When Mac and his fellow prisoners arrived at the Campo P.G. 21, it seemed a comparatively new facility, smartly laid out, as if it were a college campus. The Camp had originally been built not as a prisoner-of-war facility, but as barracks for Italian soldiers. Upon entering the front gate of Campo P.G. 21, between the two cement block guardhouses, there were three single story u-shaped buildings lined up on either side of a general grass and dirt courtyard. Crossing cement walkways connected the stark, cream colored, concrete block buildings. An impressive looking cookhouse stood proudly in the middle of the yard, at the rear of the complex, between the two rows of barracks.
The Administration Building and the Guard Barracks were the first structures on either side of the courtyard, as Mac and the other prisoners entered the facility on foot, having been led like cattle from the train station in the middle of the old town of Chieti. Curious townspeople had stared at the bound men as they were led by a handful of all too relaxed Italian soldiers, ones that were too old, too infirm, or too out of shape to fight. The two remaining sets of U-shaped barracks, on either side of the compound, separated from the Administration Building and the Guard Barracks by a low fence, and a wooden gate, segregated the prisoners from the camp officers. Mac was surprised that there were small trees within the courtyard, as well as a splendid view of the town of Chieti on a lush green hill beyond the roof of the cookhouse. A ten-foot cement block and brick wall, topped by barbed wire, surrounded the complex, immediately dispelling any illusion that Campo 21 was anything but a maximum-security prison.
At the time of Mac's arrival, the crowded facility held over fifteen hundred prisoners, despite the camp being designed to hold only three hundred and fifty soldiers. Each prisoner was assigned to his own bunk, a spartan wooden bed the Italians called a castelli, arranged two high. Each castelli was touching another set of bunk beds next to it, creating what the men called a “castle”. Each castle of four beds was no more than 24 inches from the next. What passed for a mattress consisted of old sacking material stuffed with dry grass or any rags the men could scrounge. The living conditions were hardly comfortable, but most certainly surpassed those described by the Jewish elders as existing at the German concentration camps.
The Italians had converted the facility into a detention camp for officers, mostly British and Australian, who had been captured in North Africa. Mac quickly became acquainted with the leaders among the officer prisoners, as he was settled into a castle with three others, two on the bottom bunks, one, along with Mac, on the top bunks. While the Italians had promised Mac that he would talk, there seemed to be no interest on the part of the camp officials to make that happen.
The water situation was dire, as were the hygiene conditions, but otherwise the camp was not a torture facility. The lavatories were impressively modern, with glazed tile, but unfortunately, there was little or no water to flush toilets, or to otherwise care for the prisoners’ needs. Macaroni stew or pasta was the main diet of the camp, made up of anything the cooks had at their disposal, but at least they were being fed.
The Italians treated the prisoners with respect, with almost a fear, as there was talk among the captors that the Allies were already in Sicily. Boredom was the biggest issue, for both the prisoners and the guards, which was partially alleviated by camp plays, music compositions, and sporting events. The water issue led groups of prisoners to gamely collect rainwater in creative ways, including directing raindrops by canvas to water jugs, which resulted in raucous cheers when it did rain.
For Mac, the days stretched into weeks, the weeks into months, every day monotonously the same. He would lose himself in thought as he ran around the compound, along the outer walls. He dreamed of his wife, of his child, of life back in New York. He would think of Lucky Luciano, mired in his own incarceration, and how he now truly knows what hopelessness feels like firsthand. His loneliness got him lost in memories of Sara, of Hallie, and of his closeness with Betty Pack. He thought about what he would do after the war, of a life in the courtroom, possibly politics. He took himself to far away lands, anywhere but Chieti, Italy, where he would interact with famous leaders, actresses, and the beautiful people.
Most of all, Mac began to dwell upon and question himself as to his use of force.
I was not raised to be a killer, but war does terrible things to us all. I was trained to be a killer by my country, and when the need arose, there was no thinking involved, I just reacted. I did not even hesitate. What have I become? What will become of me after the war, if I survive? Killing was all too easy. Those men had loved ones, families, those who will miss them terribly. But it was them or the Don. It was them or me. Our loved ones would miss us as well if it were us who died. It had to be done, but it still does not sit well with this boy from Poughkeepsie, New York.
Besides the internal questions of all prisoners, the boredom and the homesickness were the biggest torments for most of the men at Campo P.G. 21, both the prisoners and the guards. Mac had been designated to work in the mess hall, serving his fellow prisoners, and clearing up after each meal. Extra portions of macaroni stew were doled out when the guards were not looking, as if they cared. Mac spent his time between meals, when he wasn’t running, sitting out in the yard, interacting with his fellow prisoners, all telling stories of home, of their girls, and of their futures.
Mac's Italian came in handy. He was chosen to be a spokesperson for the captives. The Italians were cordial, if mostly unresponsive, not surprising given that the conditions for the guards was not much better than that for the prisoners. Mac spent much of his time representing the grievances of his fellow officers before the Camp administration, which clearly was a waste of time, not because of the intractability of his Italian captors, but because there was no money, nor resources, to correct the things complained about.
