My Brigade: The (real) story of a Folgore paratrooper

I was a member of the Folgore Parachute Brigade from 3 September 1999 to 23 March 2002.

Before joining, having enlisted as a short-stay volunteer (VFB), I did a three-month course at the 85th Volunteer Training Regiment 'Verona' in Montorio Veronese (Verona), and a two-month specialisation course as a rifleman at the Infantry School in Cesano (Rome). I encountered some obstacles in enlisting, but I overcame them.

In these three years I have experienced very strong emotions, I have met many friends, with some I still feel in touch, others, unfortunately, are no longer there.

I left because of a professional choice, but also because, at one point, I was angry with the institution, guilty, in my opinion at the time, of having abandoned us.

You will better understand my motivations by reading my military history.

I still talk to my peers and my superiors today, I have great esteem for them.

I inserted photos, I did it scrupulously, making sure that the faces of staff still in service were not visible, I had to give up inserting others, even very beautiful ones. I also concealed the surnames of staff still in service.

I hope I don't bore you...here we go:

"Hands off the Folgore!"

Half 1990s, I was 16 or 17 years old and coming out of school, from the technical institute 'Guglielmo Marconi' in Civitavecchia, heading home, that day on a wall, written with a spray can in a bad way and worse I noticed: "Bodily Spirit, Courage, Daring, Loyalty: Hands off the Folgore!".

Those were the post-Somalia years, indeed, of the Somalia-gate, the investigation artfully mounted by the weekly Panorama to discredit the Folgore Parachute Brigade, which was later dismissed for being totally unfounded (it was discovered that the paratrooper had invented stories in Panorama for personal financial gain).

That was my first contact with the Folgore. But it wasn't over there.

In those same years, Lino Corsetti, a Marshal of the Italian Army now on leave, and father of my dear friend Francesco, told me about the exploits of the Paratroopers the 2 July 1993 in the Battle of Check Point Pastawas at the old port in Mogadishu that day, at the brigade headquarters on a mission with the 11th 'Leonessa' transmission regiment from Civitavecchia.

I couldn't believe it. Italy had a unit of super-trained fighters who had fought a bloody battle while I rode around on my Aprilia 50.

Me, who was obsessed with military films and magazines and thought those things were exclusive to the Americans, to the British.

I was caught up in a whirlwind of emotions and dreams. I asked, I inquired, I bombarded Lino and his son Francesco (also military, to be exact Lance Corporal Instructor at the RAV in Verona) with questions. I WANTED TO JOIN THE 'FOLGORE'.

Submission of the application to the military district

I had a bit of trouble enlisting as a VFB... in June 1994 I had a motorbike accident and fractured my tibia and fibula.

After the three-day examination (March 1995) the health profile of my lower limbs was three, which was insufficient to enlist as a volunteer. A two was required.

I knew I was cured, but I had to prove it to the military doctors in order to have a rectification on the health profile they issued me in La Spezia three years earlier. In September 1998, the military district in Rome sent me to the Military Hospital in Rome to carry out the necessary examinations and rectification.

The outcome, unfortunately, was negative. The military doctors took it lightly...maybe they didn't even look at the X-rays...they probably didn't feel like taking such a responsibility. The news destroyed me morally. I really wanted to join the army, I really wanted to become a FOLGORE PARACHUTE. But I did not lose heart.

I called Lino, my friend the marshal, again him, and he told me that there was another loophole: since the health profile had been issued by the Navy, I could ask for a military examination at their premises, but this time, to avoid final rejection, I had to provide myself with x-rays of my limb and a statement from a civilian orthopaedist certifying my complete recovery and qualification for any sporting activity.

So I did, I presented myself with all the documentation, and they rectified my profile. It was a great victory.

Now I could enlist. On the same day, I immediately took my application to the Military District in Rome with the new health profile. They immediately told me that I would leave at the end of March 1999.

You want to be an officer in the Navy? No thanks, I volunteer in the Folgore.

In that same period, September-October 1998, an uncle of mine, an executive of an important company in the capital with contacts at the top of the Navy, came to my house for a family visit. He had heard about my choice from my father and told me that he could 'strongly' influence my eventual competition as a Complementary Officer in the Navy (this was the late 1990s, the last AUC competitions). I politely declined the offer. No, thank you. The call of the glorious amaranth beret was too strong. I thought nothing of it, not even for a moment.

The Volunteer Course at the 85th Verona Regiment

24 March 1999. It is a date I will never forget. The departure by train from Rome, the arrival at Verona station. I remember every moment.

I travelled all night, arrived at the Regiment in the morning at around 10.30. The impact was tough, but not shocking.

I remember the first amaranth beret. A 1st Maj. VSP instructor from the 5th Parachute Company 'Pipistrelli', 2nd Btg. Tarquinia, 187th Par. Regiment Folgore , a certain Antonio D., whom I later met in person. He was on duty at Porta Carraia the very day I arrived in Verona. You could recognise him at a distance of two kilometres from the other soldiers, and not only because of the colour of his beret: he had a lean, athletic build and, above all, a very tight, angry face: it was the unmistakable sign that he had spent a few years in one of those tough units. 

We were then directed into the company: we were immediately taught military discipline, some suffered this, I did not, I was proud to learn it. After all, I had wanted it. And that was what our commanders always told us: "you are volunteers, no one told you to come here"..

I also had difficult times to overcome. For more than two months I did not go home, but no one had ordered me to enlist. I remember that at first I felt a slight pain in my back from standing in the formal high rest, it was nothing compared to the training I would experience in the Folgore Pracadutist Brigade.

To my great good fortune I found a friend in Verona, Lance Corporal Instructor Francesco Corsetti, we had known each other for years, we frequented the same group in the same city, we were Great Friends. He was the son of Marshal Lino, the one from the 11th Leonessa Regiment that I mentioned at the beginning.

No favouritism, by the way, he was not in my company, but an important psychological help. For the first time I was away from my family without being able to count on them. My psychological breakthrough was in one of his sentences the first few days, he looked me fixed in the eye and said: 'When the going gets tough, the tough get going'..

Today Francesco is no more, an accident at sea took him away from us forever, I would like to remember his way of joking and light-heartedness in difficult moments. Without him, it would have been different.

I was embedded in the 5th 'Cobra' Company, a company consisting mostly of Bersaglieri, Alpini and infantrymen, no Paratroopers. My God... indeed, to hear these men talk, Paratroopers weren't worth much... just chatterers. I had a Bersagliere sergeant who felt like Rambo, he criticised the Paras every moment of his existence, but he couldn't even read a topographical map, he would go out on patrol picnic style, no weapons, no vest... given his military inabilities in the Folgore Brigade he would have been cleaning toilets all his life.

The only person who knew anything about military training was a Volunteer on permanent service of the Alpini, a Sicilian boy who had been the only one in my company to have participated in missions abroad. And it was no coincidence that he was a Alpini. Beyond the jokes and rivalries between Paratroopers and Alpinis, mostly from naja, the Alpinis have always been a great corps. A corps where if you could 'hold your own' you became, by necessity, a Great Soldier. So the concept of the pulled and angry face also applied.

The week after my arrival, the first incident I particularly remember and which highlights what has always been my character: never be afraid to expose yourself if you think you are right. I was on duty in the company toilets. Around 10 p.m. the Captain Company Commander and the Corporal Instructor for an inspection. They are directed to the toilets, I salute militarily, the captain responds to the salute, approaches then turns and leaves. As he turns around again he sees passing marks on the floor:  "Pupil clean up well, someone has been there and you have not cleaned up.".
I had cleaned everything up, simply the captain in entering the bathroom had stepped on that area of the floor. I stood at attention and asked for a word: "Captain, it's dirty because you ran over it when you came in.". I see the corporal instructor pale in the face. The Captain let out a sigh and then asked me politely what my educational qualification was. I replied about my diploma and my short university experience. And he closed with this sentence: "The Army needs people like you. Keep it up, you will go a long way in the armed force".
I had imposed myself, I had understood how it worked. I had removed the last doubt, I had understood the rest.

So, since I understood the mechanism I adapted, I bided my time. To the instructors I just said 'Mr Yes'. There is one in particular that I remember today with a laugh. He was a corporal at the RAV, he did everything Sergeant Hartman. Very hard on me. I met him again with my platoon in the Folgore 2 years later. Both of us in military uniform. He one rank higher than me. Me, amaranth beret on my head, angry face of a tough unit. Me. Certainly not him. He greeted me like a scared little dog.

After some 20 days came THEY, the selectors of the Folgore. You know when you imagine something and then that something turns out exactly as you thought it would and, more importantly, as you dreamed it would? That is exactly what happened.

