Chapter 6

 

 

 

I DON’T know how much you know about General Marvin. Probably you just know what has been in the Sunday supplements.

Probably you think of him as one of the heroes of the invasion; the genial, pipe-smoking history-quoting, snappy-looking, map-carrying, adjective-defying divisional commander; the man who still wears spurs even though he rides everywhere in an armored car; the man who fires twelve rounds from his captured Luger pistol every morning before breakfast; the man who can name you the hero and date of every invasion of Italy from the beginning of time; the father of his division and the beloved deliverer of Italian soil.

You couldn’t be blamed for having this picture. You can’t get the truth except from the boys who come home and finally limp out of the hospitals and even then the truth is bent by their anger.

But I can tell you perfectly calmly that General Marvin showed himself during the invasion to be a bad man, something worse than what our troops were trying to throw out.

By the time it was nine days old, the invasion was developing very successfully. The American beachheads were secure. One heavy counterattack had been thrown back, and our troops began to go ahead all along the line.

On the ninth morning, General Marvin was driving along the road toward Vicinamare and came to the town of Adano. From time to time along the road his driver had had to slow down behind the little Italian twowheeled carts of the countryside until traffic from the opposite direction had gone by. Then he passed the carts.

As they passed each cart, General Marvin waved his riding crop in such a way as to indicate that the cart should move over. Since there was nothing to move over into except the ditch, which at intervals along the road expanded into tank traps, the carts never did move over. The General grew angrier and angrier.

Now it happened that just as he came to the Fiume Rosso, or Red River, just before Adano, the General’s armored car was obliged to slow down for a cart which meandered along right in the center of the road.

The General stood up in his car and shouted in his deep bass voice (you’ve read about that voice in the supplements; it’s famous; one writer said it was like “a foghorn gone articulate”) : “Goddam you goddam cart get off the road!”

Unfortunately the driver of the cart was one Errante Gaetano, who earlier that morning had sold three dozen eggs to American soldiers at fourteen times the proper price, had immediately sunk most of his profits in the wine of his friend Mattaliano, and was now sleeping a deep and happy sleep on the seat of his cart. At this particular moment, he was dreaming about eating the nicer parts of a fish nine feet long. Naturally he did not pay much attention to the voice of General Marvin, no matter how famous the voice, because he could not hear it.

General Marvin roared at his driver: “Blow your horn. Blow that bastard off the road.”

The driver, a nice boy from Massachusetts, put the heel of his hand on the horn button against his own wish. He was in no hurry, and knew that no matter how fast they went, he would only have to wait when they got wherever they were going.

The mind of Errante did not react to the horn, even though the horn was something urgent called a klaxon. The cart kept right down the middle of the road, inasmuch as Errante’s mule was a cautious creature, just as wary of ditches on the right as of ditches on the left. This was a quality in his mule of which Errante Gaetano often boasted to his friends. “Give me none of your lopsided mules,” he would say, “give me a mule with a sense of the middle.”

This sense was going to be the undoing of his mule just now, because General Marvin’s face was beginning to grow dark, and some veins which have never been described in the supplements began to wriggle and pound on his forehead.

“I’ve had enough of these goddam carts,” the General shouted. He was standing up in the car, waving his riding crop around. “Do they think they’re going to stop the goddam invasion with goddam carts?”

Errante slept beautifully. He was coming to the grey part of the fish just under the ribs. It melted in the mouth of his dream. There was, however, a sound of thunder in the distance which made him think perhaps he had better cover the fish and finish eating the nice parts after the rain.

General Marvin roared: “Do these goddam Italians think they’re going to stop a bunch of goddam tanks with a bunch of goddam wooden carts?”

Colonel Middleton, the General’s Chief of Staff, and Lieutenant Byrd, his aide, could see the violence coming. Lieutenant Byrd looked back along the road, but he couldn’t see any bunch of goddam tanks. The only thing he could see that was being held up besides the General’s armored car was one seep, or amphibious ieep, which did not seem to be in a hurry.

Here it came. General Marvin shouted: “Throw that goddam cart off the road.”

