its Christmas season dance, so Floyd, without hesitation, made quick agreement in anticipation of escaping the river by managing their music career.
Vee believed she had married a sweet boy who had been assigned to the motor pool. Without documented children and combat experience, the points he had otherwise accumulated for service time and overseas duties were not enough to qualify him for his magic carpet ride until the holiday. Her nursing duties had made it clear, however, that the war left scars upon all who returned from it. Would Billy be the same?
“Howie, it looks like Dad has found another Linda,” Harry chuckled.
“A Linda?” Howie responded.
“Yes. Just a nice young woman who needs quick help to fix everything.” Harry continued with a grin.
Settling Scores, returning with the vetted team and a wife, The excitement of Rouen, a pothole – a damaged photo of Dietrich, Rosenthal, and two others lands next to a hangar used by the retired Lt. Cletus Glen Lemmons to store his crop duster, he picks it up and shares it with his brother Kenneth who makes a call it to a 100th Bomber Group friend, w, Silver Wings* or decisions decisions the heart to heart dialogue between married women near a river dock that brought an end to a radio program.
There is a difference between taking a job selling Oldsmobiles in Shreveport during the summer of 1943 and selling your Oldsmobile to pay off gambling debts incurred because you were a cad the whole summer and provide repayment + death benefit + a share of inflation adjusted $1407/month domestic & $1689.11/overseas pay after your wedding day departure for basic training. It is narrative. Upon his return, he purchased an upscale pre-1939 bungalow from Dr. HJS Garrett (This was an act of Love) using his VA Benefit. I conservatively estimated the cost of the home at $12,000 where his benefit made a down payment unnecessary, but produced a 25 year mortgage with a monthly payment of $78.59 that included insurance and taxes. Given his overseas savings despite the nice car purchase that was $1500 not inflation adjusted, the mortgage and all else mere manageable by an average Manbee Corporation salesman. It doesn’t add up. He could not buy a new home in Arkansas until the old one sold and its sale would not produce any profit. Old habits in familiar stomping grounds when your pockets are full are hard to break. If you are looking in your rear view mirror because the Chicago Outfit was chasing you, had you under tight surveillance, you are likely to miss an unexpected pothole caused by seismic activity and the retreat of winter conditions. Sending your wife ahead of you saved her life after burning through an inflation adjusted $20,000 in less than 4 months living the highs and lows of W.R. Burnett crime novels