Could you please narrate to us yet another war episode? You could perhaps try to include even the difficult moments - you probably will have seen planes falling out of the sky I should imagine…

Well, yes, in fact I did: alright, now I will tell you; I will narrate to you a… That other mission there, during that very mission that I flew - the same one that I narrated before - there were five planes carrying five flight lieutenants. Of these five officials, in a very short while, I was the only one that remained, because they had all been shot down, one plane after another; and I don't mean to say they were the only ones, but they, and many others…

Another of the missions that, I would say, was rather a fool's errand and similar to the one I previously narrated, was one of those days in which we took off in a formation of five planes - always from Elkmimi - for a raid on Marsa Matruk. Marsa Matruk was situated on the Northern coast… on the Egyptian coast… and was an immense depot centre for all the equipment and personnel that was used for supplying the entire North African group of English forces. It was really huge: thousands of shelters, of depots… And so, every now and then, when there wasn't anything more important to do, we would depart for an air raid on Marsa Matruk: five of us would then leave the base; head out to the open sea, in order to avoid being picked up by the radar; make a turn to the right, once we were almost over-flying Marsa Matruk; zoom directly onto our target, and abandoned ourselves to the verdict of destiny!

Well, on one of these days, the first of the five planes of our formation had to return to the base due to engine failure just after we had taken-off, and so our number dropped to four. After a while, another plane was forced to do the same, and, further on, this too was followed by yet another plane that had a mechanical failure… Well, for understandable reasons soon there were only two of us left. Now, since one of the crew members of the plane that was flying in front of us was higher ranking than I myself would be, he automatically became the formation leader; head of the duo. However, when we had reached the point in which we were to turn right over Marsa Matruk, this other plane ran into engine problems as well - do you notice this strange coincidence? Well, at times we had had as many as four planes, out of five, being affected by engine problems! And so this other plane had to turn back otherwise it would have gone straight into the drink! No, they really couldn't have continued.

Consequently, I now found myself left all alone: and what is it that I was supposed to do? I could even have chosen to return to the base: for what reason did I have to face all those fighters that were always there to provide escort from above? And, it really took nothing more than the error of trying to get near for them to identify you and… lash you up for as long as they had the energy to do so. After this, you still had the reaction of the anti-aircraft batteries against one single plane to cope with; that is, the firepower of the whole lot of anti-aircraft guns concentrated on just one single tiny target of a plane, instead of a large formation…!

It was, therefore, an enormously risky business; something that would have completely justified my having returned to the base if I had done so. But, nevertheless, having had to come this far, seeing that Marsa Matruk was right there below us at that precise moment, and knowing that I had the bombs: well, just the same old story; no one cared, nobody felt bothered any more about having to take risks. Because it was always risky, be it night or day, and no matter whether one was in the air or on the ground. And very soon nobody felt bothered about this any more - to put it in a nutshell, it was just ordinary business!

What followed was therefore quite obvious: I simply said to my crew members, 'let's go boys!' and, as was usual, they all agreed. So what did I do then; I set course straight towards the target. But no sooner had I done this, than I heard them shouting across to me, 'watch-out! Here comes a fighter…!'

What had happened? Well, the fighter they employed was the "Orichendi" (Hurricane): a slightly faster plane than ours, and armed with six machine-guns that were mounted on the wings - and despite the fact that these were of small calibre, there still were six of them! Now, when you are aboard an aeroplane and have six machine-guns blazing away at you, it makes very little difference whether they are of small or big calibre!

So, what had happened? It had happened that an English fighter aircraft that was providing overhead escort, having noticed our plane as it approached, had immediately nose-dived and caught up with us… Aboard this fighter there must have been a courageous, intelligent, and well trained pilot, since he was at once able to understand that our plane, the S-79, had an Achilles' heel constituted by a triangle below the tail: a dead zone at which it was impossible to fire with any of our machine-guns since it was formed by the flattened triangular structure of the tail. And, intelligent as he was, in order to avoid this thing… Our machine-gun was equipped with a limiting device, such that it could fire in all directions, but had to skip the tail triangle when it got there. This pilot had understood what the situation was, and was therefore able to perfectly insert himself in the space provided by the tail triangle; the dead zone beneath the tail where he could remain for the entire period of time that he would desire, and fire bursts at us for as long as he could… I had become conscious of this menacing presence only because they had told me we were being attacked by a fighter, but could hear no reaction from our part. And since I kept going straight ahead, I had absolutely no idea about what was taking place in the hindquarters.