The prisoners, those who understood Italian, heard the rumors among the guards in the beginning of September that the Allies had in fact landed at Calabria, across the Strait of Messina, on the tip of the Italian boot itself, and that they were slowly marching northward toward Rome. The Italians had surrendered before the actual main assault, Mussolini had been arrested, and the Germans were now fully in charge of the war effort. Days later, the guards were showing their increasing nervousness, as it was said that the Allies had landed in Salerno, less than one hundred fifty miles from Rome. The fighting was fierce, and the going was slow, but the Americans were knocking on the door, moving forward.
Still, now months later, no one had yet questioned Mac as to his intentions in Salerno, as if it even mattered at this point. Not only was there no questioning, let alone torture, the Italian captors attempted to be even more cordial given the direness of their coming situation.
“Hey, Joe DiMaggio,” shouted a rather short gaunt guard in broken English, as Mac threw a baseball with his fellow prisoners. “You play for the Yankees?”
The young man was dressed in a thread bare, ill-fitting uniform, his ruddy complexion wind burned and darkened from the elements. His hair was too long, his eyebrows bushy like black caterpillars. A rolled cigarette hung from his chapped lips, as he leaned up against a bark-less tree, his rifle left carelessly on the dirty ground. His unpolished boots were open at the top, the laces not long enough to have it any other way.
“I wish,” responded Mac in perfect Italian, leaving his fellow prisoners clueless as to what was being said. “That DiMaggio can really hit! Have you seen him play?”
“I was in New York once,” responded the guard, now speaking Italian. “I was visiting my sister and her family, on Mott Street, in, how you say, Manhattan? My brother-in-law, he took me to Yankee Stadium. Madonna! So big! He took me to see the Clipper?”
“Yes,” replied Mac, laughing. “The Yankee Clipper.”
“Some ballplayer, that Clipper. And he is Italian!” laughed the slight man, not looking that dissimilar from Joe DiMaggio himself.
“Yes,” laughed Mac. “So am I!”
“I guessed so,” said the guard, bringing his fingers down over his own swarthy complexion. “Where in Italy?”
“North of Rome. Palombara Sabina. Do you know the town?”
“Sure, I once went to a wedding there, at some palace; all the way on top of the hill.”
“Really?” said Mac, somewhat flabbergasted. “I was married there myself, Savelli Palace.”
“That's it. You married an Italian girl?” questioned the smiling guard, somewhat surprised.
“Of course, why are you surprised?” laughed Mac. “Carla DeFelice; a young girl from Palombara. I met her in Rome, while I was working as an attorney for the Pope. Her brother is Alberto DeFelice, the right-hand man to Mussolini's son in law. What's his name? Ciano, Galeazzo Ciano!”
“What? So, what are you doing here?”
“Good question, my friend. And I worked for the Pope, no less. No one has bothered to even question me. They just threw me in here, surely to cause me to die of boredom.”
“How long have you been here?”
“What? About two, three months, I guess. I lose track of time. The change of the season gives me the only sense of how long it has been.”
“I will tell them who you are,” offered the guard, “maybe they will do something to help you out. In the meantime, I will see if we can get you work in the offices; you seem like a bright fellow, and you are Italian, after all.”
“I am a lawyer, actually.”
“I won’t hold that against you; what's your name?”
“Tommaso Martini,” replied Mac. “And your name?”
“Carmine Delpozzo,” responded the guard. “From Naples. I was a carpenter on the docks before the war.”
“I almost got blown up on the docks of Naples. The British! The bastards almost got me! You married, Carmine?”
“Yes. My wife, she is Lena. I have four children whom I have not seen in three years.”
“I’m sorry, Carmine. I miss my wife and child as well. War is terrible, isn’t it, my friend?”
“Yes. No one wanted war here in Italy. It was the fascists! Those bastards! Never satisfied with what they have. We are a loving people, not warmongers. They have ripped the heart out of our beautiful country. And now the Americans are quite literally tearing our beautiful country apart. By the time this is over, there will be no beauty left here to appreciate.”
“Well, hopefully this will be over soon, and we can get back to our families. Any chance you can get a letter out for me, to my wife?”
“We cannot even get our own letters out. Give it to the Red Cross if they come. Hopefully, they will be here before the Americans.”
“My wife must be so worried, you know? I wish I could just tell her that I am alive.”
“I know, I know,” replied the clearly emotional man, his contorted face saying that he was trying to think of a way. “I will see what I can do about getting you into the offices for work. Maybe, from there, you can try to get out a letter.”
With that, Carmine left Mac under the bark-less tree in the middle of the yard, where he continued to ponder his loneliness.
By early November, Mac was getting distraught, missing Carla, and missing his freedom. As the weather turned cold, the leaves on the trees dropped and blew around the yard. Mac would sit with his back to the naked tree, watching the leaves turn in the wind, his mind overwhelmed with the grief of having lost touch with his family. The Allies were still nowhere near Rome, let alone out to Chieti. The fighting was slow and vicious. The guards were losing interest in being friendly, and open about what was happening. The prisoners were not bolstered by the change in demeanor of the guards, and the fact that they have yet to run away themselves.
