Venice: I am not making this up

Garden of the Forgotten Venetians: Victory Column (part 3): Premuda and Pola

October 16, 2019 No Comments

This is the Victory Column at the entrance to the Giardini Pubblici, but what it represents is bigger than all of us.

Lately I’ve set aside the subject of Italian naval triumphs in World War 1, but I can’t conclude my exegesis of Thaon de Revel’s document on the Victory Column without mentioning two of the most prodigious Italian naval exploits. It may not surprise you to learn that the extraordinary Luigi Rizzo was involved in the biggest one of all: The “Impresa di Premuda.” There is a reason why he came to be nicknamed “L’affondatore” (the Sinker, as in: He Who Sends Ships to the Bottom).

I’m not proposing that we dwell on the past, nor that we conduct a ceremony every day, but some things deserve to be stored somewhere further forward in our brains.

Third Exploit: The “Impresa di Premuda.” After the Beffa di Buccari, Luigi Rizzo was promoted to capitano di corvetta (lieutenant commander in US naval rank) and went back to his normal military duties. I doubt, though, that he gave any thought to his next assignment, or that it would launch him to more fame, more medals, and the establishing of the date, June 10, as the annual Navy Day. All this happened near Premuda, a Croatian island northwest of Zadar.

To set the scene: If the Italian navy had spent months patrolling the Adriatic without encountering an enemy ship, as per the remark on the Column, the Austro-Hungarian navy (I’ll just call it Austrian, for simplicity) hadn’t been much more productive.

The Allied forces had created a blockade across the Otranto Channel in 1915, and it effectively trapped the Austrians, keeping their 119 warships out of the action in the Mediterranean. (I will anticipate military experts’ comments by saying I’m aware that submarines were able to elude the blockade and were annoyingly effective at disrupting shipping. But both sides wanted to see something more decisive occur.)

On March 1, 1918, Admiral Miklos Horthy assumed command of the Austrian fleet; Thaon de Revel, the Italian admiral, correctly perceived this change as signifying some new plans, and that they would almost certainly have something to do with the blockade.

The yellow blob is Premuda, and the red arrow at the bottom of the Adriatic indicates the Otranto Channel. It’s easy to see how far out of the game the Austrian navy was, all bottled up in Trieste (fuchsia circle) and nearby Pola, 500 miles (803 km) away from most of the action. (I will stick with the Italian name of the town, but note that its correct Croatian name is Pula.)

The Allied blockade had been a line of ships stretching 45 miles (72 km) from Brindisi to the Albanian coast just north of Corfu’. Battles and skirmishes ensued –the blockade was attacked 19 times — but the situation remained unresolved until 1918, when the Allies managed finally to stretch a physical blockade of nets and buoys across the entire channel. The Austrians had had enough, and were determined to settle the matter.

So in June, 1918, Admiral Horthy decided to dedicate most of his fleet to an all-out attack on the blockade. I won’t list all the components, which were many, but the stars of the operation were four monster dreadnoughts, the largest and most modern yet constructed: Tegetthoff and Szent Istvan (Santo Stefano) together with an escort, and Prinz Eugen with Viribus Unitis deployed nearby. What could possibly go wrong?

At 10:30 PM on June 8, the Austrian fleet left its safe harbors and began steaming down the Adriatic toward their intended surprise attack. They were a little behind schedule, but everything was going well until 3:00 AM on June 10 as Szent Istvan and Tegetthoff neared the island of Premuda. Luigi Rizzo saw them first.

Rizzo, together with MAS 21 (Giuseppe Aonzo commanding) was at the end of a routine patrol; his orders were to stay near Premuda until 2:00 AM on June 10, and after dawn to rejoin his support destroyers. They, like their commanders, knew nothing of the Austrian fleet’s approach (hence “surprise,” as noted).

At 3:15 AM, the Austrian convoy began to traverse the zone that the two MAS had been patrolling, at which point Rizzo descried, through the darkness, an enormous cloud of black smoke. He immediately realized it had to be coming from enemy ships. As he reported later, “I decided to profit by the uncertain light to prevent an attack and so I reversed my course, followed by MAS 21, toward the enemy. As I got closer, I realized that we were dealing with two huge ships escorted by 8 to 10 destroyers…”.

The battleship Szent Istvan (Santo Stefano, or Saint Stephen, patron saint of Hungary), was launched in 1912. She carried 42 cannon and was on her way to glory till that unexpected meeting with Luigi Rizzo.