Two men showed up, a Lieutenant RS, with a background in the special forces of the Col Moschin, a drop covered in foreign patents and missions, and a marshal in the same style. They had a strong, decisive voice, athletic physiques, two real beasts, nothing to do with the pot-bellied marshals I had seen up to that time. I don't remember their names, I remember they were from Pisa, they looked at us volunteers with the look of men who want to adopt children, and two shining eyes that want to tell you that if you want to be the best, you have to go to them. I also remember that everyone inside the Regiment, for two days, stopped speaking ill of the Heroic Brigade, including the Bersaglieri. They showed us in the Regimental cinema room a film about the Folgore Brigade, from the Battle of El Alamein up to the 1990s, focusing on the most significant events, Somalia first and foremost.

Well, that film reinforced my concept even more: THEY were the best. And I had to go to THEM. I remember a speech by the lieutenant commander: "You will not be asked to do Rambo things. Not for the time being. You will have gradual training until you reach the highest level that the soldier can achieve. Because, if the country asks, you will have to be ready with maximum operational efficiency because the enemy does not give discounts. In the Parachute Brigade you will be trained to be able to face any threat in combat.

Never heard such a speech until now. Enemy? Combat? Threat? I had the shivers. It was my unit. I had to get there.

Before continuing, it is therefore necessary to better explain the Italian Army at that time.

In those years the Parachutists of the Folgore were simply on another planet than any other speciality of the Army. For half a century, the Folgore was theonly large unit of the Italian Army composed exclusively of volunteers. Even during the lever up to half 1990s, one had to apply and pass physical tests to get in. The Folgore has been selecting personnel since its inception, since 1941. It was the top of the top in everything.
Not that it is not today, but with professionalism in the Army, the other specialities have, fortunately, grown enormously. Brigades and specialities such as the Sassari, i Bersaglieri, the Alpini, are today comba unitt extremely reliable as the Parachute Brigade.
As already mentioned also the FOS basin, the COMFOSEetc. did not exist. It was the Parachute Brigade that dealt with special operations for the armed forces. Within it the 9th Rgt. Col Moschin, a spearhead whose raiding companies were composed exclusively of professional soldiers, its three manoeuvre regiments, the 183°, 186° e 187° and its powerful Artillery Regiment, the 185°. 
186° e 187° then, they would frame the battalions 2nd Par. 'Tarquinia e 5th Par. 'El Alamein' and given Italy's geographical position, they were trained in NATO during the Cold War as strong first-strike units in case of conflict with the Soviet Union.
It should also be remembered that until the early 2000s, it was possible to enter the 9th Rgt. Col Moschin, from guastrator (as VFB) or by raider (as VSP), only personnel belonging to the Folgore Parachute Brigade. It was a single family. And selection, even for future Incursors, as well as for Parachutists, began there. 

Joining the Folgore meant doing your military service in the elite of the Italian armed forces. Paratroopers in those days were truly frightening. The name FOLGORE was scary. And to be honest, I was also a little frightened by it, but at the same time thrilled to know that if I put my mind to it, I could be part of it.

Having framed the military scenario of the time, here we come to the physical selections: running, high jump, push-ups, pull-ups. I made some effort to pass them all, I won't deny it. But I cared so much about that appointment that I had trained hard in the past few days.

The rest of my stay in Verona was punctuated by formal training, and aa.i.c. (individual combat training) as children. Ridiculous patrols, never read a topographical map. You had to 'make up the numbers' in the Army, the VFB had only just come into existence, there was still conscription, so the policy was: let them do childish things, so nobody gets hurt and the General Staff is happy.

I do, however, remember a Captain, Commander of II Company, a Parachutist: he used to make his students wear gibernets with terracotta bricks inside, individual weapons for everyone, instructors included (in my Company for these it was an optional extra at their discretion).

And I remember the Regimental Commander praising him in front of everyone at the flag-raising ceremony: "Bravo Bruno, Bravo, that's how you train soldiers.". About this man, ice-blue eyes, silent even with his peers, always ready to respond to your greeting in a military manner, incredible legends about his past in Somalia circulated.

However, the patrols I did in Verona were important for me to get used to the weight of the rucksack... I remember the other students swearing left and right, while I remained in my silence and suffering, knowing that this often unbearable weight on my shoulders was necessary to be able to stand out in the ranks of the Brigade as a rifleman. Because I chose to be a rifleman. And I was content.

The 21 June 1999 from VFB trainee, I became a VFB corporal. Assignment Parachutist Rifleman, destination Cesano (Rome), Infantry School for the relevant course. It was a great satisfaction, but I still had to get rid of the black beret.

The Rifleman Course at the Cesano Infantry School

I arrived in Cesano, but the situation was not much better. In fact, in some respects, even worse. There, however, it was at the behest of our battalion commander, a lieutenant colonel nearing retirement who didn't want any problems. In return, however, I found instructors with the Amaranth beret who did what they could... however, I do remember an extraordinary peacekeeping exercise conducted (obviously) by a Parachute Lieutenant, marred, however, by the serious injury to the eye of a trainee who was hit by his own flaming blank from the bolt of his carbine.

The company was made up of corporals to be trained and then end up in the various specialities of the Army, bersaglieri, Sassari infantrymen, paratroopers, and more... In that company, however, I met some of those who were to be my future company comrades in the Folgore. Andrea R., Michele C., Carlo S., Cesare L., Luca Z., Emanuele T., Agostino P., Claudio S., Antonio T., Antonio M., Giuseppe M., Francesco C. and Simone T. (I hope I have not forgotten anyone!).

We were a 'group', we would one day sweat in the mud led by strong and charismatic Folgore Commanders, we felt, and indeed were, different.

Cesare L., Antonio M. and Claudio S. were conscripts from the Folgore Brigade who had applied for VFB. They were the only ones who had the Amaranth beret, they were Brevets, they knew what it meant to take their feet off that damn C-130. They were masters to us, Caesar in particular an older brother.

22 months of service only and exclusively in the ranks of the Brigade, he had never worn a black beret, he had been an A.I.P. in Pisa, he instructed conscripts to obtain their paratrooper licence at the Military Parachute School (later to become Ce.A.Par.). Physically, he was from another planet. We wanted to become like him. He came first in the Fusilier Course, Andrea R. second, and then me, and then everyone else.

I was on the podium, but above all, the first three were all destined for the Parachute units. However, I remember very good soldiers who would later be assigned to the Sassari Brigade, one among them, very intelligent, skilful, strong: Stefano B.

Cesano's training wasn't very good... what do you want to learn from a Platoon Commander, a second lieutenant with 10 months of service? Cesano served me to see my family more frequently, since I lived half an hour from the barracks. Every weekend at home, and I also had (!) a place in the barracks for my car. In addition, in the middle of summer, even a closed company at the turn of August: I had a nice week's holiday in Sardinia with a friend of mine...

And here too came the day of destinations: there was a legend that we were all destined for the bersaglieri... because the garibaldi had personnel needs. I swore that if it happened I would apply for an acquittal. And I really would have done it. Luckily though... it was just a legend.

Destination for us aspiring Paras: ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-SIXTH LIGHTNING PARACHUTE REGIMENT.

In 1999, as mentioned, together with the 187th Rgt. the antechamber of the special forces. One of the toughest, most operational, pissed-off and multi-decorated units in the Italian Army.

All of us in Siena, at the 186th, including the three guys who were already paratroopers. The rest mixed between bersaglieri e Brigade Sassari.

It was the 2 September 1999.

The arrival at the 186th Parachute Regiment 'FOLGORE' in Siena

The 3 September 1999 I arrived with the others in Siena at the 186th Regiment, we made a train journey full of hopes, stories and thoughts about what was to be one of the most operational units in the entire Italian Army. Even the three who were with us, despite already being Paratroopers, had no idea what it meant to join such a Regiment. They had never had any operational experience, Caesar was training students in the gymnasium course, Antonio and Claudio had been parachute deployers.

The 3 September indeed. It was not the real impact with the Folgore. The Folgore, the one of the stories about Somalia a few years earlier by my friend Lino, the BATTAGLIONE where the Fucilieri, the warriors, go, was out in Bosnia. The real FOLGORE, the massive, pissed-off one, I would see later. But it was only a matter of time....

They 'parked' us in the Green Smiles' Command and Service Company, the Company was packed, there were more than two hundred people, but everything seemed to be under control, which would have been impossible elsewhere. All the guys who came back from the mission were attached to the CCS. So there was no room for us... the BATTLE would return in two weeks.

We made thirteen: it was Friday, sent us home for the weekend, and the Monday all to Pisa for the gym course to obtain the Parachutist's Patent. It was a great mockery for the guys in the older bracket of ours, they would have patented after us!

