The Antipodeans

by Greg McGee

  Harry and Charlie quizzed Arch about the arrangements, but he didn’t know much more than they’d already been told. The San Donà di Piave cell of the CLN had told him that the Slovenians had shepherded eight Kiwi prisoners across the mountains to safety about six weeks before, and Arch hoped to establish a regular link with the partigiani to gradually repatriate the hundreds of Allied prisoners who’d escaped into the Veneto but were now trapped in their freedom and being hunted like hares. ‘That’s what the locals call us,’ said Arch, ‘Il Battaglione Lepre, the Hare Battalion.’

  ‘Who’re these Slovenians?’ asked Charlie. ‘Where do they come from?’

  Arch explained that Slovenia was the nearest Yugoslavian province to Italy, and under Marshal Tito, Yugoslavia was claiming this area of Italy, as far west as the Isonzo River, back towards Udine. ‘So once they finish fighting the Germans,’ he said, ‘they’re likely to start on the Italians.’

  ‘Great,’ said Charlie, already spooked. ‘Where are we supposed to be hooking up with them?’

  ‘The CLN told me the Slovenians wouldn’t give exact rendezvous co-ordinates,’ said Arch, ‘but if we walked west-north-west along the ridge behind the town, they would make contact.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be long,’ said Harry, ‘we’re being watched now. Hope they’re the right buggers doing the watching.’

  Harry was looking out towards some craggy higher ground to their right. Joe looked too, but could see no sign of anyone among the rocks. Perhaps it was just something that Harry sensed. But he was right. A single shot cracked the silence.

  Joe, like most of the men, dived for the ground. When he looked up, there was someone standing about ten yards in front of Arch and Harry, neither of whom had reacted to the shot. The man didn’t introduce himself, and was looking at them with one eye along the barrel of his rifle. He was wearing a military cap with a five-pointed red star, and a battle tunic with the collar obscured by a checked red and white scarf that might have started life as a tablecloth.

  ‘Buon giorno,’ said Arch, then in English, so there could be no mistake as to their identity, ‘Nice day for it.’

  When the man lowered the rifle, Joe could see an empty socket of puckered skin where the other eye would have been. The man spoke fluent Italian, but had barely identified himself as the leader of the Slovenian partisans when more shots rang out and he ran back into the scrub.

  ‘Wonder what happened to that eye,’ said Harry.

  ‘Jack the One-Eyed Terror,’ said Arch. ‘Do you remember that one? “Are you really called The Terror? asked the leader of our Push. You make no fuckin’ error, said the Bastard from the bush.”’

  ‘Do you reckon he’ll come back?’ asked one of the men.

  ‘Should we stick around to find out?’ asked Charlie. ‘This is shoot-first-ask-questions-after country, and we’ve got our balls hanging out in the wind here.’

  Joe felt the panic rising. They were totally exposed on a ridge in the middle of nowhere with not a pocket-knife between them. In the silence, Joe saw Arch looking anxiously at Harry, who pulled a cigarette out of his cassock and lit it.

  Arch, taking his cue, told them a story about another tough bastard called Jack who had only one ear and lived in an isolated block of bush. ‘They reckon his ear was chewed off by pigs. My mates stayed with him in his shack one night and wondered where he’d got the milk for their tea. The milk was sort of bluish, they reckoned. There was no sign of any cow or goat out there but there was an old bitch with pups on a sack that did for a mat outside the back door. Next morning old Jack put the brew on, then disappeared out the back door with a mug. They heard the squeals as he shoved the pups aside.’

  Some of the men laughed. Charlie stared at them uncomprehendingly. Before he could say anything, One-Eyed Jack was back, short of breath but now showing what was left of his yellowing teeth in a menacing grin. He told Arch someone had not followed orders, but it had been fixed. Then he asked them if they were ready to fight the Germans.

  ‘We’ve been fighting the Germans,’ said Arch. ‘In Greece, in Crete, in North Africa and now in Sicily.’

  ‘Those places are far away,’ said the man. ‘Non sono qua.’ They’re not here.

  The conversation continued. Joe’s understanding of Italian wasn’t as good as Arch’s or Charlie’s, but what One-Eyed Jack wanted was fairly clear: he was looking for well-trained recruits. He didn’t seem interested in establishing an escape route for Allied prisoners of war.

  Arch kept trying. ‘We’re not here to fight as partisans,’ he said. ‘We want to be taken to the English command so that we can rejoin the New Zealand army and fight with our comrades.’

  ‘No,’ said One-Eyed Jack. ‘Qua, la guerra.’ Here, the war. He threw his arm wide to encompass the surrounding terrain of Italy to the west of where they were standing. ‘Yugoslavia.’

  ‘Oh fuck,’ said Arch. ‘This war won’t be won by you or me,’ he said, reverting to Italian, ‘but by the Allies when they reach Trieste.’

  ‘That will be a different war.’

