From the Improvement Era, November 1957 –

Caprian Adventure

By John M. Goddard

Our combat crew had been stationed at a B-17 “Flying Fortress” bomber base near the Adriatic coast. We had been flying combat missions steadily right up until “VE” day and were quite unprepared for the swift reconversion that followed that auspicious occasion. Almost immediately after peace was declared, our squadron was reassigned and our crew disbanded. Four of our ten men accompanied the outfit to a new air base near Naples, and the remaining six were sent home. I was included in the four.

Our peacetime duties involved evacuating infantrymen from Naples to Casablanca, North Africa, flying twenty men at a time in converted B-17 “War Wearies” to the Moroccan capital where waiting cargo planes would pick them up and continue the relay to the United States.

Once a week we were allowed a twelve-hour pass to relax and enjoy ourselves. Our air base was located just seven miles from Naples, so we usually spent our time there, visiting the points of interest in and around the crowded metropolis.

On one of these leaves, I visited a picturesque little bookshop in the business district. I had discovered it previously while rambling around the port city and had made friends with the dealer, Bemiamino Penna, a small, bearded gentleman of about fifty years. He proved to be quite an intellectual and a linguist, speaking four languages besides his native Italian. His English was eloquent, and I enjoyed conversing with him about the diverse scenic attractions sprinkled around the bay of Naples. “Benny” gave me fascinating and valuable information on places which I planned to visit and assisted me in devising a thorough itinerary.

On this particular call I proposed to find out the historical background of the ancient city of Pompeii, prior to making an excursion there. Benny gave me a brief historic sketch of the buried city, reading pertinent bits of information to me from the yellowing pages of a voluminous book. When he had finished, I leafed through the book observing its many paintings and etchings— reproductions of famous Italian landscapes. Midway through that moldy old tome, I chanced on a bulky piece of tissue paper folded between the pages. My curiosity aroused, I unraveled the wrinkled leaf and was surprised to find a detailed map of the Isle of Capri, drawn in water color. But what really intrigued me was a small sketch at one corner of the map depicting a long, winding tunnel, traversing the entire length of the rocky island.

In all of my studies of Capri I had never come across any information concerning a cave such as this, and I anxiously questioned Benny about it. It was from him that I learned the complete, thrilling story.

It seems that Tiberius, the early Roman emperor, had spent the last few years of his reign on the Isle of Capri, living in debauchery and cruelty, in a mag- nificent palace at the eastern end of the island. As insurance against being trapped by an invading enemy, he had forced slaves to excavate a fantastic escape tunnel, leading from his personal bedroom in the mansion to the Blue Grotto, a sea cave at the western end of the island, almost four miles distant. In an emergency, he had access to the sea through this passageway and could slip away from any interlopers who attempted to attack him.

During the intervening centuries since Tiberius’ time, ghostly legends have sprung up, surrounding the grotto and the tunnel with an aura of mystery. It wasn’t until 1826 that Italians would venture near the subterranean caverns, much less enter them. In that year an Englishman, swimming by the entrance of the grotto, ventured in, unmindful of the supposed danger involved.

When he emerged unharmed with glowing descriptions of the splendor within, a few intrepid Italians decided to capitalize on the rediscovery of the grotto by escorting tourists inside for a fee. Since that time, and to this day, the bolder and more enterprising Caprians have made a comfortable living by conveying curious sight-seers into the shimmering caverns; entering the three foot opening in small skiffs.

The tunnel itself is still considered a supernatural haunt of evil spirits and scrupulously shunned. Benny related an incident that occurred over a quarter of a century ago which has added fuel to the ghost stories told about the tunnel. This tale was imparted to me again on Capri by a fisherman, and their versions were identical. In 1924 an adventurous party of four young Italians attempted to explode the superstitious myths surrounding the underground corridor by exploring it from one end to the other. Ignoring the warnings and pleadings of their friends, they entered the tunnel from the grotto carrying pine torches. Several of their friends stationed themselves at both openings to await the outcome of the venture. Though they waited pa- tiently all that day and far into the night, their loyal vigil was unrewarded; the youths were never heard from again! This mystifying catastrophe was never explained, and only served to perpetuate the terrors with which the natives regard the passageway.

