Via Garibaldi under the lash. The image is fuzzy because of the merciless wind and rain. A video glimpse can be found on YouTube. (ilmeteo.it)
One month ago today the Big Water (“l’Acqua Granda,” as the disaster of November 12 was immediately dubbed), struck Venice, and I hardly know where to start my report. Theoretically I could have done this sooner, but when you have had ten inches of water in your house, even temporarily, it gives new meaning to the word “aftermath,” which is now synonymous with “exhausting,” “irritating,” and “stressful.”
The videos and news reports will have long since covered the general details, but I’ve found that putting things back together after a natural disaster is an experience all of its own. I won’t say it’s worse than water in the bedroom, but it’s not a whole lot better. Profound respects to any readers who may have endured similar, but worse experiences — avalanches, eruptions, typhoons, or earthquakes. You have had it much worse. Now, back to me.
On the positive side, all this a great reason to buckle down and get rid of tons of accumulated things which had, indeed, been slowly taking over our nonexistent space. So there is that. (However, see: “tiring,” above.)
I had just arrived in Virginia on November 11, as fate would have it, and on the 12th was reveling in the first day of my annual three-week R&R, when the lagoon rose up to smite Venice. Yes, Lino had to deal with wind, water, and general desperation all on his own. This entailed getting as much as he could raised or placed as high as possible in time, as per normal, notably the books on the lowest bookshelves, and the floor-level bottom drawers of the chests in the bedroom. But “in time” was suddenly dramatically redefined.
He is a veteran of acqua alta, having lived through many lesser ones and also the famous one of 1966. But what made this one different was not only the height — 187 cm above mean sea level, which covered some 80 percent of the city to one degree or another (1966 saw 194 cm) — but the ferocious wind. It must have been something like a hurricane, because not only did it make the water rise incredibly fast, but also created crashing waves that wrought havoc all along the exposed southern edge of the city. “I was looking out the door, watching the water rising,” Lino told me; “I turned around for a second, and then all of a sudden it was in the house almost up to my knees.”
Getting the sofa up on the chairs by yourself ought to qualify as an Olympic sport. Gold medal to Lino, which he totally would have preferred not to have had to win. No photos were ever made of the water in the house — he had about a thousand other things to think about, and as many things again that he had to do. However, he did tell me that all the shoes which had been neatly put away in the space below the lowest bookshelf in the bedrooms were floating around the house, which explains the saltwater stains on them which I may or may not ever face dealing with. Ditto the bottles of detergent and household cleaning products on the floor beneath the kitchen sink. All just floating around, like so much flotsam. “Good thing the lids on the bottles were all closed tight,” he cheerfully remarked.
Naturally all this was happening at night, and naturally almost all of our electrical outlets are at floor level, so he was going through all this in the dark with no heating. (Yes, candles and flashlights were at hand.) Then, when the tide turned, he spent three hours sweeping the muddy water out of the house, then cleaning the layer of fine slime from the floor.
But he was happy about one thing; “I saved the computer! I saved the computer!” he told me on the phone, in the way people in the old days must have said “I saved the cow!” The refrigerator, though, did not survive, even though we had long since set it up on five-inch beams of wood. The washing machine is fine, though, which is a great thing because whatever clothes and towels got soaked with seawater sat there for a week, busily mildewing, till I got back.
Immediate response came in various forms. Banks suspended the usual commission for ATM transactions by non-account holders because so many cash machines were dead. Also, mortgage payments were suspended till the end of the year, which could have been really nice except that we had just made the last payment on our 15-year mortgage in October. Yep — as soon as the house was totally ours, it went under.
The old fridge, our only casualty. It’s got plenty of company out and about; there are so many appliances to be hauled away that the trash-collection agency says they’ll get to us around January 15. They say they don’t have enough boats to do more.
Our only tangible loss was the 300-euro refrigerator, so not only can we not complain, there isn’t much point in running the bureaucratic obstacle course for potential reimbursement for that. Those for whom there is a point would be businesses whose power tools are kaput, for example, or the young couple at Osteria di Valentino. Of course they had already installed their appliances up to safety at 140 cm, but 47 additional centimeters (18 inches) inflicted damage worth 40,000 euros: two large refrigerators, a large freezer, the dishwasher, the deep fryer…
But at least their fryer was empty. The trattoria up the street hadn’t emptied the oil from their fryer in time, and the pressure of the water busted some valve and out came all the oil. So the owner had water, mud, AND oil on his floor.