Did Rizzo contact his superiors to request orders? Did he call a committee meeting to discuss options? Did he ask himself if he was dreaming? Of course not. As he said, he turned around and began to move toward them, slowly, to avoid creating any telltale white wake, aiming straight between the two destroyers at the head of the convoy which were protecting Szent Istvan and Tegetthoff.

Naturally no Austrians had been on the lookout for any insane little Italian torpedo boats, so Rizzo managed to get as close as 300 meters (984 feet) from Szent Istvan‘s starboard side when he launched both of his torpedoes. They struck mortal blows to the massive ship; water penetrated the engine rooms at bow and stern and fire broke out in the boiler room. As Rizzo fled, the nearer destroyer immediately opened fire and began to pursue him; Rizzo, out of torpedoes, launched two anti-submarine bombs, one of which exploded and the destroyer desisted.

Aonzo, on MAS 21, was less fortunate; his torpedo struck Tegetthoff, but didn’t explode. But he too escaped the pursuing destroyer.

An artist’s rendering of Rizzo’s escape from the attack.

Another view of a theme which seems to have inspired numerous renditions,. (sandroferuglio.com)

At 6:05 the 21,700-ton Szent Istvan, pride of the Austrian navy, began to list and after desperate attempts to keep her upright, finally capsized and sank beneath the waves.

The *Szent Istvan* was one of only two ships ever to be filmed sinking on the high seas; the Austrian navy was so sure of victory that cinematographers, photographers and journalists were aboard the nearby *Tegetthoff*. Eighty-nine sailors and officers died in the sinking. The low death toll can be partly attributed to the long amount of time it took for the battleship to sink, and the fact that all sailors with the Austro-Hungarian Navy had to learn to swim before entering active service. She lies upside down at a depth of 66 meters (217 ft), a protected site of the Croatian Ministry of Culture.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fYkMGom8KSg

At 7:00 AM the two MAS were in Ancona and the secret enemy attack was no longer a secret. Seeing that the Austrians had been counting on surprise as their greatest weapon, Admiral Horthy ordered the entire convoy to turn and head back toward home and safety. The Tegetthoff reached Pola at dawn the following day, June 11, and the squadron accompanying Viribus Unitis/Prinz Eugen pulled in at 7:00 PM. For the Austrian fleet, the war was over; the stunning psychological blow meant that their ships never left port again.

Let me pause to let all that sink in. A couple of men and two little boats not only brought the Austrian fleet to a complete halt, they thereby altered the Allied naval plans and operations in the entire Mediterranean. Not as dramatic as an all-out battle, but they got the job done in less time and with a lot less waste of everything.

Rizzo was honored by the King of Italy with the Knight Grand Cross of the Military Order of Savoy, but because of his republican ideals he politely declined. He was decorated instead with the Gold Medal of Military Valor (not his first), and reported for duty the next day, I expect.

By the time his career concluded in 1941 he had risen to the rank of admiral, and had been given the victory title of Count of Grado and Premuda. France awarded him the Croix de guerre and made him a knight of the Legion of Honor; the United Kingdom bestowed the Distinguished Service Order; the United States gave him the Navy Distinguished Service Medal.

But it gets better. Admiral Miklos Horthy, commander-in-chief of the Austrian fleet in World War 1 and leader of the convoy headed by the Szent Istvan, became Regent of the Kingdom of Hungary, and awarded Rizzo the Royal Hungarian Order of Saint Stephen. Worthy adversaries, both of them.

Luigi Rizzo in 1935, temporarily between wars. As Walt Whitman remarked, “If you done it, it ain’t bragging.”

Fourth Exploit: The “Impresa di Pola.” This feat does not involve Luigi Rizzo, but don’t stop reading because of that.

These anchors at the entrance to the Naval Museum in Venice are among the few remains of two of Austria’s greatest battleships, spoils of war awarded to Italy.

To recapitulate: After Rizzo put paid to the entire Austrian fleet, the three remaining monster battleships of the failed June expedition were harbored in Pola. As 1918 progressed, the Austrian government began to focus on the prospect of defeat, and on October 31 officially transferred Viribus Unitis, renamed Yugoslavia, to the newly formed State of Slovenes, Croats and Serbs in order to avoid having to surrender the ship to the Allied powers.