6 September 1999, PISA, the Gymnasium Course

The Parachute Training Centre (former SMIPAR) in Pisa was a spectacle: it was like being in a five-star hotel, we ate like crazy, we did physical activity all morning, theoretical and practical training on the use of the parachute in the afternoon. Cheerful air, but it was obvious, you were always in the FOLGORE: if you made a mistake you were punished. Order and discipline came first.

And then I think I was lucky to find a great Commander, a true giant with a unique charisma: Colonel Incursor Parachutist Marco Bertolini.

A Italian special forces legend, Commander of the 9th Assault Battalion Col Moschin in Somalia, I had heard about his exploits in books and on the Internet, he was the one who commanded the Italian Incursors in the Horn of Africa from day one and the raid on theembassy in Mogadishu on 16 December 1992. Subsequently he commanded the 9th Regiment Col Moschin, the Parachute Training Centre, therefore the Folgore Parachute Brigade. During the mission years ISAF was Chief of Staff of the mission in Afghanistan. When he looked you in the eye at the flag-raising, he made you feel proud to belong to the Specialty.

I have a special memory of Colonel Bertolini, one that I will never forget in my life: it was the last physical test before the launch, the last test of the famous 'gymnasium course', a long run of several kilometres focused on endurance. The colonel was on the finish line, arms crossed. In the final bend a few dozen metres from the finish line, my shoe came untied and I lost it. I didn't care and ran like crazy to the finish line, with only one shoe. The colonel started applauding me to the cry of "Well done!!!" then looking around, surrounded by dozens of paratroopers, he continued by pointing a finger at me "This is the right spirit, the spirit of the Parachutist".. I felt as if I had won the world cup, needless to say... my instructor, never a smile in a month, patted me on the back and smiled as if he had won it too...

And then his speeches, at the flag-raising ceremony, were wonderful, his words were veritable thunders that entered your body: "Outside the barracks behave yourself, because as a civilian, off duty or discharged, you will always be identified as a Paratrooper of the Folgore. If they catch a former Bersagliere urinating in the street, at most they will write in the newspaper 'Ex-serviceman caught urinating in a public place'. If one of you is caught, it will be 'Former Folgore Paratrooper caught urinating in a public place'. You are and will be Paratroopers forever. That amaranth beret will be yours for life, you will carry it to your grave."

For the first time since I had enlisted, and more importantly in my life, I was facing a Man for whom, if he had asked me, I would have thrown myself into the fire without hesitation and without question.

However, there was a difficult air in Pisa that strongly penalised Parachute traditions: one month earlier , to August 1999, a Parachute Cadet had died in unclear circumstances, so any hazing was forbidden, including 'pumping', what infantrymen call push-ups.

Well my thinking is that pumping is not a hazing act, but a tradition, something you cannot erase, something that has bold and ancient roots, and was, among other things, an 'easy' way to toughen up the Paras' physique.

Get 20-30 pumps a day off the schedule and then we'll talk...

So I followed the Gym Course as a model student... and so did my friends. It was a continuous selection, the tower, the towel, the run, the pull-ups, the push-ups (pumped up...), the high jump....

The Company was made up of soldiers from the different Units of the Brigade. All but two of us from the 186th came out Brevets. Both made the same mistake in the false nacelle the day before the first launch. A very serious mistake, perhaps the most serious, which was to pass the tie-down rope over the side opposite the hand holding it. Throwing in that way risks the traumatic amputation of the head by severing it cleanly.

Failed, out, no appeals, our instructors cared a lot about our safety. Fair enough.

Not only that, but returning to Siena without a brevet was not really a good calling card... afterwards, only Francesco C. managed to repeat the brevet, while the other one was not only rejected again, but also dropped out because the Brigade was not for him... better that way.

Halfway through the course we learned from our escort which Company of the 186th we had been assigned to: the 13th Parachute Company CONDOR, the Inexorable Raptors. A glorious company, one of the few existing ones deployed in the battle of El Alamein.

There were three Rifle Companies in Siena: the XIV Indomitable Panthers, where we could not finish, was an experiment of the Brigade Command, composed only of Volunteers on Permanent Service, experienced Paratroopers with years of military experience, then there was the XV Black Devils, the Company that paid the highest tribute of blood in Somalia, having fought on the front line the 2 July 1993 in the Battle of Check Point Pasta. On the one hand we felt calmer, we thought "heck XIII will be quieter...". It was a big error of judgement, but a big one.

4 October 1999, the first launch

The first throw is like the first sexual intercourse, or the first kiss, or whatever you do for the first time knowing that you are writing the story of your life. You don't understand anything. You do everything automatically, and you do it well. The Zic-1, the Commanders telling us to get ready, the C-130 manoeuvring, its noise entering you like the voices of a woman whispering that she wants to make love to you. The climb up the ramp, the smell of kerosene, it's like you're in a movie. And you go for the reassuring gaze of some companion. Unforgettable moments.

And again... 5 minutes to launch... get ready.... 1 minute to launch... approaching the door... 5 seconds to launch... at the door: VIA!!!!

The momentum, 1000-1, 1000-2, 1000-3...you get to 1000-4...canopy check...a few rounds of screwing...and you've gone from the din emanating from an aeroplane in flight with the door open to total calm. It's you, alone, with your Irving 80 floating in the sky.

An enormous satisfaction, an unforgettable moment. The launch zone was the mythical one of Altopascio. The landing was not bad, even if you realise that the capsize you learnt in the gym in Pisa, simulating the landing, you will never be able to do it...

This was followed within a month by the second and third launches, the second again at Altopascio, the third on the Tassignano launch site amidst chickens and hens.

Return to the 186th Parachute Regiment 'FOLGORE

5 November 1999. And here we are.

Let no one take offence, but hard contact with the FOLGORE, the heir of the HEROES who fought in Africa in 1942you have it when you enter a BATTLE. In Siena there was, and is, THE FIFTH. The 5TH PARACHUTE BATTALION 'EL ALAMEIN'. Together with the 2nd Battalion 'Tarquinia' (framed in the 187th Rgt. of Livorno), the Fifth was (and still is) the only existing manoeuvre parachute battalion deployed in the battle of El Alamein. A glorious and daring history behind it, the clearest and most militarily important in Italy. The Fifth Battalion, under the orders of Lieutenant Colonel Giuseppe Izzo, in the epic battle inflicted heavy losses on the British with acts of pure and legendary heroism. 

That heavy legacy was among us. And it demanded respect.

In 1999, it was made up of the three rifle companies XIII, XIV and XV, maintaining the same numbering assigned in 1942, when it was founded and deployed to North Africa, plus a Heavy Mortar Company, the Mo.Pe. My first contact with the XIII on a psychological level was traumatic.

Do you remember when I said that we made a big error of judgement in thinking 13th Company was 'quiet'?

Here we are, let's say that the word 'tranquillity' or 'relaxation' were concepts far removed from that reality ... at least as an initial shock.

You are the last to arrive, the lights are dimmed by old parachute canvases hanging from the ceilings, legendary drawings on the walls, maximum formality and discipline even among marshals and lieutenants... add to that the fact that you are a toad... I WOULD LIKE TO POINT OUT THAT NO ONE EVER PERMITTED TO ABUSE THE SUBJECT, everything that was imposed on us was part of the MILITARY RULES OF DISCIPLINE.

In short, the regulation was applied to the letter.

Shock, but also a highly electrifying situation. I had struggled to get that far. I was even then a skilled computer systems engineer and had not enlisted for lack of professional opportunities. In fact, I had dropped out of university, computer engineering against my parents' wishes, precisely to join that group of people who were a bit crazy and a bit poetical...

I was literally thunderstruck by the extraordinary adventure that was coming into my life.

I did not think, however, that this grey and gloomy environment would in time become my second home, those hard and inflexible Commanders, my Fathers, and my elder Brothers.

It was Friday, no weekend at home, we arrived late in the afternoon and there was no material time for any licences. The sergeant of the day took care of equipping us the way a paratrooper should be equipped: American "Alice" backpack with iron breastplate, Kevlar helmet, and above all, American body armour... away with the rubbish that the General Staff provided us with. The Folgore has always acted autonomously, adopting US-sourced material since the mid-1980s. Contrary to the other units of the Italian Army, it spent its own funds to equip its soldiers in the best possible way.

My Commanders, first contact

Monday 8 November. I met them. My Commanders. I will only talk about those who were my direct Commanders, but all the others were also exceptional men.