Colonel Middleton, Lieutenant Byrd and the nice boy from Massachusetts ached all over with regret, but there was nothing they could do but obey. The driver stopped the car. The three got out. They held up the seep and enlisted the puzzled aid of three sergeants who were riding in it.

The six men walked forward on the road with the bass aria of General Marvin’s anger ringing in their ears. They did not have to run to catch up with the cart. That was another thing about the mule of Errante Gaetano which he liked. The mule was good and slow. “It is a mule,” he would say, “which lives in the present and is not always trotting into the future.”

Errante stirred in his sleep. The thunder of his dream was the most beautiful and most continuous thunder he had ever heard.

The six men surrounded the cart. Colonel Middleton reached up to waken Errante, but the General’s roars grew louder. “What are you doing?” he bellowed. “I told you to throw the goddam thing off the road.”

“We were just going to wake this fellow up and get him off first,” Colonel Middleton shouted back, but the shout was weak because he knew what the answer would be.

“Serve him goddam right. Throw him too. Just turn the whole goddam thing over.”

There was no protest from any of the six men. The only thing which was said was muttered by Lieutenant Byrd: “The old man hasn’t been getting enough sleep lately.”

Colonel Middleton went to the head of the mule and guided it to the side of the road. He directed the other five men to take positions on the left side of the cart and to lift together when he gave the signal.

General Marvin roared: “Come on, get it over with. What a bunch of goddam softies. Get it over with.” Colonel Middleton gave the signal. The five men lifted.

In his dream, Errante rose up above the nine-foot fish and soared off into space. The sensation was extremely pleasant.

The cart groaned. The right wheel crumbled around the axle. The whole weight of the thing rolled slowly over into the ditch, and the shafts twisted and upset the mule, and the mule, which had always feared ditches on the right, screamed to find itself falling into what it had feared.

Errante hit the earth hard. He woke up, but what with his dazedness, his drunkenness, his surprise and his natural stupidity, he was unable to do anything except roar wordlessly.

General Marvin was still roaring too. “Serve the sonofabitch right,” he shouted. “Holding up traffic. Trying to stop the goddam invasion.”

A new fury rushed up the General’s cheeks. “Middleton,” he shouted, “shoot that goddam mule.”

Colonel Middleton’s blood froze. He shouted back: “Do you think it’s wise, sir?”

The General shouted: “What’s that? Goddamit, what’s that?”

Colonel Middleton knew it was hopeless but he shouted again: “I said, do you think it is wise, sir?” Trying to reason with any man, and especially with this man, at two hundred feet and the top of one’s lungs was not rewarding work.

The General shouted: “Goddamit, Middleton, you trying to stop the goddam invasion too? Do what I say.” So Colonel Middleton pulled out his Colt and fired three shots into the head of the screaming mule.

All this was accomplished before Errante Gaetano was able to shape his roaring into words. He stood there in absolute amazement at the shooting.

General Marvin shouted: “Let’s go, goddamit, can’t spend all day here

The men got back into the armored car and the seep. As they started up, General Marvin said: “Got to teach these people a lesson. Take me to the mayor of this goddam town, what is this town anyhow?”

And they drove off, leaving Errante sobbing on the flank of his mule, lying with his arms around the neck of the mule which had had a sense of the middle but no sense of urgency.

The General’s armored car pulled up in front of the Palazzo di Città. Lieutenant Byrd ran across the wide sidewalk and up the marble stairs and burst into Major Joppolo’s office. He interrupted the Major in the middle of a conversation with Gargano, the Chief of the Carabinieri.

“General Marvin’s downstairs and wants to see you,” the Lieutenant said. “He’s mad as hell, so you better hurry.

“General Marvin,” said Major Joppolo, and the tone of his voice was not of delight. Though he had never met the General, he had heard much about him. “I’ll be right down.”

