19

O’Connor

One morning in early 1941 a new face appeared. J O’Connor Lynch had arrived. A soft-spoken Canadian of Irish descent, O’Connor Lynch (we never knew his Christian name) was a civilian employed by the army to act as interpreter for the Italian-speaking prisoners and as censor of the mail for all the camp. He was a precise little man of about 35 years of age with sleek black hair and he sported a neatly trimmed black goatee beard. He spoke fluent Italian and had an all embracing knowledge of Italy which he had acquired during a six year sojourn there in the early 1930s. He was an artist by profession and his six years in Italy had been spent studying the art and language of the country. He was also a passionate art collector, and his time in Italy had also been put to good use in acquiring for a modest outlay a collection of paintings the value of which was to grow enormously in later years.

He mingled freely in the camp, surprised that so many of the prisoners spoke no Italian, and spent a great deal of time in conversation with individual prisoners, questioning them closely about their backgrounds. There was much speculation as to his motives in mixing so freely with the inmates, but since he formed part of the Establishment it was generally accepted that he could be up to no good. He was treated with suspicion and reserve by the Inglesi as a result.

Strangely enough the sailors unreservedly accepted O’Connor, for here was a man who knew their country, even sometimes their native towns and villages, and spoke their language well. Furthermore their position was clearly defined unlike many of the civilian prisoners. They had no family connections in Britain or desire to return there and so they had no reason to create a good impression with the authorities, as might have sometimes been the case with the civilians. There was no need for them to dissimulate in any way with him, and O’Connor’s frequent visits were welcomed as an occasion for meeting someone from the outside with whom they could talk freely.

One of the greatest consolations in the camp was the receiving of mail and parcels from home and these were the highlights of the prisoner’s life. Unlimited receipt of letters was allowed, with outgoing mail limited to two per month per man. Family letters would be read and re-read and were treasured as a lifeline to an existence to which we one day hoped to return. The letters which O’Connor delivered to us had all been opened and read by him, for very often a delivery would be followed by solicitous enquiries about some piece of family news contained in the mail. All his enquiries were prefaced by a nervous little cough which came to be recognised as the overture to some personal enquiries. Each prisoner to receive a letter would be spoken to first in Italian, whether he knew that language or not, and then by number and not by name. His ‘Buon giorno, numero ottanta sette, c’è una lettera per te’ ¹ or whatever the number of the prisoner happened to be, became a catch-phrase in the camp. I received a fair amount of mail each week from my parents and friends in Glasgow and at first I resented O’Connor’s polite questions about my family and personal circumstances, always presaged by the introductory cough. With time, however, I came to realise that no ulterior motive lay behind the man’s curiosity but merely a genuine desire to get to know us all better.

Because of my job in the office, I came into daily contact with him and slowly a cautious friendship developed between us. The relationship was fuelled by shared interests in art and literature which had been recently aroused in me by the many books sent to the camp by the Red Cross and by my attendance at the classes on Dante given by the ship’s engineer, Emilio Caproni. O’Connor had to be careful not to give the impression of fraternisation in his contact with the prisoners, so often I would be called to his office, ostensibly to assist in translation work, but in reality to continue with some interesting conversation touched upon during his official tours of the camp. He was an urbane and civilised man, really more at home in the company of the variety of personalities to be found amongst the prisoners than in that of his army employers, and his two year stint in the camp contributed much to the morale of the prisoners.

As only natural under the circumstances, and second only to the progress of the war, one of the main topics of conversation was sex. Long-past amorous exploits would be told and retold with great embellishment, and there was hardly a bunk without its quota of pin-ups, running the gamut of every available pose of Betty Grable, Alice Faye and Rita Hayworth, together with a bevy of lesser-known Hollywood beauties.

The great lover and raconteur of the camp was Gerry Capaldi. To hear him tell it, in days gone by in London, he had been the Lothario of the West End. He was the name-dropper par excellence. According to him, his amorous exploits had spanned the social spectrum from waitresses through film starlets to the aristocracy. No doubt he had had some form of contact with the girls who peopled his imagination, for his job as a waiter at Gennaro’s in Soho would certainly have brought him into contact with many attractive women, even if only to serve them the soup. Capaldi’s Walter Mitty imagination provided the spark for the stories he wove round these lovely creatures from another life long ago. Nevertheless the prisoners listened with great good humour and complete disbelief to his tales while punctuating them with the inevitable string of ribald remarks that was to be expected in such company.

