Mac boarded the train from Villa San Giovanni, after taking the ferry across the Strait of Messina, for his return to Rome. He was prepared to work on his reports during the fourteen-hour trip, as a good portion of it would be during the daylight hours, but he was not ready for what he would find in his compartment. The six by eight-foot space was overrun with a family of young children, and their mother, all six of them, apparently on their way to visit their father, and her husband, near Salerno, where he was serving his country by protecting the soft underbelly of Europe. According to his young zaftig wife, in between refereeing the sparing matches between her children, her husband had been taken away from their home in Catania, conscripted into the Italian Army against his wishes, certainly against her wishes. They had not seen him in almost a year, he not even having met his baby daughter Mona. After spending some time in the compartment with the baby, Mac felt her name was most fitting.
The two benches in the compartment were not enough to hem in the mass of young energy flooding the car, as the children ran in and out of the compartment, onto the linoleum covered floor of the train aisle. The windows, with beautiful views of the Tyrrhenian Sea, were used as a distraction, by both the mother and by Mac, but the grime that came from the mouths and hands of the children smeared up the windows so as to render them useless. The cane seats were hot, and became damp, with the humidity, the human heat that was being produced in that compartment, and the occasional diaper in need of changing. Hours went by as Mac tried to sleep amid the din of the children before they fell asleep. By that time, any chance that Mac had to close his eyes had passed him by. The woman introduced herself as Rosalie Abusto, and she gave Mac the names of all the rest of her sleeping babes. Mac removed his jacket, and loosened up his shirt collar, as the woman opened the top of her dress, revealing more of her bust than made Mac comfortable. He excused himself, as he rose to take a walk through the train, seeking out a strong cup of coffee.
Mac tried to walk the aisles of the moving train to get away from the brood in his compartment, but they were so full of loud, sweaty, unhappy Sicilians, with their rustic baggage and food provisions they had brought for the trip. He was being jostled at every turn, making his attempt to find peace futile. He walked the entire length of the malodorous train, peeking in the window of each packed compartment, before finding the dining car, which was as crowded as the train itself. Mac stood at the windowed counter while drinking a cup of coffee, looking out at the blue sky and the turquoise sea. The railcar was modern, all metal and glass, but the travelers riding the train were not. The counter where the coffee was served was chrome, as was the trim around the windows and the molding on the floor and ceiling. The people sitting at the tables, however, were dressed mostly in black, everyone seemingly mourning someone. Between the heat of the coffee, and the humidity in the car, Mac was dripping wet from head to toe. Finishing his coffee, still with no open table, Mac turned to head back to his compartment, hoping the open doors of the train would cool him off some.
Upon returning to the train car in which he would find his compartment some six cars back, Mac noticed a group of sloppily dressed Squadristi at the other end of his car, rousting passengers out of their sweltering accommodations, checking their papers, and searching their luggage. Halfway down the length of that same car, Mac had left his leather duffle, and his jacket, in the compartment with Rosalie and her charming children, with his camera, the case, and the many rolls of exposed film tucked inside the luggage. He counted his blessings, as apparently the Squadristi had no desire to deal with the woman and her children either, tipping their caps at the young mother, and moving on to the next compartment, in the same car. Mac, witnessing their aggressiveness with the passengers in the next compartment, decided it prudent to walk in the other direction, hoping to avoid an inquisition, as the train was getting closer to Salerno. Two cars up, Mac stood in the open doorway, enjoying the breeze coming in off the Tyrrhenian Sea, holding onto the chrome rail, as he leaned out to get more of the air.
“Next stop, Salerno!” yelled a conductor somewhere in the next car, as the train began to slow down as it approached the Salerno Railway Station. “Salerno, next stop!”
Mac, thinking that perhaps he could use the commotion of the train stopping, and letting out, and taking on passengers, made his way back to his compartment to retrieve the luggage full of contraband film, and his jacket. He knew that Rosalie and her children would be getting off the train at Salerno and figured that he would just follow along with their group.
As he walked towards the car with his compartment, the Squadristi were still harassing the passengers. He watched them from the sliding door entrance of the car two past his own, biding his time until he saw an opening. The swarm of the Squadristi had entered a compartment, searching the occupants’ luggage, leaving only one of their cadres out in the aisle, as the train came to a rest in the Salerno Station. At that point, since he only needed to get by one of the Squadristi, who was clearly focusing on what was going on in the compartment, Mac thought he would go for it. He pushed his way past the Squadrista, excusing himself, claiming that his wife and children were getting off the train at Salerno, and that he needed to get back to his compartment.
“Scusami!” yelled one of the burly Squadrista still in the compartment, as Mac attempted to squeeze by his compatriot. “Papers, Signore!!”
“They are in my compartment,” yelled Mac back at the man with his shirt un-tucked over his prodigious belly, as Mac continued to move on through the car.
