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Post by silentwolf on Jun 22, 2023 3:05:33 GMT
Welcome to the local Bar. Grab a drink and relax for a while.
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Post by ChefEd on Jul 31, 2023 22:11:24 GMT
La Spezia, Liguria, Italia and its surrounding area.
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Post by ChefEd on Aug 29, 2023 15:24:28 GMT
The Porto di Scalo was like any other taverna in La Spezia. It was old. It smelled of men and the sea. The smell of spilled and stale birra and vino mingled with the other odors of the taverna. It was like every other taverna in La Spezia. Yet, it wasn’t. This is where the crew of the Foca, and several other submarines of the Regia Marina spend their free time. Their escape from the rigors of military life. A place to be free. This May evening in 1940, Tenente Gasparo Angelini, comandante of the sommergibile Foca, is having some excellent local vino with his Secondo, Sottotenente Enzio Blanco. In the background, rather loudly, sailors are belting a rousing version of “La canzone dei Sommergibili” (The Submarine Song). [ La canzone dei Sommergibili] Sfiorano l’onde nere nella fitta oscurità, dalle torrette fiere ogni sguardo attento sta! Taciti ed invisibili partono i sommergibili ! Cuori e motori d’assaltatori contro l’Immensità!( They skim the black waves in the thick darkness, from the proud turrets every look is attentive! Silent and invisible the submarines are leaving! Hearts and engines of stormtroopers against the Immensity!) Sottotenente Blanco, raising his voice to be heard over the raucous chorus, asks, “When did you serve with Comel?” “Thirty-six and -seven. I had just been promoted to Sottotenente and assigned to the Rubino.” “That is when you received that?”, as Enzio pointed at the medal hanging on Gasparo’s chest. Hanging conspicuously was a Spanish Cross. “Not much to talk about. We were part of the Sottomarini Legionari. We weren’t very successful. Floated off Tunisia for a while. Didn’t sink a thing. We were very proud when we were awarded these crosses. Believed we were serving our country. Still do. Now, it seems more like we got these just for showing up.” A comfortable silence settled between the two, as they drank their wine, and contemplated the news. Sottotenente Blanco had not been to sea on a combat patrol, before. Tenente Angelini had, and Blanco was curious. Rumors had been heard that Britain ceased all merchant shipping in the Mediterranean. Official news reported Germany had invaded Belgium, Luxembourg, The Netherlands, and France. Last month Germany had invaded Norway. These men knew it was only a matter of time before Italy was drawn into the war between Germany and France and Britain. Sottotenente Blanco was nervous. Not a frightened nervous. A fear of failing nervous. Tenente Angelini could read it all on Enzio’s face. “You will do fine.” Andar pel vasto mar ridendo in faccia a Monna Morte ed al destino ! Colpir e seppellir ogni nemico che s’incontra sul cammino ! E’ così che vive il marinar nel profondo cuor del sonante mar ! Del nemico e dell’avversità se ne infischia perché sa che vincerà!( To go to the vast sea laughing in the face of Monna Morte and fate! Hit and bury every enemy you meet on the way! This is how the mariner lives in the deep heart of the sounding sea! Of the enemy and of adversity he doesn't care because he knows who will win!)
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Post by paukenschlager on Sept 4, 2023 20:44:24 GMT
A thick curtain of cigarette smoke partially hid two men. The civil clothes could only confuse the younger officers or people recently arrived in La Spezia: the two pointy beards at the corner table were the distinguishing feature of the "top two" of Sommergibile Nani. A tweed jacket which had seen better days was wrapped around the diminutive body of Chief Engineer Alletta. Opposite to him, in shirt sleeves in the June heat, was Capitano di Corvetta Ferrante Valeri. - Did you hear anything about who the new Secondo might be?- asked Alletta casually. He knew that, with the winds of war blowing, the thought had been on the Comandante's mind from the moment TV Sasso had stepped off Nani three days before. - I received the telegram from Flotilla Command just before leaving the barracks to get here. They are sending Guidi- - Guidi...- repeated the Chief, as if he was meditating over the name - I sailed with a Guidi few years back, when I was on the «Menotti»... Surely can't be him, he was very young!- - I'm sure he's the same, he was with me on the «Manara» in Spain. Emilio Guidi. Good guy! A little stiff but very professional- replied Valeri A slight movement in the Chief's eyebrows attracted the Comandante's attention. - What's on your mind, Alessio?- he asked. Years of working together, on different boats and through the ranks, had made them understand each other very easily, to the point where people would swear it was a case of telepathy. - No it's just that... You know, it's a pity they couldn't promote Marchetti. He knows the boat inside out, you can't deny he's an excellent Ufficiale alle Armi and he's well liked by the men!- Valeri answered as calmly as he could -Yeah it's frustrating. I made his name to the Chief a couple of times but seems like there's a queue for promotions in the Tenente di Vascello rank- A low sound, halfway between a grunt and a humming sound came out of Alletta's mouth to acknowledge this information.