“Hey, Joe DiMaggio, how are you doing?” laughed Carmine, as he approached his young prisoner deep in thought. “It is getting chilly, no?”
“Yeah, it is chilly, Carmine. I was sitting here, thinking about my wife. Carla must be distraught,” Mac thought out loud. “And my mother, what she must be thinking! She has probably said a thousand rosaries by now, the poor woman.”
“Any luck getting a letter out?” asked Carmine.
“Not yet, Carmine. I got caught trying to sneak one into the mail pouch just the other day. Not a good situation, as you can imagine. I thought they were going to have a stroke.”
Mac had been given a job in the Administration office, but there was no way he could safely secret a letter out to Carla, or to anyone else, for that matter. He decided to give it a try, irrespective of the consequences. He got caught, and he was sent back to his barracks. He was thereafter called to the Commandant's office, which was not something that he had ever heard was done before. The Commandant burned his letter in front of his face, and he told Mac that punishment would come soon enough, and that he should think about it, in the meantime.
Days later, as Mac thought they had forgotten about him, he was once again summoned to the commandant's office, fully expecting to find out what his punishment would be. Mac was seated alone in a Spartan room, cement walls, no windows, where he waited nervously to see what would happen. He was hoping that he was not going to be tortured, or even worse. But when the door opened to the room, it was immediately apparent that would not be the case at all. The commandant, a big smile on his face, very cordially greeted Mac by name as he walked into the room, trailed by a stylishly stunning woman, that Mac immediately recognized.
“Betty?” called out Mac, feeling like crying upon seeing her familiar big beautiful green eyes.
“I have come to take you home, Tommaso. Do not say anything until we get outside,” she told him in English.
“You are lucky, Signore Martini,” said the commandant, in Italian. “Mrs. Pack has gotten you released on her say so that you are not an insurgent. She is very persuasive,” smiled the commandant at Betty Pack. “She is here to take you back to Rome. The Pope has also interceded on your behalf, not to mention your brother-in-law, Alberto. I am sorry you have had to stay here so long. I have no idea why they sent you here in the first place, but I hope you were not too inconvenienced.”
Mac wanted to punch the commandant but thought better of it. He figured he better get out while he could. He kept his mouth shut, following Betty Pack and the commandant to the front gate of the camp, without even returning to his bunk to get anything. The commandant gave the beautiful woman an inappropriately intimate hug, and he saluted Mac, as they were about to walk away from his captivity. The men stood around the yard, waving to Mac as he waited for Betty to say her goodbye to the commandant. He reflected upon what would happen to these men, and when, if ever, they would be liberated. He was grateful to Betty, whom he was now gazing upon with puppy dog eyes, thinking it is amazing what incarceration does to a man's confidence and his feelings of self worth. His mind went to Charlie Luciano, he having now been incarcerated for many years. Mac made up his mind that he would do what he could to do something about that as soon as he could.
Betty Pack drove Mac back to Rome in a shiny Mercedes W150, while Mac remained silently breathing in the cool fresh air from the open roof canvas, like a dog riding in a car. Clearly understanding his need to collect himself, Betty said nothing.
“There is nothing like the smell of freedom,” Mac said to no one in particular. “I will never forget what it is like to be incarcerated: the loneliness; the loss of oneself; worrying about loved ones without you. You feel like you are drowning in your own thoughts, all of them, good and bad. One day mercifully turns into the next. All you have are your thoughts, and your hope that one day turns into another. Macaroni stew and your thoughts. No water to wash, or to even flush the toilet. It was overwhelming in its simplicity. Your thoughts, your survival; nothing else is important. The rest is background noise. Distracting. The only thing that is important is getting out and being free.”
“Are you ok, Mac?” asked Betty finally, as they were getting close to Rome.
“Yes, I am fine. I’m sorry. I am so appreciative for what you have done for me, Betty. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw you with the Commandant. You looked like an angel from heaven.”
“Mac, when I heard that you were there, I had to do something. You still owe me that dance, remember?”
“How did you hear?”
“Alan Dulles told me when I saw him in Switzerland. He was trying to get you out himself. I ran right down here. I knew I could speak a language that the Italians would understand.”
“Well, thank you, Betty. You have saved my sanity, not to mention my life. I will never forget.”
“My pleasure. You’re a good man, Mac. I’m glad I could help. By the way, Alan has been keeping your wife informed. Apparently, she was beside herself worrying.”
“That's a relief. There's no way to get anything out of there.”
“Well, now we must get you out of Italy, and back to your family. Any ideas?”
“Take me to Father Leiber. He will know what to do. At least I will be safe in the Vatican.”
“You are not going anywhere, until you get a shower, and a new set of clothes. My God, the stench! I should have left you there.”
“Very funny. I can no longer even smell myself. Let's go to the Inn at the Spanish Steps. Signore Beaumonti will still have my stuff, most likely, and I can get a bath there.”
“Want some company?”