Lieutenant Byrd turned and ran downstairs. Major Joppolo absent-mindedly arranged the papers on his desk in neat piles. Then he stood up and walked out of his office. Half way down the marble stairs he realized that he was out of uniform. He had heard stories of General Marvin’s insistence on correct uniform. Here he was in pink pants and khaki shirt, when he was supposed to be in woolens. He was suddenly very frightened, and he turned and began walking up the stairs again, trying to figure out what to do, how to get into proper uniform.

Colonel Middleton ran to the foot of the marble stairs and shouted up: “Hey, you, what do you mean by keeping the General waiting?”

“Yes, sir,” Major Joppolo said. “Be right down.” There was nothing to do. He ran down the stairs. When Major Joppolo reached the armored car, the

General was sitting with his left arm raised in front of him, glaring at his wrist watch.

Major Joppolo saluted. General Marvin roared: “One minute and twenty seconds. You’ve been keeping me waiting one minute and twenty seconds. Goddamit, do you think I have all day to wait for you? Who are you., anyway?„

“Major Joppolo, sir, senior civil affairs officer, town of Adano, sir.”

General Marvin remembered the cart and was apparently too angry even to notice Major Joppolo’s uniform. “Goddamit, Major, these Italian carts are holding up our whole goddam invasion. Keep them out of this town. Don’t you let another cart come across that bridge back there into this town. What the hell is this town, anyway?” “Adano, sir, town of Adano. “

“Adano. Keep the goddam carts out of this town, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir, I’ll take care of that right away.”

The General shouted: “Right away? That’s not soon enough for me.”

“Sir, I’ll go right up and call the M.P. s and tell them about it.”

“That’s not soon enough. Goddamit, I want action. No more carts. Adano’s the name of this town, remember that, Middleton, Adano. No more carts at all, Major, do you understand? Goddamit, what are you standing there gawking about? Action, goddamit. Let’s get going, let’s get out of here, do you think I have all day?”

And before Major Joppolo could even salute, the armored car had roared away.

By the time he reached his desk again, Major Joppolo realized what the consequences of keeping the carts out of town would be. He knew very well how essential they were to the life of the place.

With a heavy heart he cranked his field telephone, asked for Rowboat Blue Forward, got the ear of Captain Purvis, head of the M.P.’s in Adano, and ordered him in the name of General Marvin, to keep all carts out of Adano, to stop them at the bridge on the east and at the sulphur refinery on the west.

Then he called for Zito, his usher, and asked him to assemble all the officials of the town in his office. Gargano, the police chief, was already there. Of the others old Bellanca, the honest notary whom Major Joppolo had chosen to be his mayor, came in first. He had sad eyes, the eyes of a man who had suffered for his honesty through several years of corruption. He wore a black coat and black tie, as always. Behind Bellanca the others trooped in: D’Arpa, the weasel-like vice mayor; Tagliavia, the maresciallo of finance; the bullvoiced Mercurio Salvatore, crier; Major Joppolo’s unctuous little municipal secretary, Panteleone; the pearshaped Signora Carmelina Spinnato, volunteer health officer; Rotondo, lieutenant of Carabinieri; and the man who was charged with keeping the streets clean, the cleanest man in town, Saitta, in a white suit.

When they were all in, Major Joppolo stood at his desk and said: “I have promised to tell you every important thing which the American authorities decide to do in this town. I do not want this to be a town of mysteries. In a democracy one of the most important things is for everyone to know as much as possible about what is going on.

“The American authorities have decided that because of military necessities it will no longer be possible for mule carts to come into the streets of town.”

Major Joppolo could see his audience suck in its collective breath. He said: “I am not happy to have to announce this decision. It is because of military necessities. I am sorry. That is all.”

The officials of Adano, a comic-looking collection, turned sadly to go. They did not protest. They had learned during the years of Fascism how to swallow their protests. But Major Joppolo could tell that they were not with him, that for the first time in nine days they were against him.

Before the first of them reached the door, Major Joppolo said: “I wish to tell you that I will do all that is in my power to have this unjust order revoked.”

And when the comic-looking officials of Adano went out of the door of the Major’s office, they were still sad but they were for him.

