The Tinker Toys of Holzbau Sud

I, like many of you, have a workshop. Mine takes up a portion of my garage. Years ago, when our boys were young teens, there was a Christmas morning when a lot of noise erupted from downstairs. When I moved to investigate, Maria Elena advised that I stay in bed. Turns out it wasn't Santa on his rounds and she knew it. Apparently, surprise-making for dad was in the making down there, for this was the morning that Chris and Eric lugged a radial arm saw over to our home from its hiding place next door. The clatter was from their struggle to negotiate the cumbersome thing through the garage and on into the house. Boy were they proud at getting it done. Needless to say, it didn't fit under the tree. After all these intervening years, I still use that saw. Telling from the tools I've accumulated here and there over the years, like the Christmas present of the radial arm saw, I'd say my shop is now well equipped for woodworking.

As a young child, I recall playing with my wooden Tinker Toy set. It was a fabulous creative toy, which today is in the rarified pantheon of classic American toys. Unscrew the tin cover from the cardboard storage cylinder and you were rewarded with a tube filled with pencil-like dowels and wheel-like sprockets used to interconnect the dowels. In those days, none of the pieces were made of plastic and there wasn't a "Made in China" stamped anywhere! I could 'tinker' with three dimensional shapes and structures to my heart's content. As time went on, I eventually graduated from toys to real tools for the actual construction of wood projects based on the simple principles developed from my hours of play on the living room floor. Using my tools, which have moved along with us from workshop home to workshop home, I've made, built and repaired plenty of things. They range from simple glue repairs to much larger projects such as the construction of multiple decks, a couple of gazebos, a finished basement and even a pergola over our bricked patio. You might think we've moved around some and you'd be right. After a while you are knighted with the honorarium of "handy" by your wife when the topic comes up with friends. What I've been able to accomplish with my sweet set-up, however, is nothing in comparison to the large scale, and I do mean large scale, kind of woodworking I observed recently in Calitri.

From high up in Calitri's Piazza della Repubblica you get a great view of the valley far below. Down there, close to the highway running alongside the historic Ofanto River, are a hand-full of light industries. One in particular is Holzbau Sud, a subsidiary of the Rubner Group, which focuses on wood products for, as they like to say, "a healthy and pleasant world to live in tomorrow". The Group is headquartered in the northern Italian town of Chienes, near the Austrian border. Here, building conventions are steeped in the construction traditions of Italy's Trentino-Alto Adige Region, where timber, a local building material, is king. The group is vertically integrated within the wood industry with assets anchored in the timber forests of Austria all the way to tailored, turn-key building projects manufactured at distributed assets across Europe such as Holzbau Sud. In Calitri, they specialize in the pre-manufacture of technically ambitious, load-bearing structures. With their ample supply of wood, Holzbau custom structures are designed to cover expansive open spaces, as for instance the kind you might find in a mall, cathedral, theater or sports auditorium throughout southern Italy and beyond to include Sicily, Turkey, even the Middle East. Operating from Calitri since 1991, they are essentially active throughout the Mediterranean.

My introduction to the Calitri plant occurred, as you might guess, while I was in Mario's Caffe. You may well wonder, doesn't this guy ever stay home? Well, yes I do but in the morning I like to get out early, while Maria Elena is still asleep. I direct my feet toward Mario's for a few hours just about every day. One of many other morning regulars is Giuseppe Pasqualicchio. He's like clockwork. Giuseppe arrives for his coffee while I'm well into my second cappuccino and about halfway through the morning giornale (newspaper) attempting to decipher what's going on in the world, along of course with much help from Mario. Over my many visits, I've gradually gotten to know the ever smiling Giuseppe. He is, I'd estimate, in his thirties and though never having been formally introduced, I know he is married and has a young child. My wife says I wouldn't make a good detective but I uncovered this fact during the Italian ritual of la passieggiata (the evening stroll), where new and old romances as well as spiffy shoes and shoulder swathed sweaters are on review. It was on one such occasion that I saw him and his wife behind a stroller. He enjoys practicing his English on me, explaining things, and I reciprocate with conversation and more questions. Curious as I am, I once asked him where he ran off to each day after his espresso by asking him, Cosa fai per vivere? (What do you do for a living?). It was then that, neo-sleuth that I am, I learned that he, along with about 50 other Calitri brethren, worked at Holzbau Sud. I knew nothing about the place and even had a time pronouncing it.

It was only a day or two later that Giuseppe presented me with a professionally prepared brochure about his place of employment. The colored booklet was impressive and like any other red-blooded tourist with a camera perpetually slung around his neck, I asked if there was some way I might visit. Not many mornings later, following our coffees together in Mario's, I trailed him down the mountain to the plant. He had arranged my visit with Giorgio, the chief engineer, who met me at the entrance to the yard. The site consisted of a technical and engineering office augmented by two large construction sheds each approaching a football field in length. Between the two lay a supply of spruce and silver fir shipped in from Austria.

Giorgio, who spoke excellent English, showed me around the operation for a time and then excused himself, leaving me on my own while he checked on the status of a large shipment headed to a customer in Sicily that morning. Time was apparently getting short as the flatbed trucks had already arrived. The projects underway, to say the least, were sizable and I'm not referring to how large an order may have been. It is more on the order of the 'Colossus of Rhodes' sizable that I'm referring to. I don't know what I may have eaten or drank at Mario's that morning but in Alice in Wonderland like fashion I’d apparently become small. I had the feeling I'd shrunk due to the gigantic size of the tools and the suspension beams being made around me (see photo album). Their forte is the design and construction of load bearing structures using glued laminated beams, which they refer to as "glulams" (glued laminates) and they were dead serious.

