Captain Corelli's mandolin by Louis De Bernières Page A
Authors: Louis De Bernières
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the acronyms that customarily reduce our military documents to impenetrable code.
I received an order by motorcycle messenger asking me to report to Colonel Rivolta, bringing with me one other reliable man. Naturally I chose Francesco; I think I have already explained that it was my intention to use my vice as a means to becoming a good soldier. With him at my side I felt that I was capable of anything. As we were not at war it did not occur to me that I would be leading him into danger by taking him with me, and little was I to know that very soon I was to have the opportunity to demonstrate to him the quality of my heroism.
To receive an order is one thing and to obey it is another. At that time we had only about twenty-four lorries per ten thousand troops. Colonel Rivolta was fifteen miles away. To reach him we had to run five miles, ride a pair of mules for another five, and finally hitch a lift on the back of a tank that was going for repair with only the reverse gear operating. We went by going backwards, a veritable motto for the whole of the impending campaign.
Rivolta was an exorbitantly portly man who had clearly risen in the ranks by knowing the right people. He was a prodigal mine of fashionable slogans like `A book in one hand and a gun in the other', and he displayed the consummate heroism of one who sites his HQ fifteen miles away from his troops in an abandoned villa so that he can use the lawns for receptions. We in the Alpini are notorious for having fisticuffs with the Black-shirts, and this may have been a reason why I was picked for the mission; it would not have mattered very much if I was killed, since I was not automatically in line for preferral. Those who wonder why our soldiers have been ineffective compared to their fathers in the 1914 war should bear in mind that this time around it was impossible to become a senior officer by merit alone; it was done by browning the tongue.
Rivolta was short, fat, bored, and the owner of several medals from the Abyssinian campaign even though everybody knew that he and his men had stayed in one place and done nothing at all; this had not prevented him from sending home lurid reports of successful operations. They were fabulous and highly imaginative works of fiction and it was commonly said by the soldiers that his medals were for literary prowess. Also, his tongue was busy and almost perfectly brown.
When we marched into that noble, high-ceilinged room and saluted, Rivolta responded with the Roman salute. It occurred to both of us that perhaps he was mimicking the Duce, and Francesco giggled. Rivolta glared at him and probably made a mental note to have him transferred to latrine duty.
`Gentlemen,' said Rivolta dramatically, `I trust that your courage can be relied upon and that your discretion is complete.'
Francesco raised an eyebrow and glanced at me sideways. I said, `Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir,' and Francesco made an unmistakable gesture with his tongue that fortunately was not observed.
Rivolta beckoned us over to a map that was spread upon a large and exquisitely polished antique table, and leaned over it. He pointed with a fat finger to a spot that was in the valley next to the one where we were bivouacked, and said, `At 0200 hours tomorrow night you two will go under cover of darkness to this point here and . . .'
`Excuse me, sir,' interrupted Francesco, `but that is in Greek territory.'
`I know, I know. I am not stupid. That is beside the point. There are no Greeks there and so they will not know.'
Francesco raised his eyebrows again and the colonel said, sarcastically, `I presume you have heard of such a thing as operational necessity?'
`Are we at war, then?' asked Francesco, and the colonel probably made a mental note to double the length of the latrine duty. The mouse Mario took the opportunity at that point to emerge from Francesco's breast pocket, and had to be pushed back down before Rivolta noticed. This added to the irreverence of my
I received an order by motorcycle messenger asking me to report to Colonel Rivolta, bringing with me one other reliable man. Naturally I chose Francesco; I think I have already explained that it was my intention to use my vice as a means to becoming a good soldier. With him at my side I felt that I was capable of anything. As we were not at war it did not occur to me that I would be leading him into danger by taking him with me, and little was I to know that very soon I was to have the opportunity to demonstrate to him the quality of my heroism.
To receive an order is one thing and to obey it is another. At that time we had only about twenty-four lorries per ten thousand troops. Colonel Rivolta was fifteen miles away. To reach him we had to run five miles, ride a pair of mules for another five, and finally hitch a lift on the back of a tank that was going for repair with only the reverse gear operating. We went by going backwards, a veritable motto for the whole of the impending campaign.
Rivolta was an exorbitantly portly man who had clearly risen in the ranks by knowing the right people. He was a prodigal mine of fashionable slogans like `A book in one hand and a gun in the other', and he displayed the consummate heroism of one who sites his HQ fifteen miles away from his troops in an abandoned villa so that he can use the lawns for receptions. We in the Alpini are notorious for having fisticuffs with the Black-shirts, and this may have been a reason why I was picked for the mission; it would not have mattered very much if I was killed, since I was not automatically in line for preferral. Those who wonder why our soldiers have been ineffective compared to their fathers in the 1914 war should bear in mind that this time around it was impossible to become a senior officer by merit alone; it was done by browning the tongue.
Rivolta was short, fat, bored, and the owner of several medals from the Abyssinian campaign even though everybody knew that he and his men had stayed in one place and done nothing at all; this had not prevented him from sending home lurid reports of successful operations. They were fabulous and highly imaginative works of fiction and it was commonly said by the soldiers that his medals were for literary prowess. Also, his tongue was busy and almost perfectly brown.
When we marched into that noble, high-ceilinged room and saluted, Rivolta responded with the Roman salute. It occurred to both of us that perhaps he was mimicking the Duce, and Francesco giggled. Rivolta glared at him and probably made a mental note to have him transferred to latrine duty.
`Gentlemen,' said Rivolta dramatically, `I trust that your courage can be relied upon and that your discretion is complete.'
Francesco raised an eyebrow and glanced at me sideways. I said, `Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir,' and Francesco made an unmistakable gesture with his tongue that fortunately was not observed.
Rivolta beckoned us over to a map that was spread upon a large and exquisitely polished antique table, and leaned over it. He pointed with a fat finger to a spot that was in the valley next to the one where we were bivouacked, and said, `At 0200 hours tomorrow night you two will go under cover of darkness to this point here and . . .'
`Excuse me, sir,' interrupted Francesco, `but that is in Greek territory.'
`I know, I know. I am not stupid. That is beside the point. There are no Greeks there and so they will not know.'
Francesco raised his eyebrows again and the colonel said, sarcastically, `I presume you have heard of such a thing as operational necessity?'
`Are we at war, then?' asked Francesco, and the colonel probably made a mental note to double the length of the latrine duty. The mouse Mario took the opportunity at that point to emerge from Francesco's breast pocket, and had to be pushed back down before Rivolta noticed. This added to the irreverence of my
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