“Arresto!” yelled the Squadrista, as Mac kept moving through the crowds of passengers now pushing to get off the standing train. “I said stop!” yelled the Squadrista again.
Mac began to move more quickly, ignoring the Squadrista, pushing through the throngs of people in the next car, all attempting to disembark. Mac had heard the Squadrista, now well behind him, again yell to stop, but he continued to ignore him, moving between train cars to his own. When he got to his compartment, the woman and her children were in the process of gathering their things and leaving, heading in the direction away from the yelling Squadrista. Mac grabbed his bag and his jacket, and he took the baby from Rosalie, as he walked in behind the rest of them, off the train, and out onto the platform. The woman, the brood of children, Mac, and the baby, all made their way to the three-story sandstone station, past the luggage and passengers crowding the concrete platform along the side of the train. Everywhere, there were wooden wheelbarrows overburdened with luggage, bursting bags of mail, and a multitude of cardboard boxes of all sizes, blocking their path on the platform.
“Stop that man!” yelled the Squadrista on the steps of the train, as Mac entered the station with his adopted family. “Stop him!” yelled the Squadrista again, this time in the direction of a few soldiers looking in no mood to give chase in the midday heat.
Once inside, Mac returned the baby to her mother, he bowed and tipped his hat to the lady, and then to her children, as he left them in the train station to fend for themselves. He hurried as quickly as he could without causing any more commotion, looking behind him to see if the soldiers were entering the station. When he saw them in pursuit, he casually lit a cigarette, ducking behind a marble column, while he stuck a hand in his jacket pocket, pulling out his Hedy Lamarr. As the soldiers ran by, Mac slowly strolled in the opposite direction, toward the side door of the station, lighting the Hedy Lamarr with his cigarette, tossing it into a trashcan. The device erupted with a deafening roar, and smoke began to fill the room. The soldiers, upon hearing the offensive noise, hit the deck on the other side of the station, as Mac calmly walked out the side door, walking down the drive, behind the ornate fountain in front, for cover. He jumped into a waiting cab, looking behind him to check on the progress of his tail, of which there was none.
“Take me to the beach,” he calmly told the taxi driver.
“What's going on in there?” replied the driver.
“Some guy lit off a firework I think,” replied Mac. “Let's get out of here!”
The cabbie took off in a hurry, turning a corner, as Mac continued to check on the progress of the soldiers now starting to pour out of the station building.
“You wish to go to Amalfi, I take it, Signore?”
“How about you take me to Naples?” asked Mac.
“Naples? Madonna! So far!”
“How far?”
“An hour, maybe more!”
“If you take me along the sea to Naples, I will pay you double your meter.”
“Double? You got it, Signore!”
“Grazie, and I want to take pictures along the way.”
“Madonna, and pictures too?”
“It won’t take long. You can keep your meter running. And I will buy you lunch.”
“Yes, Signore. You tell me where you want to stop to take pictures, I will tell you where I want to stop for lunch,” laughed the driver.
“You got it, Signore. What is your name?”
“Giancarlo, Signore. What is your name?”
“Tommaso. It's nice to meet you, Giancarlo.”
“Everyone just calls me Gia.”
“You got it, Gia. Would you like a cigarette? American?”
“If I were you, Tommaso, if you are going to make trouble in the train stations, I would lose the American cigarettes,” laughed the driver.
“You knew it was me?”
“Of course, I did. You were the only person leaving the station after the commotion. It had to be you who caused it.”
“Smart man,” laughed Mac, lighting up two Lucky Strikes, handing one to the driver, as he rolled down his window all the way. “I think I better change these clothes. Stop somewhere if you do not mind.”
“I think it is best that we move on a bit, don’t you, Signore?”
“Sure, sure, when you think it is safe, Gia, stop the car.”
“Yes, Signore.”
The driver headed out of Salerno on Amalfi Drive, along the beautiful Sorrentine Peninsula on the Gulf of Salerno, with its massive cliffs tumbling into the Tyrrhenian Sea. He passed through Vietri sal Mare and Cetara, one town more beautiful than the other, before stopping at Erchie for gas, and so Mac could change his clothes. Mac put on the shirt and slacks Roncallo had given to him back in Palermo, along with a black vest and cap.
“Now you look like one of us,” laughed the driver.
“I certainly feel more comfortable,” said Mac. “The lemons, Gia, they are everywhere! They are enormous! I have never seen such lemons anywhere else, including in the markets.”
“The Amalfi Coast, the Costiera Amalfitana, is known for its cultivation of magnificent lemons. Sfusato Amalfitano; Limoncello liqueur, you have heard of it?”
“Yes, of course.”
“It is made here.”
“We are coming to the town of Amalfi, Signore Tommaso. Get your camera ready. You will never see any place so beautiful; I guarantee.”