Before I continue to describe my visit, however, I must first lay some psychological groundwork as to the worker's reaction to my visit. Have you ever driven down a highway, along with your fellow motorists, only to see the sudden appearance of a fast moving parallel column of red taillights coming straight at you? Yes, everyone has abruptly altered their driving behavior, hitting their brakes (even when well below the speed limit) and now it's your turn. More often than not, the cause is the intimidating presence of a highway patrol car sitting alongside the road or possibly already busy with someone he's recently detained as in "license and registration please". There's a technical name for this type of phenomenon, which my bookish readers with Psychology 101 behind them will know as the Heisenberg Effect. This effect is nothing more than the simple observation that the very act of becoming a player changes the nature of the game being played! Whether it be the case of the appearance of a new player like a highway patrolman among a group of motorists or my presence at Holzbau Sud, where, by my mere act of observing, I altered the behaviors of the workmen I was observing. Uncertainty, fear, a lack of information, a desire to please, a sudden change from the norm, any of these can trigger it. Apparently now, trigger-happy with my camera for purposes unknown, I'd assumed the antagonist's role of the highway patrol cop!

The entirety of one building was surprisingly occupied by just two men. Together they were working to attach metal flanges to either end of massive curved laminates, apparently major supports of some enormous roof. They worked in silence, without apparent need to communicate, as if so well choreographed from endless repetition of the same procedure that words were superfluous, only getting in the way. But I suspected there would have been animated dialog between the two, as only Italians can perform, absent my being there. The workmen remained silent with no reaction to my presence. Apparently, I was the cat that got their tongues! It was as if I was invisible, though I knew they were watching my every move and click of my camera! Who could blame them? My first appearance, alongside Giorgio, must have passed along some inconspicuous signal giving me a modicum of officialdom, or at the least by their count, official sanction. Later this may have been reinforced when they again saw me while I observed on my own. For my part as a "player" in the drama, I did not interfere with what they were about nor did I ask them any questions. Though no doubt some of the workmen may have recognized me from Calitri, my very presence and lack of engagement, though with all good intention, may have only added to their anxiety. I could almost hear their synapses firing, as in their nervousness they attempted to calculate the meaning of my incursion into their colossal tinker-toy domain. While their thoughts were going round and round, only Giuseppe, who knew all, was relaxed enough to smile and wave to me when I passed his work area.

The adjacent building hummed with the activities of far more workmen, though here again they were equally humanly silent. It was here that I hesitated as giant gigs bent freshly glued planks into requisite shapes, holding them fast until dry. There were also wood shaping machines, which could join two planks, end-to-end, transforming short boards into continuous 'you-name-it' length beams. It was fascinating, at least to a woodworker like myself, to watch as they cut matching finger joints into the ends, added the glue and then jammed them together, all automatically. It was as though a hundred of my manual type biscuit joints materialized within seconds. The other end of the building hosted near completed supports, some of which extended outside due to their length. An army of workers literally clambered over, across and under these giants, like ants, adding finishing touches. Some teams planed the surfaces smooth, others filled imperfections, cut slots or marched atop their lengths staining the behemoths using roller brushes on poles. It was amazing to see how easily they maneuvered these monsters by expertly using a hoist and a single strap positioned at the precise balancing point (photo above). Suspended in the air, they would flex and sway on either side of the support strap like the wings of some enormous phantom beast. As heavy as I suspected each of the members was, once lowered, incredibly only a few metal saw horses were all that separated them from the floor. To my surprise, I also don’t recall seeing any helmets, goggles or other safety type devises being used. Thinking back, as a child, I'd ridden my bike like a madman all without the protection of a helmet. By today's mores how could I possibly have done that, let alone survived? Could their shoes have been steel toed? I doubted it.

Toward the very end of my explorations in Holzbau tinker-toy land, I found myself close to the exit beside a cluttered workbench. It was here that I snapped my very last picture. The subject of this photo had nothing to do with what was going on in that particular part of the plant but when I composed and snapped the shot, it was the only time during my entire visit that I got any reaction whatsoever from the workmen. Almost in unison and no matter where they were in this massive staging area, theirs was a resounding cheer! And their cheer wasn’t because I was nearing the door, signaling my intention to leave either. They were reacting to what I’d decided to photograph and telling by their reaction, signaling that they approved. Their reaction only went to support my contention that they had been discretely watching my every move. My photo subject was of something common to many workspaces of one form or another, large or small. Universal as it is, it has more to do with male sexuality than what the particular work activity might be. Be it a greasy auto mechanic’s lair, a chatty barbershop, a hole-in-the-wall cafe or even a home workshop like mine, might I propose, like it or not, that the annual pin-up calendar is a common accouterment! My subject was akin to the artful female silhouettes painted on the sides of WWII bombers and just as then, served as a reminder of what they were fighting for or in this case, working for. Telling as it was, this tattered, dog-eared ‘Holzbau Madonna’ had seen better days. No Vargas girl, she now sported a mustache along with other graffiti touch-ups here and there. In a vague way, it was reminiscent of the many street shrines seen throughout Italy, although here, the naked, ribald nature of this Madonna spoke to another interpretation of veneration. With that, I can say I’d now literally seen it all!

