An Italian Journal
Italy Revisited May-June 2000
Travels with My Son (and My Father)
A Journey into Memories of Fifty-Five Years
By Arthur F. and Thomas A. Thompson
Prologue
December 24, 1944
Art:
Our first combat death came a few days after we landed at Leghorn in January, 1945, when one of our 1st Platoon soldiers stepped on a land mine while on guard duty. Four of our company were killed in this incident, including the 1st Platoon sergeant. We were on the front line a few days later. Our baptism of fire had begun.
In 1982 I returned to Italy with my wife, Norma, and revisited our battlefields in northern Italy. The trip allowed me to relive the most difficult time of my life. I need never return to Italy again, I thought.
May, 2000
Art:
Eighteen years after 1982, our son, Tom, now National Association Secretary and Treasurer, said, “I want you to come back to Italy with me. I want you to show me, and tell me, what you experienced those many years ago….”
Tom:
When I called my father to tell him he was accompanying me on Bella Italia 200!, his response was less than I had hoped. “I don’t need to go back there”, he stated. “I went once and I don’t need to go again.”
I wasn’t dissuaded. “Dad, when you went back in 1982, I wasn’t there with camera and tape recorder. This isn’t about asking you if you want to go. It’s about telling you to renew your passport. You’re going.”
May 26, 2000—Friday
Art:
We left Albany, starting on our trip and a reunion with old comrades of these past 55 years. Tom is ready to live the experience that I have talked about over the many years of his life. He will have stories and many photos to share with his sisters and brother when we return home.
Six times zones and seven hours after leaving Newark, we landed. My first impression was the contrast between the devastation of war-torn Italy and the economic prosperity that is so much in evidence today.
Tour guides from Central Holidays met us, and we bussed from the airport to our overnight hotel, an elegant establishment on the shore of Lake Maggiore, a very nice start for our two-week adventure.
Lunch, and rest time for the jet lag to catch up, followed our arrival. We took a late afternoon boat ride to the summer home of the Borromeo family, located on an island in the lake. The Borromeos are a very wealthy family who spend two or three weeks a year on this island paradise.
After a tour, dinner in a restaurant on the island completed a very long day for the group. Early tomorrow we head off to Montecatini.
Tom:
I love to explore far-off places, but I’m coming to loathe getting there. Spending hours and hours in a crowded, noisy aluminum tube with 300 other people is not my idea of relaxing leisure travel. Getting to Italy was everything I don’t like about travel.
The airport scene at our arrival was an Italian merry-go-round. Each tour guide had their own list of people, and had to check off all the people who were showing up. Further complicating the trip to our first night’s hotel was the fact that our bus driver managed to get us lost on the same turn…twice.
Finally, we arrived in Stresa, a resort town on Lake Maggiore. Our beautiful hotel, “Des Iles Borromeo”, fronted the lake, and our own balcony gave us a beautiful of mountains and the famous islands.
I managed to get an hour’s nap before and after lunch, savoring great Italian pasta and veal scaloppini in between, of course. After our afternoon nap, it was time for a brief lake tour and dinner on one of the islands. It was raining. We quickly donned anything waterproof.
Isola Bella is an island perhaps 100 yards wide and 500 yards long, completely covered by the Palace of the Borromeo family, its gardens, and a small village of fisherman and servants tucked against one end of the garden wall. We toured the inside of the….. What can you call it? It’s not fortified like a castle, but it’s too big to be called a mere mansion. “Palace” was a fitting description Our tour included those parts of it not still used by the Borromeo family that owns it, over 600 years after it was first granted to them.
We learned something about taking the long view of life, when I learned that the Palace’s great hall was finally completed to the 15th century architect’s plans…… in 1959.
Our evening climaxed with a welcoming dinner at “Elysium”, a restaurant distinguished by its ability to seat the nearly 300 of us. Here we were introduced to the cucina italiana that we were to see over and over for the next two weeks. Bottles and bottles of mineral water, white and red wine on the tables, followed by a shrimp salad appetizer, a pasta dish of lasagna Alfredo con pesto and an entree of veal scaloppini, this time served with hunter sauce, carrots and roasted potatoes, and a little gelato for dessert. The meal made me seem at home in Italy. This was the Italy I had read and heard about. Too soon, it was back to the boats, back to the hotel, and to bed, both of us, collapsed for the night at a quarter of nine.
May 28, 2000—Sunday
Art:
We left the hotel at Stresa in the morning and traveled south and east to Montecatini. Ate lunch at a restaurant near the summit of the Apennine pass leading down to Lucca.
After arriving late in Montecatini, I went out to eat with Tom. As we walked, I found the hotel that had been a U.S. convalescent center in March of 1945. I spent 5 days there after being treated for minor shrapnel wounds received near Castel D’Aiano. Memories, some not so pleasant, ran through my mind. The hotel desk staff confirmed that this was indeed, the place.
Tom:
The dawn light flooded our east-facing room at a very early hour. Our continental breakfast included platters of salami, prosciutto ham and cheese, along with the more familiar yogurt, fruit and cereal.
The drive from Stresa to Montecatini first returned us past Milan. As we drove, we could see buildings and evidence of settlement literally everywhere. Italy is the size of Oregon, our guide told us, and holds 57 million people (compared to 3 million or so who live in Oregon. I looked it up later). So, it’s busy.
We stopped for lunch at a restaurant named “Foresta di Bard”, eponymously named for the forest preserve in which it sits. The cuisine, however, was, again, very good. Wine on all the tables made for a very convivial atmosphere as lunch progressed. I don’t think any Italian ever thinks of food other than in full–course terms. Those on the one-week tour met us there, pushing the group to the full 323 people we had scrambled to accommodate.
