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By Root 131 0

road up the Apennines, and it’s getting colder. All is not well. Nino the driver is shouting and praying in a stricken voice, the roads are very slippery, we’ll have to put the skid chains on. We set to, straining and swearing. “What a bleedin’ liberty,” says Gunner Hall. “How can you put bloody skid chains on and be expected to play the violin.” Lieutenant Priest answers that there’s no need to play the violin when putting the skid chains on but as Gunner Hall is just standing and watching, it would help if he did. Fingers are aching with cold; finally it’s done; a quick drink of hot tea from the thermos and we’re off again. We are at three thousand feet, heavy snow, icy roads, very dark and very cold. We have all gone quiet as we sense that the driver Nino is none too brave. Then the sound of Hall’s violin playing ‘I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas’. There’s a lot of laughter, then we all join in.

Varied lyrics: ‘I’m dreaming of a white mistress’, or ‘I’m steaming on an old mattress’. Quiet again. We pass a chiesa, it’s ringing out the Angelus; several of the Italian girls cross themselves.

“I don’t understand ‘em,” says Bill Hall. “Last night they were all screwing themselves silly.”

Lieutenant Priest passes sandwiches down the charabanc. “Ham and cheese,” he says. We are all stamping our feet and blowing into cupped hands. Sometimes we cupped our feet and stamped our hands: variety is the spice of life. It was an awful long cold boring darkness. It wasn’t a moment too soon when we arrived in Bologna; with the Tower of Dante looming into the night sky, we pull up at the Albergo Oralogio. A fin de cycle building. All is Baroque, even the porters.

We are soon in wonderful bedrooms, faded but lovely. I have a huge marble bath with gorgon-headed taps, and a giant brass shower rose in a wooden boxed-in cabinet. The curtains are damask. It’s a single room, so I’m safe from singing, farting, chattering Secombe.

“Hey, come and ha’ a drink, Spike.” It’s Mulgrew, he’s found a vino bar right next door. “We could do with one after that bloody journey.” OK. I join him. The manageress falls for Johnny.

Mulgrew set fair for free drinks

The vino bar is the meeting place of all the local footballers. They have money, do we have anything to sell. Mulgrew puts up his soul. I have a fine officer’s raincoat given me by my father. Can they see it? Not from here. I dash into the Albergo and return gasping. Oh, I’m in no hurry to sell, you understand, but how much? Five thousand lire. The word thousand disorientates the mind. Used to humble one, two, three in sterling but five thousand! Rich! rich! rich! Wrong! wrong! wrong! little international banker. It came to four quid: and it cost fifteen! It was brand new, and there it is going out the door to a football match. Still, four quid was four quid, but it wasn’t fifteen.

Tired by the trip, elated by the five thousand lire, pissed by the wine, I retired to my Baroque bedroom, laid out my mottled blue pyjamas, took a marble bath, a brass shower, got into the Baroque bed and rang for room service. There’s bugger all: room service is ‘finito’. What have they got? La fredda colazione!! Argggh, well it was better than nothing, though when it arrived I realized it wasn’t. What’s the old waiter hanging about for? All service after ten has to be paid for by cash. What? But I’m travelling on the King’s warrant, this trip is all found. Well find a tip. No! OK, he’ll call the manager. No, no, OK, I pay. Has he got change for a ten thousand lire note? Yes, he says, have I been selling raincoats to those footballers?

Again the Bill Hall Triumph. It’s getting to be a habit. With the raincoat money I brought an old Kodak camera. I filmed everything, see over:

The streets of Bologna were swarming with Italian Partisans wearing bandoliers, their belts stuffed with German stick grenades. They sauntered the sidewalks with a braggadocio air, waving their captured weapons and shouting Viva Italia. After a while it got a bit boring and Bill Hall said to one, “Le Guerre Finito mate.” We climbed the six