Their satisfaction in so cleverly depriving the enemy of this prize was short-lived, because 24 hours later two dauntless Italian naval officers slipped into the harbor at Pola and rendered the magnificent vessel, bearing whatever name you want, null and void.

This is Pola, another complicated Croatian harbor which looks like it would certainly discourage any uninvited visitors. But Bakar looked impenetrable, too….

The timing of this adventure was unfortunate, as negotiations were underway toward an armistice which was signed at the Villa Giusti near Padova on November 3, 1918; the ceasefire was to go into effect November 4. But over on the Adriatic it was still war until further notice.

So on the night of November 1, 1918, Raffaele Paolucci and Raffaele Rossetti each took hold of a new device called a mignatta, an ingenious motorized underwater torpedo-like cylinder (constructed in the Arsenal in Venice) which rapidly carried them underwater past sentinels, patrol boats and even a submarine. After six hours in the water, they were finally close to the Viribus Unitis. At 5:30 they managed to attach the 200-kilo bomb to the ship’s hull, programmed to explode at 6:30. No escape, though — searchlights found them and they were captured.

Major Raffaele Rossetti of the Corps of Naval Engineers, the inventor of the *mignatta* (“leech”). It was a primitive but fully functioning underwater manned torpedo which pulled divers to their targets. By World War 2 it had been developed into a more complete vehicle which in Italy was nicknamed “maiale” (pig).

Second lieutenant Raffaele Paolucci of the Medical Corps. A surgeon by training, much of his considerable military service was in the medical realm.

A drawing of the mignatta. The original idea was for two men to ride it astride, but that almost immediately changed to them simply holding onto it. (marina.difesa.it)

A “maiale” of later vintage. in Gosport, England. One sees how the original idea was evolving into something more substantial.

At 6:00 they advised the commander of Viribus Unitis that the ship was mined and would explode at 6:30; the crew was ordered ashore, Paolucci and Rossetti were sent as prisoners to the nearby Tegetthoff, the bomb didn’t explode, the crew returned, and the bomb detonated at 6:44 leaving 300 men either dead or lost, including the captain, and sinking the ship (obviously).

The 21,700-ton *Viribus Unitis* (Strength Uniting), which became the flagship of the State of Slovenes, Croats and Serbs for 24 hours.

On November 5 the Italian Royal Navy occupied the port of Pola and freed Paolucci and Rossetti.

The fate of the dreadnoughts: Szent Istvan was gone forever; the wreck of the Viribus Unitis was salvaged and broken up between 1920 and 1930; Prinz Eugen was ceded to France where she was sunk as a target ship in 1922; and the Tegetthoff was given to Italy and scrapped between 1924 and 1925.

Tegetthoff before….Taken as a prize of war, the ship was brought to Venice by an Italian crew, where she formed part of a naval parade to celebrate the victory in the presence of King Vittorio Emanuele III. She remained moored in Venice till 1923.

…and the *Tegetthoff* being broken up at La Spezia (1924-25). Its bell was mounted on the German heavy cruiser Prinz Eugen (launched 1938, not the ship of the earlier war) and is now in Graz, Austria; an anchor and a cannon are part of the Monument to the Italian Mariner at Brindisi, and another anchor is in front of the Naval Museum in Venice.

Luigi Rizzo died in 1951, two months after an operation to remove a tumor on his lung. The surgeon was none other than his friend and fellow dreadnought-slayer, Raffaele Paolucci.

I guess everything becomes a tourist attraction, sooner or later.

Uncategorized

True Love Street

October 12, 2019 15 Comments

The island of Sant’ Erasmo is the largest in the entire lagoon, which is the least of its appeal. It is a sort of antidote, if you will, to Venice, especially on a muted autumn afternoon. And if you love mosquitoes, you will have gone to heaven. So have the mosquitoes, come to think of it.

Anyone going to the center of town on the island of Sant’ Erasmo (which is redundant — the town is nothing but center) has the option of changing vaporettos at the first stop (“Capannone”) and proceeding to the next stop (“Chiesa”), or spending a tranquil 30 minutes walking from C1 to C2.

The first time I did this was unintentional. Years ago I was voyaging toward the center of town to watch the three Venetian rowing races held there every year on the first Sunday in June. But bad timing on my part meant that I was stuck ashore, because I had had no reason to know that service on that part of the vaporetto’s normal route would be suspended; for a few shining moments each year the vaporettos are banned from what is essentially the racetrack, watery though it may be. This is one of the few occasions in which a Venetian boat being rowed gets to tell a motorboat what it can’t do.