After a few seconds spent tasting the tobacco of their «Macedonia» cigarettes, the silence was broken by a giggle by the Comandante. - I just remembered that when I was Secondo on the Manara we used to send Guidi - he was just a cadet at the time - on the craziest wild goose chases. Made him look for a "keel plate" in the cook's store, asked him to listen for mating whales at the hydrophones and search for Tomato paste in the Medicine Chest...- - He better keeps his hands off Capo Moscatelli's medical store or he'll spike his coffee with laxatives!- said the Chief with a grin.
As they were about to lit up one more cigarette the door of the Porto di Scalo slammed open and a sergeant with two sailors, with batons hanging from their belts, entered the bar. It was one of the usual patrols lead by a petty officers which were charged with monitoring that all navy personnel outside the boundaries of their bases or ships were behaving themselves. They were common sight in the streets of La Spezia, not as much in a bar that was considered to be for officers. The sergeant, with the mechanical gesture of who had done that before, held a piece of paper in front of him between index and thumb and read aloud: AVVISO, TUTTI I PERMESSI ANNULLATI TUTTO IL PERSONALE DEVE RIFERIRSI IMMEDIATAMENTE ALLE PROPRIE NAVI.
In a matter of seconds, the crowd of officers scrambled about the saloon and the ante-room, looking for caps and jackets. -So it begins... - murmured Valeri so softly that Alletta was in doubt whether he was talking to him or to himself. On exiting in the street, the mild air of that night in June hit them all in the face, bringing them to realise what was afoot: war, glory, adventure! As the group broke down in rivulets of people going towards moored ships or barracks, you could hear the officers wishing each other: -In bocca al lupo!-
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rodmod
Submarine Commander
Posts: 33
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Post by rodmod on Sept 8, 2023 1:14:05 GMT
Capitano di Corvetta Ignazio Nicastro, CO of Evangelista Torricelli, sat alone, nursing a glass of indifferent Chianti. Porto di Scalo was active this evening - a particularly raucous crowd was launching into yet another rendition of the Submarine Song. Ignazio could not help but chuckle at their youthful exuberance, though his smile quickly faded.
He had driven his crew very hard the last few months, with the threat of war looming ever closer. He didn't exactly relish the thought of being labeled a laconic martinet, but that was likely how the crew currently viewed him. "Oh well" he said quietly to himself; "It will hopefully help them when the bullets start flying. At least they won’t be completely green."
It didn't help matters that he had left things with his father in a bad way. Ignazio was from Genoa, the latest in a long line of seafarers. His father, Antoni, now in his 70s, had been a master in the Italian Merchant Marine. The old man also loathed the Fascists with a passion. The last time they had seen each other they had argued. Antoni was convinced that Mussolini would launch Italy into a disastrous war which she was bound to lose. Antoni had sailed alongside the British and French in the Mediterranean during the last war, and knew and respected them. "This coming war" he had told Ignazio, “Will be a national catastrophe." Ignazio had taken umbrage, not out of any particular love for the Fascists (he was at heart a monarchist), but resented the way his father viewed the situation. Ignazio was, after all, destined to be on the frontline when war came. He didn’t need his father’s doom and gloom prognoses fogging his mind.
Through the smoky haze he spied Gasparo Angelini, CO of Foca and a fellow Spanish Cross holder. He decided to stop his solitary brooding and walk over, but as he began to rise, a sergeant flanked by two sailors burst in, and announced in an outside voice that all leave had been canceled, and all personnel were to report to their duty assignments immediately.