  ‘Senta,’ said Arch wearily. ‘We only want the same as the last group of New Zealand soldiers. The eight prisoners of war you delivered to the English command six weeks ago.’

  The Slovenian’s response was a wider grin, then a high-pitched whistle. More heavily armed soldiers with the red star on their caps appeared from the scrub around them. Then five men, dirty, lousy, living skeletons, filed into sight under guard. Their faces were blank and hopeless, until one of them recognised Arch and burst into tears. ‘Please get us out of here!’

  A shocked Arch asked the questions that proved their identity. ‘Where are the other three?’

  ‘These bastards shot them where they stood when we said we wouldn’t fight.’

  ‘There’s been a misunderstanding,’ said Arch, trying to contain his anger and fear as One-Eyed Jack enjoyed the spectacle. ‘These men are no use to you. We’ll take them with us and go now.’

  ‘Sei sicuro?’ Are you sure?

  It sounded like a threat to Joe. Arch seemed unsure how to respond. It was a stand-off, except that they were surrounded and had no weapons.

  There was a long moment of uncertainty before Harry broke the impasse. ‘Ce l’hai armi?’ he asked One-Eyed Jack. Have you got weapons? ‘Munizioni?’ Ammunition?

  ‘Who is this priest?’ the Slovenian asked Arch.

  ‘Captain Spence, 22nd Battalion,’ said Harry.

  ‘Congratulations on your commission,’ said Arch, without looking at Harry. ‘That happen before or after you took the vows?’

  ‘You stay and fight?’ asked One-Eyed Jack, somewhat taken aback.

  ‘Jesus, Harry.’ Arch appealed to him directly. ‘It’s not our fight.’

  ‘A fight’s a fight,’ said Harry.

  Then he nodded to One-Eyed Jack. ‘Voglio stare qua,’ he told him. I want to stay here. ‘Voglio uccidere tedeschi.’ I want to kill Germans.

  28

  After trying to dissuade Harry, they left him up there with the Slovenians and made their way down towards the lights of civilisation before darkness made it impossible to see their way. They were some miles west of where they’d started, which seemed to suit Arch. He agreed with Joe about the suspicious stationmaster at Monfalcone and thought there might be a reception committee waiting for them if they went back there.

  Joe felt sorry for Arch. His dreams of setting up an escape route for prisoners was shattered. Not only would he have to find a way of getting the eight he’d brought from the Piave back whence they came — he was the only one with a return ticket — and rehoused there, but also find transport and refuge for the men they’d picked up. Then there were Charlie and Joe.

  The five survivors were in such bad shape a couple of them had to be piggy-backed down the last slope and through the streets of a small town to the railway tracks. The
y drank from every tap and fountain they passed, but were tired and hungry by the time they crossed the tracks and saw a station, with a sign, Ronchi dei Legionari.

  A light was still on in the stationmaster’s house, a square two-storey place about fifty yards down the track. Arch asked Joe to come with him and look as tough as possible. ‘Keep your forearm in your jacket, as if you might be carrying a pistol.’ They left the others in the darkness and crossed to the stationmaster’s home.

  A sleepy moustachioed man in braces opened the door. When he saw Arch standing there before him any drowsiness instantly disappeared. Joe made sure his scar caught the light, as Arch told the stationmaster he was English, and his comrades knew where he was. ‘If anything happens to me—’

  Arch didn’t need to finish the threat. ‘I am only too pleased to help,’ said the stationmaster, ‘and that goes for anyone who works on the railways. Tell me what we can do.’

  The last train for the night was long gone. The waiting room at the station was quickly transformed into temporary barracks as the stationmaster and his equally portly wife brought pillows and blankets so that the men could sleep on the benches and chairs. When they went to lie down the wife said, ‘Aspetta, aspetta.’ Wait. Soon, half a dozen men and women arrived with food — cold chicken, bread and cheese.

  ‘These are townsfolk, not farmers,’ Arch told the men. ‘They’re giving you their last reserves of food.’ He made an emotional thank-you speech, as the railway workers and their wives regarded the men with shy curiosity, then left.

  During the night, the survivor sleeping closest to Joe had some sort of fever and his groans and clattering false teeth kept him awake. Joe was reminded of when he’d first seen Harry at the hospital in Bari, and he lay there wondering what had possessed Harry to go with the Slovenians. And he thought about what he should do come morning. He would have liked to go back to Bepi and Nina and Donatella but nothing had changed. He would have to go with Arch and the others and try not to be a burden.

  * * *

  Arch roused the men before dawn and organised the clean-up so the waiting room was pristine for the arrival of the first train. Then Arch asked Joe and Charlie how they were placed.

  ‘I’ll head back to Reant,’ said Charlie. ‘Harry and I were well set up there.’

  When Joe said that he couldn’t go back to Gemona, Arch shrugged and was about to get him a ticket with the rest of them back to the Piave when Charlie said, ‘Come with me, why don’t you? Take Harry’s place.’