Then one day a letter arrived for me. Delivered as always by the urbane O’Connor, it had been slit open and read, but wonder of wonders, it bore a Canadian stamp and a Montreal postmark! For us the city across the river possessed an almost mystical quality. It represented freedom, civilisation, theatres, cinemas and. . . pretty girls: things which belonged to a distant past. The city was a Shangri La to be dreamt about and yearned after, and here was a letter to me which had actually been posted there.

‘Buon giorno numero ottanta sette, c’è una lettera per te.’

Then in English, ‘You’re a lucky man, number 87. Your girlfriend has come to Montreal’, and he moved off, leaving me to stare in amazement at the familiar handwriting on the envelope. How on earth could Dorothy have posted a letter in Montreal? Could she actually be there? I opened it with eager fingers and the mystery unfolded.

Dorothy had been my girlfriend back in pre-war days in Glasgow. The family restaurant was near Sauchiehall Street, within a stone’s throw of the Pavilion and Empire theatres and was much frequented by many of the variety artists popular in Glasgow then. Dave Willis ate his fish suppers there. Tommy Morgan enjoyed his McCallums there, (as an ice-cream with raspberry sauce was called) and GH Elliot, the ‘Chocolate Coloured Coon’ of Lily of Laguna fame, had his ritual two poached eggs on toast and pot of tea in our Savoy Café before his evening performances in the neighbouring Pavilion.

But most glamorous and desirable of all to me were the luscious Bluebell chorus girls who would stop at the café for supper on their way to the theatrical lodging houses in the area. The most attractive of the girls as far as I was concerned was Dorothy D., a pretty young dancer from Preston. My affection was reciprocated, and during the Christmas panto seasons and yearly summer shows, Dorothy and I began to drift euphorically towards the idea of marriage, to the unconcealed dismay of our respective families. ‘Sure Joe, Dorothy’s a nice girl, but why don’t you find a nice Italian girl for yourself?’ And my mother would go into the familiar hand-wringing bout of lamentation about local girls which had not changed throughout the years. ‘And not even a Scottish girl. . . but English!’

In parallel fashion, but with English reserve, Dorothy’s family was politely frigid when I was introduced to them in Preston. ‘Oh yes Dorothy. . . he’s a nice chap, but he’s an Italian!’

The situation was resolved by Mussolini’s declaration of war. Dorothy went her way with the Bluebell troupe, I was interned and there the romance ended. But a friendship continued and with it came regular correspondence eagerly awaited by me and immediately answered on the note paper provided by the International Red Cross. Dorothy’s name was well-known to my friends in the camp, and her photograph had a prominent place on the wall beside my bunk.

The Montreal postmark was immediately explained. Dorothy had a brother in the navy who was about to be posted somewhere in Canada for training, and her letter, addressed as usual to an army postbox number in Ottawa, had been posted by him in Montreal, his first port of call.

After the midday meal as I lay on my bunk reading her letter, my attention was distracted by Capaldi’s heavy snoring in the next bunk. I looked with distaste at the vibrating lips of my neighbour and the germ of an idea was born. Off came a heavy army boot which I dropped forcefully on Gerry’s replete stomach.

‘Hey, Gerry. Wake up!’ I shouted. Gerry stirred.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘So you think you’ve got girl friends, eh Gerry? With all that big talk of yours, I don’t see any of them coming to Montreal to see you. Catch a load of that postmark.’

I threw the envelope on to Gerry’s lap, and showed him the last page of the letter with its signature.

‘That’s from my girl Dorothy. She’s been trying for months to find out where I was, and now she’s here to try and get permission to visit me’, I paused and added casually. ‘She’s here with her sister Marion.’

Gerry lay speechless. For two years he hadn’t seen a female in the flesh and here was that square Joe Pieri with a girl in Montreal ready to visit him. The great lover was shattered.

‘How’s she going to manage to see you?’, he asked enviously.

‘Oh, I’ll get to see Duvar tomorrow and try to work out something.’

Next morning I took my place in the office and with the help of some official pretext found myself in O’Connor’s room. There I explained my plan to him and gained the consent of the genial Irishman who found the whole thing quite funny. I proceeded to work on Gerry.

‘Well Gerry, it’s all fixed up for tomorrow in the outside office. Dorothy’s coming here and I’ve been given half an hour’s visit.’

‘Lucky bugger’, snorted Gerry, ‘some guys have all the luck.’

That day I made a great play of shaving and grooming myself and strode off jauntily, returning after a suitable interval to give a glowing account of the meeting with my innamorata. The seal of truth was put on the story by O’Connor, who, passing by as Gerry was being regaled by a fanciful account of her visit, stopped and remarked,

‘That’s a really nice girl you have there, 87’, and left behind a convinced and goggle-eyed Gerry. I turned the screw a little more.