Outside, I could look up and see sunlit Calitri cascading down the side of the mountain-like bluff toward me. From high atop its perch, it had witnessed the cavalcade of mankind pass by from the footfalls of Roman legionaries on to this day where a legion of workers busied themselves loading flatbed trailers. As throughout the Mediterranean basin the ancient initialism “SPQR” (Senatus Populusque Romanus) meaning “The Senate and People of Rome" emblazoning everything Roman from coins to the feared standards of the mighty Roman legions, today’s shipment of immense gracefully bowed roof supports marked “Made in Calitri” would send a new message.

In the end, all we have are memories, sometimes mere faded memories of memories. I was fortunate to have formed a unique memory that day, one that I know will last, thanks to the largess of both my coffee mate Giuseppe and Holzbau Sud's head-man, Giorgio. It's a long way from my comparatively tiny workshop in the States to Holzbau's glulam headquarters in Calitri. Even further apart are the gradations of difference in the scale of woodworking undertaken at the two. In comparison, mine is and will forever remain at the tinker-toy level and in a space not much bigger than the living room rug where it all began. I'm glad for that. The nub of the thing is that by visiting Holzbau Sud I’d gotten a glimpse at the bright side of progress, surprisingly located of all places, right there in the shadows of enchanting Calitri, a place equally surprisingly defined, not by some throwback to its limitations, but by its potential.

That Rouge Tourist, Paolo

FOR RELATED PHOTOS, CLICK HERE ON EYES OVER ITALY. THEN LOOK FOR AND CLICK ON THE PHOTO ALBUM ENTITLED "TINKER TOYS".

Calitri at War

From British Military Archives, meet the Men of OPERATION COLOSSUS

Close by our home in the Calitri borgo in what I refer to as Teresa's Piazza, because not surprisingly Teresa lives there, is an innocuous water fountain still in use today mostly by, you guessed it, Teresa. Though I've passed it many a time, I never gave it much notice. Printed on it in raised metal letters are the words 'Aquedotto Pugliese 1914' (see Photo Album). This date was when modern running water apparently first debuted in Calitri. The water was supplied from an aqueduct then newly completed, which ran by the base of the mountain on which Calitri is perched. Calitri, I understand, was the first town to tap this new water supply with the water being pumped up the hundreds of feet into town using a steam driven pump. Ah, the marvels of modern technology ... and if we reorder the date just slightly into the year 1941, it was still all about water even then .......

The lumbering twin engine bombers coasted in from the Tyrrhenian Sea after what for those aboard must have seemed like a lifetime since departing RAF Station Luqa on Malta, south of Sicily. These Armstrong Whitworth Whitley medium bombers were already obsolete when WWII had begun, a stigma unworthy of any aircraft, yet true in their case. None the less, they were available and times being what they were, would have to do for this mission.

For some of the aircraft on this mission hasty modifications had converted them from their primary mission as bombers into transports. Unlike conventional bombers their cargo would fall through a fairly small opening in the floor of the fuselage and was not of the explosive or incendiary type but of the flesh and blood variety for six of the aircraft carried a squad of six British paratroopers each *.

The flight crews busied themselves now with final preparations as they approached the drop zone. This was a time long before inertial navigation or ground-mapping radar would simplify the lives of future aircrews on future missions much like theirs. For hours, relying on precise headings, adjusted for the winds aloft, the group of eight Whitleys had headed north across the Mediterranean. With the approach of sunset, the muted features of the terrain far below would now have to guide them. A landscape of deep valleys and jutting peaks typical of the southern Apennines would call to each crew, as had the Sirens of old. Their miscues would attempt to deceive the flightcrews … turn here, head further to the right, stay the course a little longer … but it would prove to no avail. The Sele River and a mosaic of villages here and there along their route would guide them to their destination. Crossing a towering ridgeline (today occupied by wind turbines), the interphone would have crackled as the navigator, crosschecking his charts, announced over the cabin noise .... "Pilot, there at ten o'clock, that has to be Cairano". There was no mistaking it, jutting there precariously on the angled brow of that imposing mountain. Just a little farther down the valley and they’d find Calitri. It was the early evening of 9 Feb 1941.

Yes, Italy was at war with the Allies. Calitri, in fact, had offered its young men to the cause, but the war was distant, far removed from them here midway between either coastline. Absent the sound of gunfire to disturb their tranquility, the war as yet remained something to read about in the giornali (newspapers), and for some, a personal death lottery as causalities among the local cadre were announced each week. Life for the most part went on as usual with the townspeople descending the mountain each morning to work in their fields, only to return in the evening. The sound of approaching 845 horsepower engines, in an instant, changed all that.

The local Calitri ‘contadini' (peasants), looking skyward, must have marveled at the sight, the likes of which had never before been seen in this part of Italy. In fact, Antonio Caruso, then a young nine year old shepherd, told me in Mario's Cafe there how he’d taken his vigilant eyes from his flock that evening to scan for the source of the approaching sound. The advancing drone of engines now resonated across the valley. Having abandoned the course of the Sele, which the aircrews had relied on since coasting inland, some in the staggered flight hesitated momentarily, circling over the valley below Calitri, before moving just a little further up the valley to their objective, the fresh-water aqueduct across the Tragino River.