Arriving in Montecatini, we were billeted in the Hotel Panoramic. A deluxe room with separate couch, a balcony and a gorgeous picture window gives a fine view of Montecatini Alto, a tiny village perched high atop a ridge above the main town of Montecatini Terme. “Terme” means “spa”, and the town has been famous for its baths since Roman times. Our amenities include 2 bathrooms, one with a shower and one with a jetted hot tub. Quite, quite the upgrade. I think that somebody must have thought that we were VIPs.
Dad and I managed a short nap after arriving in Montecatini, and then took a walk to find dinner. Along the way, we found the WWII convalescent hospital, now a 5-star hotel, in which Dad had spent a few days for a minor shrapnel wound back in 1945. His eyes searched the front façade and park-like grounds, seeing, remembering.
May 29, 2000—Monday
Art:
We traveled from Montecatini to the American Cemetery near Florence. I checked at the registration office, and discovered that Dick Stage, my best friend from those 55 years ago, was buried here. When we were here in 1982, we were told that his body had been sent home. Not true, I now learn. Dick is here, in Section A, Row C, grave number 11.
I found Dick’s grave close by that of Sgt. Sherman, who was my first platoon sergeant. He and Dick were both killed when a mortar shell made a direct hit on their foxhole. Sgt. Sherman is buried in Section A, Row A, grave number 11.
While kneeling at Dick’s grave, many memories of pleasant times at Camp Hale and Camp Swift came to the surface. We were both 19 years old. I wonder how his life would have turned out, had he lived these last 55 years, as our Lord has allowed me to live?
Why that mortar shell, that foxhole, that day?…………………….
Tom:
Today, we met the ghosts of fallen heroes. We all bussed to the Florence American Military Cemetery and Memorial. The men dressed mostly in “Class A” blazers with Association insignia, service ribbons, white shirts, Association ties, and gray slacks. The women mostly wore dressy clothes. Our group were the majority of all spectators today.
I was struck by the symmetry, peace and majesty of the Cemetery. Here, as in Flanders fields, “the crosses grow, row on row”, perfectly sited along gentle curving lines on both sides of a broad grassy promenade. The whole field slopes gently upward to a broad plaza backed by a wall, capped at each end with small, temple-like stone buildings. The wall is covered with the names of American dead whose bodies were not recovered from their place of death, but whose names shine into history. Centered on the plaza, a four-sided marble column soars up and up, capped by a marble eagle, eternally vigilant on behalf of the honored dead below. The Florence Cemetery is not America’s largest overseas cemetery, but it must be one of the most beautiful and peaceful.
The ceremony itself was predictable. The 10th Mountain Division colors were posted admirably by Corporal Reggie DeMapelis, whom we invited to join the group as a representative of today’s 10th Mountain Division (Light Infantry). The Corporal, dressed in Army dress blue, appeared the picture of a modern soldier, and proved a good companion throughout the tour. The Italian Carabinieri band played, speeches were made, wreaths were laid, and the dead were well and truly honored.
After the rifle echoes died away and the music faded, spectators scattered among the crosses and Jewish stars, searching out old comrades, friends, and forefathers. I hung back from my father, watching him survey the grounds. He checked for section markers, and then strode straight toward one particular area. He moved a few headstones into a row, paused, then moved a few stones further, and stopped.
His eyes found me. He gestured to one flower-draped stone, and said, “Here’s Sherman. He was our platoon sergeant. He and Dick Stage were killed together. They told me in 1982 that Stage wasn’t buried here, but the registrar today says he is. I’m going to find him”
He moved off a few stones, down another row, and another, until he stopped at one particular stone. It sat nearly alone in the lowest row, far from the plaza at the top of the slope.
“Here he is”, he said, just loudly enough for me to hear. He touched and held the arm of a simple, pure-white marble cross, indistinguishable from the others. He knelt, and lowered his head. Yards, and decades away, I stopped, to let him greet his friend. Here, with the rest, Dick Stage lies, forever young in death and memory, forever at peace, in an American garden 4,000 miles from home.
My throat caught. I shook it off, and took the pictures I know Dad will treasure. I fired a roll of film while crouching quietly, far enough away to let Dad have time with his friend. Afterward, we stood together, silent with our thoughts, and waited for the buses. A light rain began, and I thought, “The angels joined us, to cry for these heroes, lost to life but not to memory.”
Day’s end seemed too soon, but still welcome, and with sleep came a release from the thought that my father could have been one of those laid to rest in Florence, and my life not even a thought to anyone in the universe.
May 30, 2000—Tuesday
Today we visited Pisa and Livorno (Leghorn). On the way to Leghorn I pointed out to Tom the railway line near where we bivouacked, and where that 1st platoon soldier, walking guard on the railroad, stepped on a land mine. I remembered the bivouac area being near Pisa because we could see the Leaning Tower from where we were.
In 1944 Leghorn was heavily bombed because of its importance as a strategic port. Today, rebuilt, Leghorn is again a very busy industrial port. It was difficult to recognize the place from the war-torn port we landed at in 1944.
A very fine dinner was served at a Medici-era “farmhouse” near Montecatini.
Tom:
Today, we toured. All day. We started by going to Pisa, home of the famous Leaning Tower, now leaning not quite so much, after the latest effort to stabilize its sinking foundation.
We went from too little time to explore medieval Pisa, to too much time in Livorno, a grubby industrial port town whose only claim to 10th Mountain fame was that the Division landed here in 1945 on its way to the front. Although a zero for tourist value, we had fun testing the local claim to fish soup fame, “calcitourno”, or something like that. The time allotted turned not to be too long after all, since the Italians take their time about lunch. If you go, figure on 2 hours, minimum, each time you stop for more than “il panino” (a sandwich).
