(Tale of military life)

After the military service carried out in the most prestigious port of Italy in Porto, the few months of disengagement had passed between the pages of the numerous texts for the competition by Officer Commissioner of the Navy and the usual evenings with friends.

Well, winning the competition I had at least a job and a bit of personal gratification, having managed to emerge from the magma of unemployment after only a few months of inactivity. In the end, even for the Navy and not just for the university, I did not have to be that bad. The same benevolence was reserved to me after the year spent in the Academy, for the military and professional training course, although to my advantage there was certainly the fear, typical of all bureaucracy, of departing from the judgment of the predecessors. In a country where we go forward for recommendations, touching the "head of class" could mean being an enemy of his august and patron saint, although, for what concerns me, mine had the same name used by Ulisse with Polyphemus.

Now, however, I was at my first service destination, my first real boarding!

I had the first demonstration of my inexperience when, to change a light bulb of the on-board housing - or "dressing room", in the marine jargon - I had called the Marshal "Cargo Chief", nothing other than His Excellency " chief storekeeper ", the supreme being of the high and low voltage.

Presenting himself, late, with the grimace of who speaks to you with respect of the degree inversely proportional to the esteem of the person, he reported with the irony that the elder uses with the recruit "he could also call the commander, maybe even interested in him considering the state of the light bulbs in his dressing room".

That time I needed to keep in mind that in all communities there is a system of division of roles and authority that, if you do not learn at school, it is good to learn as soon as possible, in the live lessons, interactive and interdisciplinary that it gives you life.

The ship, the beautiful school ship of the Italian Navy, "the most beautiful ship in the world" as is often indicated by the media (for sailors simply "il Vespucci"), during the period in which I arrived on board was making the final touches in the salon of beauty, as befits beautiful ladies.

In fact, in the four to five months between one campaign and the other, the ship was entrusted with the care of carpenters and skilled mechanic masters to resume appropriate forms and shouts, as with ladies of rank, which make you understand that, of course, time can not be imprisoned, but it can still undergo some precautionary measures.

In spite of the shining beauty of spring and summer, during the months of maintenance, the ship was dirty and slammed, while still letting it see its potential as an enchanting lord. At that time, the staff was condemned to hard work and no immediate complacency, at least until April, when the ship began to sail again, for the setting of the new crew.

As an older Navy ship, it was also the flagship of the Commander in Chief. So, sometimes - and more and more frequently, with the approach of the beautiful season - people were asked to redo the make-up, fully decorated, for some ceremony.

The official colleagues - scoundrels! ... but said with sympathy - had not been slow to insert me in the "scarf shift" of an inspection officer. Entrusted to the care of the oldest officer of the shift, I had received a few but significant directives: "you do it Monday and Wednesday with me until eight o'clock in the evening, then friday starts alone. At 8 in the morning there is the flag-raising ceremony (the commands are "flag-raising!", "Vault!", "Re-entry!") At sunset the ammainabandiera ("ammainabandiera!", "In bando!", "Reentra!") . You have to inform the command center in charge of the precise time and ... attentive, that as an older ship they all regulate themselves. For the crew breakfast at seven, lunch at half, dinner at seven. I got it?"

Here, all here, my complete delivery.

My first "solo" guard saw me as a companion of a reduced crew, for the Christmas license, and of a heavy and continuous rain. Most of the day I passed it, then, under deck, apart from the ceremonies of raising and lowering the flag, but only because to do it indoors I would have to raise and lower the flag using the Christmas tree.

The next guard fell on the day when the chief admiral in charge had arranged, on his "ship, holy mass, with Christmas greetings and exchange of the usual" courtesy of use. "

In the absence of the commander of the ship, the control stick had ended up in the hands of the second commander (commonly called "the Second"), a Genoese little boy, mustached and with the air of the tombeur de femme a little "I would like but I can not". As head of the shop, he had made substantial purchases of gadgets of poor quality, objectively ugly, even of a brutality inversely proportional to the beauty of the owner of the shop from which they were purchased and that, no doubt, used his ascendete as an incentive to purchase.

