welcome. Your company would cheer up this old soldier.’ The captain straightened like a ramrod and clicked his heels. Then he let out the magic words he had saved till last: ‘There will be roast pork.’
‘I do think you might have waited for us to leave the church before issuing your invitation, Captain,’ said Grandma Nancy. ‘However, I thank you, also in the name of Donna Maria.’
Grandpa got to his feet with a fearful glower.
‘And that of my husband,’ added Grandma.
Korpium departed, somewhat ruffled.
Grandpa scratched his belly and threw back his head a bit, saying, ‘I sometimes catch myself adoring your sharp tongue, my dear.’
Grandma got up too. While she was marching out through the doorway the Third Paramour – who all this time had been sitting some way back – followed her with an air of challenge.
Ten
T HE CODE . T HE CODE WAS THE KEY TO EVERYTHING . G RANDMA was the brains behind it, Brian the messenger, Renato the intermediary. Less clear were the roles of Donna Maria, Grandpa and myself. We were certainly in a sense accomplices, but I got the impression that we were nothing but the garnishings to their roast.
Our attempt to gain strategic information had gone badly, very badly indeed. The three generals had talked about wine, women, the weather, and even exchanged a few titbits of gossip about wives lying in wait to cuckold their husbands at the front. They had also spoken of how well-stocked the Italian army’s stores were, and had even mentioned how our resistance along the Piave was stronger than expected. ‘They didn’t risk discussing serious matters at dinner; they just enjoyed their food and talked hot air,’ was the steward’s comment.
The real motive behind Brian’s dare-devil landing was quite different. I later learnt from Renato that the generals’ visit was not known either by our Intelligence Service or by British Intelligence (though I never learnt how Renato kept in contact). It had been simply a stroke of luck which they decided to profit by. Brian had come to memorize the code worked out by Grandma, and a month later was to start flying over the Villa with his squadron twice a week, to photograph the three-mullionedwindow in the façade and the washing hanging out to dry in the courtyard.
The code was fairly simple. The first inside shutter open and the second closed meant ‘troop movements towards the front line’, the first closed and the second open meant ‘movements from the front to the rear zone’. All shutters closed meant ‘no troop movements observed’. Then, however, it became more complicated with the part played by the other shutters. The first window indicated the troop movement and its direction, the second the number of divisions or battalions involved in the movement, the third the type of movement (and I don’t know what was meant by ‘type’). The code invented for the washing, on the other hand, entailed the colour and nature of the garments hung out. Jackets, shirts, trousers and long-johns, easily distinguishable from the air by their long dangling sleeves and legs, referred to the Imperial Air Force (in her confabs with her London friend Sir James, Grandma had associated legs and arms with aircraft wings), while sheets, dishcloths and handkerchiefs gave indications of the enemy supply system. Colours had their importance also. A white shirt and red breeches combined with a yellow handkerchief – the only such combination I can remember – meant ‘shortage of aircraft fuel’.
‘Why don’t we use pigeons?’ I asked.
Renato laughed. ‘Don’t you read the posters on the walls? There’s martial law! If they find a single pigeon at a farm they shoot the head of the family on the spot. Then they start on the children, so in the end the mother tells them where they’ve got the birds hidden. And furthermore, don’t you know that all the way from Belluno to the sea everyone is on the hunt for food?’
Giulia threw her
‘I do think you might have waited for us to leave the church before issuing your invitation, Captain,’ said Grandma Nancy. ‘However, I thank you, also in the name of Donna Maria.’
Grandpa got to his feet with a fearful glower.
‘And that of my husband,’ added Grandma.
Korpium departed, somewhat ruffled.
Grandpa scratched his belly and threw back his head a bit, saying, ‘I sometimes catch myself adoring your sharp tongue, my dear.’
Grandma got up too. While she was marching out through the doorway the Third Paramour – who all this time had been sitting some way back – followed her with an air of challenge.
Ten
T HE CODE . T HE CODE WAS THE KEY TO EVERYTHING . G RANDMA was the brains behind it, Brian the messenger, Renato the intermediary. Less clear were the roles of Donna Maria, Grandpa and myself. We were certainly in a sense accomplices, but I got the impression that we were nothing but the garnishings to their roast.
Our attempt to gain strategic information had gone badly, very badly indeed. The three generals had talked about wine, women, the weather, and even exchanged a few titbits of gossip about wives lying in wait to cuckold their husbands at the front. They had also spoken of how well-stocked the Italian army’s stores were, and had even mentioned how our resistance along the Piave was stronger than expected. ‘They didn’t risk discussing serious matters at dinner; they just enjoyed their food and talked hot air,’ was the steward’s comment.
The real motive behind Brian’s dare-devil landing was quite different. I later learnt from Renato that the generals’ visit was not known either by our Intelligence Service or by British Intelligence (though I never learnt how Renato kept in contact). It had been simply a stroke of luck which they decided to profit by. Brian had come to memorize the code worked out by Grandma, and a month later was to start flying over the Villa with his squadron twice a week, to photograph the three-mullionedwindow in the façade and the washing hanging out to dry in the courtyard.
The code was fairly simple. The first inside shutter open and the second closed meant ‘troop movements towards the front line’, the first closed and the second open meant ‘movements from the front to the rear zone’. All shutters closed meant ‘no troop movements observed’. Then, however, it became more complicated with the part played by the other shutters. The first window indicated the troop movement and its direction, the second the number of divisions or battalions involved in the movement, the third the type of movement (and I don’t know what was meant by ‘type’). The code invented for the washing, on the other hand, entailed the colour and nature of the garments hung out. Jackets, shirts, trousers and long-johns, easily distinguishable from the air by their long dangling sleeves and legs, referred to the Imperial Air Force (in her confabs with her London friend Sir James, Grandma had associated legs and arms with aircraft wings), while sheets, dishcloths and handkerchiefs gave indications of the enemy supply system. Colours had their importance also. A white shirt and red breeches combined with a yellow handkerchief – the only such combination I can remember – meant ‘shortage of aircraft fuel’.
‘Why don’t we use pigeons?’ I asked.
Renato laughed. ‘Don’t you read the posters on the walls? There’s martial law! If they find a single pigeon at a farm they shoot the head of the family on the spot. Then they start on the children, so in the end the mother tells them where they’ve got the birds hidden. And furthermore, don’t you know that all the way from Belluno to the sea everyone is on the hunt for food?’
Giulia threw her
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