Aboard the troop aircraft, responsibility for the success of the mission now transferred from the Royal Air Force flight crews into the hands of Major T.A.G. Pritchard of the Royal Welch Fusiliers, the commander of X Troop of the No. 11 Special Air Service Battalion. The shiver of the engines down the length of the 69-foot fuselage undoubtedly reinforced the palpable reality of their mission, the first ever of its kind. Having made military parachute jumps myself when much younger, daring, and yes, more impulsive, I can only imagine how some aboard may have been reluctant to jump. Training was one thing but to jump in combat over enemy territory was altogether different. Their hearts must have pounded from an adrenaline rush as the command to jump echoed down the cold interior of the Whitleys and the commandos frog-walked to the open floor hatch to one-by-one be swallowed in the evening void. Their only comfort now lay in their training, their collective will to succeed and the fact that they were not alone. All told, among the various aircraft, there were 35 of them composed of seven officers and 28 enlisted men of various ranks. In that instant they were forever mates as together they exited into the advancing night only to be instantly thrown horizontal by the slipstream like rag-dolls as each awaited the tug of the static line and the reassuring jerk from their inflating chute.

Training for this, the first paratrooper operation ever undertaken by the British military and, in fact, what was the first Allied airborne operation of WW2, had begun in the summer of 1940. Impressed by the achievements of German airborne units during the Battle of France, Winston Churchill had called for the establishment of a similar capability for Britain's military. Training of this all-volunteer force was conducted at RAF Ringway, near Manchester England, at what was to become known as the ‘Central Landing Establishment’. By December 1940 a small force, designated No. 11 Special Air Service Battalion, had completed its training. From the battalion, a smaller group of men, designated ‘X Troop’, was selected to conduct what was code-named ‘Operation Colossus’. Their target, off in the fields just east of Calitri, lying just inside in the territory of Basilicata, is visible even today with the naked eye from the balcony of our home in the borgo storico (historic village). Today a grove of trees attempts to conceal its history, revealing only a thin sliver of its white bridge-like silhouette.

X Troop's mission was to seize the aqueduct and destroy it. Based on intelligence from the English engineering firm who had originally built the structure, George Kent and Sons, a plan was formulated to strike it because of its importance to Southern Italy. When my friend Mario first mentioned 'Colossus' to me, I'd wondered why the British War Office had chosen to attack this simple structure and why then? I learned that the aqueduct supplied water to an estimated two million Italians in the southern province of Puglia (Italy's 'heel'), and more importantly, to the ports of Bari, Brindisi and the vital naval base at Taranto, all of which supported the Italian war effort. Deprived of fresh water, morale, if not support for the war itself, would diminish. Its destruction would hopefully have the added benefit of disrupting Italian military efforts in Africa and Albania. Beyond its strategic importance, there was also psychological value. Following the disastrous results of the Battle of France, concluding with the disheartening evacuation from Dunkirk (May,1940), success here could spur British morale. A successful raid would demonstrate to the world that Britain hadn't succumbed and yet remained a potent force with the ability to globally strike at its enemies. The aqueduct, being a significant distance inland from the coast, also made it unlikely that a raiding party, delivered by sea, could reach it undetected. Moreover, it was believed that the aqueduct was too strongly constructed to be destroyed by aerial bombardment, inaccurate as it then was. An airborne raid, conducted by paratroops, was thought to be the ideal way to eliminate the aqueduct. Beyond this, Colossus would serve to test the effectiveness of this newfangled paratrooper force and the adequacy of their equipment. Additionally, the RAF's ability to accurately deliver a strike team to a predetermined location at a specified time would be put to the test. Since this was all new, the lessons learned would lead to more refined airborne operational procedures. In a nutshell, a lot was riding on X Troop and the success of this mission that in theory, on paper at least, checked off a lot of 'nice to have' boxes.

Besides Tony Caruso that February evening, I wondered how many others might have noticed their approach. Had anyone noticed as their silk chutes billowed and stealthily lowered the men and their equipment to the ground? No one I spoke with seemed to recall, though they did say that for years afterwards many of the locals sported fine silk made clothing! They all, however, became starkly aware of the operation when thirty minutes after midnight on 10 Feb 1941 a tremendous explosion erupted from the cleft in the valley, formed between the surrounding rising terrain, where the aqueduct is located. Equipment failures and navigational errors on some aircraft resulted in a significant portion of the explosives as well as the explosive specialists themselves to land miles away. Yet Major Pritchard was able to assemble most of his scattered teammates, locate the aqueduct, emplace what explosives they could muster, and as planned, destroy the structure. Mission accomplished, it was now all about getting his team safely out of there and on to the planned recovery point.

For Major Pritchard and his men, getting to the recovery point would prove far more difficult than it had been to reach the objective. The raiding party split into groups and began the approximate 60 mile trek, as the crow flies (even farther for some), to the mouth of the Sele to meet a submarine, HMS Triumph, scheduled for the night of 15 February. Unfortunately the Italians had not signed up to this! Now aware of the attack and alerted to the presence of hostile boots on the ground in the area, the local Carabinieri (paramilitary police), Italian soldiers and civilians quickly mobilized into search teams and with the aid of local farmers began their hunt. For X Troop, expected to cover about 12 miles a day, it would not be an easy stroll through the bucolic Italian countryside to the rendezvous point. Neither the locals nor the winter terrain would cooperate. Meanwhile other teams, these of workmen from Calitri, to include Tony's father and the family donkey, quickly began to repair the aqueduct. Michale, another person I spoke with at Mario's, recounted how his dad had found containers of weapons to include pistols, rifles and associated ammunition. With fewer men, the paratroops had had to improvise. Upon landing, I learned they had pressed into service a farm worker they encountered to carry equipment to the aqueduct. I suspect they must have tied him up until after their hasty departure, left to be discovered by first responders to the scene.