Mac could not believe his eyes. He had truly never seen a more spectacular vista in his life, as the ancient cragged mountains crashed down into the violent sea below, the water splashing up on the rugged rocks in all directions. The simple homes hugging the mountainside were brightly colored, in reds, greens and yellows, all with magnificent views of the turquoise waters of the Tyrrhenian, far below. The Amalfi Cathedral, along with the town of Amalfi, was tucked in the crevice between two mountains, creating a peaceful oasis along the sea. Arches of rock were built to hold up the colorful buildings above the crashing sea, as a single two-lane road is the only way in or out of the village.
Mac got out of the car, taking picture after picture, more for his pleasure, than for any possible military use. The harbor was small and charming, and the cliffs were ominously high. There was no way this could even be considered for a beachhead, but still, he would send the pictures to show the powers that be that Amalfi should stay untouched by metal and steel. It was just too beautiful to be destroyed.
Mac decided, on the spot, that he wanted to bring Carla to the Amalfi Coast for their honeymoon. There could not be a more romantic place on the face of the Earth, he considered. He would show her the pictures when he returned, but the black and whites could never do it justice. She would have to trust him on this.
The two men, Mac now riding in the front seat, continued along the sea, on the twenty-five-mile expanse of Strada Statale 163, exploring Positano and Sorrento, each more spectacular than the last, making their way toward Naples. More beauty, Mac had never seen. They passed Pompei, which Mac longed to visit, but there was no time to stop. He would come back, he thought, when things calm down. Even Mt. Vesuvius, in its potential raging fury, was a magnificent sight to see, as it stood tall and strong between Pompei and Naples. Gia continued along the coastal highway, around Mt. Vesuvius, into the bustling city of Naples.
Naples was more of a metropolis than the other hidden gems they had just driven through, but it was beautiful in its own way. The third largest city in Italy was one of the oldest continuously inhabited urban areas in the world. Gia told Mac that just five years before, Mussolini completed a ten-year project, expanding and upgrading the city and its ports, but the British had been bombing it repeatedly from bases in Malta for the past year. The port facilities there, and at Brindisi, were prime targets, as the air strikes were designed to disrupt the Italian War machinery in the south, lessening the ability of Italy to wage war in Africa and to attempt to control the Eastern Mediterranean, including the Suez Canal.
Gia took Mac to Palazzo Petrucci Ristorante, along the Via Posillippo for his promised lunch, overlooking the harbor, with Vesuvius in the background. The old grey building, with the fan window above the door, gave no hints of the culinary delights that were contained therein. The red checkerboard tablecloths played host to delightful dishes from the nearby sea, including delectable clams, mussels, and squid in an aromatic risotto. Pizza rusticana, along with red wine by the jug, was served while the men waited for their payaya. The view itself was filling, before the food was even served.
The lunch they shared made Mac and Gia even closer, as they got to know each other better. Gia offered to drive Mac the rest of the way to Rome, if Mac would put him up for the evening, and he would still double the metered fare. Mac laughed and accepted the man's graciousness. They sat in the taxi by the sea, sleeping off their lunch, before they would continue the six hours left to their trip to Rome.
The drone of far-off engines, out across the Gulf of Naples, awakened Mac. He could see what appeared to be a flock of birds coming in from the west, but as they got closer, the four props on each bird made the potential danger all too clear. Explosions began to erupt all around them, as buildings just exploded before their very eyes, debris flying in all directions. Fire spewed from damaged oil tanks alongside the water; smoke billowed across the entire port. More explosions, more fire, more smoke, Gia sat up in his seat, turning the ignition on his vehicle, to get out of harm's way. Mac jumped out of the car to move a wooden beam that had flown, coming to rest at the front tires of their vehicle. As Gia began to roll the car forward, another explosion ripped through a tanker sitting in the harbor right in front of them, sending debris hurtling toward the car. Mac grabbed his arm as he jumped back into the vehicle, with Gia giving it gas. As Gia turned away from the harbor, another explosion rocked the car, sending debris crashing through the rear window, into the back seat.
“Madonna!” yelled Gia. “That was close! Let's get out of here!”
“I’ll say,” moaned Mac, as he rolled up his shirtsleeve, checking on the four-inch piece of wood protruding from his arm.
“Oh, Madonna!” yelled Gia. “You were hit?”
“It's nothing,” responded Mac, clearly in pain.
Mac pulled the thick splinter from his skin, with a grunt.
“It's not deep. I’ll wash it good later. Let's just get out of here!”
Mac took out his handkerchief, and he wrapped it around the wound to stop the bleeding.
“You better see a doctor. That could get infected!”
“I will, I will, let's just get back to Rome, Gia. I’ll deal with it there. If we stay here, we’re going to get blown up.”
The planes were now gone, but the two headed inland towards Rome, just in case they were to return.