The Company Commander was Francis M., Captain, looked like he was joking when he spoke, but was terribly serious, very intelligent academy officer, in the troop he was either loved or hated. However, to this day I cannot understand why. There was no Company Commander, when we became 'adults', who sent his men on leave as many days as he did. He made us work hard... but also, and rightly so, rest. He demanded strong physical training for the whole company, running in particular. He was also a computer science graduate, and soon we would find ourselves...

He also took great care of the technical part, both theoretical with classroom lessons and practical with patrols and offensive/defensive tactics. He did not improvise, he planned our training (and our licences) in the best possible way.

His deputya young but great officer, Antonio C., serious and rational, then we found out that he was very easygoing, and the cheerful joke was often thrown in. His joke "ciacalas or ciculus?" is a pleasant memory of a Commander who was serious and cheerful to a fault. We often happened to meet him in the pubs of Siena, and, always with the right formality, we exchanged a chat and a beer. I think he will have a great future in the Army, obviously in the Paratroopers.

And then the Platoon Commanders. Emiliano P, Commander of my Platoon, the 3rd, only a year older than me, immediately became a teacher, and later a great friend, but he did not hesitate to pull my ears (in a metaphorical sense) when I screwed up. The Platoon Commander is the lowest of all in the Regiment-Battalion-Company-Platoon hierarchical chain, so he was the one who knew his men best. He was extremely formal, he demanded attention in all circumstances, but he also expressed an excessive Roman-ness, cheerful and joking outside of work, he was however prepared to the Top militarily.

He was, and still is, one of the greatest sharpshooters in the Italian Army, and holds the brevet of Sharpshooter Instructor. He was a mix of cheerfulness-seriousness. An avid Romanist like me, he made me pay dearly for this pseudo-football friendship... He believed in me a lot, and I think I repaid him as I should have. In the years following my discharge he landed in a department of the special operations pool.

Then came he... the Myth, the Company Marshal, Giuseppe P.. Great skills, ideologically I could call him 'the Folgore Man', hard as stone, passionate and an expert like few in military art and history, we were all afraid of him, but then with time we realised that he had a great heart, or at least I understood this.

If you screwed up, before he took you to the Company Commander, he would give you a speech, he would try to hit you inside, he would try to make you understand, with words, that the Folgore had to be respected, that he could not afford to have uncaring, fake paratroopers in the ranks. I understood this from him. He also had his faults, never a cheerful joke, sometimes he exaggerated, but in the 99% of times he was terribly right.

You had to understand him before saying among ourselves 'that guy is crazy'. He was also an excellent fighter, one of the best trained in the regiment. He had an exceptional knowledge and handling of weapons, which was also due to the fact that he was the only one in my Company who managed to pass the raider course at the 9th Regiment Col Moschinas well as having 'made' Somalia.

So, in the mud, or in a forest, he knew how to survive, and this he tried to teach us. He taught me personally a lot, as a Paratrooper and as a Man.

And again, the Team commander, Maurizio Gallitto, allow me to mention his surname as he is no longer serving in the Army. A Volunteer in Permanent Service, he was one of those who came from the Paratrooper conscription, an Amaranth Basque since always, he had a big heart, and an inhuman strength. He wasn't big, just over one and a half feet tall, but with a background as a professional boxer, the words 'pain' or 'suffering' were terms that were not part of his vocabulary. On patrol he would not even take off his rucksack when we stopped to rest. He was a great athlete and often gave us physical education lessons. He came from the 14th Indomitable Panthers, the paratroopers par excellence at that time.

In my company, I also fondly remember Sergeants Giovanni C., the only one in XIII, along with Giuseppe P., who had 'made it' to Somalia, Andrea N. and Maurizio D.G.. The latter was the protagonist of an incredible career: from a conscript paratrooper in Condor scaglione 94 today he is even a senior officer, again in the Folgore.

The first speech was given by him, Company Marshal Giuseppe P.: "Forget Cesano, here you are neither in Cesano nor in Pisa, here you must learn to be Parachute Fusiliers"..

Pian del Lago, Montagnola Senese, Pian di Spille... a whole month of tough, non-stop training.

The 21 November the MANGUSTA was waiting for us.

Before I move on to the Mongoose, however, I would like to remember the other superiors of the Regiment who were not part of my Company, but of whom I have very good memories. At the 186th Regiment there were very well trained men, some former Incursors, including Marshal R.B., a former Col Moschin operator, over 10 years in special forces on the front line in Somalia, Rwanda, Yemen and Bosnia.

He told me his 2 July 1993, some of the heated phases of the battle and his friendship with Stefano Paolicchi, Sergeant Major of the 9th who fell in combat that day in Mogadishu, and other anecdotes during his time at Col Moschin. With R.B. I still keep in touch to this day, he is a person of a level, not only military, but above all human, as there are few.

And again, among the former special forces operators of the Col Moschin, I fondly remember Marshal S.C.. He was part of the assault commando that in the 1986 should have intervened on the Achille Lauro.

"They" you could recognise by the "flea" on their beret, they had the traditional frieze but inside, neither the Battalion number, 5, in the regiment number, 186, but they had the 9. 9th Assault Regiment Col Moschin precisely. Their enormous experience was put at the service of us conventional paratroopers.

And again, the XV Company had as its commander a thoroughbred fighter, Lieutenant Carbonetti, decorated with a silver medal for military valour for the splendours of 2 July 1993. I had the good fortune to exchange a few words with him. Like him, and for the same reason, he was decorated with the same honour, Marshal Giovanni Bozzini, a great person, who at that time was part of the Battalion Command, and remained there until my discharge. I mention their surnames because they were made public in General Paolo Riccò's fantastic book Black devils: the true story of the battle of Mogadishu. With Bozzini in particular I had an excellent relationship.

And then many others, many whose names I cannot remember, but strong and valiant, as Parachutist Tradition dictates.

I also began to get to know the beauty of Siena and its people. Unlike Livorno, where there is a historical rivalry between the Parà and the citizens, the relationship with the Sienese was excellent. There was mutual respect, except for a few isolated episodes. In Siena, the Paratrooper was, and still is, perfectly integrated into the social fabric. Sienese and Parà participate together in anniversaries, festivals, and sufferings.

Then for a young man, Siena was (and is) a real godsend. The Tuscan town is an important national and international university centre, and there was no shortage of beautiful young women... I remember evenings at the Barone Rosso, the Caffè del Corso, and the Irish Pub, landmarks for us Paras. Rivers of beer and speeches in every language...

If you were young and pretty and passed through there in those years, you must have had at least one contact with a Paratrooper... you couldn't escape us, you would have been our prey.

20 November 1999, my Magusta

For those who have been in the Folgore, the Mongoose needs no introduction. The Mongoose is an exercise where 2 or more departments, or companies, or tactical groups challenge each other. One acts as interdiction, the other as counter-interdiction.

20 November 1999. It was terribly cold in the Tuscan hinterland.

Given the unavailability of the other Regiments of the Brigade (187 was East Timor, Nembo I don't remember where, but it was out), there was the following dislocation: XIV Indomitable Panthers vs Rest of Regiment.

That is, one company against three. We had to check targets without getting too close, we moved around in vehicles, left our rucksacks behind, and patrolled on foot, both day and night. In 10 days I slept no more than 20 hours....

They, on the other hand, were infiltrated with airplanes in an area unknown to us. The 'Panthers' had to move with rucksacks, weapons and all, slept during the day, and walked at night to escape the enemy (us).

Well, I thought, we will tear them to pieces, three against one, they will have difficulty moving. But instead they slaughtered us.

They made all the targets, captured some of our people, we never managed to stop them, we only found a few traces during the various patrols.

Too strong, too experienced and too well prepared. Personally, however, together with Maurizio Gallitto and Giuseppe M., we managed to locate one of their patrols. We stationed ourselves in a farmhouse around sunset and took turns observing their movements with the night viewer. Well... we discovered that in this case they had moved using a civilian van. After all, anything goes in war, or not?

Sure, and that was supposed to be a war simulation. Plus we were dealing with the best of the conventional forces of the entire Army.

The 14th Panthers had, and still has, the best soldiers in the Italian Army, both in the cadre and in the troop, which in its time consisted only of Volunteers in Permanent Service. People who could easily do well in the special forces. Authentic war machines, I remember in particular 3-4 elements... I salute them, if they remember me, THEY know I am talking about them, their surnames P., S., C..

In the mission ISAF in Afghanistan these Paratroopers (exactly the dotted surnames I mentioned) were the members of the escort of General Rosario Castellano, Commander of the Folgore Brigade. A job formerly carried out by the Col Moschin Incursors. This is to give an idea of who we had on the other side....

Ours was a young company, the troop was 'immature'. Our cadres were very well prepared, but they had to deal with totally inexperienced troop personnel, except for the VSPs who numbered about ten. So the debacle was total. But we learned a lot from that experience. We learned how to share food as real soldiers do, we learned how to move in the woodshed, techniques for not losing track of who you're chasing, we learned to don't underestimate the enemy.