By this time we had got so terribly close to the target, in the direction of which I steadily continued. All of a sudden there appeared, from down beneath me, a burst of tracer bullets coming from the fighter aircraft behind. This burst of six tracers whizzed past below me at a span of just one or two metres - really close! Almost immediately I started asking myself, "why the devil doesn't our machine-gunner respond?" Soon after this came the second burst which passed slightly above our plane; but there still wasn't any response from us. What was happening? This guy here hadn't been lucky enough with his first burst simply because he had aimed it a little bit lower; and, similarly, even with the second because he had aimed it a little bit higher. And so I said, "now he will try with the third burst, and this time he won't miss!" It was while I was busy, absorbed in this particular thought, that I suddenly heard the unmistakable burst of our 12/7 coming from the turret. Instantly, the man at the machine-gun, an excellent first airman and gunner coming from Palermo, exclaimed, "got him! He's ablaze!"

What had actually taken place was that our gunner, having realised that this guy who was safely hiding away in the dead zone had all the time he needed to bring us down, had unscrewed the limiting device and very daringly let off a burst of machine-gun fire in the direction of the triangular tail structure. And he was really lucky because the burst he released hadn't even touched our tail structure, but had instead been able to score a direct hit at the aircraft behind - which, on its part, after having previously made a careful assessment of the situation, was still convinced it would be perfectly out of reach. Well, it was shot down, and I believe the pilot must have ejected with the help of his parachute - even if I don't remember this last detail quite clearly. Anyhow, the fighter did go down in flames, and as a result of this I was granted, yet again, the opportunity of pounding them up with my bombs - regardless of the hell that was let loose at me by those anti-aircraft guns from below, and so forth… Well, I came out of it without even a scratch: the counter-magnetic device had been efficient in repelling the bursts released by the machine-guns and the explosion of the anti-aircraft shells. I had managed to survive, and was able to go back home, peaceful and blessed. Well, this was one of those episodes.

Then there would still be another one, which actually has nothing to do with the war. It wasn't a military action but an event that it would be worthy to narrate, if you should agree… As I was saying, there were many pilots who would try, do everything that was possible to fly with me in order to learn something, since they were either young or lacked experience… Well, there was something, according to them; they had something to learn from me that they couldn't learn from anybody else. As so, there were many of them who wanted to fly with me. However, I myself was already component of a permanent crew, along with a brilliant, good-hearted second-lieutenant coming from Abruzzo, who, in his turn, was always happy to fly with me - we were indeed a permanent crew. But there also happened to be this other second lieutenant coming from Naples, who instead really wanted to learn a few things he didn't know. He therefore contacted my second-lieutenant saying, 'why can't we change places during the first flight out?' And so the two of them struck a deal.

There were two planes that had to be taken from Elkmimi, where we actually were, to Tripoli, where they would undergo general overhauling since they had been slightly damaged and were becoming rather worn out… In fact, whenever these flights were available we would always use them as an opportunity to get the more exhausted from among the personnel - those who needed it most or simply someone who had worked hardest, and so on - and send them for a ten or fifteen day leave to Tripoli. They went on leave only by approximation of course, even though always far enough from the war front.