Unbeknown to the Major Pritchard and his men, who were now doing their darnedest to escape and evade, the foggy unpredictability of war, whose disruptive presence first emerged with errors in the jump zone location and equipment failures on some aircraft, decided to play another card. The bomber formation had included two aircraft assigned to carry out a bombing raid on the rail yards in Foggia, about 60 miles beyond the aqueduct. This was meant to divert attention from the primary paratrooper assault. As fate would have it, one of these aircraft developed an engine problem after rolling off the target. The pilot radioed Luqa airfield that he was preparing to crash-land. Coincidentally, he'd chosen a flat area near the mouth of the Sele River south of Salerno, the precise area where the rendezvous with the submarine was scheduled to occur! Talk about bad karma! Red flags went up at British headquarters on the news. Fearing first that with Italian vigilance heightened due to the crash, and secondly, that because the Italians may have intercepted the transmission, the recovery area was now compromised. Concluding that the rescue submarine might be sailing into trouble, the HMS Triumph was recalled. With no way to inform X Troop, still deep inside Italy, they were basically written off as lost. Major Pritchard and his men would not know of this fateful change in plans and the impossibility of their recovery, had they ever reached the coast, until after the war, for they were all eventually captured, swept up in the course of a few days. The long slog they faced, compounded by winter weather conditions and a very tight schedule, had forced them onto roads. This had greatly reduced their chances of going undetected, resulting in their quick capture. Their supposed 50-50 chance of return was now zero! Like romance, the essence of war is uncertain with intrigues sometimes determined haphazardly, no matter how thick the plot or in this case, the planning.

There had been some clashes and brief firefights, but without any losses. In all, there was but one casualty in Operation Colossus (not including what may have happened to the bomber crew that crashed and a training accident) and his death was totally unnecessary. He was neither British nor from Calitri, yet Italian nonetheless. On Palm Sunday 1941, one of the mission's interpreters, actually a civilian named Fortunato Picchi (using the cover name 'Dupont' and purported to be a Free French soldier), then in the custody of an Italian Fascist paramilitary group, the Blackshirts, was tortured and shot for his part in the operation. Indeed, it was a sad ending for someone named Lucky ('Fortunato'), who before his recruitment had been a waiter at London's Savoy Hotel.

There were injuries, however. One paratrooper landing in a tree broke his ankle. He extricated himself from the tree, hid is a straw roofed hut the night, but was captured the next day. The grandmother of another Calitri friend hid one of the paratroopers for a time and he rewarded her with his silk parachute, probably all he had to give her. He was also later captured. I learned that some prisoners were held in the Calitri town jail, then located inside the present day commune office building, for approximately one month before they were moved to nearby Sant' Angelo dei Lomdardi and later to Naples. For the men of X Troop the war was over. They were interned in POW camps for the remainder of WWII.

Recently Maria Elena and I were fortunate to be able to visit the aqueduct and actual target of Operation Colossus (see Photo Album). It is still in use today, attested to by Teresa's fountain. It lies in the backfields of a farm owned by relatives of our friend, Antonio, who arranged the visit. With 70 year old Giovanni leading the way, we walked through tall grass and brambles to the structure. Along the way, Giovanni related to us how a few years back one of the men of X Troop had himself returned to the site. It seemed strange, at least to me then, to also hear him say that he'd apologized for what he had done. But thus is war, where in its aftermath, if we are lucky enough to survive, there is time for reflection. Looking at the aqueduct, it is hard to imagine today how this structure could have commanded so much attention in 1941. It looked very much like a boxed-in bridge with railings spanning the distance between sloping terrain. Maybe 150 feet all told. But for the drop-off in the terrain, it wouldn't be visible at all. At either end stood a squat, white, windowless building, which we were told served as access into the aqueduct. I walked it, one end to the other, imagining the Major and his men scrambling over it on that fateful night in '41 with the lights of towering Calitri serving as backdrop on the horizon. Grass and moss cover its top surface. The sole evidence of violence I noticed was a discharged, rusted shotgun cartridge dropped there no doubt by some bird or cinghiale (wild boar) hunter. I imagined it looked today much like it had after its prompt repair following the attack. Contrary to the best of British intensions, repairs were made in a few days time. With a quantity of the explosives lost, the limited amount that remained had been insufficient to permanently knock out the aqueduct. Damaged yes, but still repairable. The rapidity of the repairs had insured there had been little impact to recipients of its water, who in the interim had relied on reserves.

Thinking it over, had this all been a colossal waste of time, resources and more importantly, men’s lives? Was this but folly, some sort of elaborate shakedown exercise or experiment under real conditions? Had all the detail been in planning the attack and scant on recovery of the team? Had X Troop been essentially sacrificed on a one way mission? Where apologies really in order and by whom? The questions keep crowding in but not their answers. Answers are elusive because ambiguity is in the nature of war. In retrospect, history says that because of this attack and fear of others like it, Italy diverted much needed resources to guard dams, power stations and bridges throughout Italy, when they could have been better employed in combat. In so doing, had the lives of these rear guards been spared the ravages of war? Had the outcome of the war in some miniscule immeasurable sort of a way been affected by what happened here in the shadow of Calitri? Had the events at the Pugliese aqueduct changed the course of history **? History, at least for the men of Operation Colossus, had certainly changed forever, and maybe, just maybe, it is only they who can judge, and if they so choose, apologize.

That Rogue Tourist, Paolo

* With one man taken ill prior to takeoff, one aircraft contained only five paratroopers.