The Major worried all day about the order and wondered what he could do about it. He slept very badly during the night, because of his worry.

Early in the morning, Zito, the little usher, came up to his desk and said: “Mister Major, there are three men to see you about the carts.”

Because it worried him, the Major snapped back angrily at Zito: “What do they want about the carts?” “That is something they wish to tell you, Mister Major,” Zito said. “It is something they did not tell me.” “Well, show them in.”

The three Italians were evidently poor but respected men. There was a kind of democracy in their coming to see the Major: they were the chosen delegates of all the cartmen, to argue this thing out.

They all had old, clean coats on, and they all clutched cloth caps in their hands. Zito brought three chairs forward, and they sat in a half circle opposite the Major.

The Major pointed with a fountain pen at one of the men and said in Italian: “You. What is your name?” The man was about sixty. His hair was pure white but the skin of his forehead, though furrowed, was the skin of a tough young man. He jumped to his feet, twisting his cap in his strong hands, and he shouted: “Afronti Pietro, Mister Major.” Then he gave the Major a Fascist salute.

“Speak softly here,” the Major said. “I am not deaf.” He leaned and spoke to the other two men. “Are you deaf?”

“No, Mister Major,” they both said.

“Then speak softly,” he said to the strong-voiced man, “What do you desire?”

“I desire,” the old man said, trying to keep his voice quiet, “to raise the question of the carts coming into the town of Adano. I desire to tell you, Mister Major, that these carts are most dear to us. I wish to tell you about my cart. It has two wooden wheels, Mister Major -”

“I have seen these carts. It is not necessary to describe the carts.”

Old Afronti gave the Major another salute. “But have you heard the music which is made by the wheels, Mister Major? The two wooden wheels of my cart sing to me. They do not sing Fascist songs, Mister Major, they do not sing Giovinezza or anything to do with marching. You may think this is squeaking, this music, but I can hear what the wheels are trying to sing.”

The Major said: “We are concerned here with the question of whether these carts should or should not come across the bridge into Adano. When you waste time with this talk, you are wasting the time of your friends who are waiting outside that door.”

Afronti gave another Fascist salute. “One day last summer,” he said in a louder voice, “I drove my cart all the way to Gioia di Monti, and all the way the wheels sang a song which was also a prophecy. At the time none of my friends would believe this song, would you, my friends?” And he turned to the other two.

The two nodded their heads, but the expression of their faces was blank because they were thinking of the speeches they were about to make.

Afronti’s voice grew louder and louder, as if he were outdoors. “Do you wish to hear this song, Mister Major?” Major Joppolo said: “No, please come to the point.” Afronti stepped back. He unbuttoned his coat. He held his cap out at arm’s length and he sang. It was not exactly a tune he sang, but his voice went up and down, very loud. This is what he sang:

“The Americans are coming here, Signor Afronti,

The Americans are very just men,

Especially with regard to carts.”

Major Joppolo said: “Do not joke with me, old man. We have no time for humor this morning. I want to help you if you have something reasonable to ask of me. Come to the point.”

Afronti shouted: “The music has stopped. There is no more music.”

The Major said: “Please do not shout here. You seem to think that Americans are deaf men. We are not deaf. Do not shout.”

jAfronti said very softly: “The music has stopped, there is no more music, Mister Major. Thank you, Mister Maor.” And he sat down abruptly.

The Major lifted his pen and pointed it at the next man. “And you,” he said, “your name.”

This was a man who seemed a little backward. He was timid in the way he stood up and he did not twist his cap with any enthusiasm, as the others did. His voice was slow and he had to think a long time before he could say his own name. Finally it came out: “Erba Carlo, Mister Major.”

“And you desire?”

Erba stopped and thought. His eyes wandered. He looked at the Saint of the Telephone. He looked at the Red Cross badge on the breast of Princess Marie Jose. He thought and thought, but he could not think what it was he desired. He had forgotten his speech entirely.

After an embarrassing pause, the other two left off thinking about their own speeches and came to the assistance of Erba.