Not to worry! He went to buy some big bags of sawdust, the time-honored medium for glop removal. Not only were there none to be found (everybody got there first?), sawdust is now forbidden, he was told, in places where food is being prepared because the eponymous dust might contaminate the food. “I’ve used sawdust for 30 years!” he said. Well, that was then. Now we know better?
The waves broke down part of the wall at the Giardini vaporetto stop, not only by the dock but also further along. The southern-facing side of the city got it in the teeth. At the Zattere, an entire newsstand kiosk was blown into the water (since hauled up to great applause.)That must have been some wave.
Further along the waterfront by the Giardini.The violence of the wind and waves tore some of the gangways away from their docks. The docks at Sant’ Elena have been like this since Nov. 12; the vaporettos currently use a nearby dock. The dock at the Arsenal is similarly out of service, and part of the Giardini dock is missing the gangway, so we use one for going and coming. No telling how long this will last.The Sant’ Elena dock has just been left like this till they can get around to repairs. This gives a small idea of the chaos of that night. A small anecdote: A naval officer at the Morosini naval school and his wife were trying to get back to Sant’ Elena from some mainland errand. He told me that they waited fruitlessly at Santa Marta for longer than usual, not quite realizing the dimensions of the hecatomb taking place slightly eastward. Or maybe they were just hoping that transport could somehow keep functioning. No vaporetto appeared, so eventually they hailed a passing water taxi. “We were going along the Giudecca Canal, but the wind was unbelievable,” he told me. “The taxi, even at full speed, wasn’t moving forward at all. We were just staying in one place and finally he turned around and took us to the nearest point and put us ashore. He didn’t even charge us anything.” (They walked home.) I heard several people referring to how the taxi drivers were out and about, helping people in trouble for free. This is worth noting in a city that seems to live according to the motto “Every man for himself.”As I mentioned, wind. They got this tree chopped up really fast, but the stump with roots is still there.Even the little trees at Sant’ Elena got blown nearly flat. Now they’re at least standing up.Even stretches of the wall-less embankment at Sant’ Elena show signs of serious wear. If you follow the crack to the top of the image, you see that it had already given signs of giving way. Any time that a previous repair looks about to break, you’d better start over. But I’ll bet they just throw more grout, or whatever it is, in the cracks.Wind drove the waves into various glass windows — the Cassa di Risparmio (Savings Bank) got the hit on the Riva dei Sette Martiri.
Evidently the bank’s glass door was destroyed, so a substitute was rigged up. Needless to say, the ATM machine was drowned, as were the other two in the neighborhood.Speaking of ATM’s, this one simply says “Fuori servizio” (out of service.) It still is. We’ve been going to the Lido to use a cash machine.Speaking of the Lido, I lugged a suitcase full of damp laundry to the laundromat on the Lido to dry it because the newish laundromat in via Garibaldi took a hit right in the dryers. The three washing machines, set up on the purple concrete platform, survived the inundation, but the two dryers in the back were, as they say, toast. The piece of paper on the glass door says “Guaste” — busted. Ruined. At least a week went by before the owner could get the man in to replace or repair the motors (or whatever). Last week one of the two was working, but extremely unwillingly. Loud screeching noises, and only tepid temperature. But I would never have said anything — I have to give the guy credit for getting them working even a little.Maskmaker Carlo Setti’s little shop in Frezzeria didn’t have much defense, considering that it’s already two steps down from street level.This shop just around the corner from Carlo sells expensive, elegant fashion, but even being two steps up didn’t save it from doom.Fancy dresses are one thing, but expensive lumber is quite another. The gondola-maker at the squero of San Trovaso lost some of his valuable long-seasoned wood; it just floated away before he could get to it.A lot of the wood is stored behind the squero, where it looks to the ignorant eye like just a batch of old wood somebody threw out. Somebody didn’t, and somebody would really, really like to have it back.There were two more exceptional high tides the week of the catastrophe, and then several “normal” high tides followed. at varying depths. The thing about normal acqua alta isn’t only that you have to put on your boots (which can’t possibly be regarded as a big deal), but that the water brings detritus ashore, then leaves it behind. This is just outside our front door.I saw clumps and hanks of eelgrass (Zostera marina), left by the retreating tide, bestrewing the streets, often fairly far from the nearest canal.On Fondamenta San Giuseppe there are three street-level houses side by side which demonstrate a certain primitive evolution in dealing with water at the front door. The dwellings with steps are generally said to have a “piano rialzato,” or raised level. It’s easy to see how even a few steps could make a difference, at least up to a certain height, which is our case. After which, oh well.Just some of the nearby castoffs. A washing machine on the left (A), and on the right, a dark small stove and a small white refrigerator (B). I’m imagining that person A invited neighbor B to come over to cook their dinner in exchange for being permitted to go wash some clothes.I saw so many soggy mattresses. Does everybody sleep on the ground floor? Anyway, our bed escaped because we did something smart, years ago, putting it up on big plastic supports. But I wasn’t anticipating acqua alta, I was just trying to create more storage space.