And so, when these two gentlemen had finished talking to each other, I said, 'OK! After you are agreed about what to do, get the approval of the first pilot of the other plane, then go to the commander and ask him for authorisation: it makes absolutely no difference to me whichever of you will eventually come with me.' Consequently, the two of them got agreed and switched places: the one who was a fixed crew member with the other pilot came with me, and the one who was a fixed crew member with me went with the other pilot. There were two of us as pilots, and five other specialists who also were going to get some rest. There were seven of us per aeroplane, and each plane was equipped with seven life jackets, seven parachutes, and everything else for seven people: everybody had to save his…

Then it was time to start-up the engines. Now, since we were in an area that was right in the middle of the desert, and therefore very hot, we had to be careful not to overheat the engines otherwise it would become too dangerous: so it became necessary to simply start-up, taxi right up to the departure line and take-off at once, without any further delay. And so, just as I was starting to break clear of the parking space, with my engines already going…, a man came running towards us from the distance with a piece of paper in his hands… The guy had been granted leave and the permission to depart at the very last moment, and had therefore decided to board my plane. At the precise moment in which this took place, nobody could have paid attention - given the hurry, the urgency and the exceptional nature of the situation - to whether this guy had carried a parachute and a life-vest with him or not… it was necessary to leave immediately, and so it didn't occur to anybody to check this stuff; we simply moved out!

We headed towards the departure line, with the other plane as squadron leader, and mine following suit at a distance of about a hundred metres. Soon after we had taken-off in duo formation, however, I noticed that my squadron leader was gaining neither altitude nor speed, but was instead losing. Instinctively, I gradually pushed down the throttle lever and tried to slow down; but at the end had to give up because I became aware that slowing down any further would have caused my engines to stall. It was then that I really realised this guy was in a very tight situation. I immediately decided to go up higher in order to give him way so that he would be able to turn to the right or to the left and effect all the manoeuvres he needed: I nosed up, opened the throttle and circled around; but this guy could still do nothing apart from continuing to glide along - it was obviously engine failure!

Ultimately he was forced to do an emergency landing; filled right up to the brim with fuel for the long journey to Tripoli as his plane was… He crash-landed without undercarriage, and the plane burst into flames. Of the seven of them who were aboard, six were unable to move even just one inch and were burnt to death, trapped in the flaming wreckage.

The flight-engineer, who was under the turret, had instead been able to jump out through the turret, but, nevertheless, had unfortunately touched down on the wrong side of the plane, where one of the fuel tanks was already in flames. He had fallen right in the middle of this, and had ended up thoroughly drenched with fuel: the burning torch into which he was instantly transformed took not more than five or six steps ahead before collapsing in a heap…

They were all dead! Now, try to imagine for yourselves what kind of thoughts must have crossed the mind of my second pilot. That place was actually supposed to have been his; and it was therefore really lucky of him to have had the opportunity to swap it for this one - in this way, it was then the other guy who had died: nothing but a terrible coincidence, with nobody to blame for anything.

I circled a number of times as I waited for instructions from the ground. They signalled saying I could continue and I therefore proceeded on my way to Tripoli. I had flown across Cyrenaica and was now about to leave the Gulf of Syrtis, just about a hundred kilometres away from the coast, when, at a certain point, the fire warning signal for the left engine suddenly came on. There was the distinct stench of something burning: and it took an eye's blink before the whole lot of us was at alert! Well, even though it now takes me minutes to narrate this to you, then it seriously was a question of just a few seconds!

I checked the left engine but there was not even a sign: I could see neither smoke nor anything else, and it seemed to me that everything, including the instrument panel, was functioning normally. The flight-engineer himself made a rapid assessment and, well… everything was in place - apart from the stench of combustion and this indicator that continued signalling a fire in the left engine, naturally. Moments after having carried out this general check-up - I am really talking of moments and not even seconds - I ordered everyone to put on their parachutes and life jackets; and only then did it finally occur to me that the last man to get on board, the eighth… I recalled he had arrived without a parachute. And so? And so… a ship's captain at that time - nowadays things have changed… in those days a ship's captain would be the last person to disembark, and the last to receive help. And therefore this is exactly what I myself did: I unfastened my parachute and handed it to this guy; I had to deprive myself of it because this was what I was expected to do.

