Where in the World are the Carolin-Vandenbergs?: November 2013

Blog 9 - special edition. Special mission in Tuscany

PART 1:

My grandfather was a navigator and Flight Sergeant for the 454 Air Squadron in World War II. In August 1944 he was stationed in Falconara in Tuscany, where rain and glutinous mud was the norm. On 23rd of August the squadron was to carry out a "routine" bombing of a munitions factory in Limestre, just out of San Marcello Pistoese. Heavy flak was encountered and of the four in my grandfather's plane, three "hit the silk", narrowly avoiding the propellors and parachuted to land. One was not so lucky, and two other planes from the squadron were also lost that night

My grandfather, wounded, landed "on his bum" on a cleared hill, stowed his parachute in a blackberry bush and searched for shelter. He found a small house where a young man tended to his wounds, as well as those of the pilot, who was wounded on the leg and limping.

My grandfather was soon captured by soldiers from the Herman Goering division, who (it's said) had a healthy respect for Australian soldiers, having encountered the 4th AIF in Crete.

He was transported to Germany and after lengthy interrogations, and four and a half months hospitalisation, was used by the German High Command as special aircrew POW, handy for hostage bargaining.

Then on 19th January 1945 he commenced a three week, 165 mile "march", in atrocious rain and ice, with little comfort, food or care. (Many lives were lost along the way). They travelled away from the Russians and towards the advancing Western Allies, and were again used as bargaining tools in an effort to get "improved surrender terms".

He was eventually liberated by the Russians and handed over to the British. My grandfather was reunited with the pilot in the UK. They actually remained close friends and lived near to each other both in Melbourne and on the NSW coast until their deaths. The pilot, Keith, in 1999. My grandfather, Sam, in 2001. My grandfather kept a journal of his war experiences, and this is now on record at the Australian War Memorial.

PART 2:

So, stuff happened after that! Wives and children and grandchildren. And in 1973, my grandfather made a bit of a pilgrimage back to San Marcello Pistoese to try to find his "bum print" where he landed. He recounts his "journey" in a (very) detailed letter to his sister, which he wrote sitting up in bed at the Giardini Hotel in San Marcello Pistoese.

He enlisted the help of a local man who spoke reasonable English, and with a lot of gesturing and sound effects, managed to convey his story. There were several false leads and dead ends, but by the end of the few days, he not only was able to locate the site of the field where he landed, but he found the man who, in 1944, treated his wounds!

In his letter he describes the elation he felt in finding all of this, as well as the amazing generosity and hospitality of his translator and his family.

PART 3:

More stuff happened after that. Wives and children and grandchildren...and great-grandchildren.

We as family heard parts of these experiences, but as many who return from war, my grandfather didn't talk much about it. I never read his diary until after he passed away, which I regret.

When we knew we were travelling to Tuscany, we decided to go to San Marcello Pistoese to try to retrace my grandfather's steps and in some way add our small piece to this puzzle. I was not optimistic, given 1944 and 1973 were not exactly the Information Age, but I was fortunate to be provided the letter that he wrote his sister in '73, so that was better than nothing. (Thanks Bev!)

So armed with this crumpled yellow document, we started in the only place that made sense, the Hotel Giardini in San Marcello Pistoese. It was still there in its late 60/early70 grandeur. We actually went in looking for a coffee, but the proprietor was there and in a terrible broken Italian/English, I explained the story of '44 and '73. She had only had the hotel about 10 years, but when I mentioned the name of the translator, Emilio Innocenti, she brightened, and thought she knew his cousin. She went off to make a phone call...

Twenty minutes later, in walked the man who, in 1973, drove my grandfather around San Marcello and surrounds looking for a cleared field!

Emilio Innocenti was mid-70s and could pass for twenty years younger. He runs every day, has a son and a daughter, and taught my children the trick where it looks as though you can take your thumb off. He remembered my grandfather well and the time they spent together in 1973. He particularly recalled him injecting himself (he was a diabetic, and this later led to double amputations below the knee) as well as his love for red wine! His English had lapsed to the point that we could barely communicate but it didn't really matter. We were all quite emotional...except Billie and Jessie, they just seemed bewildered by the complexity of the emotion. It was pretty hard to explain to be fair.

Presumptuously, I asked him if he could remember the field where he took my grandfather, and if he could take us there. He said he wasn't at all sure, but agreed to meet us in an hour's time.

Emilio drove around the winding countryside with a confidence that terrified me, but we ended up in a place called Le Piastre (again, thanks to my grandfather's attention to detail). There was a lot of "hmm...no...think THINK..." but nothing conclusive.

We had the name of the gentleman who saved my grandfather, and we stopped to see if anyone knew if the family lived in the area still. An old lady suggested some directions, and after a few false trails ourselves we found ourselves at Casa Isola, a B&B in Le Piastre. We knocked, a middle aged man answered. Emilio conveyed the story. The man smiled and nodded and urged us to follow.

So Renae, the girls, Emilio and I entered the kitchen of the house and sitting at the table was Dolfiero, the man who, in 1944, saved my grandfather's life.

He is now 86, and following two broken hips, is very frail. His mind has stated to fail in the last year but it was clear that he understood who we were, as did his wife Isola (hence the name of the B&B), who recounted and reminisced with Emilio. She recalled the limping man.

The son then brought out a letter my grandfather wrote to them, as well as a photo of Dolfiero and Emilio together, and my grandfather standing beside the field where he landed. Many photos were taken, tears were shed. Myths were debunked (the propellor wasn't found over their fireplace. They had a lot of his kit, but this was confiscated by the police, and much of it was sent to Germany.)

Dolfiero kept asking us where we were from. There was a lot of "Venga dall'Australia, no parla Italiano". I showed him the photo of my grandfather and explained "Mi nonno". I think he got it.

The photo the son showed us immediately made finding the field a lot easier. In fact, I recalled passing it while we were tearing around the Tuscan countryside. So we got out, took photos. I stood where he stood in '73 when I was two years old. Me now with greyer hair, wearing pants not shorts...

We later had a drink at Emilio's house. I could not convey to him my gratitude, but I do also think that he enjoyed both the adventure and the reminiscence.

It's difficult to describe the feeling I had that day. It was quite unlike anything I'd felt before. I walk away from San Marcello Pistoese with a flimsy sticky taped yellow letter (who'd have thought it wouldn't survive TWO photocopying attempts!), a profound love and debt of gratitude for Renae, who pushed me to do this when I was thinking of backing out, digital photos and email addresses (for this is the Information Age), and a greater sense of perspective about family, and stuff in general...