A street behind our place. I wonder how long it will be before the wall dries out, if ever.The front door to the building where Lino was born and grew up. It’s still swollen and doesn’t shut completely, which is a situation you really don’t want in a front door.A veteran of many high tides, and devoted to his hipwaders.These boots have lived quite a life. By now they probably wish he’d leave them alone and let them leak in peace.When the high water isn’t catastrophic, you can easily see that it’s not distributed evenly. The edge of this fondamenta illustrates the situation.I’m used to this by now, but I still notice that it does me absolutely no good where I’m standing to see that the street up ahead is dry.As you see, even just a little water is annoying when it’s in the wrong place.I’d never noticed how many drains were sliced into the pavement on via Garibaldi till I saw how much water had come up and gone down. Of course you want drains to carry the water away, it’s just a little irksome that they also let it come up.Some bright spark salvaged a tree branch, which was a good thing because it could have been a hazard in the water. It looks quite fine as a supplementary barrier. One might almost imagine it to have been some work of art from the Biennale.And in Calle Lunga San Barnaba, in ever-so-fashionable Dorsoduro, the owner of this upscale eyeglass shop was especially witty. I notice the quip is written in English, for foreign consumption. You could translate this into Italian, or Venetian, but I’m not sure that the locals would have found it to be especially humorous.Even more than seeing flowers in spring or golden retriever puppies, any new appliance now makes me feel that life will go on.Big fat delivery boats bringing succor and new consumer durables is a happy, and frequent, sight. It’s a bumper holiday season for the warehouses and the delivery people.Every time a new washing machine is delivered, an angel gets its wings.
And speaking of damage, I took a walk along the Riva degli Schiavoni this morning. The damage from the waves is ugly, extensive, and probably will be here for quite a while. I suppose there is a Plan being devised as to the order and importance of interventions, but by the look of it at the moment, people are already getting used to things this way. Maybe we’ll find ourselves like those unfortunate earthquake survivors who are living in containers five years after the last aftershock. Or maybe five minutes before the next quake. Not sure how the thought process works.
The Arsenale vaporetto stop, even more than the one at Sant’ Elena, is lying there like a victim of a 20-car pileup on the highway, resting on a gurney in the Emergency Room at a permanent Priority 4 level while more desperate cases are moved forward.This is undoubtedly a spot where a vaporetto was hurled by thrashing waves against the nearest immovable object. This being an area where vaporettos are normally tied up for the night, that seems the most likely scenario.Wow.Moving west toward San Marco, there is this relic of some tremendous impact. I wonder what the vessel that did this looks like.Toward the Danieli hotel, the storm has beaten the balustrade to the ground.The former balustrade is in several large pieces, and the line of white squares is the only sign of the balusters, now gone somewhere.Another balustrade has bitten the dust.I have the distinct impression that this part of the Riva degli Schiavoni, in front of the statue of King Vittorio Emanuele II, is now sliding toward the water. The fanlike shape of the dark area left by the waves is only one indication — standing there, you can pretty much see it.The two docks at San Zaccaria are gone. I don’t know what’s being done with them, but they have left a very strange open space.
Prompt announcements of municipal reimbursements for damage caused some excitement: 5,000 euros to private citizens, 20,000 euros to businesses! But happy visions of the city councilors handing out bags of cash have been dashed.