There was still a lot to learn, but it was a great experience.

December 1999, group baptism of fire, platoon assault at Pian di Spille

The 'bread and butter' of the Parachute Fusilier is undoubtedly the assault. The assault may be by Squad, Platoon, Company (minor complex), or Battalion (tactical group).

After the Mangusta, the Platoon assault awaited us. We tried several times at Pian del Lago, a place near Siena. Then we went to Pian di Spille. On the first day, we fired a large amount of ammunition, both with the individual weapon (SCP) and with the departmental weapons (Minimi and Mg) and hand grenades. The next day, the assault.

Platoon assault is more complicated than squad assault because all 3 squads have to synchronise in fire-movement. I put my best effort into it, also because any mistakes can be to the detriment of safety, you are firing with weapons of war, you risk killing your comrades. We succeeded very well, except for a few problems with a departmental weapon that jammed. However, Marshal Emiliano P. congratulated us. I was beginning to take some satisfaction.

January 2000, the launches with the Fusiliers Company, a different music

There was a rumour going around that in Pisa you also throw a sack of potatoes, noodles throw it down.

An exaggeration for sure, a saying from naïve days to reinforce the warrior spirit of riflemen in regiments or manoeuvre battalions.

Actually, however, when I jumped with my Company, the XIII, everything was very different: real war jumps were carried out, with rucksack, individual or department weapon, possibly per team or platoon. The rucksack, by regulation (and safety) cannot weigh less than 16kg. If it doesn't have an adequate weight, the friction rope risks not unwinding and landing with the alice rucksack attached to your legs is not a great thing... you risk breaking them, as in addition to the weight and bulk it prevents proper movements when landing.

Faeces 2 launches in one day, one in the morning, the other in the afternoon. We boarded at Grosseto in the morning, at an airport where military fighter planes were flying just a few metres away from us. The usual smell of kerosene, the usual reassuring glances between us boys. After about twenty minutes of 'travelling' on the G-222, we launched and re-boarded the same G that had meanwhile landed at Ampugnano. Another launch and Ampugnano-Siena patrol. It was the 17 January 2000, and I had made fourth and fifth jumps. I was now a full-fledged military parachutist. I marked my drop with the patent with the star in the middle.

Another important point in my military life had been reached.

In the meantime, Captain Francesco M. discovered my computer skills, and 'diverted' me to the Fureria. Together we developed an important personnel control programme that was later adopted by all companies. But to tell the truth, my Parachutist rifleman's heart was beating inside me. He realised this and I tried to alternate between stealth and patrols. To tell the truth, during those years I took part in all rifleman activities and at the same time became, according to my comrades and superiors, the heart of the 13th Condor Company's Fureria. I could often be seen in the Fureria still wearing my masquerade and sweaty camouflage from training, or I would shoot until late at night to organise services and various papers. It was a source of pride for me to take care of them. I enjoyed it like crazy and was proud of it.

The month of February passed with numerous polygons, and in March an important appointment awaited us: the minor complex, the Company assault.

March 2000, in the snow of Carpegna, the XIII goes on the assault

If the platoon assault is a difficult offensive tactical act to prepare and execute, the Company assault is even more so, especially if you have to operate in prohibitive conditions, but according to some of our Commanders, if we would have done well in adverse conditions, in good weather we would have done even better.

We spent about a week in Carpegna, between ranges, squad and platoon assaults for those who had not yet done them. The 1st Platoon commanded by Lieutenant Luca D. even did the assault in one day, and the Complex the next day.

Commanded by our Grand Company Commander Francesco M., the minor complex we carried out was spectacular, both because of the weather conditions and because we were a very amalgamated company. Supporting us 'toads' were the senior VFBs who had returned from 8 (!) months in Bosnia awaiting VSP appointment and, unfortunately, transfer. The singing of the MGs was extraordinary, the final target was also shot down by an anti-tank rocket launched by the great Giuseppe Sagliocco, a Lance Corporal with four years of experience only and always in the Brigade (former conscript paratrooper), now on leave.

That day he ran and jumped hundreds and hundreds of metres with the Panzerfaust on his right shoulder (go and see how much a panzerfaust rocket launcher weighs...) over the hills of Carpegna.

Everything, or almost everything, worked perfectly, and, as is important when 100 people are on fire at the same time, nobody got a scratch. As always, on the other hand. A sign that the commanders' teaching had been perfectly received by the troops.

Primavera 2000, preparation and departure for Albania

At the end of March we were told that we would pass thesummer 2000 in Albania and we started to prepare.

Although the mission appeared to be 'easy', nothing, in the Parachutist tradition, was left to chance. Firing ranges, weapons zeroing, peacekeeping exercises and staggered departures from mid-June. It was our first mission, and us new guys, we felt it a lot. We all did a great job.

The whole Regiment, from the CCS to the Battalion, made a great impression, and I can never forget the compliments of the Commander of the Brigade Comm-Zone West, General Casalotto.

He was an Alpine, but he complimented the 186th for the high level of efficiency put in place during the four months, he was literally 'in love' in the military sense, with us. All the generals, including foreigners, who came to visit us at the base in Ure, near Durres, complimented us.

At the operational level, mostly route reconnaissance was carried out with day returns, surveillance of bases, and surveillance of the military hospital in Durrës where Albanian civilians, especially children, were also hospitalised.

The Regiment also had the task of training Albanian Army soldiers.

They sent our best VSPs to teach them the combat techniques of infantry soldiers. And again, we did a spectacular assault exercise in a lake with dinghies.

General Casalotto, Commander of the Brigade operating in Albania clapped his hands at us. He was so impressed by the preparation of the Paras that, at the end of the mission, he sent home Carabinieri and Infantrymen who were escorting him and asked our Commander for a dozen Paratroopers to protect him.

Our Company provided Emanuele M., a Volunteer on Permanent Service, obviously one of the best in the XIII. For him, in addition to his four-month mission with us, there would be another six months as the General's escort.

From the operational point of view, the mission offered long-range reconnaissance patrols, until before our arrival exclusive to special forces.

I did one, called Operation Midsummer Night, it lasted four days. We left on 11 July. We went to reconnoitre part of the border between Montenegro and Albania. Places that did not even exist on maps. At night we stayed in open, hidden spaces, during the day we walked, took photographs and video footage. The task of the mission was also to locate the barracks of the Albanian Army, to secretly photograph, as far as possible, means and men. That data would be useful for NATO to actually see how far the work of reconstituting the Albanian Army, which had fallen apart after the civil war, was going. On the second day, we carried out a heliborne.

Having found the ZAE (helicopter landing zone) we established the coordinates and communicated them to the helicopter. The ZAE was a quadrangle the size of a football field in a flat expanse at the foot of a hill in a remote area.

Two paratroopers on each side ensured safety. The helicopter touched down and unloaded foodstuffs and crates of water, after which it immediately flew away. As there was plenty to eat, our Commanders decided to distribute much of the food to the Albanian civilian population who were living in less than optimal conditions there. We distributed sweets, pasta, flour and bread to women and children. A noble act, as always, a child of the Paratroopers' initiative.

At the end of August, our company moved from the base in Ure to the one in Puke, towards the border with Kosovo. We would spend the last month of the mission there. The environment was more relaxed, we were more autonomous, but no less careful. There was a service, that of checking suspicious personnel at the border between Albania and Kosovo, which once completed allowed those who had performed it to cross the border and be hosted by German soldiers in Kosovo for a night. I performed that service a couple of times, and stayed a couple of nights with the Germans. Although the German Army was greatly reduced in size after the Second World War, today it is a fine Army.

As quality the best I have seen. Their base was an absolute model of beauty, efficiency, cleanliness and more. MG stations on all four sides, patrols of soldiers on the move, highly advanced automatic weapons, top quality combat suits, ultra-modern radios, a 24-hour canteen, living quarters on another planet compared to ours... with individual satellite TV, including those of the guests... I remember a joke by an Italian paratrooper: 'My home in Italy is not like that either'.

At the end of September we returned to Ure and a few days later we returned to Italy.

The experience of that first mission made everyone more responsible, for the first time we found ourselves guardians of weapons with magazines, and when we left, those weapons were loaded (clearly, without a round in the chamber) in our hands.

We returned at the beginning of October, and took a long and well-deserved leave of 20-30 days, but some members of the Company were called back to help the people of Tuscany in the disastrous flooding that hit the Lucca area. As always, their contribution was so much appreciated that the mayor of a rescued town thanked the Folgore with a plaque.

December 2000, an unprecedented Minor Complex.