That day, therefore, the most beautiful ship in the world could use the work of the least sailor inspector in the world, so little salty to avoid even the salt at the table.

The activity of an inspection officer, for those who had the good fortune of counting little or nothing in the economy of the ship, could also be considered a restful activity. Not having much to do in ordinary occupations, the service could also be considered an excellent excuse to escape the little and generally very diluted, work to do. The dismantled and cared-out unit, in fact handed over to the experience of the contractors and the arsenal workers (which the city calls "arsenalotti"), could become the stage on which to entertain recruits in the tales of the naval campaign just ended or, alternatively, a well-heated place, suitable for hospitality, in which to find a corner in which to curl up and rest. For the officers, then, a comfortable place to sit in the most beautiful circle in the world, the "official square", was always there and the beautiful comfortable armchairs were always available to receive even a little gallon.

The repetitiveness of life on board made the unpredictable event extremely remote and warm routine, even if immersed in the cold waters of the north, provided an excellent way for eyelids more and more inclined to clench. However, it was not like that for me. In a Navy that still made cash the sovereign means of payment, being the cashier on board involved a considerable burden and did not allow to ease the pace and the attention, also because, once the cash came out, by mistake, the money they would not have come back, if not passing, like a kind of monopolies, from the way of my pockets. So the inspection officer service was transformed into a small variant of ordinary work in which, in addition to being available for administrative purposes, I also had to be, for that day, the lightning rod of the ship and the perpetual object of the incazzature of the Second because - of course - if something was wrong as it should go, the responsibility did not fall on who the services had to organize them (ie himself) but on who, maybe a few minutes before, had received a bunch of keys, a sealed envelope , together with the privilege of wearing the traditional Savoia blue scarf, until eight o'clock the next day. Ultimately, the day - as far as I was concerned - became a very bad imitation of "games without frontiers" in which the competitor practiced a seemingly simple operation, but with various handicaps, such as a greasy and slippery bottom, buckets of water icy on him, sudden pitfalls, and so on. At least, to say nothing of the handicaps deriving from having to constantly close and reopen the cash desk because it was called upon to carry out important general supervision activities ("Comandà nu 'parcel' and carabiners arrived. What facimm? Callamm or 'nostromo? "- response - "But no, what do you say ... let's call the doctor ...") My handicap was to prevent the scarf from getting stuck in every possible corner of the administrative office, where the cash was found and that, far more risky, to avoid soaking in the frequent passages on deck, for the frequent and unexpected calls of service.

Among these, the clear call of the speaker "the Inspection Officer in the second commander's dressing room!"

I close the cash register, with disappointment, because interrupting the recordings meant that I had to resume an undigested work and always left at the bottom, out of sincere distaste. I put the documents paid in the safe, I close everything (... porcamiseria, the scarf is stuck in the safe!), I close the office and I introduce myself to the "second":

• Commander commands!

• Listen, in an hour the commander in chief will arrive with the guests ...

• Yes, commander, it is on daily deliveries.

• Well, let me know if the Sheikh is outside.

• Commands, Commander! (an idiotic expression, concealed in order not to always seem the one who never knows what happens to him) ...

Every now and then, I said to myself, the chosen profession can present that bit of extra adventure. If I had chosen the profession of sailor, in order to live a less sedentary life and a little more as a privateer, one reason had to be there and, occasionally, some little taste of adventure, to arrive. Great emotions were about to break into my life and this had to be a first modest taste.

After fine-tuning the beautiful uniform, I took a look on the platform of the barcarizzo, peering in the distance (say a hundred yards) trying to see the procession of mercedes o Limo which certainly would have preceded the arrival of the Arab prince. No question (that would have solved the problem without consequences) on what a Muslim Sheikh did to us at a Christmas ceremony in the cold of La Spezia and arriving before the admiral, from which, on the contrary, should he be accompanied or at least received?

It is good that Pope Woytila ​​had started a closer ecumenical dialogue with the Assisi meetings, the climate of relaxation after the cold war is fine, everything is fine, but what the heck, there is a limit to everything! So ... check five, check 10 minutes ... you can not see anyone. "The inspection officer in the second commander's dressing room!"- thunders the speaker.

