As I mentioned here earlier, my Air Force assignment in Germany provided plenty of time for me to breeze around Europe. And, like all airmen of any rank, I had a precious perk, a sweet plum that allowed me to fly free on military aircraft throughout Europe. At the time, C-47 cargo planes crisscrossed the continent, transporting equipment between major cities, or at times merely flying from here to there for training purposes. To nab a free ride, I would get permission to travel from my appropriate officer, get orders printed, board the plane, and zip off to wherever.
We weather guys had an inside track to the flight schedules. Our squadron operated in a brick building next to the runways of the airbase, and pilots routinely checked prevailing weather conditions with us before taking off. During those weather briefings, we often learned of later scheduled flights, so we usually were the first to know where flights would be going, and when.
On my first free flight, I soared over the Alps to Rome. Two friends and I had arranged to spend a brief Christmas holiday in Italy. After landing, we found beds in a small pensione, dropped off our duffles, and made a beeline to our first attraction, the Colosseum. It was an adventure that indicated how much my life had changed. For my first nineteen years I had been corralled within the borders of the Dakotas, never getting within a hundred miles of the region’s most popular tourist attraction, Mount Rushmore. And then suddenly poof, here I was at twenty, living in Europe and approaching a Roman structure built not long after the birth of Christ.
The crumbled Colosseum, with less than half of the original amphitheater still standing, was impressive in its faded grandeur, even more so when we walked inside to where the action had been. I gawked around, trying to imagine the place when it had been whole, when it had been packed with Romans cheering lustily as they watched men being battered to death, their fate sealed on the ground where we stood. The area was big enough to absorb a flood of blood. It looked to be about two football fields long and not quite as wide, plenty of space for all the mayhem. I’d read that roughly a thousand humans were killed there each year. So, considering the Colosseum was used for nearly four centuries, it seemed likely that some 400,000 lives had been rubbed out on the ground where I stood. It gave me a creepy feeling.
We flew to the city on December 24th, and, being fully aware of the admonition, when in Rome . . ., we followed a throng late that evening to a midnight mass at the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore. It was the first Catholic mass I ever attended, and the opulent ritual had me scratching my head as it unfolded. Nevertheless, the mysterious goings on intrigued me, and I thought the performance provided a spectacular ending to my Christmas Eve.
My seasonal spirits were sorely tested as we Americans squeezed our way out and descended the crowded stairs. Nearing street level, we were approached by three signorinas who invited us to join them for more earthy celebrations. I’m not sure precisely what it was, perhaps the jarring change in tone, coming as it did so abruptly on the fringe of that holy cathedral, or maybe it was nothing more than a touch of cautious prudery. Whatever the reasons, we spurned their offer.
After a quiet night, we awoke to a warm Christmas morning and took our planned train ride to Naples, going on from there to Pompeii. We arrived shortly before noon and hired a guide to take us through parts of that excavated city. When the guide explained that Vesuvius had erupted and buried Pompeii in 79 A.D., that date meshed with information I’d learned on the previous day, namely that the Roman Colosseum had been completed at almost exactly the same time. Wow! In just two days I had explored a couple of ancient ruins, each illustrating how folks had lived nearly two thousand years earlier. What a great way to absorb history! That may have been when the first smidgen of worldliness seeped through my skin.
After leaving Pompeii, we stopped in Naples for a brief peek at the city before returning to Rome. While in Naples, I purchased a souvenir, my temptation being strong. “Pssst, hey you wannna buy gun?” My friends weren’t interested, but I was curious and asked to see what the man had to offer. He pulled out a small box and opened it. Inside lay a pistol, a classy little Beretta. I took a close look. I liked its heft, its style. It was brand new, and likely stolen I thought, either from the factory or a gun shop. The price was surprisingly low, really cheap. So I pulled out some cash and gave him the money without dickering. I don’t remember what I paid for it, nor do I remember what currency I used, but it definitely was a bargain, and, I knew, a keeper.
I came across that little jewel recently. It had been hiding in a drawer, and I pulled it out for a closer look. The pistol has had little use. I’ve rarely shot it. No more than twenty bullets have ever been fired through its 3 ½ inch barrel, and it looks as sharp as the day I bought it. I looked closely at its markings. It’s a Beretta Model 950 B, chambered for .22 caliber shorts, serial number 648402.
As I held my little souvenir, it began to demonstrate its wizardry by reminding me of that distant day in Naples when I bought it. The little guy didn’t stop there. It dusted off other happenings from my first trip to Italy, and threw into view the incidents I’ve described here. By doing that, I think, my little Beretta demonstrated that it’s not only a fine pistol, but a fine souvenir as well. It easily accomplished what the best souvenirs do. It brought back memories of the time when it was acquired. I can’t ask for more than that.