In Livorno, we also picked up a rental car. It was a hoot. I should have been suspicious when the counter clerk said, “I give you upgrade, bigger car than you ask.” Fat, dumb and happy with our “bigger” deal, I jumped in with Ross Raney, his wife Mary Porter, and drove away. We should have been more suspicious, but the armrest that kept popping up from its flat position was only a minor annoyance, wasn’t it?
For me, driving in Italy was a blast. Everyone makes out about how crazy Italian drivers are. That’s untrue. Within their own culture, they are very rational. The gas pedal means GO!, and it is to be pressed to the floor at all times, except when the brake is required, which is also to be pressed fully to the floor. Think of it as driving with “on” and “off” switches. Makes perfect sense, that way. Then too, traffic rules and signals are viewed as suggestions, to be noticed only when convenient. I soon found that my streak of “actor” helped, because if I acted like an Italian, the oncoming traffic magically parted in front of me, and the road rose smoothly into the hills. The Fiat turned out to be surprisingly competent at the job of mounting the hills in a rapid, unfussy manner. It had just enough power to keep up on the autostradale, and retained the firm ride and competent cornering manner of its sportier cousins.
Too soon, we were back to Montecatini from a full day’s driving.
May 31, 2000—Wednesday
Today, Tom and I visited the Chianti region for a wine tasting. We went to Castello Verrazzano, an estate south of Florence. The estate is the birthplace of the man credited with discovering New York harbor and the Hudson River, Giuseppe Verrazzano. Thus, the Verrazzano Narrows at the harbor entrance, and the Verrazzano Bridge connecting Staten Island to Brooklyn.
We first toured, then tasted. A delightful lunch was served, each course accompanied by tasting several varieties of Chianti wine produced at the winery.
Tom enjoyed the day especially, and managed to purchase a whole case of wine, plus several bottles of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, two products that are also made at the winery. How will we get it all home?
Tom:
On the official program, today was a “free” day. Dad and I, however, joined about 120 others of our group for a side trip into the Chianti region of Tuscany. The lead feature was billed as a wine-tasting, with a luncheon of “rustic local specialties”.
The ride to Castello di Verazzano goes over what the called the “Chianti gianna” or the Chianti Road, a highway which any self respecting county in the United States would quickly call a town road. And to think, our tour guide told us, most times this was the new, wider, expanded Chianti Road.
The wine-making production at Castello Di Verrazzano started in the 12th century, 1170, according to estate records. Officially, 830 years. Gives you a little bit of perspective about California wineries that only got started about 5 or 10 years ago.
Today, Castello Di Verrazzano is a well-regarded producer of Chianti Classico and Super-Tuscan wines. On the winery grounds there’s even a fenced area supporting a family of wild boar. There were 5 or 6 fairly small boarlets floating around Mama Boar, who looked about the size of a small truck.
The estate is clearly set up to accommodate tourists on a large scale. Visitors are received at the estate house, where a small aging cellar offers authenticity to the tourist. The main part of the winery is located in a recently built facility located a long flight of stairs down the hillside from the main house.
Our guide to the winery, Luigi by name, got things started and kept them going. While we were listening to his historical spiel, we were served a spumante brut, a dry, Champagne-like wine made from regional grapes. The wine was so light, I wondered whether my shoes were heavy enough to keep me from floating away.
“In Italy, “ stated Luigi, “You don’t just taste wine. You taste it with food, and that’s what we’re going to do today.” With that, food started to appear… lots of food. First, antipasti, paper-thin slices of salami and ham, spicy and salty flavors set off by a lighter-than-air white wine. The pasta course followed, two small portions, a layered, cheese-laden lasagna, and a penne alle porcini, small ridged tubes in a rich cream hinting of garlic, strengthened with the earthy, woody flavor of wild mushrooms. A red Chianti Classico that accompanied them. Chianti is a medium-bodied wine, with great color and, when only 3-4 years old, a crisp taste that softens in the mouth. The Castello di Verrazzano version was just that, and I wondered what they could think was better.
I found out. “In Tuscany,” boomed Luigi by way of introduction, “We cook very simply, but with only the best and freshest ingredients. The natural flavors should shine through.” Shine through, sure, but our mixed, grilled Tuscan meats, Italian sausage, chicken and beef ribs, had been seasoned in the Tuscan style—salt, pepper, rosemary, and sage, spread on, left overnight and then grilled. Very simple preparation with very high-quality ingredients—and all of it was excellent, just excellent. Wow!
With the meat came the Chianti Classico Riserva, a wine selected from the best, ripest grapes, and given special treatment in the making. Like a big brother, the Riserva was more of everything there was in the regular bottle of Chianti—richer flavor with a hint of dark, smoky places, more body, and deeper color.
The cheese course followed, Pecorino, a sheeps-milk variety, tart and earthy, together with a very special wine, Sassello. This super-Tuscan, made from both Sangiovese and Cabernet Sauvignon grapes, can’t legally be called Chianti, since Cabernet isn’t one of the recognized grapes in the Chianti wine region. The smooth, ripeness of the Sangiovese took on new dimensions when bolstered by the more tannic, heavier body of the Cabernet grapes. Delicious flavor.
Of course, no Italian meal is complete without dolce, dessert. A nice but unmemorable sweet was served, and along with it, the winery’s vin santo, an unctuous, silky-smooth, sweet dessert wine made from white wine grapes that are dried on beds of straw to concentrate their sugar. This topped of a truly wonderful experience.
