The best novels on the allied liberation of Italy during World War II

I was surprised to learn that John Hersey won a Pulitzer Prize in 1945 for a novel—in fact, his first. I had always thought of him as mainly a journalist for The New Yorker. One of my students recommended this. He was the grandson of the model for the main character, an Italian-American US Army major. My student was proud of his “nonnu,” the Allied military governor of a Sicilian village, for his efforts to help the starving villagers.

What they wanted more than food, though, was to replace the church bell that Mussolini had requisitioned to melt down and make into weapons. Spoiler alert: in the novel (and in real life), he succeeds—despite opposition from a superior officer, a thinly disguised General George S. Patton.

Living off and on in Italy for more than twenty years, I’ve been struck by Italians’ ambivalence toward Americans. On the one hand, they credit us with liberating them from Mussolini’s fascist dictatorship. On the other hand, they blame us for the harm that the preferred US strategy—aerial bombardment—caused to civilians and the sometimes high-handed and racist policies of the Allied occupation.

I was fascinated to find this deep ambivalence captured so well in Hayes’s novel, ostensibly a love story of a lonely US soldier and a destitute Italian woman displaced to Rome by the bombing of her native Genoa. As someone who teaches about gender and war, I appreciated the author’s subtle treatment of the power imbalances between two characters representing the victorious and vanquished countries.

I encountered this book backward. As a teenager growing up at the end of the US war in Vietnam, I read the Mad magazine spoof of the movie version long before I saw the movie itself, and then I read the novel. I focused on the antiwar theme and the concern of the bomber crew to get home without getting shot down.

The novel was based on Heller’s wartime experience, but I hardly realized it was about bombing Italy until I discovered the papers one of his crewmates had donated to Cornell University. I learned how many of the episodes were based on real incidents, including the only time the novel focuses on Italian civilians—when the crew objects to destroying an Italian Alpine village of no military significance. 

Like the Catch-22 character, Yossarian, Burns spent part of his time as a soldier censoring prisoner-of-war letters. His own prose was considered transgressive for its time. What struck me was not only his subject matter—who else wrote in 1944 about drunken, gay American GIs hanging out in seedy dives in occupied Naples?—but also his tone.

He pulled no punches in depicting the fraught relations and power differentials between occupiers and occupied, not to mention the resentment of the ordinary soldiers toward their superiors. Still, he captured the resilience of the Neapolitans with evocative depictions of street life, and I especially liked his ear for everyday speech—across a range of social classes among both the Americans and the Italians.

As a historian of the Allied bombing of Italy, I read a lot of depressing accounts of the suffering of Italian civilians. It was a relief to discover that fellow historian Erik Linklater, author of the official British history of the Italian campaign, had published a comic novel based on his wartime experiences.

Its hero is Private Angelo, the reluctant soldier who issues forth such gems as: “It has taken us a long time to lose the war, but thank heaven we have lost it at last, and there is no use in denying it.”  Linklater doesn’t hide the war’s devastating toll or sugarcoat the occupation itself. “We are very grateful to you for coming to liberate us,” he has Angelo tell the Americans, “but I hope you will not find it necessary to liberate us out of existence.”