Trekking along among the fields, I discovered I really liked going that way. So a few weeks ago, on the way to the early October races, I happily set out on my pastoral excursion.

It doesn’t look very far, when seen on the map, but when you walk this route you have the sensation of having been transported extremely far from Venice in every way. That’s part of its charm, naturally.

The road is officially named Via de le Motte, which roughly means “Street (or Way) of the Small Artificial Islands Constructed at Convenient Points for the Fishing Valleys.” Man-made hillocks, basically, which makes sense considering how much work has been done during the centuries to make the lagoon useful to people. But it wasn’t long before I discovered that the impending matrimony of two unknown lovers had inspired at least one friend (possibly more than one) to offer a series of dire, last-minute warnings spray-painted onto the asphalt.

For all I know, though, they might have been sprayed on in the dark of night by the groom himself. Or best man? Matron of honor? Mother of the bride? Her father? Her father-in-law?

The very soul and spirit of rural tranquillity. But soon the scene will unexpectedly shift toward drama, imagined or real.

“Evviva ea sposa”( Long live the bride). Note for anyone interested in the Venetian language: You do not spell “la” as “ea,” you just pronounce it that way. This spelling is a fairly recent aberration, but it seems to be taking hold. Anyway, the sentiment is charming.

“Torna indrio” (torna indietro): Turn back! Me, or the bride? Walk on…

Sweet. Now we’re back in lovebird territory. Here’s to C + F. But below the initials are two mystic symbols, one which appear to be pliers or shears or wirecutters, and a turtle. The turtle, I am informed, represents the value of not rushing to the church but taking one’s time, and the shears stand for the groom’s nickname. Read on.

“Sei sicura?” (Are you sure?). The use of the feminine gender here is a bit ominous, though I guess it’s not a totally unusual question to ask the bride on the cusp of the great day. One has been known to ask it of oneself, I’ve heard.

“Stop” needs no translation. “Fermite” repeats “Stop” as directed to a person.

“Dimentica” (forget) followed by “NO.” Pretty clear meaning, but I have discovered that there is a rock song entitled “Dimentica,” sung by a man known as Raf, which is devoted to the melancholy delight raised by the recollection of a love affair which is no more. If this is a veiled reference to lines such as “Forget my words if you can forgive them,” it doesn’t bode well, except for the emphatic “NO.” Maybe I’m overthinking this. On we go.

I’m not completely alone with this disembodied duo (or trio?). People have places to go even on Sant’ Erasmo and this is a main road, after all.

“Rinuncia a Trancia.” (Renounce “Trancia.”) This isn’t a command to quit using shears/wirecutters/pliers, but an admonition to reject the groom, who happens to go by the nickname “Trancia.” Things are getting a little tense?

“Sei ancora in tempo” (you still have time). I’m beginning to tend toward the best man as perpetrator. A rejected lover? It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Fai inversione” (make a U-turn), with a helpful arrow. Bear in mind that these admonitions are spaced reasonably far apart, enough so that as you walk along you don’t see the next one coming up. Of course this adds to their increasing intensity.

“Stai superando il limite” (you are passing the limit). As one approaches the town center — you see that lagoon has taken the place of the artichoke fields — the message seems to acquire a certain force. Last chance, babe. You’ve been warned.

“Ormai ci siamo” (by now we’re there, “there” implying a conclusion but not a geographical point. It’s as if something has been settled, not that you’ve just about reached the municipal swimming pool).

“Specialita’ del giorno tartar di trancia” (Daily special tartare of Trancia). You either have to be a relative, or at least a native of the island, to get the nuances here, but I imagine it’s hilarious.

And so the weird seer fades into the boggy marshes, his/her/their exhortations exhausted.

“The course of true love never did run smooth,” Shakespeare averred. Who’d have thought he’d seen the road on Sant’ Erasmo?

Events

Boat mooring, Redentore style

July 23, 2019 2 Comments

In my last post I mentioned the various physical effects of the Redentore festivizing, but I forgot to mention the nautical manifestations of Redentore Syndrome. A new one turned up on the Morning After (Sunday).