In the meantime, the Battalion Command had changed, the Lieutenant Colonel Massimo M., very close to the XIII, had commanded it in Somalia. He was an excellent Commander, very well prepared, a great military strategist, an expert in intelligence and an excellent communicator.

And again, at the 186th there was an officer, such Aldo Zizzo which I will discuss later. During this period, Major Aldo Zizzo, if I remember correctly, was part of the Brigade Command in the OAI (operations, training, information) office. In addition came what for me was the best Regimental Commander at the 186th, Colonel Maurizio Fioravanti (later Brigadier General Commander of the Folgore and as Gen. of Division Commander of the Joint Special Forces Operations Command). I give their names as they are both on leave today.

The mix of these three officers led to an unprecedented minor company assault.

The theatre of operations chosen was Cape Teulada, an imposing military range (dozens of hectares of hills and flat expanses overlooking the sea) in southern Sardinia. There were three platoons that formed the Company. The 1° and the 2° arrived in Sardinia ferry, one would infiltrate by sea with rubber dinghies, the other by land with the VM, the 3° instead he would embark on a C-130 a Pisa and airlifted into the vicinity of the target. The three platoons were given distant infiltration points. And all three would have to make a long topographical patrol to rejoin and reform the company that would then go on the assault.

I, who was part of the second, infiltrated by land with the rest of my comrades. We skirt the campsite of Teulada along the main road, we approached the infiltration zone, got out of the vehicles and entered the exercise field by cutting through the fence with pincers. All this in total silence. We were in full combat readiness. Israeli gibernets, packed rucksacks, departmental weapons adapted for individual use, SAS-style clothing in the Iraqi desert. We walked at night for two days, resting during the day hidden in the bush. During the night we received disruptive actions with flash bangs and blanks from a hypothetical enemy, but no one could find us.

The day 22 December the three platoons joined together on the top of a hill, with binoculars the squad commanders observed the target to be attacked the next day, reporting the details to their respective squads. In the evening, while we were in the bivouac, I listened to the Lazio v Roma derby on my mobile phone, spending 40,000 lire on the phone... along with my inseparable friend Fulvio R.. Paolo Negro's own goal made us and our Platoon Commander jump, only for us to destroy the bivouac that we had so carefully built during the day. We had to do it again in the cold and without light... but faith is faith and Roma were on their way to winning their third Scudetto.

The 23 morning we set off in tactical and defiladed trim towards the target. No blank rehearsal, none of us knew him, only our Commanders had observed him through binoculars. Even they, including the Company Commander, only had the geographical coordinates.

The action was extraordinary. Smoke bombs were thrown as a disruptive action, we did not know the area and we were under stress having eaten and slept very little in two days. With these components, the simulation was as close to reality as possible. Only the enemy was missing.

Everyone was amazed at the success of the exercise, and in the briefing after the mission, in addition to the Battalion and Regimental Commander, an officer from the Brigade Headquarters showed up, Captain R., and told us verbatim that no infantry unit, for obvious safety reasons, had carried out such a simulation, no one, with the exception of the special forces, had sent 100 men to the assault with live ammunition and hand grenades without carrying out a blank rehearsal, and under high conditions of stress and physical exhaustion.

According to the officers, that was the real training a Parachute Unit had to perform. To infiltrate behind enemy lines and carry out offensive actions and sabotage under physical and mental stress. How can you blame them?

All paratroopers in the world were created for this.

2001 first part, night team, launches and the G-8 in Genoa

In the first part of the year 2001 we did a lot of firing ranges, really a lot, in particular we were trained to shoot at night. At April we carry out the night squad and platoon assault. If an offensive tactical act during the day presents difficulties in terms of security, let alone at night.

But as always, given the preparation of our cadres who trained us well, we did things as well as we could.

A May we began to prepare for the event of the year: the Folgore would be deployed at the G-8 in Genoa to guard the airport of the Ligurian town, and in particular, the aircraft of the Heads of State. It was something new for us, the atmosphere was electrifying, we prepared ourselves as best we could, we alternated shooting lessons at the shooting range and riot training with shields, truncheon and helmet. The airport was considered a red zone.

Officers and NCOs of the Carabinieri came to give us theoretical lectures on the extra-parliamentary political movements considered violent and the situation we would encounter. For our Commanders, it was an important opportunity to prove to the institutions our prowess on home soil.

we cared. And as always, in keeping with our Name, we trained hard for two months straight.

At the beginning of July, before leaving for Genoa, I made four launches within two weeks, all in combat gear, and with the Ampugnano-Siena topographical patrol in tow.

However, Operation G-8 aroused within me an aversion to the institutions and those who ran, on a chair at the General Staff, the Army military, and in particular We Paratroopers.

We arrived in Genoa around the middle of July, I think it was the 14 or 15, at night to avoid political protests.

The no-globals were obviously against the presence of the Folgore. But our ship, where we were supposed to stay for security reasons, had not yet arrived. So they decided to take us temporarily to a ship where the Carabinieri Paracadutisti Tuscania were staying. In the afternoon we went into Genoa escorted by Carabinieri, a car in the back, one in front, a motorbike on the right and one on the left, sirens blaring, no stopping even at red lights. The bus carrying us had the words BRIGATA PARACADUTISTI FOLGORE in full view on its sides. And our no-global friends really didn't like us, we had to walk 6-7 km through Genoa, from the Ilva steelworks quay to the opposite side of the port. To do it without an escort would have been a huge risk.

We were immediately 'parked' on a beautiful Egyptian cruise ship. We had a two-day holiday, we ate like gentlemen, we had a great time, a Paratrooper of the XIV also clashed with a Paratrooper Carabiniere of the Tuscania, a tough and big lieutenant ... our Paratrooper (great friend ... a Panther "DOC" code name 7 D ... hello I hope you are well) was a beast and was about to end badly, well he tells it all, it seems that 7D had a drink too much and was together with the other "historical" Panthers to attend a show of dancers in the disco of the ship, he began to throw peanuts at the heads of the people in front of him and took on the head of a Lieutenant of the Tuscania, who did not put in front of the rank, but made the sign with his hand "I'll cut your throat.

Well, maybe the Carabiniere should have told him, 'I'll take you to your Company Commander and you'll get seven days', but he obviously didn't know that he was dealing with a Panther... who reacted like a Panther... fortunately, the two men's comrades calmed things down and everything ended with a collective toast... two people wearing the Basco Amaranth cannot go to war.

We said it was good on this ship. And yes, dancers, great food, games rooms, two days of absolute freedom. It was so good that they took two days leave from us, I dare say, rightly so. Nobody had any objections. As you have understood, however, it was a temporary arrangement. In the meantime, a rumour spread: our ship has some engine trouble, it seems to have been towed by tugboats, it will arrive soon.

Indeed the ship arrived. Some engine problems???? The ship had been leased for a week by the state for 3 billion lira, which had ended up in the pockets of a Greek ship owner.

This was told to us by a Brigade Command officer, whose rank, surname and first name I still remember today.

The ship had no engine problems, but it was a wreck of the sea, laid up for 15-20 years. Water with rust was coming out of the pipes in the toilets, the air conditioning system was missing its filters, so if you turned it on you breathed the stinking, health-hazardous air emitted by the Ilva steelworks' hoods. The deck and the corridor were in a total state of disrepair, the glass on the bridge broken, rubbish everywhere.

This was the post that the Italian Army General Staff had allocated to the Parachutists of the 186th Regiment for service in the G-8. Evidently, something was not working in the hierarchical chain of the Army's upper echelons. Our Commanders could do nothing, they adapted as we did, by the way they too had to sleep and eat in that sewer, so they were not to blame.

As true Paratroopers, we rolled up our sleeves and began our work.

For those days, everyone had the special status of Public safety officer inside the airport. We could, and we had to, check anyone walking around inside the airport. We could, if deemed appropriate, stop any person without a regular transit permit or with irregular or suspicious documents. We did a great job together with the guys of the 183rd, 185th and 187th. I personally had the professional satisfaction of supervising for two hours, on the 20th, together with a comrade of mine, theAir Force One, the plane of the American President George W. Bush.

And right under Air Force One something grotesque happened: despite the recommendations of our Platoon Commander, something went wrong. I still cannot explain to myself how such superficiality is possible during such a service. One of the Paras in my Company was doing surveillance on Air Force One with a small FM radio to listen to music... the radio fell off and got caught in the wheel of the President's aircraft. Now, it doesn't take an explosives expert to know that a radio-controlled bomb can be operated on a modulated frequency (fm)... and that's exactly what US security personnel thought when they noticed this frequency coming from under their President's plane on their radar, and on the very first day of a sensitive meeting like the G-8.