Following this, I immediately swung the plane towards the Syrtic coast - going into a nose-dive as I did so - in an attempt to see if it would be possible for me to effect an emergency landing. In the meantime, I was waiting to see what would happen, and to understand what had really happened: after having checked this and that part everything was functioning perfectly well; even though that stench of burning which had set off the alarm still persisted. It was later discovered that the accumulator which powered the wireless-set had been excessively topped up with acid - accumulators were quite different in those days - and this had caused a spill-over… well, the acid had then entered into contact with a rubber insulated wire; and due to the corroding effect of the acid, the wire had began to emanate that stench of something that was being burnt up, but which actually wasn't a fire at all! Naturally, nobody could have known all this: the fire warning indicator that was displaying a red light - something that had never happened to me before this - and that unmistakable stench of combustion were all signals that there was a fire on board!

After this I took the plane back to its original course and we continued on our way. Nevertheless, you can probably guess what the atmosphere on board was like; and especially the state of mind of that poor guy seated next to me, who would have had to be aboard the plane that had crashed previously… His had truly been a lucky escape: but now here he was again, faced by the threat of probably being burnt to death in a different manner. These are things one can imagine to exist only from a remote distance…

Well, on this occasion things had a happy ending for us - which unfortunately wasn't the case for the others. Things ended up well from our side: I was able to arrive safely in Tripoli, and this is where our scheduled flight ended, as it were… nothing but just one of the many cases that could be narrated.

Coming back to the purpose of this same interview, I believe that to those, from among the youth, who are able to understand, reflect, and dedicate themselves to trying to understand, imagine and momentarily put themselves in the situation of this other guy… I think that listening to these things could be useful in providing them with a certain sense of will power. This would mean being able to resist to the temptation of giving in when things seem to be hopelessly out of control; but which, in fact, is but a false assessment, because it might still be possible to find a remedy to a difficult situation even at the very last moment. "Determination and will power" this is what I said even in, let's call them, "my little memoirs for family use…" As a matter of fact, someone who came before me had said, "Wanting to, is being able to!" He had said this before I even came into existence, and it is therefore from him that I myself had learnt that, "wanting to, is being able to." I was then able to put this little phrase into practice; and, consequently, it is also owing to this same belief that I am still here today, and that nothing of all the terrible things that could have happened to me did actually ever take place. The youth would really do well to reflect about these issues: arming themselves with a strong character and will power and, with the help of this, being able to boldly proceed in facing the challenges of life. Otherwise they will discover at their own risk and peril, that in the ordinary everyday world - and not only in the "military" world but even in the so called "civil" one - it is always necessary to decide and to insist - and with a lot of sacrifice at times!

In what sense?

Well, sure thing! In fact, I continued to be one: I spent thirty-six years of my life in the Air Force…

Well, after the war had ended I lived… of course… I was very disappointed about how things had gone, because I certainly couldn't have been happy about having lost - that my country would have lost the war. I had done my duty; I believe and hope, just like many others. I had done it willingly and, of course, when the war ended I just said, "well, things didn't work out". There was nothing more I could do: I wasn't qualified then, and still am not qualified today, to judge whether it was right or wrong; these are things that do not… about which we currently cannot talk. They are things that eventually have to do with other people or other issues… Nevertheless, when the war ended - I was quite naturally disappointed because it had ended in a miserable way - I went back home and waited: I waited to be called back to service. And they actually did call me back: they, how do you say, made an assessment of my behaviour before the war and also during the war; and not only as a pilot but even in the general context of the war, at home and with the partisans. Nobody had ever had anything to reproach about my actions; my behaviour had quite evidently been that which it would have had to be. I was therefore re-deployed in 1950, after having been at disposal without knowing what could have happened up till then.

And so I was re-deployed in 1950 and in the Air Force yet again. But obviously, considering the period of time that had passed, and that economic conditions in Italy were what they actually ware by then, the number of aircraft available was reduced to nothingness, and therefore talking of flying was just as good as wishful thinking. And as for me, the end of the war practically marked the end of… let’s call it the significant period of my life in the Air Force, as it were. And after this, things simply continued in the same way until the thirty-sixth year of service. I had just turned fifty-six, an age beyond which I couldn’t have stayed on as a pilot. Of course, I could have taken on other tasks that did not involve flying, but then I thought, "staying on for five more years to perform tasks that don’t involve flying, and being there just to see my friends and younger colleagues fly away while I am left on the ground to watch them as they go, doesn’t really appeal to me." And so I said to myself, "no, I will retire"; and from that moment onwards, all I did was to try to completely alienate myself in order to avoid suffering from, let’s say, the nostalgia of being airborne. I therefore completely cut myself off from the Air Force environment, and this went on until quite recently. Fortunately, my age now guarantees me some immunity against nostalgia for the good old days, and this has made it possible for me to once more approach…