You should know that by now a large percentage — I’d guess around 97 per cent — of the boats which come to watch the fireworks are not carrying Venetians. By this I don’t mean to say that Venetians don’t come (though an informal survey reveals that they are fewer each year), nor do I mean that Venetians only come in boats with oars, because, there too, the number is dwindling. Certainly some Venetians come in their motor- or sailboats. But, at least in our neighborhood, people either watch from the fondamenta, as we do, or don’t go at all. (Giorgio was asleep upstairs by 9:30.) A wander around the zone revealed that the majority of the partyers are from elsewhere — foreigners on vacation, or people from the hinterland in every direction, from Chioggia to Treviso to Padova to points beyond. Many of them do not have a deep experience of boats, as I can confirm from seeing them around the lagoon.

The lagoon as seen by the innumerable people who come to zoom around for the day or, in the current case, the night. Notice the lack of waves, pilings, current, barges, taxis, ambulances, fire-department boats, vaporettos, houseboats, or any other potential hazard. One of our more hilarious memories was the Redentore years ago when the man in the big motorboat two boats over from ours spent the entire evening trying to set his anchor. He kept throwing it, it kept coming loose. The last time he threw it, he fell in. It really was better than the fireworks. (Photo: Maksim Kostenko/Fotolia)

In any case, here is the latest exhibit in that category. What I will never know is whether it was the boat’s owner, or some kindly soul full of good intentions where experience ought to be, who tied it up in this eccentric manner. It’s kind of adorable.

The first funny thing is that this boat is exactly across the canal from the strangled boat of last year. Is this the first landfall certain people manage to make when leaving the scene of the fireworks? Because I can almost promise you they don’t live around here. Being positive, though, we can all be glad that the boat is, indeed, immobilized in some way, and not out there roaming around like the Flying Dutchman.

The knot on the boat itself comes from “The Sailor’s Guide to Super-Secure Knots to Make in the Dark While Drunk” (probably). Three thousand turns of a line does not necessarily guarantee that it will stay tied. I speak from experience (though in my experience I was neither drunk, nor was it dark). So I’m guessing this is where the line will give way if a storm strikes.

Apparently the person gave up on this incomprehensible knot — good decision — and just draped it atop the stanchion. I’m still trying to decide if this is a genius idea because I guess it would hold pretty well. But I can’t figure out if the knot came first and the loop was just a desperate way to make it useful.

Graceful. I like the way it was passed behind one support and through another. This person has an artistic soul, because this couldn’t have been done by chance.

And around the boat’s snout. It doesn’t look terribly secure, but the person was doing his/her/their best to cover all the important points. I can hear the Captain’s voice now: “‘Avast, and belay there with a double turn, goodman host.” (The Knight of the Golden Melice).

Lino was briefly amused by the photo and the ingenious mooring. As for who or what might have been responsible, his remark was even briefer: “All you have to do is look at the cap,” he said, “and you know everything you need to know.”

Events

Redentore run-up

July 20, 2019 2 Comments

By now all the world knows — the world that reads this blog — that the feast of the Redentore is a huge event here, and has been for 441 years, counting this year.

The food, the fireworks, the votive bridge, the races, the church — it’s all fabulous. Confirmed by the pharmacist dryly this morning, “Tomorrow everyone will be in here with headaches, with stomach-aches, with everything-aches…”.

But yesterday I got an unexpected glimpse behind the curtain, as it were. The fireworks staging area was in full cry, making the most of the area at the farthest corner of the Arsenale that has been walled-off for eventual repairs to bits of MOSE.

As the 5.2 vaporetto left the Bacini stop behind, heading toward the Lido, I took a quick series of photos of the panoply of preparation:

Floating platforms are awaiting loads of fireworks, brought here in trucks on other floating platforms, like the grocery trucks that resupply the supermarkets.

Everything that’s being unloaded atop the wall is going to be transferred to its position in the regiment destined to be exploded tonight.

This is roughly what “the rockets’ red glare” looks like when it’s at home.

It’s hard to believe all those explosives fit into those few trucks. I’m sure there’s an explanation. Probably “One hundred deliveries” covers it.

Perhaps this is what retired bomb-squad experts do as extra work. And an unintended but very willing shout-out to the “Parente Fireworks” escadrille. Many of the greatest names in pyrotechnics are Italian: Grucci, Zambelli….. We’ll see how the Parente group compares.

Just like the old song, “Love and marriage…horse and carriage…” we have “fireworks and watermelon.” You can eat watermelon whenever you want, but if you don’t have it tonight … well, I don’t know what would happen. Maybe the fireworks wouldn’t go off.

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