They blocked the airport, the American special forces were called in, the Navy Seals and the Comsubin came out of nowhere (the Genoa airport is located on the sea) the Col Moschin raiders deployed on the Sheraton skyscraper with 12.7 carbines put the shot in the barrel. No one was to enter or leave the airport. They called the BOE (explosive ordnance disposal). There's a bomb under George Bush's plane. Can you imagine that? No it was a movie, but it was the sad and grotesque reality. Fortunately the paratrooper spoke and everything went back to normal, but the screams of our Platoon Commander still echo in the skies over Genoa...

Apart from this unbelievable fact, everything went smoothly. President Silvio Berlusconi, even made an unscheduled stop, stopped his car on the way to the plane, got out and shook hands with a dozen paratroopers

I think this is enough to understand the modus-operandi we carried out in Genoa.

The deployment of the paratroopers at the airport had the desired effect: to strike fear into the Protestant-violents so that they would not approach them. In a TV interview, a no-global made it clear that they had no intention of approaching the airport precisely because 'there's the Folgore there, and if they get pissed off, they'll shoot at us'.

In fact, we had some not very reassuring rules of engagement for those who wanted to cross the red line at the airport: if someone jumps the net, fire.

2001 second part, 'The Commander', Major Aldo Zizzo, arrives and we go to Kosovo under his command.

Once the G-8 is over, straight to work. In early October, we go to Kosovo. But first there was the event that made my existence as a paratrooper even more fulfilling: in August, Major Aldo Zizzo, now on leave, arrived to command the Fifth Battalion 'El Almein', what I call the Commander par excellence.

You either loved him or hated him. I loved him, my friends, some loved him, some hated him. With him you didn't play with your uniform on.

In the morning, the ENTIRE BATTLE ran, everyone, but really everyone, including riflemen, gunners, footmen, and Him in the lead.

On the first day, on his arrival, he gave a long speech to the Battalion. For those who experienced the Folgore in the 1990s, a speech like General Celentano. He ordered a minute's silence for the entire Battalion in remembrance of those who had fallen fighting for the Fatherland.

He then rudely chased away a regimental marshal who told him "move commander, we have to report" and him: "BUT CAN'T YOU SEE I'M TALKING IN FRONT OF 400 PARATROOPERS?"

Reintroduced at the flag-raising ceremony the shout "FIFTH!" and the whole Battalion answered him: "FOLGORE!!!"

The Major was a prepared person in every respect, a real war machine in the true sense of the word. He left nothing to chance, especially in training.

He used a somewhat American style, high physical preparation, running both in athletic clothes (tracksuit) and in boots and camouflage, knowledge of weapons and equipment, order, discipline. But when he wanted, he also had the easy joke. Sicilian by birth, his jokes were a force. He made you feel like a paratrooper in a sublime way.

I met him a few years after my discharge in a restaurant near my home, my first question was "Commander, what will happen now without you? Will the battalion fall apart?" And he replied "one must not be afraid of being written anonymous letters".. Yes, the anonymous letters. A spectacle.

When I was in the service The Commandant received at least a couple of them... in the Regiment there were fake soldiers (some without parachute certification) waiting for transfer, who didn't mind training as paratroopers.

Being gutless men, they would write anonymous letters to the General Staff with contents that were far removed from reality. And he, with his always strong and gangly manner, would read them to us.

I discovered his further greatness as a commander and military strategist, as we shall see later, in Kosovo.

It was in the 2009 Colonel Commander of the 186th Parachute Regiment Folgore and Commander of the Italian Italfor XX Contingent in Afghanistan.

The Major arrived i early August, we prepared for Kosovo the whole month and also in September. But precisely in September of that year, the 2001, the event happened that changed the world and also our mission in Kosovo: the attack on the twin towers in New York on the 11th.

The 4 October we left for Kosovo. The 186th was the "Task Force Falco", the base was located in the town of Djakovika, a small town with a Muslim religious majority in the south-west of Kosovo about seventy kilometres from Pristina, the capital where the American Command was stationed.

Kosovo, like all other states in the world where chaos reigns, given the political instability (or non-existence), was (and I think still is) a hiding place for various bandits, and among these, there could not be any shortage of Islamic extremist cells. It operated accordingly, with the alert profile at the highest level, precisely as a consequence of the 11 September attack. In short, it was not 'the usual' mission in the Balkans. The international scenario, in those very days, was beginning to become more complicated.

We left the base always wearing helmets and bulletproof vests, each of us equipped with our own SCP and 7 magazines of 30 rounds each.

When I arrived in Kosovo, since I had to leave immediately after the end of the mission, I made a wish to my company commander: to get out of the brig completely and dedicate myself 24 hours a day to the operational cause. I was granted.

I won't go into a description of all the operations, we did a lot of them, two or three a week of various sizes, raids, searches, confiscation of weapons, patrols with helicopter infiltrations, foot patrols inside the city. Everything was very exciting, maximum operability, we often worked together with UMNIK, the multinational police force set up by NATO.

Only the guarding of the base was boring, but someone still had to do it.... otherwise the most a paratrooper could ask for. Even night patrols in combat gear in the Kosovan forests, both on foot and with vehicles. All carried out with the utmost skill, the fields were overrun with landmines.

We were also in charge of guarding Serbian minorities in the city and sensitive religious sites (Orthodox Churches and Cemeteries). We escorted elderly Serbian women when they had to do their shopping, we guarded their homes 24 hours a day. They repaid us by offering us hot coffee and schnapps at all hours, including at night.

We operated in hostile weather conditions: the 20 December it was -18 degrees and 1 metre of snow.

Our presence re-established order, and supported the UMNIK police force.

In the month of January 2002, the boys of the Battalion made a big hit: a patrol of Parachute Fusiliers captured the two perpetrators of the attack on the American ship in Yemen in 1999. The two terrorists had been wanted by the Americans for three years and were caught by the boys of the Battalion in the Kosovan hinterland in a secret operation conducted, as always, in a masterly manner.

There was very little sleep, three to five hours a day. But I didn't really care. I had to take leave and I wanted to be in the thick of things. Despite the time spent on duty, we often did physical activity, most often with Major Aldo Z. in the lead, and when there was a lot of snow, we went running in boots and camouflage. A soldier trained to certain levels cannot afford to 'stop'.

Major Aldo Z. used to send us this message all the time, and whoever cared, I cared, we had to listen to him.

Apart from the usual painstaking care to make his men always up to standard, he was a lover of tradition. In the square where the battalion companies were located, he had a brazier with fire set up. He called it 'The Fire of the Fifth'. There was a 24-hour fireman whose job it was not to put it out until the end of the mission. The brazier had a lid on the top to withstand snow and rain.

The patrols that went out on reconnaissance were responsible for bringing in firewood. The commander also 'instituted' a new tactical service: the foot patrols in population centres. For the Task Force, previously made up of other regiments, this was an absolute novelty. You could also see it in the faces of the Kosovars when they saw us pass by in tactical formation along the roads.

The aim was to detect possible illegal activities. They went out in groups of 10-12, individual weapons, Minimi machine gun in the lead and at the end, links with the base via radio.

In my spare time, which was very little, everyone watched football matches (only Roma...) or Italian TV in my room, especially the guys from 3rd Platoon (Marshal Commander in the lead!). I had brought a satellite decoder with a 'full football-cinema' subscription, and had bought a giant dish from a Kosovar for 70 Marks (35 Euros). To some guys in my company I had brought the antenna cable to their room, but they were forced to see what I was seeing....on Sunday definitely the Roma game!

However, on this occasion, as in the G8, I was pissed off like a beast. Disarming things were happening on a technical and bureaucratic level. There would be more to tell, but I will dwell on two events: in early December, the generator supplying power to the base broke down due to an overload. The entire base had a current absorption of 450kw, the unit could only sustain 400kw. It had cost the military administration 800 million lire. with 50 more they would have bought a 500kw unit, with peace of mind for everyone. All right, to err is human, to persevere is diabolical. Nobody from Italy bothered to send us a new unit.

At first, with small groups, it was possible to tamponare emergencies, first and foremost the lighting of the base, then with enormous efforts on the part of our commanders we managed to recover a few small generators from other Italian bases in Kosovo, but this was not enough to provide us with the necessary power for the electric stoves.

Moral of the story: we spent two months from hell, staying in iron corimecs surrounded by snow and ice with no heating! Again, the institutions had abandoned us.

I also think that no soldier in the world would have operated with our efficiency in those situations.

However, we are children of soldiers who during the Second World War they fought against vastly superior forces in adverse conditions.

And we could not be intimidated by the lack of heating.

Despite difficulties and adversity, we managed to perform our assigned tasks with a high degree of professionalism and competence.