Not at all! So it is as if… now, let's leave aeroplanes apart. Let's consider cars instead, since these are more familiar to everybody. With the cars of today, one just goes! It is enough to have it undergo regular maintenance to keep it always functioning: it never happens that one would be forced to stop while he's on his way and have to be towed away due to an engine failure. With the cars of those days, as you must already know, it used to happen at times that one would have a sudden engine failure while peacefully travelling along the road. He would then pull up to the side of the road and wait for either someone who could tow him away, or for the local mechanic. In those days vehicles were not as perfect as they are nowadays: today's technology and sophistication, in fact, are absolutely beyond comparison. The means of those days were always subject to failures and break downs; and this would occur in circumstances one was never able to guess - even when it was downright inconvenient - and not exclusively when a plane was worn out. This too is what used to happen very frequently before the war. Then, the planes that were flown were old ones, owing to the fact that there were but a few of them - and which, in its turn, consequently led to their being over-utilised, and so on. This, however, was still the same situation even afterwards, and it was therefore quite normal that having an engine failure would be the rule. On the contrary, nowadays such things never happen.

I really wouldn't say so. We had machine-guns on board for defensive purposes, and these were specifically attended to by gunners, as part of the crew, and not by the pilots themselves. The pilots only had to concentrate on piloting, and so even the other things had their own professionals: there was a flight engineer, a gunner and a radio operator. Let's say things were arranged in such a way that each plane would have its own machine-gun and, in case of necessity, be capable of defending itself.

Let me see: there were two pilots… Well, I flew alone on several occasions even if non of these were actually bombing missions. It was possible to have only one pilot on board during a flight; but then it was equally important to have aboard also the flight engineer at least, because the lever for changing the pitch of the propeller, for example, was out of the pilot's reach. Consequently, it became a necessity that the flight-engineer would change the pitch of the propeller from behind, and therefore the smallest crew imaginable was made up of at least two people. So there was the flight-engineer - who was indispensable - and then the radio operator or the gunner, the assembler or probably some other person, to put it in short: there were normally four… there were four of us on board, and then perhaps eventually five, whenever it would be necessary.

And the plane was the S-68, the so-called "damned hunchback", as the English used to term it. This was because at that time, in spite of all the defects it might have had in comparison to the planes of today - in those days it was a wonderful plane! It was a plane that possessed a remarkably great potential of good performance. Ironically enough, this was probably owed to its same defects, which would then have the effect of making one feel highly motivated towards being able to improvise remedies and keep moving on. It was named the "damned hunchback" by the English due to both the huge amount of destruction it caused during bombing raids and the losses it inflicted on their fighter planes each time they were forced to attack us - that is to say, whenever these would come within firing range of our 12/7 calibre machine-guns which were actually more powerful than the 6/6 calibre ones which they themselves or some of the others were equipped with. These 12/7 were really devastating and could only spell disaster for them. So they named it "the damned hunchback" exactly due to the fact that it was an enormous plane. And if they could they would have willingly cancelled this particular plane from the skies rather than some other model.

Any other things you wanted to know about this aircraft?

Oh dear! There would be quite many… Do you want me to tell you about our bombing raid over Malta? Well then, the few of us who were left had returned from North Africa after having been away for three months. Of the entire 33^rd Bomber Group that had been based in North Africa, only a handful of us had remained - the rest had either been reported missing or had died!