Upon returning to my quarters, I enthusiastically disclosed the information I had uncovered to my roommates, but failed to arouse their interest, although I persuaded them to accompany me to the isle. As for entering the cave, nothing doing”; I would have to do it on my own.

On a sunny morning in June, three of us set out for Capri— a whole day of freedom and adventure before us. Our little schooner sliced along at a speedy ten knots an hour, and I felt the anxiety— the surge of emotion— scarcely able to wait until I could see the passageway with my own eyes.

Admonished by my cohorts to relax and calm down, I lay down on the forward deck beside them and basked in the sun’s warmth. It was glorious to be alive, young, and able to enjoy the beauties of the world. Glancing at our surroundings, I suddenly was smitten with the magnificent grandeur of our environment. Translucency and purity were epitomized in the sky, the sea, and the land. From 10,000 feet up, the Bay of Naples is an impressive sight, but viewed from a colorful sailboat in the middle of the azure bay, it is overwhelmingly beautiful.

The fuming volcano, Vesuvius, dominated the expanse of curving shore line. Once my thoughts turned to the experience I had had the week before, when I ascended its ashy slopes, and I felt a sense of pride at having fulfilled one of my lifelong ambitions.

From a distance Capri had appeared a drowsing alligator, but gradually it materialized into a series of high limestone cliffs, spotted with lush, terraced vineyards, pink pastel villas, and ancient ruins.

Our little vessel was transporting water and food commodities over to the island and had taken us on as passengers only after we had prevailed on the sympathies of the rather gruff skipper— a powerfully built Sicilian. There are over eight thousand inhabitants living the year round on Capri and almost everything necessary to human existence, including water, must be transported from the mainland. The industries on the island center around wine, fish, olive oil, and souvenirs for tourists.

Just before reaching Marina Grande, the port of Capri, we heard a shattering explosion. Whirling around towards the open sea, a towering column of smoke met our startled gaze. We learned later that a mine sweeper had been cleaning out vagrant mines in the bay, exploding them with rifle fire. Somewhat shaken, but with high spirits, we later scrambled ashore and pushed our way through the throng of beggars, guides, vendors, and fishermen that crowded the stone quay. We walked to the end of the jutting wharf and held a brief conference, finally deciding to meet again in the same place three hours later in the day.

We separated and went our different ways, my buddies heading for the “Funiculare” (a creaky cable car something like “Angels Flight” in Los Angeles) to be transported up a steep hill to the charming little village of Capri.

Having no idea how to reach the grotto, I inquired directions from a salty-looking character, who was busily mending nets in a nearby skiff. Happy to assist, he launched into a lengthy discourse, apparently giving the minutest details on its location. About all I made of this oration, however, was that the grotto was “thatta way,” or in a westerly direction.

Looking at the towering sea cliffs, I concluded that it would be impossible for me to go overland, and I decided to swim the distance between the port and the grotto, unaware that it was over a mile to the entrance.

Walking along the rocky beach to a sheltered spot, I donned my swimming trunks and hid my uniform in a crevice. Then I tied my waterproof “GI” flashlight to my trunks, adjusted my underwater diving mask, and plunged into the foaming surf.

The water was pleasantly warm even though it was only ten o’clock in the morning, and I reveled in its freshness. I set an even, rhythmical pace following the cliff line and passed several rowboats manned by swarthy fishermen who greeted me sociably.

Had I known the distance beforehand, I might not have attempted to swim the whole way. Blissfully ignorant, however, I dog-paddled, breast-stroked, back-kicked, and crawled along, waving happily at the fishermen and sun bathers I passed. It was a long while before I rounded a jutting rock and spied a cleft in the sun-kissed cliff wall— the entrance to the grotto!

Luckily I had arrived ahead of the noon boatload of tourists. The miniature fleet of grotto skiffs were tied together, with one lone guide to watch over them, awaiting the sight-seers. He seemed rather startled to see me swimming towards him but appeared to be friendly.