Or, so we thought. Luigi returned to offer coffee (espresso, really) on the terrazzo. And, if we wanted, may be just a “tiny taste” of the winery’s own grappa, a clear, unaged brandy, originally made by re-pressing the skins and stems left after wine juice was claimed. Tough stuff, back then. Today, grappa is frequently made by distilling real wine, not the fermented dregs of the press. The result is a much smoother, more approachable drink, but one that demands respect for its 82 proof worth of alcohol.
During coffee, the sales counter opened. I went a little overboard and bought a case, plus some olive oil and two kinds of vinegar. Dad and I started trying to figure out how to split it between our 2 sets of luggage so as to manage not to break any of it on the way home.
Grappa demands respect for its alcohol, and a nap afterward. Nap is what I did, too, ignoring most of the scenery as the bus wound its way back to Montecatini. Given the Italian penchant for eating long and late, we didn’t get back to our hotels until after 5:30. After that, who needed dinner? Dad didn’t, and turned in early. With a few other travelers, I ate a very late, light snack at a nearby pizzeria/ristorante, and called it quits for the night.
June 1, 2000—Thursday
Art:
We left Montecatini early, on a route that took us past Florence and north to Bologna, well beyond our announced destination in the Hill Towns. A last-minute side trip took us to a new museum of WWII military vehicles, coupled with scenes from the fighting in this area of Italy. Once of the scenes depicted the American 10th Mountain Division preparing for the assault on Mt. Belvedere.
We left Bologna afterward, and traveled south, up into the hill country where we fought. We arrived at Lizzano in Belvedere and checked into the very nice Hotel Monte Pizzo. Before a fine dinner at the hotel, I walked with Tom, Bert Stoddard and his son, A.T., up the road a mile where we were able to get some spectacular views of Monte Belvedere.
In 1945, we left the trucks at Lizzano and marched up the same road to Vidiciatico, and then on to the base of Riva Ridge. It was night, then, and we missed the view of Mt. Belvedere that we had today.
Tom:
We departed Montecatini for Lizzano, me docilely following the buses in the little rented Fiat. Our itinerary originally called for us to go straight to Lizzano, but an Italian entrepreneur buttonholed Nate Morrell the night before and refused to leave until we agreed to go 50 miles out of our way and see his museum, “dedicated to the 10th Mountain Division”. He even promised to have lunch available, personal brick-oven pizza and drinks.
Once off the buses, we found a small, amateur museum, newly opened. The bulk of the place was given over to a display of WWII (and a couple of WWI) military vehicles, including a Sherman tank. However, the 10th Mountain content was relatively minimal.
The promised pizza lunch turned into a three-hour ordeal. The place had just one oven, with two guys (and two helpers) making individual pizza for 323 people. Weary wanderers searched for shade, nursing their beer and soda after they finally escaped the long waiting line, exposed under a hot sun. I was glad to be shed of the place
Our arrival in Lizzano lagged our bus by only seconds, but we were still barely in time for dinner. This was not the relaxed pace we had intended when planning the trip. Our hotel, the Monte Pizzo, laid out a nice welcoming reception, followed by dinner. As I mounted the stairs to bed, I noticed an interesting sight. In the Hotel Monte Pizzo, the room keys are kept on a revolving rack atop the front counter – whether there is anyone at the counter or not. You simply take your key and go to your room. Imagine trying that in the States.
June 2, 2000—Friday
Art:
We traveled over to Gaggio Montano this morning. Nate exchanged gifts with the mayor, and the community hosted a very good luncheon. We returned to Lizzano for a free afternoon. While relaxing, I visited a small display of 10th Mountain antiquity that was picked up around Mt. Belvedere after the battle was over and we had moved on.
That evening we traveled up to Vidiciatico where the townspeople hosted a dinner in our honor. We hiked through the town in 1945 on the way to our concealment area at the base of Riva Ridge, where we prepared for our assault climb. Fifty five years later, the people of the Hill Towns continue to express their gratitude for the liberation we gave them during those days of battle nearby. Much food, drink, and dancing, until 10:30 PM when we returned to Lizzano.
Tom:
I planned to take today for myself, letting the others tour to Gaggio Montano for the first of a series of welcoming ceremonies honoring the returning “Alpini Americani”. However, a couple of “mercy missions” in the rental car took up most of the day. The first, to Gaggio Montano taught me the value of always keeping my camera within reach. Bright morning sunshine flooded the mountainside to which the two towns of Lizzano and Vidiciatico cling, as if they were red and cream beads strung across a wire against a vivid green background. All this, and I left my camera in the hotel. I took it with me when I returned my passengers to Gaggio Montano. We stopped in several places to capture some of those great views.
A second mission took me back to Montecatini to retrieve a couple who were forced to spend an extra day or two there due to illness. More great driving….
Friday night the town of Vidiciatico sponsored dinner for the returning “Soldati Americani”. Close to Lizzano, Vidiciatico is a more “resorty” town. Dinner was a whoop and a holler. From tables in the town square, the local wine flowed steadily from 15 gallon glass demijohns, accompanying thinly sliced salami, fat chunks of smooth, new Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, brimming ladles of creamy pasta, and on and on. While we mingled and ate, a one-man band accompanied a hot young songstress, competing bravely with the buzz of friends old and new. As evening ended, I counted five empty demijohns laid together next to the serving table. Fortunately, I saw none of our travelers lying next to them.
June 3, 2000—Saturday
Art:
This morning the group bussed to a point near the summit of Mt. Belvedere. From there, most of the group had more than a mile to climb, up a rutted, rocky jeep trail, which wa difficult for many. At the top, we heard a memorial Mass in remembrance of all our comrades who were killed or wounded during the assaults on Riva Ridge and Belvedere. All in Italian. Looking down from the summit, I wondered how any of our division survived the assault. They did, though, and took the summit after almost two miles of climbing across open, barren land, and into the face of artillery, mortar, machine gun and rifle fire.