“Tell him,” one of them said, “about the water carts.” A look of vast relief came over the face of Erba. “It is about the water carts, Mister Major.”

“Yes?”

Erba looked at the huge painting over the Major’s head. He studied many details of the painting. But he could not remember exactly what it was about the water carts that he wished to say.

The other of his friends said: “Describe your cart, Erba. “

Erba said: “It is big. Outside it is dirty but inside it is clean. It holds water. My friends drink the water.”

After this sustained effort, Erba’s face was covered with perspiration. At first he looked proud and triumphant, but then he could see another hurdle coming. This time he looked frankly and directly at his friends for prompting.

Major Joppolo was frantic with impatience, but he said: “Yes, my friend, tell me some more about the water cart.” This was a quality in the Major that came out time and again: he was always gentle with those who evoked impatience, and he was always impatient with those who begged for gentleness.

“The thirst,” said one of Erba’s friends, “the great thirst.”

Erba turned to the Major with an expression of delight which belied the seriousness of what he was to say. He was delighted because it was all coming back to him now. He said: “You will not let my cart across the bridge. There is no water in Adano without my cart and the other water carts. There is a thirst in Adano. Since yesterday morning at eleven o’clock there is a great thirst. Carmelina who is the wife of the lazy Fatta says that her daughter will die of the thirst. It is all because of the bridge... and the carts... and the -”

Erba, like the town, had run dry. He turned to his friends. One of them said: “Erba, the proclamation, the matter of being clean.”

Erba said: “Oh yes, the proclamation. In one proclamation, Mister Major, I forget the number of the proclamation, there are so many, does the number matter, Mister Major?”

“No, Erba. I am sorry, there are too many proclamations.” And the Major turned to Erba’s friends, who were a little more intelligent and would understand. “That is the fault of the authorities. I did not wish to post so many proclamations. That is not my fault. I am sorry. The number does not matter, Erba.”

Erba said: “The number does not matter. The proclamation says it is necessary to be clean. It says the people must be clean with water, and even the streets must be clean. Our streets, which have been the same since the time of - who was it the time of, Afronti?”

Afronti roared: “Since the time of Pietro of Aragona and of Roberto King of Naples.”

Erba said: “The streets have been the same. Now the proclamation speaks of being clean with water. There is much sameness which has accumulated on the streets since the time of those men of whom Afronti speaks. This being clean takes much water. My cart is on the other side of the bridge, Mister Major

Major Joppolo said: “The cleanliness is very important, Erba. Let us make Adano the cleanest town in the whole province of Vicinamare.”

Erba caught the challenge. His eye brightened. “We will do this thing, even if the sameness has piled up since the time of Jesus, Mister Major.” Then his eye went dull again. “But my cart is on the other side of the bridge. You have said it may not pass.”

The Major said: “Let the next one speak. You. Your name.” And he pointed at the third man with his pen. Erba said: “Thank you, Mister Major.”

The third man jumped up. He was quite fat but comparatively handsome. His hair was plastered down with something off the axle of his cart, and his black coat was the newest looking of the four. “Basile Giovanni, Mister Major,” he said.

“You wish?”

Basile spoke gravely and slowly. “Mister Major,” he said, “the worst of all the things about the carts is the food. You can see, Mister Major” - and he ran his hands down over the size of his belly - “that I am a man who can speak of food with understanding. This matter of the carts does not hurt me. I am like a man with money in the bank, I have something to draw on in hard times. But there are others in Adano who are not so lucky. Galioto Bartolomeo is so thin that you can count the several teeth of his mouth even when his lips are closed. The nine children of Raffaela who is the wife of Manetto have big bellies, but their bellies are big only with the gas of hunger. Shall I name others who are very thin?”

The Major said: “No, go on.”

Basile said: “I am the one to tell you about the food and the carts. You have not seen my cart, have you, Mister Major?”