I clung to his boat a few minutes to catch my breath and to speak to him. Hoping he could be persuaded to accompany me on my little exploring trip of the tunnel, I offered him a hundred lire. I was totally unprepared for his violent response. When I explained my plan to him as best as possible in my limited Italian, his eyes bulged in their sockets. Gasping out a “No buono, Joe,” he made an impassioned plea for me to stay away from the fateful passage- way. Knowing the power of money, I offered him more and more as an inducement to forget his superstitions and be my companion in the venture. I finally abandoned the attempt when I reached 2,000 lire and only aroused more vigorous “No buono’s.”

Having failed to secure his services, I pulled my diving mask over my face, sucked in a deep breath of air, and dived underwater to inspect the submerged opening of the grotto. Through some freak chance of nature the aperture was formed, causing everything inside— rocks, water and sand— to be tinged a smoldering blue. In the daytime, the sunlight shines down through the water window, and all its rays except the blue, the most refrangible, are filtered out.

As a gentle swell swept me closer to the opening, I could gaze into the interior. I allowed the swell to carry me into the limestone channel, expediting my progress with vigorous strokes and kicks. The sides of the entrance were encrusted with numerous forms of crustacean sea life, and as I penetrated deeper, a school of silvery fish darted by. Experiencing a feeling of elation, I passed through the submerged opening, and was surprised to discover that the entrance was at least thirty feet from end to end. I became aware of an increasing bluish milky haze as I completed the short swim. Surfacing within the cavern, I was smitten with the beauty before me. I was afloat in a gigantic sapphirine cauldron, my body in phosphorescent light. Bubbles boiling in my wake, I felt like King Neptune in an enchanted fairy cave.

In a daze, I stroked slowly to a ledge and surveyed my surroundings. I estimated the grotto to be at least 1200 feet in circumference with a ceiling of approximately forty feet. I judged the depth of the water at about fifty feet.

Caprians claim that on quiet, moonlight nights, one can hear a hypnotic singing emanating from the grotto— the “sirens” of ancient mythology. It was not difficult for me to believe them at that moment. The sirens were supposed to have lured sailors to their deaths with bewitching music. In Homer’s The Odyssey, the hero escaped the fate met by most mariners by stuffing the ears of his crew with wax and having them lash him to the mast of his ship.

While I was thus absorbed in my thoughts, my timid Italian friend had apparently decided that I had either drowned or gained the interior. Investigating, he had lain down in his slender skiff and pulled himself into the cavern by means of a rusty chain strung through the opening. Irked at having my privacy invaded, I quickly clambered up the slimy side of the ledge in an effort to conceal myself. But he caught sight of me as I slipped and slid over the rocks and rowed rapidly, shouting warnings and rebukes.

Not knowing what lay before me, I untied my flashlight and aimed the stabbing beam into the eerie depths of the cave. I hoped to locate the tunnel immediately and escape my well-meaning rescuer, but scrambling up the inclined floor, I was confronted with nothing but solid limestone.

The cavern extended far back from the limpid water and curved in a sharp horseshoe bend. I followed the back wall seeking the entrance, to no avail. There was no evidence of any recess along the rock surface. It occurred to me that perhaps the escape corridor was a mythological hoax after all, existing only in the imagination of the gullible. Then I remembered the map I had found, and the historical records. Benny had mentioned the publicity that the lost youths had received, the widespread furor their disappearance had aroused. It had to be there! I carefully retraced my steps, flashing the light along the wall.

Upon reaching my starting point, I discovered a low cleft in the rock that I had overlooked. Cautiously I stooped down and crawled in on all fours. As it was only a natural crevice, I knew that it couldn’t be the actual tunnel. Passing through it, however, I emerged into an adjacent roomlike section of the grotto. My heart was beating faster as I flashed my light around the extensive chamber. Still finding no evidence of what I sought, I delved deeper into the inky cavern. Suddenly my beam fell upon a square-cut opening at the far corner. There before me lay the fabulous escape passage of Tiberius!