‘You know Gerry, why don’t you write a note to Marion? I’ve told Dorothy all about you, and you might even get the chance of a visit?’

The great lover stirred uneasily, considered the proposal for a brief moment and vanished into the recreation hut, emerging some time later with a sealed envelope in his hand.

‘What address will I put?’

He copied with trembling fingers the fictitious address supplied by me. The letter was duly posted, intercepted by O’Connor and read with glee by the half dozen or so people who now knew of the ruse. The gist of the letter was that Gerry was a poor, misinterpreted, prisoner whose soul yearned for contact with the female sex. Although he and Marion had never met, he was sure that they must share some common spiritual bond: would she please answer this poor prisoner and bring a ray of light into his grey sad life behind the barbed wire.

The fulsome letter was answered on pink notepaper obligingly supplied by O’Connor, sprayed with perfume and posted by him in Montreal. Her letter was full of sympathy and solicitude, his answer was immediate and in no time the correspondence developed into a torrid love affair by mail, with Gerry, beside himself with fervour, informing the whole camp of his new Canadian love affair.

His letters increased in passion and desire.

Please Marion I must see you; please try and visit me, please, Marion, please.

But Marion sadly answered that all her pleas had been in vain; no more visits were to be allowed to the camp, and please for her sake, don’t approach the colonel.

I’m not supposed to be in Canada at all, and besides I’m leaving for England on the next convoy.

Gerry’s despair was great. ‘What can I do Joe, what can I do?’

And so we moved to the climax. I returned, downcast, from the office one Saturday morning and sought out Gerry.

‘That’s Dorothy’s last visit, Gerry and the girls leave on Monday for home. Marion would love to see you, even from a distance, so tomorrow around three o’clock they’re going to pass over the bridge and give us a wave. I told them you’d be wear ing a red scarf on your head and white shorts, so that way they’ll know it’s you’.

Gerry was grief-stricken. ‘Where am I going to get all that gear?’

‘No problem’, I replied. ‘We’ll nick a couple of pillowcases from the sick room and Barletta can run you up a pair of shorts in no time. I’ve brought a bottle of red ink from the office. We’ll stain a pillowcase red and you can wear it on your head.’

The next day, Sunday, at about 2.30pm, Gerry and I stood in the middle of the compound, the former bedecked in a pair of white shorts with a red cloth wrapped round his head. The minutes ticked by. Gerry palpitated anxiously. The guards on the machinegun towers looked curiously at the unusual sight below them, and the camp buzzed with anticipation. At last, high on the bridge above, amongst the strolling passers by on the bridge footpath, I espied two lone female figures who had paused to gaze at the compound below. The odds had paid off, for the chances always were that a couple of females would be out for a walk, and I latched onto the unsuspecting pair to help produce the grand finale.

‘There they are, Gerry’, I yelled, and through cupped hands bellowed a greeting to the two girls.

‘Hello Dorothy. . . hello Marion!’ and waved my hands frantically.

The two figures on the bridge paused, leaned over the railings, answering with a wave of hands and handkerchiefs. Gerry went mad.

‘It’s me Marion, it’s me Marion, it’s Gerry!’

He cavorted madly, whipped the red cloth from his head, waving it wildly in the air as he shouted the name of his loved one at the top of his voice.

I retreated unobtrusively, leaving the ecstatic Gerry alone in the middle of the arena. Gerry’s gyrations increased, his voice rising to a stentorian pitch.

‘Oh Marion, it’s me...it’s me, it’s Gerry!’ and he whipped the red cloth round his head like a lasso. His wild signals were answered enthusiastically from the bridge until a patrolling guard began to move the girls on, but Gerry’s shouts and gyrations diminished not one whit.

Suddenly the gates to the compound opened and in marched the sergeant of the guard flanked by two massive military policemen.

‘Grab that guy, we’ve got another nut here.’

The two MPs took an elbow each, and the startled Gerry was lifted high off the ground then whisked firmly back through the camp gates, leaving us all convulsed with helpless laughter.

Gerry was interrogated at length by the officer of the day on the question of his eccentric behaviour and had his story dismissed as being so improbable as not to warrant further investigation. Moreover, for his impertinence in persisting to take the mickey out of the officer with such a story he was sentenced to five days in the punishment cells.

My deception was never revealed. The non-existent Marion entered the pantheon of Gerry’s Goddesses, and for years afterwards during the periodic reunions of old Camp 43 inmates Gerry would recount with great embellishment the story of his unconsummated Canadian love affair!