And so we came back to Viterbo; the few of us, which was all that was left of the 33^rd Group, together with yet another tiny group, which was all that had remained of what was formerly the 10^th Group that had been based at Derna, which was also in Cyrenaica. Those of us who were the remnants of our group went to Viterbo along with those who were the remnants of the other group. Once we were there, we then teamed up to constitute the New 10^th Bomber Group! With new planes, new personnel, and everything back in place, we were then able, after a period of training, to resume our operations even though we were still supposed have been on the so-called period of leave. We flew on bombing missions against the fleet that had gathered on the other side of Sardinia and Corsica, and following this we then went to Sicily, to Sciacca; to Sciacca where there wasn't any airport but merely a clearing, and just that; and… Here it would be necessary to narrate other stories about how flying in Sciacca was, but let's just skip this part otherwise the whole thing becomes too long… Well, there simply wasn't anything out there; there wasn't even a damned windsock - which was something left out quite deliberately so that the English wouldn't be able to discover us. And, in fact, we were never discovered by the English, never sighted by them, and therefore never bombarded.

From Sciacca - that is to say from Sicily, from the airport of Sciacca - we always flew on missions over the Central Mediterranean area whenever there would be convoys passing, and so forth.

Naturally, after this lay Malta, barely at a stone's throw from us. And so when there wasn't anything particularly important to be done, we would take turns making a quick call there: one now, and another later, by day or by night.

Then one day the time for an all out Italian-German air offensive over Malta finally arrived; and with this came a dreadful escalation of the combat situation over the island, involving both those who flew in the bombing missions and the English who did their best to defend themselves from the ground. The bombing operations were normally carried out during night, because during the day it was easy to be spotted and attacked by the fighter planes that were constantly there in the air. We would therefore fly by night, and in alternate solitary missions. After taking off from Sciacca one would usually head southwards within the area of the second and third perimeters that lay south of Malta, and in the meantime constantly continue changing his expected flight path for the attack in order to try to somehow disorientate the enemy. Having reached a certain point, one would then zero-in on Malta and proceed to bombard the military bases of Alfar and Micabba, in the first place. The port of Valletta would then follow these, and eventually by any other target that would be considered worth pounding.

It then happened that the English decided to install a searchlight right there in the area of the port… for the purpose of spotting planes in the dark: a beam of light that it would seem to me could cover, I don't know, a distance of about nine kilometres, and was stronger than anything one might have ever seen before it, and perhaps even after!

This searchlight was truly bad news, because once it picked you out you already knew there wasn't anything more you could do… None of those who had ever been spotted by it had then been able to escape from its powerful beam, even because it was manoeuvred by highly experienced personnel. And once the poor devils had been hopelessly trapped by the searchlight, the fighter pilot on patrol had then had an easy and illuminated target, and proceeded to shoot them down at his will and pleasure.

It therefore became necessary for us to get rid of the bloody searchlight; even though the question then became how much probability there was in scoring a direct hit by night, at a physically minute target like a searchlight.

And so it came to be, that on one of those nights, my turn to take a go at it finally arrived. I came to the point at which I had to deviate and set course towards the zone in which the searchlight was situated and, moments later, I was already within striking range… I had barely had the time to cast a quick glance at the multitude of searchlights, dominated by this particular one, as they swept the night sky, when its penetrating beam suddenly locked up on me!

However, and quite luckily as it were, this had happened only moments after we had already sent the bombs we had been loaded with to their destination. Having released our load, we had nevertheless been picked out by this searchlight, and we therefore knew we had nothing else to do but wait for the burst from the fighter that was coming for us. This dreadful moment - which was dreadful indeed, since it was a matter of life or death - lasted for just a few seconds; which was all the time the bombs released by my plane needed to get to their target - one of these bombs, in fact, ended up right dead on the searchlight! Naturally, this was but purely casual, considering the fact that aiming at the target in such cases would mean nothing more than a, "let's hope this will work!".

So there it was: one of my bombs had been able to find its way directly to the searchlight and snuff it out; the fighter was consequently unable to see me in the dark, and that is how I had managed to survive on this occasion. Otherwise what would have happened? Well, I would have winded-up the same way my predecessors did after having been spotted by the searchlight: I would have been condemned to go through the same agony, after which I too would have been shot down. This has nothing to do with one's personal capability: it simply boils down to having been luckier!

Very well, thank you very much; it has been really fortunate… can I ask just one question…?