I
shall never forget one weekend that Larry and I spent at Monza drinking
Asti-Spumenti (sic) beneath the trees. Larry’s companion at the moment was a
beautiful dark haired Italian Countess by the name of Marie. She had obligingly
provided a companion for me in the form of a buxom English lass from
Lancastershire who preferred ale to Asti-Spumenti and would rather eat than
drink.
Larry
and George Harris and I spent many a pleasant afternoon and evening when on
leave in Milan drinking at the Cova or under the glassed archway in the famous
Galleria. Sometimes Hemingway and other convivial residents of Milan would join
us. We have since recognized some of those people as characters in Hemingway’s
books.
It
was also in Milan that Larry and I discovered the English-American Club. A
German boat had been captured loaded with Münchner Beer.
Somehow a portion of this precious cargo had found its way into the cellar of
this club. Many a pleasant hour we spent drinking Münchner. It was delightfully rich and heavy and full of head. When we
could no longer drink it we just sat and whiffed the aroma.
That
autumn Russ and I secured a leave of absence and went sight-seeing in Southern
Italy. Russ always carried a large fiasco of wine with him in his knapsack so
as not to be caught short. On the slow train from Rome to Naples our wine gave
out. At the next stop I stepped off the train to secure more wine and
sandwiches. The sandwiches were provided but before I could negotiate the
purchase of more wine the train pulled out. We had no more to drink until we
reached Naples and Russ never forgave me. It was beyond him to understand how
one could procure food instead of wine when both were obtainable and only time
for one.
At
Pompeii we visited the ruins and drank wine in the old Roman theatre. Russ took
a keen delight in translating the Latin inscriptions around the market place.
One in particular caught his eye. “Vote for Crassus for Prefect. He favors open
gambling and wine shops.” Men’s tastes change little in two thousand years. We
spent an hour or so in the famous or infamous Palace of Love viewing the
beautiful life-like frescoes. Women tourists are not allowed in here. While we
were inside an elderly American spinster insisted on entering. She took one
look at the frescoes and vanished with her head in the air.
After
the armistice our unit split up and I went back to Paris. America had gone dry
in the meantime and some of us were reluctant to come home. I soon met a new
drinking companion, a Texan from San Antonio named McCampbell. Mac had also
driven an ambulance and was a graduate of Fontainebleau. We slept occasionally
at 21 Rue Raynouard and made our headquarters at Maxims.
Paris
was a gay town after the armistice, full of officers from the Allied armies and
diplomats and interesting people of all kinds. King Albert came to town and
King George and President Wilson. Mac and I knew all the ropes by then and did
our drinking for the most part in choice and secluded spots where the wine was
of the best and the prices within reason. Only once did we get mixed up in a
brawl.
It
was at Maxims one night that a young British Captain with a cockney accent told
a Belgian Cadet that he hated Belgium. He said he had fought in Belgium since
the beginning and the Belgians were no good. The cadet was willing to mix but
appeared to be no match for the burly Captain so Mac proceeded to knock the
Britisher flat with a well-timed right to the jaw.
Nearly two generations later, around the kitchen table, Emmett would also debut occasional new material from the war. One time in Italy, he and his ambulance partner incurred a tire ‘puncture’. They were up a rise at the end of a valley one or two kilometers long. The road was completely exposed. In the middle of figuring out how to change the tire, an enemy shell exploded one hundred meters behind them. Frantically, they raced to complete the job. Minutes later, a second shell hit fifty meters closer, sending a cloud of dust into the air. They were just about finished, hurriedly returning tools to the car, when a third shell exploded close enough to cover them with dirt and dust just as they hopped into the front seats and pulled away to safety. “Yessir, that was a close one,” Emmett said, tipping a splash of lager into his glass.
To be continued...
Nearly two generations later, around the kitchen table, Emmett would also debut occasional new material from the war. One time in Italy, he and his ambulance partner incurred a tire ‘puncture’. They were up a rise at the end of a valley one or two kilometers long. The road was completely exposed. In the middle of figuring out how to change the tire, an enemy shell exploded one hundred meters behind them. Frantically, they raced to complete the job. Minutes later, a second shell hit fifty meters closer, sending a cloud of dust into the air. They were just about finished, hurriedly returning tools to the car, when a third shell exploded close enough to cover them with dirt and dust just as they hopped into the front seats and pulled away to safety. “Yessir, that was a close one,” Emmett said, tipping a splash of lager into his glass.
To be continued...
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