And again: the base's night lighting consisted of a powerful lighting system contracted out to a private Italian company: over time, half of the lamps burned out and the base was almost completely blacked out at night. No one could intervene since it was not a military competence, thus jeopardising the safety of the entire base. I remember that the part of the ammunition storage area on the east side of the base in front of a civilian housing block was also left unlit. Our commanders remedied this problem by making us stand guard with night-vision goggles.

As always, the Parachutist's spirit of initiative made up for institutional shortcomings.

But I also have cheerful extra-military memories of Kosovo, one in particular: a cheerful memory for Paratroopers only...

25 December 2001, Christmas dinner at the Regiment in the base canteen. I was off duty and was able to attend (those who were on duty that day would attend New Year's Eve). The menu offered delicious fish dishes and good Italian wine. High representatives of the Multinational Brigade were invited, including the Commander, a Bersagliere General, and other officers, non-commissioned officers and troops from other non-parachute units. The Fifth Battalion was represented by a few tables and very close to me, at the same table, were two HIGH OFFICIALS of the Fifth Battalion, who, bewildered by the presence of black berets in the canteen, including the General, looked each other in the eyes and sang the famous refrain DOWN IN THE VALLEY... THERE'S A THREAD OF RAW... and the whole regiment responded: FANTE DI ... FANTE DI...., the infantrymen, were bewildered... these are things that only those who are Paratroopers can understand, and appreciate.

Towards the end of January we prepared for our return.

The Regiment was organised in the following way: the vehicles would be embarked in Thessaloniki, then a military column to Greece with the vehicles driven by those who had the relevant military licence and a senior machine chief at their side, as required by military regulations. For everyone else, return by plane directly from Djakovika.

I had a driving licence and had to drive, along with the others, first to Macedonia for 500km, then to Greece.

When we arrived in Macedonia we made a two-day stop and in the bar a huge brawl was about to break out between Romanisti-Paracadutisti and Napoletani-Fanti. There was only one TV with a satellite decoder, both Roma and Napoli were playing at the same time. The intervention of Marshal Emiliano P., my Platoon Commander and highest ranking representative of the Parà-Romanisti, prevented the worst.

And again, Lance Corporal Renzo M., a great friend, Parachutist of the XIII, risked beating up the Macedonian barman of the base who accused him of not having paid for the pizzas he had ordered, telling him: 'Italian, don't be smart, you pay'. Renzo's reaction was at first calm and diplomatic, he had paid for the pizzas and was explaining this to the guy, but seeing that the Macedonian insisted, even beginning to raise his voice, the good Renzo made him understand in his own way that this was not the case, putting diplomacy aside for a moment.

The Macedonian understood and apologised. Sometimes you have to use bad manners to make even the seemingly easiest concepts understood.

After these two days in Macedonia, the night of the 3 February 2002 we set off again. 300 km all in one go to Thessaloniki. Arriving in Thessaloniki, a few kilometres from the port, our destination, I began to hallucinate, I was exhausted, we had never stopped. Just a light stop at the Macedonia-Greece border. We arrived at the port of Thessaloniki at 4 a.m. on 4 February. The most was done. But as always... when you're dealing with the logistical upper echelons of the Italian Army, surprise is just around the corner.

Having loaded the vehicles onto the ship, it was time to return to Italy. After 4 months and 4 days our mission was coming to an end.

We were picked up, two hours late, by a civilian bus with a Greek driver that was supposed to take us to the airport. The bus broke down, another one came after another hour, in the interval we were fed horrible sandwiches, the worst eaten in my life, hard bread with unidentified food inside. But that was no problem, we were Paratroopers. And history said we had to adapt.

Finally at the airport. Where's our plane?

Our plane is not here. Nobody knows where it is. It was the 14 of 4 February 2002, We were at the Thessaloniki airport, far from the terminal, but housed in a hangar, close to a runway, run by Italian military logisticians. We were worn out, stressed, tired, hungry. Our commanders authorised us to go to the airport terminal, we couldn't, we were armed in a lawfully governed country, but they understood the situation, we organised guards to take turns guarding individual weapons and equipment and we went to drink and eat some local crap, paying, of course, with our personal money.

We drank dozens of bottles of beer, in fact we drank all the beers available in the small bar.

At 18, A flash, a miracle, after hours of waiting, our plane arrives. A stroke of luck, a boeing of a well-known Italian airline, a scheduled flight.

I had already made long flights (Italy-Kosovo) with both G-222 and C-130 military aircraft. I would not recommend them to anyone, in that situation it would have been a further blow. But like all things, we said, from the G-8 ship to the rest, the service was incomplete. We had to load the backpacks and all the equipment into the aircraft hold with our arms.

So I ask, does the Army enter into contracts with incomplete civil airlines? And again, the aircraft was a pigsty, the commander said 'sorry', he said that unfortunately there had not been time to clean it. I think that the flight company-army contract includes both the cleaning of the aircraft and the loading of luggage. As always, it was us who paid for it.

At the time I didn't pay attention to it, by then I had decided to retire, but I want to remind everyone that the money the Army spends is our taxpayers' money.

And I personally demand that my money, the money taken from me in taxes, is well spent, not given away.

But evidently there was something that did not work in high military circles. That, if you understood it correctly, was the reason that led me to take leave and separate from my beloved Brigata Folgore. It was like leaving a woman you love. It was painful, but from my point of view, inevitable. I had no desire to be made a fool of by the officers of the General Staff's Commissariat, who sit on a leather armchair and with a belly touching their desks deal, for example, with a soldier's equipment when they have never been soldiers. The Italian army until 2002 had a supply of cabaret gibernets. And many, many, other things. A mountain of money is being spent on defence, but in the wrong way. Crappy ships, civilian flights with incomplete services, unsuitable generators, carnivalesque equipment.

Today, according to my friends who are still in service, many things have changed (for the better). I hope things will improve further in the future.

4 February 2002, arrival in Siena and the last month as a soldier

Arriving in Siena around 22 of 4 February 2002 we returned weapons and magazines. The mission was truly over.

A mission ends when the last weapon returns to the armoury.

We cleaned our weapons, recounted the 210 rounds of our shots one by one and handed them back.

In Siena we found a surprise, actually two: military women and radiators!

Both were new. Women had just been qualified in the Army, four in our company, but the most striking novelty was the radiators.

And yes, you guessed it, the troop in Siena for dozens of years lived and stayed in glacial environments.

Too bad, though, that I had to take my leave, no women, and, above all, no radiators.

The day 5 February I went out, for the last time, with a girl from Siena, also taking leave of the lovely local beauties...

I went on leave on 6 February, 40 days. Since I had to leave, I had to make use of all the remaining days and recuperation hours I had accumulated. However, I returned after a week for half a day, I had to pick up 'my' VM at the port of Livorno and take it to Caserma Bandini, headquarters of the 186th Regiment. I could easily have refused, but I wanted to contribute to the Parachutist cause to the end.

A few days before my return to barracks, news broke the hearts of the entire Regiment, and the 13th in particular: Simone Trudu, 22 years old, Lance Corporal from my scaglione, same course at Cesano and Pisa, 5 brevet numbers after me, a comrade in blood and sweat in the 13th Condor Parachutists lost his life in a car accident near his home in Sardinia, near Oristano. I was very close to Simone, we often went out together in our free time, in the early days he always came to my house at the weekend, as it was impossible for him to go home easily living in Sardinia. I want to remember him as a Valorous Soldier, Proud Parachutist and Great Friend.

Returning on 15 March, then on the day 23 I greeted the boys and the Commanders, handed over the equipment to the Company store and the military badge to the major.

I had returned, after three years, a civilian.

I felt as light as a feather, but in time I discovered that the values I had encountered within the walls of that barracks were not there outside. They didn't exist at all. They were exclusive to the Parachutist family. I found myself overwhelmed by what I had lost: an adventurous life, the jumps, the patrols, the rallies, the missions, the morning run, the speeches of our Commanders, the outings to Siena to the Barone Rosso and the Irish Pub, the girls of Siena. Suddenly none of that. It was a tremendous shock that I only recently recognised.

For a few years I kept in touch with the whole company, then I broke away due to work commitments, today the power of the web and social networks in particular have allowed me to reconnect and catch up with everyone and sometimes even see each other.

Although the years pass, the memories remain indelible and the memory of those years lived with a heartbeat and excitement every morning when I shouted together with 600 other Parachutists "FOLGORE!!!!", will remain with me forever.

With Esteem and Gratitude, Proud and Proud to have Served Italy in Arms in Your Ranks

Alessandro Generotti, Lance Corporal Parachutist on Leave 186-V-XIII