After Mass, the group went partway down the hill to Querciola, where we had a parade and then lunch. I was honored to help carry the Association wreath, and place it at the monument in town.
After lunch, with Tom driving, Roy Puckett and I found our way to Madonna Dell’Acero, where we were able to get good views of the place where F Company went up Riva Ridge. It was difficult, because of the thick vegetation, to pinpoint the exact place where we climbed that night in 1945.
How did we do it? “We were young, once, and determined…”
At 4:00 PM, time again for “Class A’s”, and we formed up in Lizzano for yet another parade into yet another town square. Marching again in a military formation took me back to another day, another time. Memories of those days flew swiftly through my head.
Following our walk down the main street, the community presented each veteran with a certificate, a Lizzano pin, and a hat. Dinner followed, hosted by the Town.
An Italian TV crew was present, and I was interviewed on my experiences of the Riva Ridge climb and the battle for Monte Belevedere.
Tom:
Today was the most action-packed of all our tour. We started with a climb up Mt. Belvedere, more than a mile up a rutted, rocky trail from the highest point our buses could reach. The most frail of the group were offered rides by Italian re-enactors imitating American military personnel, using surplus jeeps and Hummers. A good walk for even a comparative youngster like me, it was a tough climb for 80 year olds. Nonetheless, most of the group gamely scrabbled up the path. I found it hard to believe that my father’s friends had covered four or five times the distance in 1945, under fire all the way.
The Mass atop the mountain was all in Italian. As the priest droned in the background, I looked past the thick new brush around the summit, finding the old German trenches, fighting pits, and gun positions that had rained hot steel sleet on the attacking Americans in 1945. My high school biology teacher was one of the 10th, and returned from Italy with a steel plate replacing part of his skull, lost somewhere on the slope before me.
After Mass, a very brief ride brought us to Querciola, and yet another welcoming ceremony, followed by lunch. The ceremony at the local war monument was special in that Dad was one of the wreath-bearers, marching proudly at the head of the veteran’s contingent.
At home, I sometimes see Dad stoop a bit under his 75 years, and shuffle a little as he goes through the day. None of that here in Italy. Here, he is younger by decades, head up, back straight, stepping out confidently, standing as tall and comfortable in his bearing as I remember from my boyhood. I hope the pictures I took show that to his other children and grandchildren, and give them as much pride in Dad and Grandad as I feel today.
The day wasn’t over after Querciola. Back in Lizzano, it was their turn to sponsor dinner. A parade, including the Class A-clad veterans, was rapidly organized. A ceremony and speeches followed, proclaiming the thanks of the town and the region for our veterans’ heroic deeds of long ago. People and tables filled the square for dinner. After dinner, we found a fireworks demonstration set up right in the square! It took some effort to convince the crowd to make space for the flaming pinwheels. Whatever we did worked, because we didn’t need to “extinguish” anyone following the display.
June 4, 2000—Sunday
Art:
We took an early morning ride to Pietracolora for a brief greeting. We left there and went on to Castel D’Aiano for a celebration that lasted the rest of the day. (Out north of Castel D’Aiano was where I was hit with minor shrapnel wounds during our breakout battle into the Po Valley.) First a concert, then a religious ceremony, then a greeting with an exchange of gifts, all followed by a luncheon. Of course, to the Italians, “luncheon” most always consists of a three or four course meal.
While at Castel D’Aiano I was interviewed by a unit that plans to create a film for use by the History Channel back in the USA. We discussed my thoughts and feelings of the Riva Ridge climb and our fighting near Castel D’Aiano.
Tom:
I took a real day off today, while all the others went to Castel D’Aiano. I slept deliciously late. Then, with a good book, I read past noon. Later, feeling guilty for my indolence, I walked a couple of kilometers up a back road to Vidiciatico. There, I stumbled across an afternoon mass in the local church. The church has fabulous acoustics, and the fine singing voices of the choir leaders and the congregation rang throughout the sanctuary, echoing for seconds from the rounded, vaulted ceiling and alcoves. I pulled out my pocket mini-recorder and taped the last verses of the ending “Te Deum”, trying to preserve the fleeting magic of the moment.
Back in Lizzano, one of our travelers accosted me. On the verge of tears, she described how she and her husband had found the place where his grandfather had been killed, near Castel D’Aiano. Despite shooting lots of videotape, she had committed the cardinal sin of not shooting any still pictures! She begged me to save her marriage (and her hide, perhaps) by loaning them the rental car for a trip back to the spot.
“Sure”, I said, “let’s go.” Shucks, another drive on narrow, twisting mountain roads. “Don’ thrown me in that ol’ briar patch, Massa Fox…….”
So, I got to see Castel D’Aiano after all. We blew through the town, and out again, until we came to a narrow, unpaved cart track up a moderate hill. Simply called Hill 873 on military charts, it faces Mt. Della Spe, an outcropping that was fiercely defended by the Germans in 1945. The grandfather, while attached to a platoon of “F” company (not Dad’s) was killed by a shell, near the hilltop. We shot several rolls of film in making up for the earlier oversight.
June 5, 2000—Monday
Art:
After a morning stop at Madonna Dell’Acero, Tom took Harvey and Betty Wieprecht and me to Ponte Sestaione by way of Passo Croce Arcano, a high mountain pass. The road turned to one rugged lane of rocks and gravel for the last 6 to 8 miles, much of it above timberline. A very interesting drive.