** Somewhat akin to the "butterfly effect" of chaos theory (à la Monday morning quarterback, only visible in hindsight), where sensitive dependence on initial conditions (like the flap of a butterfly's wings) can sway events ... in the case of a butterfly's actions, on the formation of a storm or in the case of the removal of thousands of troops for guard duty, on the outcome of a war. In a nutshell, small differences may produce large variations in the long term behavior of a dynamic system, be it storm or war. Remember that proverb, "For Want of a Nail"?

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Then look for and click on the photo album entitled "Colossus".

To view historic WWII footage of Armstrong Whitworth Whitley Bombers practicing early paratrooper drops to the tune of Jimmy Dorsey's "Jumpin Jive" click here on Paratroopers. Be sure to shut off the blog's music (I love that tune), if you have it running.

Exploring the Leg of Bella Italia

I Was Awake. Without my glasses it took more than a few moments to be able to make out the numbers on the digital clock - 10:30 am! We had overslept, but not really, since we'd gone to bed around 3am. I'd been dreaming. Something about our first attempted flight to Rota on that Martinsburg Air Guard C-5, a fire bottle warning light in the cockpit and that plaque in the Dover passenger lounge which read:

"For those who've fought for it, Freedom has a flavor the protected will never know."

I'd wanted to remember that perceptive turn of phrase and now I was, albeit in my dreams. Now it was already late morning, approaching checkout time. I had to get moving and back to the terminal to rent a car ASAP. My nagging fear – Sicily’s Naval Air Station Sigonella was a small place and they could easily run out of cars, especially with the weekend at hand. We'd arrived in Italy the night before, although there are more than a few Sicilians who will take exception to that. Sicilians are a breed apart - first and always Sicilians, then maybe, just maybe, Italians.

The Sicilian Sun was already making its presence felt as I trudged along in what I thought was the direction of the passenger terminal. It had been early that same morning, past 2 am in fact, when we'd first made the trip from the terminal to the Navy Gateway Inn, where we had stayed overnight. Now by daylight, everything looked different. I was trying to spot the tower, which I know rose above the terminal. I wasn't really sure on the direction so I waved at an approaching security police vehicle and the young driver was kind enough to drive me there. At every turn, I was still being amazed at the polite service I was receiving - he could have easily just said it was up ahead. It was a short ride. I'd been on the correct heading. A few blocks later, I was deposited at the Europcar rental office beside the terminal. I soon departed with DX518XH, the plate number of my Alpha Romeo MiTo. With six forward gears, this two-door classy lady was made for speed but over the 30 days we'd spend together, I'd learn her flaws. Yet, as I left the rental office, someone mentioned zero to 100 kilometers per hour (62 mph) in 5 seconds. I'd have to see about that but I doubted I could shift that fast!

After Lunch at the Navy Galley we were on the road headed for Massina. This is the major jump-off point by ferry to mainland Italy. There is no bridge yet. Along the way, we passed familiar haunts, especially touristy Taormina and the charming mountaintop village of Forza d'Agro. Forza d'Agro is an interesting place and now part of Hollywood lore. Reached via a twisting corkscrew road from the coast, Forza d'Agro is the site of Sant'Agostino. It was this church, in the second film of the Godfather epic where, if I have it right, Michael Corleone (Al Pacino) marries Apollonia. It is now part of Sicilian lore as well and not for the 16th-century castle overlooking the coast toward the Strait of Messina. Instead, word is that mafia fathers come to this church to proudly give their daughters away, an offer you couldn't refuse. Not quit Grauman's Chinese Theatre, noted for its memorabilia, but a start. When we visited, the church was lavishly decorated with flowers like something we've never seen before. There had been a wedding that morning. I still recall how in the coolness of the interior, the intoxicating perfume of the flowers, some strewn down the center aisle, added further to the sensual dimension to the scene.

Messina is a Mini-Naples with cars, buses and especially hoards of screeching motorcycles everywhere. This time, we used a more northerly exit from highway E45 to bypass the adventures experienced when traveling through the center of town. Getting tickets for the ferry is always a novel pastime, especially for the uninitiated. You follow the traghetto (ferry) signs until you come to an area of utter confusion with cars parked or I should say stopped every which way in the street, while hucksters selling bogus CDs or attempting to wash your windows, ply the traffic jam. Some, sensing a straniero (outsider) amongst them - someone new to all this fun, try to help you get to the ticket kiosk when you exit your car in the midst of this melee, expecting a finders-fee in return. A few words in Italian usually puts them off and on to more fertile prey. Italians can easily circumvent any attempt to get them organized into lines. Painted lines on the ground are laughable. If there is a way to somehow advance, even at someone else's expense, they'll try it. Their driving is a classic example. The worst repercussion might be a hand waving verbal broadside from someone less imaginative. But here, they are dealing with fellow Italians who know all the angles so the ticket booth is buttressed with sturdy metal handrails, which define the lanes. They would give the merrymaking operators of Disney World pause to reconsider their crowd control techniques. The use of these parallel steel rail queues avoids five or so people with their hands thrusting money through the window slot all at the same time. It also keeps them in a tight line like cattle headed for slaughter, where by slaughter I mean the fee to cross. When you reach the ticket clerk, you learn that the tariff is 30.50 Euro for two passengers and a light auto. Of this, the city of Messina is reserved 1.50€. Included is a 20% VAT (Value Added Tax), something some politicians here want to introduce. God help us! No wonder only President Berlusconi is interested in building a suspension bridge across the Strait. It is doubtful, however, that there will ever be one with all the politics and intrigue involved. Pockets run deep in these parts, far deeper in fact than the waters of the Strait. Promise of the start of construction has been going on every year, I think, since the Romans ran the place! While Marie Antoinette may have said, "Let them eat cake", around here the equivalent is "Let them talk of building a bridge".

