Chapter 26
WHEN WE ARRIVED AT THE Pier after breakfast, there were already maybe a dozen people, mostly women, waiting for the next liberty boat.
A few of them had scarves tied around their heads, and several of them carried those little folding carts that old ladies in European cities are always dragging around behind them.
For a second, I worried we might need one, too, but then I remembered we were buying only as much as our Styrofoam cooler could hold.
When the liberty boat approached the pier, I was startled to see that it was actually one of those old mechanized landing crafts that the U.S.
had used to storm the beaches of Normandy.
You know the ones with the bow ramps that all those poor boys had to charge down under enemy fire?
Apparently, the American government had a surplus of them after World War II, because what we were looking at was not a reproduction but the genuine article.
Thirty or so years old, rusted through in some places, and covered in enough epoxy to hide any number of flaws.
A crew member in a pale blue shirt and dungarees hopped off the boat and tied it up, and a few sailors disembarked. Meanwhile, the people around us fished for their wallets and withdrew their military IDs.
Paul and I were among the last to board the boat, but it didn’t matter.
There was plenty of room, and after we’d taken our seats, I got that feeling I used to get when I’d go out on the boat with my dad and my brother.
Part nerves and part anticipation. The nerves because the water was so vast and unknowable, and the anticipation because—no matter what happened—I knew I was about to have a good time.
We pulled away from the pier, and after the coxswain had gotten the boat turned around, he increased the engine’s throttle and we made for the open sea. “Woohoo!” I yelled, but Paul gave me a look that said Propriety, please.
We were headed in a southeasterly direction, across the narrow channel that separated La Maddalena from Santo Stefano.
As soon as we were out in the middle of the channel, the wind whipped through my hair, and I had to grab it in fistfuls so it wouldn’t blow in my face or Paul’s.
We passed fishing boats and a couple of windsurfers, their sails the colors of jewels, and within minutes, we had rounded the northernmost tip of Santo Stefano.
I expected to see the submarine tender right away, but the first things I saw, tucked in a little cove, were a long dock and a huge concrete pad with a couple of cisterns, or maybe you’d call them drums?
I didn’t know what they were for, but I couldn’t spend too much time trying to puzzle it out because beyond them were these futuristic tunnels or bunkers or something carved into the hillside.
The whole complex, which included a couple of trailers and a guardhouse, was an eyesore—not at all what you wanted to see on an otherwise pristine Mediterranean island.
“Is that us?” I shouted at Paul over the wind, but he shook his head.
“NATO!”
Paul had told me that Italy’s membership in NATO had been dicey at the beginning.
Not only had the country picked the wrong side during World War II, but in 1948, they’d come very close to voting the Italian Communist Party into power.
In the end, the election had gone to the Christian Democrats, led by Alcide De Gasperi, who had thought it wise to make nice with the Allies and petition for membership in the fledgling security alliance.
My understanding is that countries like Britain and France would have greatly enjoyed telling De Gasperi where he could shove his petition, but it was a classic keep-your-friends-close-and-your-enemies-closer scenario.
Italy became one of twelve founding members of NATO, and by the time Paul and I showed up in La Maddalena in 1974, there were NATO bases, training centers, and research facilities all over the country.
For the most part, Italy had proved to be a cooperative and even collegial partner.
“What is all that?” I asked Paul as the whole mess slipped past us.
“Support facility,” he said, which didn’t tell me much. I’d later learn that the NATO “support facility” we were passing was actually an ammunition depot and that the bunkers housed a missile stockpile large enough to see most of Western Europe through the end times. How’s that for support?
“There she is,” said Paul, and I looked up just in time to see the U.S.S. Howard W. Gilmore come into view.