大象传媒

2 December 1945:: 'My dear Minna The day has dawned. Today I report to 159 Transit Camp. I expect to travel to Dieppe and be home within seven days. I find it hard to realise that my Army service is almost at an end and that I must try to find my way back to my old life. In spite of everything I am still confident that there is a good life to be lived by us and that it will not be long before we find ourselves as happy and quietly content as we were long ago. My kit is packed and I am awaiting the word to move off. We shall see each other very shortly. Goodnight, beloved.'

My note of confidence sounded false to me. The three months which had passed since V-J day had brought letters which had left me more and more disturbed. Things had begun to fall apart since she came under the influence of a Roman Catholic family and their priest-friend, Richard Berry.

From Minna: 'In spite of all my good resolutions I seem to be very keyed up about your return and so, it would appear, are you. Shall we find each other changed after all? Possibly, but if so I sincerely hope that in me you will find a change for the better only. So many things have happened in three years with such a large proportion of grief, loneliness and suffering. I am tired but no longer so miserable and full of self-pity as I used to be.'

I knew what troubled both of us. Since July she had become obsessed with Roman Catholicism as a way of purging her 'guilt' - guilt about leaving Hervey, her Danish husband, for me; guilt now about the effect this would have on our lives.

A later letter: 'I have become a war casualty in more ways than one. Everything would have been all right if I had not survived. I realise now that my lack of faith and vision stopped my planning ahead, that the end of hostilities meant the end of any conscious effort on my part to wish to carry on. I am utterly spent. The feeling of guilt which has always been with me since I left Denmark has weighed me down at last. All I desire is peace of mind.'

Throwing her life away; throwing my life away with hers. For what? For one of the many vain dreams stupid men have had about the idea of God. Must I believe that all her once apparent joy and happiness, all the love she has showered upon me during the war-years... all this was an act? No, she has been poisoned and her next words reveal the source:

'I can indeed find comfort in the hope of being received into the Church, but fail to see how it can be brought about except by complete estrangement from you.' Reality at last! She never thought I would be affected, too! After all the comforting words, all the promises of forgiveness for her 'sins' comes the small print of the Catholic insurance policy. She has been told - at last - that so far as the Church was concerned she is still married to Hervey.

'I have always dreaded that something would happen to alter our relationship, only it never occurred to me that it would eventually originate from me. I expected to be repaid in kind for my treachery by you leaving me. Yes, my conscience has indeed been my most intimate and, often, my only companion.

'I cannot possibly go into details about my "mental sorting-out" here. Except that I feel as if I had turned a mental somersault. This must all be very distressing for you. However I feel sure we shall get sorted out somehow but a rehabilitation course is clearly indicated for us both. I do not want to hurt you or disappoint you so bear with me my dear. I promise to do my best by you. Let us try to "grin and bear it" shall we?鈥�

It was shameful. After nearly five years of war she had become like a wounded animal seeking a safe haven - though no animal would entertain such a death-wish. She is offered a panacea-philosophy where all wounds are healed, a new life proffered. Then... snap. The trap shuts. Another soul saved from the burning. The end justifies the means. 'The first duty of a Catholic is to save his (or her) soul.' Rehabilitation? My return to the Church perhaps? She still does not understand. Such a step would solve nothing. As a 'rehabilitated Catholic' I would be under even greater pressure to abandon an 'adulterous relationship.' Our register office marriage in 1937 was worthless in the eyes of the Church. Her first marriage was the only valid one.

Later: 'I do not like to harp on the fact but the war has made a hash of things for me or, perhaps, brought to light the hash I have made of things myself. I hope for the best, not feeling aware of what it is that I want. I am tired and ill, although I manage my job all right. Oh my dear, sometimes I wish you did love me less. I just cannot live up to it and I cannot bear to hurt you. At times I feel that I am merely being awfully childish and that a good spanking is all I need. How I do wish it were so! And on this hopeful note let us turn to other things.'

I had often joked about her 'one-track mind' but loved it when it concentrated on our love. Now?

21 November: 鈥楢ccording to your latest letter I shall expect you round about 10 December. I do hope you will bear with me. I know I am a misery these days but I am trying so hard to do the right thing. This is just a 鈥渟ign of life鈥�. Perhaps it is not too early to wish you a pleasant and comfortable journey.'

On 3 December I left No. 8 Command Pay Office, CMF Centocelle forever. I handed in my .303 Lee-Enfield rifle as good as new. The only shots I had fired were on the practice ranges. I handed in most of my webbing equipment (apart from the back-pack). I retained my greatcoat. My kit bag contained the rest of my earthly possessions. My Commanding Officer handed me my discharge certificate endorsed with his summing-up of my military career:

'Military conduct: Exemplary. Testimonial: A first-class shorthand-typist and confidential clerk of quiet disposition but exercising an effective influence on his comrades and those under him. A good leader and very reliable.' Who? Me?

With half my kit gone, I was already half a civilian. At the Transit Camp the mood ranged from maudlin to frenetic. Nightfall brought lurking ladies to the perimeter - some with last-moment unwanted gifts for English wives and sweethearts. There was the sound of vomiting. Next morning I made a farewell visit to Rome From the Colosseum I walked the length of the Via Imperiale using the middle of the road. I paused at the large sculptured wall-map showing the extent of Mussolini's Fascist empire, now as defunct as its Roman predecessor. I glanced at the Forum and the Palatine, continued past the Victor Emmanuel Memorial (the 'Wedding Cake鈥�) crossed the Piazza Venezia with that famous balcony, murmured 鈥榝inito Benito鈥�, marched down the middle of the Via Nazionale to Piazza dell Esedra and so to the travertine-slabbed station. All traffic-free. Italians had no petrol. Arriverderci Roma, but no arriverderci Centocelle!

I was grateful for Rome. The pages of Gibbon would now leap alive for me. I had discovered mediaeval architecture. The word 鈥楻omanesque鈥� now meant something to me. I would never attend a performance of 鈥楾osca鈥� without seeing it against its real-life background. Many of the streets and squares of Rome were now as familiar as the streets and squares of London - but far more fascinating.

Tomorrow the train. A few days more and England. Then... what? I dared not think of it.

漏 Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.