In Ponte Sestaione, I found the house where my machine gun squad was set up in a third floor window when we first went on the line in Italy. Harvey also found the woodworking mill where his mortar section was set up. From here, Harvey and I were on the first F Company patrol up to the German lines. Our mission was to capture a German soldier. We ran into an outpost manned with a machine gun and machine pistols. A short firefight took place and we withdrew without capturing a prisoner.
After finding the house, we rang the bell, and Albertina (Tonarelli) Nicolasi answered the door. She was pleased to meet Tom, and we visited with her for a half hour or so. She lives alone, surrounded by photos and memories.
After returning to Lizzano, we attended a “farewell” (to the Hill Towns) dinner with the local Alpini. Their chorus entertained us with several songs, and capped off a delightful evening.
Tom:
This morning’s calendar said, “Bus to Madonna dell’Acero to meet with local Alpini.” Well, we all answered the cattle call, got off the bus at Madonna dell’Acero, and found……… nothing. No Alpini, no ceremony, just a pleasant view of Riva Ridge. All of Riva Ridge, from one end to the other. The thing looks vertical, enlivened by scraggly, clinging evergreen brush filling all the little ravines where a man might, might, mind you, climb up. My skier’s eye estimated the vertical distance at about 1,300 to 1,500 feet, most of it raked upward at 45 degrees or more.
My mind moved back to 1945, and I wondered. How did they do that? A reinforced battalion, over 600 men, moving silently upward at night? Not just moving, but climbing, scrabbling for purchase along anchored ropes, no switchbacks, just up, up, and up.
My eyes moved back and forth, between Riva Ridge, and the many old, oops, ahem, mature men gesturing broadly to their wives, children and grandchildren. “See”, I heard, over and over, “See, right over there, the second (or third, or fourth) ravine beyond that knob? That’s where we climbed up that night.”
Who are these guys? What sort of man takes on this vertical face at night? What sort of man climbs upward toward known guns waiting? Why did they go? For their buddies? To be thought of as a man, not a coward? To help rid the world of evil? Because their sergeant said, “All right, you guys, the lieutenant says it’s time?” Because, “It was our job?” That last is the best I’ve ever gotten from my best source, my father, who was one of them. Would I have done it? I look at the Ridge. As I measure it by my skier’s eye, I also measure myself.
Once it became clear that there was little else expected to happen until evening, Dad and I evaluated our options. As the day stretched ahead (it was only 10 in the morning), I started the action by asking, “What would you like to do? We’ve apparently got all day.” Dad responded, “Do you think we could find a way over to Ponte Sestaione?” Cocksure of my driving skill, I said, “Sure. There’s bound to be a road, even if we have to go around that ridge.” Harvey Wieprecht produced a detailed area map, and sure enough, we found a provincial highway leading around in that direction. A thin gray line on the map led to something marked “Passo Croce Arcano”, then down again to Cutigliano. My Italian is good enough to translate “passo” as “pass”, so I confidently said, “See? There’s a way across, and we can get across and down and back up to Lizzano in time for dinner.”
So, off we went, the little Fiat again our iron steed; faster, but less lovable than the mules of 1945. The highway was as advertised, a provincial road with good, smooth pavement. I searched for the turn to Passo Croce Arcano as we approached the town center. I nearly missed the small, black-and-yellow sign pointing down a driveway-sized side street. As we climbed, I slowed and stopped once before a woman alongside the road. “Passo Croce Arcano?” I queried, pointing hopefully skyward. “Si, si, andalez”, she replied. (Yes, yes, go on.) Encouraged, we continued.
Ever so subtly, the road narrowed. Then, switchbacks, right and left up the western wall of the valley, seemingly narrower each time we reached a brief stretch of straight, but climbing, road. Into a wood we drove, and suddenly found…… nothing but a parking lot. Searching hard, I spotted a rock and gravel trail, there at the upper end of the parking lot, leading upward, suggesting a car route onward. Avanti!
Sure enough, this proved to be our thin gray line over Passo Croce Arcano. After miles of thinner gravel and thicker rocks, we burst from trees into sudden sunlight amidst a high mountain meadow. A few more twists of the gravel road, avoiding the larger rocks by steering around them, brought us to the summit of the pass.
After a refreshing stop, we crossed onto the downward track, still gravel and rocks, and descended. We couldn’t believe our eyes, as ski lift towers and broad meadows proclaimed us in the midst of a ski resort. The asphalt resumed, and we wound our way down through the lift bases of the ski area, through vacation homes built around it, and finally through the hillside village of Cutigliano, until we bottomed out at a bridge next to a major (well, for Italy) highway.
Lunch beckoned, and a small “bar” offered sandwiches and cool drinks, according to its outdoor sign. As we entered, I noticed an older man, just finishing his lunch, talking familiarly with the young woman who appeared to be all the staff. Taking a chance, I asked, “Signor, per piacere, est’a il famiglia Tonarelli aqui?” (Sir, please, is the Tonarelli family here?)
“Si, si”, he answered, and took a deep breath. The following torrent of Italian meant that, yes, the Tonarelli family still lived around here, and their house was right by the bridge, just a hundred meters up the road to Abetone. A hundred meters? Well, may be a bit more, but we soon came to another bridge. “Stop! It’s right here!”, said Dad. I pulled an expert “U-ie” into a tiny patch of road shoulder next to the large old house by the bridge.
Dad was out of the car like a shot. To my surprise, he headed around the back, not toward the front door. “Yes. It’s here,” he repeated several times, as he walked around the end of the house. “There’s the window where we set up the gun, pointing up that valley.” He moved over to a low retaining wall and looked down. “There’s the wood plant, Harvey.” Stepping up to the wall, Harvey Wieprecht looked over and said, “Yeah, that’s it. We had one mortar behind the building, and one right by those trees.”