Ignazio, now standing, picked up his glass and drained it. Then he grabbed his cap and jacket and walked out into the darkened street. He knew that Torricelli was as shipshape as she could possibly be, moored at her pier and ready for sea. He would soon see if this crew, which he had driven so hard, would be up for the coming trial.
Within hours, Torricelli had slipped her moorings and proceeded into the Mediterranean.
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rodmod
Submarine Commander
Posts: 33
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Post by rodmod on Oct 15, 2023 18:14:00 GMT
November 1940
Nicastro was back at Porto di Scalo, now the veteran of two war patrols. A subtle change had come over the crew of Evangelista Torricelli - molded by active war service and genuine danger, much of the awkward formality was long gone. Joining the CO this evening were his Secondo, Valentino, and Direttore di Macchina, Gentile. The three of them were enjoying some good, Northern Italian beer.
Torricelli had done comparatively well thus far in Italy's "parallel war." Her first patrol had been uneventful - more like a transport mission really - laying mines off Malta. The second patrol was more eventful, and in Nicastro's eyes had justified his faith in his crew and his regimen. All the hard training seemed to have paid off. The British light cruiser which blundered across their path was dispatched with two full salvoes, and topping it off was Torricelli's successful escape from the escorts without damage.
While their own confidence in their ship and shipmates had cautiously grown, the same could not be said for many others. Already there were empty seats at the taverna - the crews of boats who would never come home. Many Italian submarines had already been lost, and the war was only five months old. Was it simply a matter of time for the rest of them?
On the plus side, besides Torricelli's success against the British Royal Navy, several boats in the flotilla could boast of successes which counterbalanced Italian losses. Nani and Foca had both sunk ships, but the most talked of was currently Diaspro, a small Perla class boat, which had sunk a British battleship.
Time would tell if the flotilla could keep up the pressure on the English. Contrary to initial expectations, Britain did not appear ready to throw in the towel anytime soon. At sea, in any event, she was fighting with her usual tenacity and effectiveness. The expected German invasion of the British Isles had not materialized - and by now it was certainly too late in the year. And what of Italy's fortunes in North Africa? News from that front had been disconcertingly quiet. Nani had just been sent on a supply run to Libya - maybe she would have some news on her return?
Contrary to German boasts and Italian hopes, this war seemed like it was likely to last for a long time.
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Post by ChefEd on Nov 22, 2023 14:57:58 GMT
3 APRILE 1941
The Porto di Scalo was emptier than usual. In fact, every month fewer and fewer sailors could be found frequenting the taverna. It was a subtle gradual change but subconsciously recognizable. Until recently. The taverna was quieter. Less singing, fewer fist fights. The quality of birra and vino was deteriorating. The old dirty and stained menus had item after item crossed out.
Ten months ago, on the precipice of war Italy was standing tall and proud. The Mediterranean seas was indeed Mare Nostrum. Her navy was strong and to be feared. Now, after nearly a year of mounting losses and many setbacks, the surface fleet of the Regia Marina spent much of its time in port. The submarine force, however, was constantly at sea. Those submarines that were still seaworthy were being hard-pressed. With fewer surface ships being sent to sea, the submarine force was being leveraged for double duty. Besides their main responsibility of sinking enemy ships and shipping, they were running supplies, a meager trickle at best, to North Africa. More and more submarines were being used to deploy mines, which reduced the number of torpedoes they could carry, thereby reducing their offensive capabilities.
Tenente di vascello Angelini was mulling all of this over. It was unsettling. He, however, did not allow such things to be reflected in his expression. “Tenente, what do you think?” asked his secondo Enzio Blanco. Angelini focused his gaze on Enzio, thinking, ‘He should have his on boat. He has truly earned it. Yet, the Foca would be losing an invaluable cog.’ “Sorry, what?” Enzio whispering his question, “What do you think about the rumors?” “There are so many, these days. Which one?” “That Germany is going to pull our ‘fat out of the fryer’”? “Germany has her own plans. With or without us. I won’t speculate”, Angelini lied.
As the pair continued in their hushed tones, Gasparo noticed members of the Shore Patrol enter the taverna, accompanied by a pair of men in civilian attire. Very well-dressed men. As he listened to Enzio, he watched the two civilians scan the room. The pair momentarily stopped their scan as they met Gasparo’s gaze. Gasparo did not flinch. The pair resumed their perusal of the room. Apparently satisfied, they turned to each other, speaking too quietly to be heard. One turned to the Sergente, and subtlety indicated a table in the far corner of the room. The Sergente nodded in acknowledgement. The two civilians then exited the taverna, as the Shore Patrol headed to the back table.