Let’s say the funds are there, which I don’t actually know. What I do know is that there are too many problems and tempers are rising. The deadline for claims is too short (December 20), there is intense confusion on how to complete the claim forms, wrong information is being given out, what receipts are required, what sort of experts (too few, anyway) are able to prepare the necessary estimates on repairs and replacements. It’s turned into a sort of bureaucratic high tide all on its own. Of 2,900 claims submitted so far, only one in three has met the criteria for approval. And who can say when the reimbursement would finally be made? Some people who are owed money from disasters of various sorts from years ago are still waiting for the check. Or bag of cash, or whatever. I realize that frivolous and exaggerated and unsubstantiated claims are not to be encouraged, but creating problems while attempting to solve problems doesn’t sound like progress to me.
The Coop supermarket posted this very heartwarming notice in the store. I translate: “Venetians, we’re here. We have decided to gather funds for the emergency: Everyone can collaborate by choosing Coop products. Thanks to the solidarity of the Coop stores of all Italy, one percent of the sales of our trademarked products will be donated to the support of the population hurt by the high water, for a sum of at least 500,000 euros. GOOD SHOPPING CAN HELP VENICE.” This is heartwarming, and I should mention that the Prix supermarket chain has launched a similar initiative. But I have no idea how these things actually work, beyond the hot flash it gives you of feeling like you can do something to help out. (Apart from the incongruity of a Venetian, who perhaps has suffered in the disaster, going to spend money at the Coop in order to help Venetians.)
Today is the feast of All Souls, more informally called “I Morti” (the dead). Unlike Mexico and maybe some other countries, celebrating/commemorating the Day of the Dead in Venice is not a big holiday, in a festive sort of sense.
Here, one typically — if one is old-fashioned, as we are — eats a few “fave” on the night of All Saints, i.e. November 1. They’re so intensely sweet that I can manage only one or two before saying good-bye to these morsels for another year.
And this evening, one would typically roast chestnuts and drink torbolino, the first drawing-off of the new wine. (We skip the torbolino because naturally it isn’t as good now as it was in the old days.)
So much for the few remaining traditions observed on this day, but wait! This year a temporary bridge was assembled to connect the Fondamente Nove to the cemetery island of San Michele, reviving a custom that had been abandoned in 1950. It isn’t the old bridge, of course, which used to be set up on massive wooden boats called peate. What impresses me is that enough of these boats were taken out of service back then for a number of days, because 70 years ago they were still hard at work.
The bridge stretched — and still does — for 417 meters (1,359 feet). That is longer than the famous pontoon bridge set up for the feast of the Redentore across the Giudecca Canal (342 meters, or 1,123 feet).Here’s something that’s just as exotic as the boats: no railings or any other protective barriers or devices. People either walked or thought differently back then.
This year, to general amazement, the city (mayor, basically, who is soon up for re-election — I’M NOT THE ONLY PERSON WHO HAS NOTICED THAT) decided to spend 450,000 euros ($502,776) on a pontoon bridge resembling the one set up for the feast of the Redentore in July. The bridge will be up until November 10, so there’s still time if any reader wants to stroll across it to the cemetery. There are vaporettos back to Venice if the gentle rocking motion of the bridge has lost its appeal.
We’re not big cemetery-goers, but we went to pay our respects to some of Lino’s family who have gone ahead, as the Alpine Regiment soldiers refer to their comrades at funerals. Obviously we’ve been before, though of course it was less oppressive going today than it was twice in the last two years, accompanying a coffin. I probably didn’t need to say that. The bridge was appealing, but not our main motive for the excursion.
The city had imposed a rule, enforced by numerous people in various uniforms, that the bridge could be used today and tomorrow only by residents, Venetians or otherwise (showing either their vaporetto pass or their I.D.), or anybody with the vaporetto pass, by which they mean the long-term one which would indicate some more than passing connection with the city. At first we thought this was extremely weird, even though people could certainly go via the free vaporetto today.
They were absolutely checking people’s passes or ID.
But a Venetian friend I met on the bridge explained that one reason for this rule was to squelch tour groups from swarming it (bridge and cemetery) for the novelty of it all, thereby ruining what is a very personal and often emotional experience for people who live here. She said that some tour operators had indeed publicized this event, so let me offer an unsolicited compliment to whoever thought up that rule. Gad. That’s all we need — tourists on the bridge to the cemetery today. They can go on Monday, and every day till next Sunday if they want to.
“The bridge of the saints and the dead” (defuncts).” Here are some rules: Thursday October 31 from 1:30 PM to 4:00 PM and from Friday November 1 to Sunday November 3 from 7:30 AM to 4:00 PM; from November 4-10 from 7:30 AM to 3:30 PM.
