62. Working for the U.S. Army
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| My dad during World War II |
Since in my article on Lourdes I mentioned that when I worked for the U.S. Army in Vicenza I had a notice at the back of my desk saying “The Impossible We Do At Once, Miracles Take a Little Longer”, which any employee can buy from stationery shops to stave off demanding bosses, brought back memories of those many soldiers I came into daily contact for five years and I thought I’d write an article just in case any of you are out there checking me out! Of course I’ve had to change the names as I didn’t want anyone to be recognized. However, after twenty years I’ll challenge anyone to remember the foils and foibles of those who used to work for
USASETAF!
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| My father’s Medal. |
In November 1999 all 2nd World War soldiers still surviving were to receive a war medal.
My father died 5 days previously to being decorated at the age of 86-
My father died 5 days previously to being decorated at the age of 86-
So I stood in for him.
The photos below show various parts of the ceremony
Authorized Abbreviations Only
Civilians are really baffled by army jargon, and when that’s abbreviated, then it becomes totally incomprehensible to most. However, now and again, there’s some brave soul who even dares ask what it means. Let me tell you about him.
His name was Mr Lovedale- he is now departed- no not dead, it’s a term used to say that a soldier has left the base and gone back home: alternatively we could say separated, which has nothing to do with the first step towards divorce.
After a lifetime making pianos he retired and offered himself as a holocaust to the Army Civil Service and ended up as a Personnel Security Officer in SETAF- Southern European Task Force, which has its base in Vicenza. Naturally, one of his functions was to unobtrusively make annual checks on personnel and make sure they were not signing contracts with the then KGB (Russian equivalent of the CIA) or selling issues of “Outlook” (Vicenza’s Army local newspaper), to the Chinese on a regular basis. This is how Miss Dolcie, The Records Management Officer and my
boss, came to meet the gentleman- he was checking her out and she, alas, caught him at it.
After profusely apologising to Miss Dolcie for being caught at it, he discovered that she was also of a highly willing disposition and furnished him with all the information necessary about her activities which saved him the encumbering task of further investigation. However, even though she was head of the Files and Reproduction Office, (nothing to do with where babies come from, but printing), Miss Dolcie assured him, there was not a great deal of what she knew that would interest the enemy. So grateful was he, that to show his appreciation for her profound openness, he, in turn, revealed all there was to be known about himself.
Unlike Miss Dolcie, who for a lifetime of thirty years had worked for the SETAF Military in a position of Third National; which meant she was neither a First National- American, a Second National- Italian (the nationality on whose soil the base is found), but she was British, he confessed that before such a proven veteran he felt a mere novice and had been employed just over three months by the Army M.I. that is, Military Intelligence. Not called so because they are more intellectual than other branches in the army, but because anyone who can keep a secret has to be of a superior intelligence- or so Miss Dolcie was fond to say. He also confessed, since she was British he took the opportunity to say, that he had recently taken a five day leave to England with the aim of tracing his ancestors.
“They were piano makers,” he told Miss Dolcie and Miss Dolcie was particularly interested now that she knew he came from such distinguished background.
“What part of the country are they from? she asked.
“Lancashire. That was where my great, great grandfather came from.” Miss Dolcie eyed him closely.
“That must have been a long time ago,” she said finally concluding Mr Loveday must have been close to touching a century himself. “And what were your findings?”
“Hopeful at first,” Mr Lovedale said, “I was able to trace a Lovedale in a town called Bury.
“But was it one of yours… there must be a number of Lovedales in England.”
“Oh yes,” Mr Lovedale agreed, “the telephone directory was full of them.”
“Then of course, after so many years they may have changed location, profession even,” Miss Dolcie continued. “It’s not said that if you’re born a piano maker you’ll die one,” she looked at Mr Lovedale disapprovingly, “after all, you didn’t.”
“That’s perfectly correct,” Mr Lovedale said hanging his head like a repentant school child, “however, I was probably the only traitor in the whole of the Lovedale clan. I don’t think my Lovedales would have changed their profession, still less their location- you see, they were true British, unwavering in their enterprises…” He shook his head gravely, “No, my Lovedales would never have done anything so treasonable as to b
ecome Americans.”
Miss Dolcie smiled with satisfaction at his last remark. She felt there was something laudable in what Mr Lovedale had said. A solid British family would be staunchly faithful to home, country and profession- a blacksmith would always be a blacksmith, so would a tanner, not to mention a piano maker. If Mr Lovedale’s family survived they would be piano makers and in Lancashire, of that she was quite sure.
“In that case, it couldn’t have been all that hard to have found them.” Miss Dolcie said.
“No, it wasn’t, in fact it was very easy. All I had to do was look under ‘Pianos’ and I found all that I wanted.”
“Yes?” Miss Dolcie incited, “What exactly did you find?”
“Lovedale, Lovedale and Lovedale and Son.” He looked uneasy.
“I guess, there was no mistake about that, was there?”
“Mistake…” he repeated puffing away gravely on his pipe. “No, no mistake, but I was left very disappointed.”
“Why? You found them, didn’t you? And they were piano makers, weren’t they?”
“Not exactly,” Mr Lovedale said hesitatingly.
“Not piano makers?” Miss Dolcie’s expression started to seriously give signs of preoccupation. “What were they then?”
“Piano tuners,” Mr Lovedale admitted regrettably. A frown spread across her forehead.
“Piano tuners!” she said, “well really, how disgusting!”