Just then the Italian began to call, his voice resounding spookishly through the gloom. Irked by his intrusion, I darted quickly into the opening, hunching low to avoid bumping my head on the ceiling.

Immediately, I smelled the staleness of the air, and as I progressed deeper, my breathing became difficult. Soon the muggish atmosphere parched my throat, and I began to perspire heavily.

The tunnel inclined gradually upward as I groped along. At some points I was forced to turn sideways to pass between the humid walls. The floor, uneven and rough, slanted sharply— first one way and then another.

From time to time, the Italian’s voice echoed intermittently— growing fainter.

Some smoky lettering caught my eye along one wall of the narrow passageway. On inspecting it, I discovered it to be an Italian name etched in smoke, with a date. Farther on, there were additional signatures, some carved in the solid rock with knives, some written with the smoke of candles and pine torches. Many of the dates were extremely old, as far back as the nineteenth century. The most recent one I could find was 1912. Deciding to record my name along with the others, I picked up a sharp fragment of limestone and slashed my name and the date— June 1945.

From the time I left the water and began to use my flashlight, I had trouble with it. Some moisture seemed to have seeped inside, causing an imperfect connection. It would flicker off and on from time to time, and I was forced to pound on it violently to make a steady beam. Suddenly the light died out completely, and try as I would, I was unable to revive it again.

Nothing to do but sit on the damp floor and rest in the dark. The musty smell of that ancient tunnel assailed my nostrils. All was deathly quiet, and I began to contemplate the remoteness of my surroundings. Claustrophobia enveloped me, and a sensation of panic grew. Soon my mind was conjuring up weird pictures and I began to imagine strange noises. The unearthly feeling became so pronounced that a wild feeling of terror gripped my throat. I leaped to my feet and fled backstumbling down through the abysmal blackness.

Groping blindly, I blundered along, gashing my bare feet on the sharp rocks. The flashlight was jarred from my sweaty hand when I struck a projection in the wall, fell to the floor, and miraculously flashed on! (Through some quirk of fate, the fall had accomplished what I had failed to do.) Panting, I snatched it up, reveling in its light. Gradually I calmed down and collected my wits. In a few moments my excitement subsided, and I turned around, determined to continue my exploration.

Quickly I retraced my steps and plunged on into the chasm. After a half hour of steady trudging, I came upon a small chamber with a tunnel separating into three fissures. Taking the branch to the left, I followed it for a short way and came to a dead end. It was the same story with the other two divisions— nothing but blank walls stared me in the face. There was no possible way to go farther. Thus I was obstructed in my endeavor to solve the mysterious disappearance of the Italian explorers and was forced to turn back.

It was like coming upon an oasis in the desert, when I at last burst forth from the stifling void to glimpse the shimmering lake of the grotto. I found myself alone— nothing but the dancing reflections to keep me company.

Dirt-streaked and soaked with perspiration, my feet lacerated, I dived into the glittering water and swam toward the world outside. I fought my way through the underwater chasm, struggling against the strong undercurrent of a swell, and bobbed to the surface amid the flotilla of rowboats.

My sudden appearance seemingly from nowhere, elicited an uproarious response from the boatmen. If I had uttered an enthusiastic “boo” at the same time, they might have jumped overboard. They must have thought I was one of the grotto spooks come to haunt them. But when they discovered that I was merely one of those “crazy Americans,” their fright gave way to curiosity, and they began jabbering wildly. Having assured them that I had not materialized spontaneously, I talked one of the guides into rowing me back to the port, promising to pay him when I retrieved my clothes.

So I left the enchanted Grotto Azzurra with the agitated babble of bewildered Italians ringing in my ears. I later learned that my solicitous friend, who had tried so valiantly to save me from the “taboo passageway,” had become so distraught that he had actually rowed back to the port to secure an American rescue party.

Upon reaching my clothes, I quickly struggled into them, paid my chauffeur, and dashed up the beach to the predetermined meeting place. I arrived just fifteen minutes late and was relieved to find my buddies waiting for me. We boarded our little schooner late in the afternoon and under the setting sun sailed back to the routine and order of military life.