As Dad and Harvey compared notes and memories, I shot a few pictures, then followed a wooden walkway up the river side of the house. I rang the bell labeled “Albertina Nocolasi”, the married name of Albertina Tonarelli, whose parents owned the house in 1945.
A white-haired, elderly woman answered, and admitted that she was Senora Nicolasi. I called to Dad, and her expression turned quizzical as he came around the corner. I pointed him out, saying “Sergeanto Thompson, Senora.” Comprehension dawned on her face like a sudden sunrise, and smiles broke out on both she and Dad as they embraced.
We spent a half hour communicating painfully, as her dim memories of English cooperated with my fractured, fragmentary Italian, with Art and Harvey getting a point in once in a while. Old photographs and news clippings were dragged out, and Dad and Harvey reminisced with her, while Betty listened and I popped the occasional picture. It was hard, but we made our good-byes and drove off after an hour or so.
We arrived back in Lizzano late in the day, following a more pedestrian set of roads than those over Passo Croce Arcano. Shortly, it was time for dinner again, our last in the Hill Towns. The Monte Pizzo Chorus joined us for a traditional farewell concert. The chorus is a regional community group, originally comprised all of Alpini veterans. The youth of some members suggested that not all of them are veterans today. Their voices, however, suggested veteran performers, as traditional Italian mountain songs echoed around the big room.
June 6, 2000—Tuesday
Art:
We left the “Hill Towns”, and the buses followed the route of march we had taken in1945, arriving at the Po River around noon. The site where I crossed, as near as I remember, looks much different than what I recall from those many years ago.
As we traveled the battle route, I found it interesting to compare my memories of 1945 with reality today. I do not recall the lush vegetation and the trees that now dot the mountains. In 1945, this part of Italy had been devastated by war. Today, many new homes have been built, the Po Valley is once again the industrial center of the country, the people appear to have prospered, and wealth is evident nearly everywhere.
Tom:
Today took us from Lizzano, through the Appenine battle route of the 10th, to the Po River crossing points, and onto our hotels near Verona. For Dad and me, the journey was kind of wasted. No one had provided or researched any tales of the advance to the Po, so there was no commentary on what sites or old actions we were passing by. I heard of firefights and casualties, this little town and that, but nothing approaching a coherent account of the weeks of mid-March to late April, 1945.
We stopped at a restaurant on the Po for lunch. Arriving in Verona, I sped off to drop the rental car at the train station, which left me no time to see the city. Dad and I skipped the hotel dining room to search out a small seafood restaurant around the corner, “Alle Passegiata”. Excellent food, good wine, and a fine end to the day.
June 7, 2000—Wednesday
Art:
Today is a day of rest for me. Side trips to Venice and to the Dolomites were offered, but Norma and I visited both these places in 1982. Tom has gone with the group to Cortina and the Dolomites.
Our hotel is very pleasant, located in a small town west of Verona, only a few miles southeast of Lake Garda, where we will visit tomorrow. Near the hotel is a shopping mall. I think I’ll visit it after lunch……..
Tom:
Today, I should’a stood in bed, like Dad. Instead, I went the “whole, long, way”, mostly through uninteresting flat land, then up a sudden precipice into the Alps and Cortina D’Ampezzo, site of the1956 Winter Olympics. We got there after 12:30, and found the town closed up tight, both for siesta and because it was the skiing off-season. Our schedule forced us to leave just after the shops re-opened, so there was no time (again!) for good shopping. The bus ride back to the hotel was long, with spectacular scenery, but no time to stop and take good pictures.
I met Dad on returning, and his restful day sounded much more attractive than mine. We collected several other folks and had dinner across the street at the “Bar Gardesana”. Decent food, good wine, and a good night to all.
June 8, 2000—Thursday
Art:
Today we toured north from our hotel, along Lake Garda to Torbole and Riva del Garda. When we came upon the first “bloody tunnel”, memories welled up of that day in 1945 when I first saw it. It was defended by a strong German rear guard action, and I was later awarded a Bronze Star for directing mortar and artillery fire into the tunnel. After that, our company moved around the first two tunnels in DUKWs, and proceeded through the last three tunnels to Torbole. It was in Torbole that Col. Darby was killed, and where we in F Company had our final fatality of the war, Peter Bontempo, of Newton, Massachusetts. Our company was four or five miles north of Riva del Garda when the war in Italy ended on May 2, 1945. What a happy and thankful day that was!
We journeyed on to Riva del Garda, where Tom and I spent an enjoyable afternoon browsing, walking and eating lunch.
Tom:
Dad rested yesterday so he would be fresh for today, a full day tour to Lake Garda. There, the 10th encountered the “bloody tunnels”, and above them, in Torbole and Riva del Garda, the end of serious fighting in Italy. Now, the lakeshore is a very popular tourist destination….. for Germans. We pulled over on a narrow shoulder to view tunnel #1, Dad’s Bronze Star site. He told stories of the American tanker who wouldn’t poke his nose into an 88mm nest, and other stories of DUKW transfers and crossings on the lake. We stopped in Torbole to see the lakeshore and the monument that marks the site of Col. Darby’s death.
We had several hours in Riva del Garda, the town that caps the northern end of Lago di Garda. After exploring the area, Dad and I had a nice lunch, and then hunted for souvenirs until it was time to return to the buses.
June 9, 2000—Friday
Art:
On arrival in Como, we spent time walking in the town before going to our hotel. Tom went up the lift to the top of a peak near town so he could take some pictures.