“I knew you wouldn’t approve,” Mr Lovedale said appeasing, “But it isn’t all that bad… it is almost like being piano makers.”
“It’s a big ‘almost!’” Miss Dolcie said repugnantly, still feeling humiliated by her nationals’ frivolousness.
“The important thing,” Mr Lovedale said in an amiable tone, “was that I found them, and I knew immediately, in spite of that … er… what shall we call it… slight divergence to family tradition, that they were beyond any shadow of doubt the Lovedale’s of my great, great grandfather.” By this time Miss Dolcie had recovered enough enthusiasm to say,
“It must have been something… after so many generations…”
“Yes,” Mr Lovedale said placidly, “it was something.” He stopped and puffed on his pipe again. “It was something,” he repeated.
“Yes?” Miss Dolcie said somewhat impatiently.
“As I said, I was looking through the ‘Yellow Pages’, and although these particular Lovedales listed were only piano tuners, I knew they could not have been the butcher Lovedales , nor the coal merchants Lovedale… so I rang up the piano tuners Lovedales…”
“Yes… yes…” Miss Dolcie’s patience was now getting very thin, “what did you say?”
“I said, ‘Is that Lovedale, Lovedale and Lovedale and Son?” He paused, “it was a woman who answered, I should say quite elderly too, and she said ‘Yes.’ So I told her I was a Lovedale too, from the States.” At this point Miss Dolcie was adamant in knowing the rest.
“And what did she say?” Mr Lovedale puffed placidly on his pipe and grinned slightly.
“She called across the room to someone and said, ‘There’s an old boy here from the Colonies, who wants to talk to you!’”
"The Colonies!” Miss Dolcie was disgusted, working thirty years for the US Army, she did not want to be referred to as "one of the colonies!"
When Mr Lovedale told me about his adventure in England, he was grinning mischievously; not so much because he was passed off as ‘The Old Colonial Boy’, but because it was too much for Miss Dolcie to take, she had never formally accepted that the British lost the War of Independence. “However,” Mr Lovedale said, “I suppose I must have laid it on thick that day, and she doesn’t really deserve it, Miss Dolcie is a splendid worker- she had helped me so much with labeling my files.”
“Had?” I asked, “Does she not do it anymore?” Mr Lovedale puffed on his pipe in silence.
“I think I owe her an apology,” he said at last.
I couldn’t imagine Mr Lovedale ever being rude, he was a perfect gentleman. “Did you do something you shouldn’t have done?” I asked. He continued to puff on his pipe.
“Let’s say there was a little misunderstanding.” He paused, “it is such a little, stupid thing… I really am ashamed of myself,” and he muttered away quietly to himself. “Come to think about it,” he said, “Ms Dolcie would never do a thing like that, simply never!” he insisted.
“What thing is that?” I asked.
“A dear woman like that, no...” he said totally ignoring my question. “She would never do anything of the sort!”
“What is it?” I asked now getting quite frustrated.
“Well,” Mr Lovedale took a deep breath, “Not long after I told Miss Dolcie about my British relatives, an episode which left Miss Dolcie truly mortified, our office was due for its IG (Inspector General). I had never been any good at files, understanding all those abbreviations… TAFFS… PAF and PIF…”
“The Army Functional Files System, is TAFFS,” I said with a smile and PAF means Place in an Active file and the other is vice-versa.”
“Well, whatever,” he said not really taking much notice of my diligent explanation, “I was seized by panic… one of my weakness, you know… files, I mean. So, as your office houses the experts on the matter I asked Miss Dolcie to come and give me a hand in placing the files in order, which she promptly did.
Didn’t she do her work well?” I asked still puzzled. He remained silent for a while.
“She did a lot of scribbling in pencil over the labels,” he said at last.
“Probably because they were labelled wrongly. It’s our job to correct the labels as set out in the AR (Army Regulation) 340-50. You weren’t offended because of that, now were you?” He didn’t answer but continued to look confused as he forced a painful smile.
“I understand that,” he said as he beckoned me to follow him towards the grey filing cabinet. “Look!” he urged as he slid open the top draw. “She took her revenge… I never really thought Miss Dolcie could do such a thing… she is such a dear lady… English too.”
Look as hard as I did, yet I could not find anything that could cause so much distress.
“Can’t you see?” he said at last.
Look as hard as I did, yet I could not find anything that could cause so much distress.
“Can’t you see?” he said at last.
“No, see, what?”
“Miss Dolcie has written ‘PIS’ on my files! There it is… ‘PIS’ on every single one of my files!” he paused. “And what’s more,” he continued, his puffy cheeks getting redder, “she’s even added comments, rude comments… take this for instance,” he pulled out a manila coloured folder,
“PIS when no longer needed…
and this one, PIS when superseded…
and this, PIS when cut off… really!”
He was exasperated. But for me, there was no way I could retain my laughter.
“Mr Lovedale,” I began when I recovered, “that is not an S– that is an F and it says PIF which means ‘Place In An Inactive File’, when the file is superseded, cut off, or no longer needed… the file, Mr Lovedale, not anything else,” I specified.
“There is no PIS in AR 340-50,” I said reassuringly.
He vigorously wiped his glasses on a G.I. which is not a soldier but a ‘Government Issue,’ which means it was handed out by the SP5 at G4 and not purchased at the PX… in other words, he wiped his glasses on a paper tissue issued free by a soldier stationed at Supplies and not a ‘Kleenex’ purchased at the Store on Post.
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| A ceremony Just after World War II |
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By Eva Ulian: Impressionist Painter- Writer
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