Ann has to go to Anzio to catch the train, which works out perfectly, as it allows me to see this town without having to backtrack. We drive to the station, and as we're waiting for the train Ann runs into a friend of hers, another British lady named Mo. Within seconds, she finds out that I am walking toward her town, and invites me to stay. Three nights in the homes of three different people in three different cities, and all stemming from a chance roadside encounter. Not bad.
The train comes, taking Mo, Ann, and Carlo with it, leaving me alone to enjoy Anzio. The first thing I do is head to the sea, seating myself on ruins from Nero's villa that extend all the way to the waterfront. Not having been near the sea since Carrara in the North of Tuscany back in early September, I have a feeling of peace and homecoming from the lapping waves. Alone on the large expanse of beach except for two old men playing cards on top of an upturned boat, I sit a long while, letting the memory etch itself into my brain. There's something to this whole waking up early thing...The next thing I do with my luxury of time is seek the American Military Cemetary, which houses around 7,500 troops from the campaigns in Sicily all the way up to the invasion of Anzio. As it turns out, Anzio was the site of a very pivotal landing which outflanked the Germans and caused them to lose their defensive positions at the highly fortified Gustav line to the South.
My Dad had told me to look out for the pillboxes, which were in large supply when he worked at Anzio in the early 1960s. By now, they had all been removed, from what I could tell, but the cemetery was obviously still there, so the historian in me compelled me to go.
Like entering a small piece of the US, the cemetery bore the unmistakable mark of being American. Bold and on a magnificent scale, with American flags flying, it instills an immediate feeling of patriotism for those who, like me, are so disposed. I went to the welcome center, read every word that was available as information about the campaign as well as the site, looked for any Hooks in the war Registers of the dead and missing, and feeling emotionally primed, began to explore the cemetery itself.
In the center, a pool with four large water spouts contains an island dedicated to the unknown soldier. Behind that a large mall (not the shopping kind) leads up to a neoclassical building much like a temple, which houses a chapel, a state of two servicemen, a lone pine tree, and a room containing an illustrated history of the Italy campaign. I lingered here for a while, overwhelmed by all the names etched into the wall of the chapel, and eager to contrast the American and British (as I had seen at Lago di Bolsena) accounts of the campaign.
On either side of the temple there are beautifully manicured gardens, and leading all the way back to the entrance, row upon row of graves. Playing Aaron Copland's Lincoln Portrait, I sat upon the steps in front of the temple, and wandered down the many rows of men who died for a cherished and honorable idea. There is no more excellent reminder about why we should avoid war at all costs than a war cemetery.When I had seen everything I needed to see there, I paid my respects, and continued on my way. Before leaving, I took a short stroll through the medieval town of Nettuno, chatted a while with two Calabresi who pretended to be Bolognesi but couldn't fool me for a minute, and said my goodbye to the beach once more.
Once on the road to Mo's house, I gave four or five prostituts something to talk about at dinner that evening (did you see that guy? What the hell was he doing?), and by pure coincidence, happened to notice a large client... er, military base right behind them.
When I got to Mo's house, a large farm on the outskirts of Latina, I found her waiting for me, along with her seven dogs, six birds, three horses, a pony, and a partridge in a pear tree. I settled down for a nice warm shower, and when I was finished, heard some wonderful stories of Mo's youth, of a six-month stay in Philadelphia, and of her various trials and tribulations with the Italian bureaucracy. She was, to me, quitessentially British. We ate British food, had tea for breakfast (a welcome change, honestly), she told me about her polo playing and fox hunting days, I found out she had run the pony club at Sandhurst Military Acadaemy, and so on. In fact, she reminded me of how very little I had traveled in Great Britain, and how much I had yet to see... but it's better not to get started on that road.
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1 comment:
I love this picture. It's funny as it is, but thinking about it outside of the context of your blog made me laugh even harder.
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