• Commands, commander. I was out here.

• Finally. Then?

• So what, commander? I would come to report as soon as I saw the cars, commander.

• The machines of what?

• Of the guests, commander.

• But the guests will arrive in half an hour. What have you been doing so far?

• I've been on the barcarizzo to execute your order.

• My order, which one?

• To tell you when the sheikh came.

The description of a laugh is always a problematic fact, worthy of prolonged and assiduous studies, such as those, perhaps less intense, of the experts who have dealt with the interpretation of Lisa's smile. We all know how to laugh, but none of us would be able to describe, if you could see it in a snapshot, your face, your grimaces, in the act of laughing. Every description, even the most accurate, would always leave you unsatisfied. Imagine the pain you feel, even physically, in trying to interpret someone else's laughter. The radio commentators succeed in making the idea of ​​the actions they see unravel on the playing field, to the listeners who, through their voices, make their imagination guide, each one interpreting the image described in his own way. I will try to do the same exercise.

The Second raised his left mustache in an incredulous expression, made even more explicit by the fact that he could not open his mouth in the typical "funnel face" that assume all the unbelievers, because the right side of the mouth housed a Tuscan (lit). So, cigar on the right, lip and mustache slightly raised to the left, a look intent to observe my eyes, which initially expressed the pride of those who expect to be decorated in the field, but slowly declined down, like that of those who , freeing himself from a light, light-hearted needy, on any road milestone, he notices only when two carabinieri are arriving on horseback that the stone is actually a gravestone, that the surrounding area is instead a well-tended garden and that there is no stone on the stone. it is no distance in kilometers, but instead is written, in golden characters, the inscription "To the father of the Fatherland - sacred place".

Summing up the sequence ... look at me ... look at the cigar ... look at me ... look around (looking for witnesses or a possible elf spirit or the camera of "jokes aside") ... look at me. Cigar and looks. Looks and cigar. Growing frowning of the forehead, cigar and look, I begin to make a moderate backward movement, cigar and look ... attention! Hand with a cigar, a shadow of a bib on the right corner of his lips and, slowly, like the rotor of a biplane from the Second World War, pride of the national autarkic industry, slowly ...

• Wow ... Wow ... Wow Wow ... Wow. Uahhahahahaha.

At this point the sergeant of the antecedent secretary command arrived, who had understood, in his consummate cunning of a man accustomed to the gossip of the General Staff, that it was a matter of fact juicy for the comments of radio prora ".

Meanwhile, the Commander continued his Uahhahahahà (with the accent, which is cooler) ... Uah Uah Uah hahahaha...

Time seemed to stop. The ship seemed to me a forest of ears stretched to take every moment of that coarse laugh. I think that the cranes of the military port also stopped their loads, the carabinieri at the entrance made the incoming and outgoing vehicles circulate making the gesture of those who ask only silence. An infinite time condensed in the few seconds that passed between the last Uahhà and the voice of the commander who wondered

• but this is the inspection officer? This here was waiting for the Sheikh to arrive with the car in the parade! Barmy! (I fear that at that precise moment even the earth, to contribute to the utmost silence, stopped rotating on its axis)

I did not know where to look anymore. I chose to look through the windows of the warehouse that could be seen through the porthole of the dressing room.

• The "sceiccco" is the red and blue striped curtain that was to be mounted on the formwork! But who sent this to us? - He turned to the marshal who seemed to mind taking notes to be transcribed on an invisible notebook and that, to the question, winked with the face of those who avoid any responsibility.

The god of the commissioners, after having had fun behind my shoulders, turned to pity and wanted to send me some help. I felt a reddish reflection and I came with a calm, relaxed, aint but firm.

• Commander commands! The tent has been mounted for half an hour, as can be seen from its own porthole. Are there any other commands?

Silence.

Body at attention, heel shot. Behind and away, while in my head they resounded, but with my own voice the words "Fool! Fool! Fool!"

Giuseppe Sfacteria