“I may have. I have seen many of them

Basile said: “I think you would remember my cart. You know how all the carts have pictures painted on the panels of the sides? Scenes of the Saints, scenes of the history of Adano, scenes of the fine accidents we have had in the province of Vicinamare -”

The Major said: “I tell you it is not necessary to describe these carts. I have seen many of them. I am getting sick of the carts

Basile said: “But Mister Major, you have not seen my cart. On my cart there are four scenes. They are all from the Holy Word, and they are all concerned with eating. There is the miracle of the loaves and fishes. There is the last supper. There is the widow’s jar which never emptied no matter how much food she took out. There is the wedding at Cana where the water turned to wine. Now, all the people in all these pictures are fat people. I do not believe that this is sacrilege, even though Jesus himself is fat on my cart. It is simply that I told Lojacono Arturo, who painted the cart, to make all the people fat, like me and my Elisabetta, because mine was a cart for food, to make other people fat and Jovial, though they might have a certain amount of hard breathing.”

The Major said: “This is a waste of time.” But Basile could see, and the other two could see, that the Major was nearly persuaded by this time-wasting talk.

Basile pressed on: “How can I drive my cart now, even in the country? How can I put my fat horse, whose name is General Eisenhower in honor of our deliverer, between the shafts, and put my fat self on the seat, and drive around with my pictures of fat and holy people - when the people of Adano are starving, Mister Major? This fills me with shame, even though I cannot bring the cart into town.”

And then, with great craft, Basile said: “There is nothing in all the proclamations, even though it takes you a week to read them, which says that the Americans came to Adano in order to make people die of hunger. And there is nothing in all the proclamations which refers to such things as the dead mule of Errante Gaetano. Why then do we have this thing of the carts?”

The Major said to himself in English: “Damn.”

He reached for the field telephone, cranked the handle and said: “Give me Rowboat Blue Forward.” While he waited for an answer, the Major said to Basile gruffly: “Sit down.

“Hello. This Rowboat Blue Forward? Captain Purvis, please...

“Purvis? Joppolo. Listen...

“No, now this is serious, Purvis. This thing about the carts. I’ve made up my mind. By one sentence General Marvin destroyed the work of nine days in this town. I know it may mean a court martial, but I’ve decided to countermand his order. What?...

“I know I’m taking a hell of a chance, but I’ve got to do it. We can’t let these people starve...

“I have to do it, Purvis. This town is dying. No food can get into the town if the carts don’t come. The town depends on the carts for water: there isn’t any running water here, you know that. The people can’t go out into the fields to work in the morning. Taking carts away from this town is like taking automobiles away from a country town in the States. You just can’t do it all at once. People will die. I’m not here to kill people.”

Captain Purvis evidently put up an argument.

Finally the Major said: “Purvis, I order you, on my authority, to start letting carts back into the town, beginning now. I take absolute and complete responsibility for countermanding General Marvin’s order...

“Listen friend, if we never took chances around here, this place would go right on being a Fascism. All right, the hell with you, it’s on my responsibility.”

The three cartmen sat through the telephone conversation not comprehending. To judge by their faces they seemed to think that Major Joppolo was devising some punishment for them. They had the habit of fear, and they thought that this man of authority would of course be exactly like the men of authority they had known for so long.

Major Joppolo hung up. He turned to the three cartmen and said: “You may bring your carts into the town.” For a long moment they did not understand. Then they stood up and began shouting and waving their caps.

“We thank you, we thank you and we kiss your hand,” they roared.

“Oh, Mister Major, there has never been a thing like this,” the fat one named Basile shouted, “that the poor should come to the Palazzo di Cittá, and that their request should be granted.”

“Especially,” shouted the loud one named Afronti, “especially without a wait of two to three weeks.”

“It was not necessary to write you a letter,” Basile shouted.

“The police did not even examine us,” roared Afronti. The slow one named Erba finally got out a sentence. It was one of the few beautiful sentences he ever managed to say, and one of the longest. He said: “When the people come and take water from my cart to drink for their thirst, I shall say to them: `Thank the Mister Major, my friends.”‘

Major Joppolo said: “Get out of here. You are wasting my time and the time of all the people who are waiting outside that door.” And he gestured impatiently at the men.

The cartmen went out, shouting and congratulating America.