We checked into the Grand Hotel Como, rested, showered and dressed. We then departed for Lugano in nearby Switzerland where our farewell dinner was held. A very enjoyable evening.
Tom was the M.C. for the farewell, and did a tremendous job. It was so pleasing to hear the many people, veterans, wives, descendants, etc., compliment him on the great job he did as M.C. and in planning and handling the multitude of details required to make for a successful trip.
We returned to Como after dinner, and prepared as much as possible for our early morning departure for the Milan Airport and the USA.
Tom:
Today was our last full day in Italy. We began by transferring to Como, on Lake Como. As has become usual, we arrived just as the town closed up for siesta. I knew this was my last chance to collect souvenirs for our nieces and nephews, so I nearly ran up and down the streets near the lake, looking for a store that would have the right gifts for them. Finally, on the square where we left the buses, I found the right shop. The owners were one happy pair when this tourist left, I can tell you.
Dad and I walked along the shore away from the densely tourist-ed square, and found a nice pannini “bar” for lunch. It was located next to a funicular, a cable-drawn railroad that mounted the 60-degree slopes leading up to the town above Como.
By the time we left downtown, we barely had time to shower and change for the farewell banquet. We bussed a half hour to the Italian-Swiss city of Lugano. There, we were allowed a short hour of walking time, and I marched Dad up and down several gorgeous, medieval streets, bravely resisting the blandishments of watchmakers, leather merchants, and, most of all, the several market stalls we passed.
We reached the selected restaurant, “Capo San Martino”, again chosen mostly for its ability to hold a banquet of nearly 300 people. Several people had told me that most of our travelers expected some sort of festivity and ceremony to mark the end of the trip, I inquired of Nate about the program for the evening. He responded, “Well, it’ll be short.”
Knowing that several people had reminded me of the formalities of prior trips, I asked Nate, “Do you want to be the colonel or the general?” He promptly shot back, “Just the colonel.”
I continued, “Well, then, since the colonel is the chief of staff, and has to make all the presentations, while the general just sits up on the dais, I guess I’ll be the general.” Ten seconds later I found out that I was the “colonel”, and master of ceremonies of the evening’s program.
Except, there wasn’t a program. Thanks to Ray and Carol Zelina, I had written down a few things that had happened on prior trips, but suddenly, it was time to “wing it”. OK, I’m a pilot, so I did.
I don’t really recall most of the program, but most people afterward said they enjoyed it. The greatest joy, however, was hearing my father say, “Tom, I’m really proud of you. You did great.” How much better can a day be?
June 10, 2000—Saturday
Art:
Awoke at 4:30 AM, and finished preparing to leave. We departed for Milan on time, cleared all required airport checkpoints and found the gate in plenty of time. The plane was about a half hour late departing.
We arrived in Newark too late (headwinds) for our scheduled commuter flight to Albany, and were rescheduled to a later flight. Ten minutes after that flight took off, we returned to Newark with an electrical problem for an emergency landing. After repairs, we again took off and flew to Albany without incident. Our wives, Norma and Jane, were at the airport to greet us, and were quite pleased to see us, after having waited anxiously since early in the afternoon.
Tom:
The phone rang early. Far, far, far too early, for my hung-over head. “Time to go, time to go. Time to go!”, cried the guides. “Your bus is here, get aboard, go, go, go!” Off to the Milan airport, off the bus, into the check-in line, then into the proper check-in line, off to find the gate, see the duty-free shop, spend the rest of our lire, catch a bun for breakfast in the lounge, back to the gate, listen for the cattle-call and the shuttle bus to the plane, on the plane, into our seats, stow the carry-ons (Oh, did I mention we carried aboard more than a case of wine and olive oil?) Then, a wait. More wait. And more, more, more wait….
Between the delayed departure, and the Atlantic headwinds, we arrived in Newark moments before our Albany connection was due to leave. Continental Airlines (Alitalia’s US partner, and the operator of both our flights) had the situation well in hand, they said. “You’re on the next flight to Albany. Only 3 hours from now.”
In 3 hours, up we went again, climbing out of Newark to Albany….. and suddenly turning 180 degrees to return (in a hurry) to Newark.
“Well, folks’” came the pilot’s measured drawl, “We’ve got ourselves a generator “off” light up heah. Ah guess we’ll just return to Newark to make sure it’s nothin’ serious.” Why is it all pilots begin to sound like Chuck Yeager, with his famous slow, vaguely southwestern twang, when something goes awry?
June, 2000—Reflections
Art:
As I now reflect on the wonderful trip we have concluded I am so pleased that Tom wanted me to go to Italy one last time. I was able to show him most of what I had experienced in 1944-45. The memories were most emotional, the cemetery in Florence, Riva Ridge, Castel D’Aiano, the Po River and the “Bloody Tunnels” on Lake Garda.
Tom has played a major role in this great experience for 320 veterans, wives, relatives and descendants. I am so proud of the masterful way he has provided help and care for everyone.
Those days of ’44-’45 were necessary; they were not in vain. Yes, our losses were great, but we succeeded in our task, to erase a great evil from the world forever. For me, the silver lining to many dark clouds was a great marriage, four wonderful children, seven beautiful grandchildren and a career in which I was able to make a contribution to my community and the next generation.
Tom:
Who are those guys? The line from “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid” rings in my mind as I remember our trip. Seeing pictures of 1945, the shell-blasted, snow-covered landscape, the steep, open slopes of Riva Ridge and Mt. Belvedere, I wonder at their matter-of-fact courage and accomplishment. They faced a clearly evil foe, and saved the world from it. Will we see their like again? Will we be able to pass their patriotism on to our next generation. I hope so. For America’s sake, I hope so.