I was surprised to run into a good number of people we know, either on the traverse or wandering around the plots, looking for their deceased relatives, often holding bouquets or other flower arrangements. The place was absolutely bursting with flowers; it has never looked that good, and the colors were wonderfully welcome in what was a dank, gray, cold, rainy day. Perfect weather for the occasion, true, but after a while one’s thoughts wandered from the past to the very present cold, wet feet.
All told, several hours well spent. And thoughts and emotions dedicated to several exceptional people, starting with Lino’s parents, two sisters and a brother. The rest are interred in the cemetery in Mestre, where I wouldn’t have gone, though I wafted them a number of familial thoughts.
The cemetery as seen from above gives no hint at how maddeningly complicated it is to find the loculi you want amid what are mazes of concrete blocks. The interments aren’t much easier to deal with, either. People were wandering with maps in their hands — no telling what condition the people at the information booth were in at closing time.On the tomb of the Nob. Famiglia Malfer (noble family Malfer). The only lion with a hammer I’ve ever seen — not the Venetian lion, obviously, but still. I’d always thought lions depended on their fangs and claws. More seriously, a quick search reveals that it’s a name to be found in northern Italy in the Trento, Trentino-Alto Adige or Lake Garda areas. In heraldry, the lion represents strength, courage and command; the hammer symbolizes exertion or endeavor, intelligence or ingenuity, and determination or constancy. But we were searching for Lino’s family, so we moved on.Immediately entering the cemetery through the stately official portal (which I’d always seen closed), there was an information booth to the left, and a wooden ramp which I assume was to facilitate the passage of people in wheelchairs (we saw several), as well as strollers.Small children, always so glad to be taken to incomprehensible places for profoundly uninteresting reasons, in the rain. Filial piety flickers faintly, but at least they’re now finally heading for the exit.Astonishing quantities of flowers — the place has never looked this good. I think I heard somebody say that the city had ponied up for a good number of these. Maybe the bridge people said they’d throw in the flowers at cost.
In the section reserved for military graves — most of them ranging from old to extremely old — I was surprised to find two women putting flowers on a tomb. I didn’t ask them anything, although I was curious. But I did make a point of reading the tombstone.BERTUZZI ALDO (typically, the family name is written first): “Tragico e fatale destino stroncava la giovine e generosa esistenza nel compiere un generoso atto altruistico inteso al salvataggio di due persone in procinto di annegare in fiume vi trovava tragica fine.” “Tragic and fatal destiny cut off the young and generous existence in executing a generous and altruistic act intended to save two persons in danger of drowning in a river there he found his tragic end.” (August 9 1946). Being in the military section, he was clearly a soldier who had made it through World War II, and then that.This is something you don’t usually expect to see in a cemetery. It’s not new land, it’s recycled land. After ten years, Lino tells me, they dig you up. If you have relatives that will come take an interest in your remains, your bones (if that’s all that’s left) will be placed in a box and re-filed in a space in a columbarium. Otherwise, bones, tombstones, it all goes. The bones, I’ve been told, are burned; the marble, etc., is disposed of in some way. I don’t know if I’ll spend any time researching this further; I’m sure it’s quite fascinating but at the moment I’m aghast. PS: If nobody comes to account for you, you just disappear. If somebody comes looking for you later, for some reason, oh well. The weak link in this extraordinary system seems to be the postal system. If you move and change your address, the notice the cemetery administration sends you will never reach you. It happened to more than one person I know. I realize that this earth is not our home, but this is a bit much.Walking back over the bridge toward the Fondamente Nove, hot drinks, home.This is what the late morning looked like once we’d left the yellow chrysanthemums behind.The ascent of the raised part of the bridge was only slightly demanding.Homeward bound on the 4.2. Traffic lights on both sides of the bridge managed the two-way traffic, seeing that the boats have to alternate in order to pass through. Somewhat like those picturesque but slightly terrifying one-lane bridges leading to blind corners.
I have found this bit of film of the sinking of the Szent Istvan.
Knowing how to swim is a great thing, but even better if you’ve got help nearby. If they’d been in the open ocean alone, oh well. There are several different clips on YouTube, if any connoisseurs of ship-sinking are interested.
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: A smile well-earned.
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.And Viribus Unitis afterward.
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.