Fearing They Might be Left Behind, vehicles from two to eighteen wheelers eagerly scramble aboard the ferry under the eagle-eyed supervision of dockworkers who efficiently choreograph the loading with the sidestepping precision of matadors. Once parked tight as Sicilian sardines in the bowels of the ship, you can go upstairs to the passenger lounges. I recommend you do because some of the trailer trucks keep their engines running throughout the crossing and the fumes can be overwhelming. You can watch your progress crossing the Strait from either the deck in nice weather or otherwise inside. All told it takes about an hour to get across. When the ferry’s behemoth boarding ramp drops open at Villa San Giovanni, it’s as if the green flag at Daytona has been waved in everyone’s windshield – let the race begin!

And So We Too Were Off, along the A3 Autostrada on a meandering journey north. We had decided earlier to take our time and see some of the province of Calabra first, followed by Basilicata. While in Sicily we’d entertained stopping at Siracusa but decided to do that another time. We were in no particular hurry yet wanted to get across – you could never be sure there wouldn’t be a strike or some sort of slowdown. Recalling what Elwood had said to Jake in “The Blues Brothers", “we got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses”, Maria Elena said ‘hit it’ though neither of us smoked and it was broad daylight! The route, marked by the green ‘RC-SA’ (Regio Calabria to Salerno) signs, is pocked-marked with galeria (tunnels). There are times you are inside them long enough for your GPS, we call ours ‘Margaret’, to lose its signal even in a speedy Alfa Romeo. That in itself isn't bad and can be expected but there are places where these tunnels are so close together, one following the other, that as you exit a tunnel there isn't enough time to reacquire the satellite signals before charging headlong into another galeria! Luckily, there were few roads to mistakenly take in the meantime, allowing time for Margaret to catch up in a clear sky.

This Highway is an engineering marvel. Once you have driven it and seen its jagged saw-tooth landscape for yourself, you can understand how prior to its construction the Mezzogiorno, or Southern Italy, was uniquely isolated and consequently remained underdeveloped. Bridges with amazing superstructures span the breaches formed by the deepest of ravines between formidable mountain peaks. You sometimes get a glimpse of an approaching bridge spanning one of these Mariana trench-like abyss’ as you round a turn. Simply amazing. It is hard to imagine even attempting such a project. Where would you begin? Along the route, which for a time keeps to the Calabrian coastline, you can sometimes catch sight of an azure sea embroidered with beaches, some sitting beside small villages, off to your left, far, far below. Within sight, but still out of reach, they beg to be explored but not today, even if we could figure out how to get down there.

We Exited the Autostrada near Lamezia Terme in favor of the coastal road (S18) hugging the shore of the Tyrrhenian Sea to continue our casual drive north. Our goal was to reach the village of Maratea, which I’d read about years before. A few hours later we saw a road-sign and realized that based on the remaining distance we needed to cover and our pace thus far, we would be wise to stop somewhere now. We had passed an interesting looking place a few kilometers back and decided to double back. It was the seaside town of San Lucido, named after a monk who once occupied a nearby monastery there. We had noticed what looked like a curving palm-tree lined street overlooking the sea almost like a balcony as we'd driven by and wondered if this might be near some hotel, seeing that the setting was so perfect. We made a couple of loops through the town, which like so many others is dominated by one way streets, to get our bearings. I'd passed a local policeman on one pass and decided to ask him on my next go by where there was an albergo (hotel). He didn't seem to mind when I double parked to ask, stopping traffic. Following his directions we indeed passed down the tree lined avenue we'd seen from the highway. With the aid of a group of old men, startled like a covey of pigeons by an American stammering for directions in his own pigeon Italian dialect, I was able to find Antico Ristorante Da Peppone and its adjacent hotel, 'Catherine's House'. I swear it was a scene right out of a Fellini movie, for with the knot of senior citizens at my back, mostly to satisfy their curiosity but ostensibly to insure I was on course, I found one of the restaurant’s family members busy setting up outside for a World Cup match and got a room. He'd produced a scrap of paper scrawled with names and nodding toward it while asked me if I had a reservation. On my negative reply he shrugged and I consequently shrugged in disappointment, then moments later producing his cellphone, he chatted briefly with someone and announced he had a room for us after all. Explain it as you will but I think the lonely castaway look I gave him triggered some primal disposition Italians seem to have to make the current situation acceptable. It was just barely a hotel room anyway, situated three floors up, essentially in the attic. Our only window resembled one from a basement foundation and true to form was on the floor. On hands and knees you might see out! It, however, had all we needed for the night including an air conditioner mounted high on the wall, which made staying there bearable. A short nap later, we were on the streets of San Lucido. Dinner this evening would be at La Venere Ristorante.

