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1956 by a collision with Stockholm. Both vessels were ultimately found to be at
fault, but had the captain of the Italian ship either made a substantial course
change or maintained it without deviation, the ship would probably not have
gone down (there was substantial loss of life). The ‘hold your course’ doctrine,
which that captain favoured but failed to follow even though he had full radar
information, may ironically have been the right idea; in 1912, had Titanic hit
the iceberg head-on instead of altering course, the damage to its bow would
have been very severe, but the watertight compartments would not have been
compromised by the ship being sliced open along its length, thereby letting the
sea into compartments that would otherwise have retained their integrity. (In
the watch-keeping 1st officer’s defence, it has to be said that practically every
mariner in that situation at that time would have acted in the same way.) In fog,
to know not quite enough is worse than knowing nothing other than what one
senses; Captain Adie had a long night.

Two days later, we arrived in Genoa. A fine harbour gained one entry into an
almost mediaeval city (being brought up in the British tradition, one tended to
think of Alfred the Great and Danegeld as the beginnings of Western history, but
this city had been a thriving settlement in the sixth century BC). Unfortunately,
as I learned so often, my ethnocentrism was profound, the British education
system having an unerring ability to downplay the achievements of lesser breeds
– which is to say, everybody else. I noted in passing that one of Genoa’s most
notable doges was a certain Andrea Doria.

But this was not to be a quick stop, though the repairs to the engine rather
than the volume of cargo prevented a rapid departure. We loaded hundreds of
Vespas (two-stroke mini motor-bikes) and boxes of Martini & Rossi vermouth,
and I took a stroll around the city. The war had caused much damage to the
original buildings, but the larger ones had obviously been reconstructed with
care and reverence. This was a typical Italian response to cataclysmic events;
immediately after hostilities ceased, the people of Milan began reconstructing
the La Scala Opera House, and on May 11th, 1946, it reopened to enormous
acclaim even while the city was without transportation and was more rubble than
buildings. All this passed me by, my main desire being for a proper coffee. This
may seem strange, but on Khyber I had quickly discovered that the water carried
on board, and on which we had to subsist, produced a singularly awful brew; at
all the schools that I had attended, if we had had coffee at all, it was Camp Coffee,
a chicory potion that was cheap and contained no discernable coffee. It was quite
horrid and virtually undrinkable, but ship’s coffee was almost its equal. However,
I knew that if Italy could do anything properly, it was making coffee.

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