As Gasparo followed the Shore Patrol with his gaze, “Enzio, how are repairs coming along?” “A few weeks yet, despite the interruptions of air raids, actual and false alarms.” Still watching the Shore patrol, “Any issues with the crew?” Gasparo knew the answer, he was the comandante, after all. He kept a close touch on the pulse of his boat. “They are frustrated, but in decent enough spirits, despite the rumors.” Glancing at Enzio, “Yes. We will need to address that.”
Gasparo returned his view to the Shore Patrol as they reached the back table, and the handful of sailors seated there. In a lowered voice, the Sergente addressed the sailors. Two stood up. The Sergente gestured to the Shore Patrol sailors behind him. The two sailors grabbed their hats and coats and accompanied the Shore Patrol out of the taverna.
Gasparo still maintained his gaze on the Shore Patrol and their charges, the Sergente turned and saluted Gasparo. Gasparo nodded in recognition of the courtesy.
Turning to Enzio, “That is why we need to reign in any rumors, fact or fiction. No doubt those two sailors have been quite glib.” “Oh?”, responded Enzio. "You saw those two civilians who came in with the Shore Patrol?” “Yes.” “Either OVRA* or SIM**, most likely. I highly doubt those men would be involved with sailors for the mundane. Fact or fiction, the rumors about our setbacks in Cyrenaica or East Africa are not good for morale.” “What if they are true?” “We continue to do our duty. We protect our crew, we sink enemy shipping, and we do everything we can to survive while serving our fellow men in uniform.” “You didn’t mention king, country, or party.” “Kings, countries, and parties come and go. The people remain.”
*OVRA (Organizzazione per la Vigilanza e la Repressione dell'Antifascismo) - Fascist **SIM (Servizio Informazioni Militari) - Monarchist
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rodmod
Submarine Commander
Posts: 33
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Post by rodmod on Dec 5, 2023 6:13:37 GMT
July 1941
Porto di Scalo was unusually quiet this evening. Ferdinando Valentino, Samuele De Luca, and Valentino Gentile sat around a small table tucked into the corner. They had gone there out of instinct, and now sat awkwardly nursing their glasses of indifferent Chianti. No one spoke. The last few days had been wearying for them and the rest of the crew of Evangelista Torricelli.
Their Captain, the formidable Ignazio Nicastro, was dead and buried. Honoring their dying leader's wishes, they had brought the body home with them, and he had been given a hero's funeral at his family's plot in Genoa. The three of them had been there. It had been a painful experience - the whole event marred by Ignazio's grief-stricken father, who, with choice words, had turned away the leader of the local Blackshirts when the Fascist had come to eulogize at the grave. The whole scene seemed illustrative of Italy's condition as a whole - now entering the second year of a war that was going badly.
Although it was not official yet, the three of them knew that Ferdinando would be promoted to replace their deceased Comandante, with Samuele likely taking over the Secondo position. For the twenty-nine year old Ferdinando Valentino, it was a daunting prospect. Nicastro had been one of the Regia Marina's more successful submarine skippers, among other things awarded the Silver Medal for sinking a British cruiser off Alexandria. Ferdinando had to contend with the shadow of a formidable man, and has some big shoes to fill. Nicastro had been deeply respected rather than liked, and in contrast to his late Comandante's grave presence, Ferdinando had as Secondo been close with many of the crew and was personally popular. The crew no doubt meant him well, and would be very happy to see their beloved Secondo promoted - the question nagging Ferdinando's brain was how much this familiarity could be a hindrance to effective command.
He knew it was far easier to start out a martinet, and then ease up on the reins as the crew was molded to one's liking. It was far, far more difficult the other way around. And all while having to contend with the ghost of a man some of the simpler, more superstitious members of the crew were convinced still stalked the boat's narrow corridors. Nicastro had been widely considered a source of good luck onboard. Naturally, as a result his death had been elevated to a sort of martyrdom, in which the Comandante, Jesus-like, had given his life so the boat and her crew would be spared.
Time would tell if Torricelli's new Comandante would be capable of replacing - rather than just succeeding - the old one.
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