We Dined Alfresco at La Venere. Not to be confused with the Italian verb 'venire' (come), which I managed to do, La Venere means 'The Venus'. We learned of it when we asked about a place for dinner while people-watching outside the 'John Bull Pub'. Mare likes a 'Black & Tan' beer now and then and with Guinness available we had every reason to linger. It was hard to believe that of all places, you’d come across a pub in Calabria! There must be a modicum of British influence about. If it had been American, I'm sure there would have been a Planet Hollywood around! As with Botticelli's celebrated painting, 'The Birth of Venus', La Venere essentially emerges from the sea below San Lucido. Turns out La Venere was over the railing of that palm-lined street in a lower part of town about 200 feet below. Like Venus, we too were in essence born anew for here and for the first time since returning to ‘Bella Italia’ we once again tasted purple sunshine on our tongues flowing from an excellent bottle of Nero d’Avola. I recall enjoying 'fritti di mare' (seafood pasta) but what we ate, though excellent that night, was nowhere near the fabulous time we had later with fellow diners. It was not until we’d finish our meals and were preparing to leave that two men at a nearby table waved us over and proposed that we join them for an aperitivo. They had observed us during the course of the evening and whether out of curiosity or the need for companionship wanted to share grappa and conversation with us. They soon learned we were American, not British as they'd suspected, and we in turn that one was a lawyer and the other a bookstore owner from Paolo, a town a few coastal villages further north. The grappa flowed and we had a wonderful time together until well after midnight talking about everything from politics to football, which in Italy is almost politics itself! They must have been regulars for soon our foursome had grown to include the chef and his wife, who had been our hostess. It rekindled in us that epiphany in awareness that anyone who has spent time in Italy will one day or another realize of how hospitable, generous, charming and otherwise almost childlike in their friendliness Italians can be. Our moments together adding weight to the notion that a memorable dining experience is not what is on the table so much as who is at the table. The assent up the steps to town, followed by another assent to our attic sanctuary in the Hotel Caterina was a further rebirth in the knowledge of how out of shape our legs were. Not withstanding our previous night's convivial soiree, we were on the road once again by mid-morning headed north into Basilicata.

Our Next Overnight Stop was at La Locanda delle Donne Monache (www.locanda.franklynhotels.com), in Maratea. We arrived early enough later that morning to be able to enjoy practically a full day in Maratea. La Locanda, like Maratea itself, is a secluded retreat nestled in rugged mountains just inland, overlooking the breathtaking unspoiled coastline of Basilicata. It offers luxury accommodations in a restored 18th century convent painstakingly converted into one of the finest hotels in the area. But for the lack of an elevator, we were told, it would be classed five star. Its layout precludes the use of elevators and instead substitutes artfully decorated corridors, which wind up, down and around the complex like a Chinese paper dragon on parade. We, neither of us, knew what might lie ahead and where we might emerge and therein lay the fun. We did just that and after passing through a Moorish decorated sitting area surfaced into a garden with cushioned chairs dominated by a large mural beckoning you to linger. Maria Elena (Mare), now intoxicated with the mood of the place, used this quiet retreat to write in her journal. It was on one of these explorations, following a turn and ascent of a short series of stairs that we discovered a wonderful kidney-shaped swimming pool. It was hemmed by gigantic blue hydrangea bushes, and if that wasn’t enough, an ancient church and square campanile (bell tower) served as the backdrop, completing this Italian canvas. Here was a stunning example of Italian design congruity set amidst its crumbling heritage, rivaling Feng Shui principles in its balance. For the time we had there, this became OUR spot. Here we enjoyed ourselves immensely, meeting people, having drinks or doing both while soaking at the edge of this wonderful pool. I'm sure the former nuns never had it this good. Adjacent to the pool was another find, the hotel's celebrated restaurant, 'Il Sacello' (The Shrine). I don't believe I actually did it but while playing lizard, or should I say turtle in the water, by the edge of the pool, I actually called a waiter over and made a reservation for dinner there for later that evening. Given time, you could quit easily get used to this lifestyle and I was making great headway at living life large without any problema! Reality soon sets in, however, for the cost in Euros for this tryst was in the stratosphere. When you made the mental conversion into dollars, it became obscene. If you recall, I jokingly remarked in a recent post that I was sparing no expense on this trip, it being our anniversary! Here was painful proof. I just had to think about it like I had the time we took a gondola ride in Venice - just imagine the cost amortized over ten years or more and then it isn’t so bad. But now about that dinner …

Il Sacello, located in a long glassed-in portico running alongside the pool area, was both intimate and welcoming. Its staff spoke faultless English, which made the evening go especially smoothly and the maitre'de added to a memorable time by his occasional visits and frank chats. Mare and I shared the dinner-for-two special featuring 'Bistecca alla Fiorentina', the grilled steak signature dish of Florence similar to what we'd called a Porterhouse, balanced with such local treats as grilled vegetables served over creamy polenta. This was gourmet cuisine at its finest, accompanied with fine wine and topped off with a dolce (desert) of Tiramisu. Bring on that slippery-smooth mascarpone cheese! Tiramisu remains the most heavenly Italian dessert I've ever eaten. Its name is derived from 'pull me up' in Italia and it does just that. No wonder it is the signature dessert of Venice. We’d eaten deliberately, savoring each flavor, and hated to see the meal end. We even hesitated to leave the next day, after all we had plenty of time, but our vacillation was abruptly overcome by the sobered affect of il conto (the bill)! We cut inland away from the sea and its coastal road and within a few hours were in familiar territory.

Soon We Were Climbing that zigzag ascent to lofty Calitri. There were the 'fashionable' with their never-worn sweaters cast about their shoulders, sleeves knotted on their chests; clumps of old men on the shaded benches lining Corso Garibaldi; Benito in the doorway of his magazine shop; mustachioed Paldo in his bar; Francesco in his furniture store and I was now positive, God in his heaven. My inner Italian had now regained its sense of place. We had arrived in Calitri, slipping up the peninsula like a hand deftly exploring a sheer nylon on a shapely leg – a journey just long enough to cover the sculpted subject but short enough to still remain mysterious, beckoning a return.

That Rogue Tourist,

Paolo

For related photos, click here on Eyes Over Italy. Then look for and click on the photo album entitled "San Lucido & Maratea".