  This took Joe by surprise. He asked Charlie if he was sure, hoping that he’d retract. Joe wanted to go south with Arch back to San Pietro, but if Charlie’s offer was genuine he’d have to accept it. One man less for Arch to house in the Piave.

  ‘Hell yes,’ said Charlie. ‘There’s room at the Ritz.’

  * * *

  Joe and Charlie changed trains at Udine without incident and got off at Cividale, the end of the line. Joe remembered the station there, the pale yellow stucco with its verandah running along the streetfront, so pretty it could have been a mansion on some southern plantation in Gone with the Wind, the fat book that had kept him engrossed for six weeks from embarkation at Wellington until landing at Port Said. What a singular pleasure it had been, reading as much as he wanted whenever he wanted, without wincing in anticipation of a clout.

  They’d seen plenty of Wehrmacht grey on the train but hadn’t attracted any attention despite being pretty dirty and tattered. Charlie’s fluent patter to any Italians had undoubtedly helped.

  When they began walking west Joe kept his mouth shut and let Charlie talk to anyone they met. About a mile down the tarmac road, Charlie waited until it was clear then led Joe to an unruly hedgerow dividing fields of maize stumps, where they retrieved the bicycles Charlie and Harry had hidden the day before. Now that they weren’t on foot, people were less likely to speak to them and they made good progress to a town called Togliano before turning north towards forbidding wooded hills.

  Outside the Cividale station Joe had looked back towards PG 57 at Grupignano and marvelled that more than a year had passed since they’d been delivered there from Bari and had endured that awful winter. In the camp they’d at least had shelter, some heat and food. Charlie kept talking about the Ritz. It seemed like American code or shorthand for something, but Joe wasn’t sure what.

  The road became narrower and steeper. Occasional banks of houses that from a distance looked like dams opened up as the road carved through the middle of them. There was no one to be seen, near the houses or in the fields, but it was early afternoon so that wasn’t surprising. The road became a pitted, rutted forestry track, so steep that they had to get off the bikes and walk. They reached a fork in the track and stowed the bikes in the bush. Charlie led them up the left fork. He was as short as Joe but muscly, and he walked on the balls of his feet, a bouncy confident stride. Always climbing, the track wound across the face of a steep drop until they came to a clearing with six or seven houses behind a sign saying Reant.

  ‘Nearly home,’ said Charlie, as he left the main track and led Joe onto a barely defined trail that crossed a heavily wooded drop to the plains of Lombardy, visible below them in the blue distance.

  Charlie admitted that the Ritz was a cave the locals had told him about. ‘They said this buca has been a sanctuary for hundreds of years for people on the run, folk heroes some of ’em, and not a one of ’em ever got caught.’

  After slipping and sliding down and around a face of scree above a cliff, Joe could understand why. There were straggly trees that could support a careful hand but would have slipped a rope. When they finally made it to an opening that was all but invisible from any direction, Joe was initially disappointed. The cave mouth was low: wide lips with a tongue of scree that had to be crawled over. But then the tongue opened into a capacious throat that gave about ten yards of scuttling room before tapering away to nothing.

  Charlie and Harry had collected hay and blankets and old coats and had made two beds on the dry rock floor. There was a tin of water, no food. They were hungry, but too exhausted to consider doing anything about it. Joe lay down on Harry’s bed, used Bepi’s coat as a blanket, and was asleep in moments as he felt the solid earth fold over him.

  29

  The surrounding country was a tangle of rocks and trees, sharp hills, deep gullies and rushing water, torrenti, but supported three tiny villages: Reant, Valle, another mile and a half down the same road, and Masarolis, a mile or two back up into the mountains from the fork. Charlie told Joe that he and Don Enrico were well known in all three, and proved it by introducing him to the villagers at Reant, right above them, next morning.

  They were squat, strong-legged, tough-looking men and women who didn’t say a lot but who seemed friendly enough and accepted Joe after he told them he was from the same country as Don Enrico. The dozen children of various ages adored Charlie, who did tricks with cards for them and made handkerchiefs and scarves disappear. The villagers had hardly any food but gave them dried meat and greens that looked to Joe like weeds.

  Every house had firewood stacked high and smoke coming from the chimneys already, as winter closed in. Before they went back down to the cave with their food, Joe made sure Charlie had matches, then spent the rest of the day building a fireplace far enough inside the entrance to give some warmth. Charlie was worried about the smoke but Joe excavated a thin shallow ditch back up the cave to the entrance, then covered it with sticks and fern and tamped it all with earth to seal it. When they lit the fire, this chimney conveyed the smoke to the mouth of the cave. As they watched from outside that first time, the woodsmoke merged with the grey rock of the cliff-face and more or less disappeared by the time it reached the top.

  ‘Attaboy!’ said Charlie, slapping Joe on the back.

  After all day in the cave, Joe was sure he could survive the cold, but not at all sure he could survive a whole winter of
long hours with just Charlie for company. Charlie stopped talking only long enough to ask Joe, ‘Right? Am I right?’ He had opinions about everything and told long stories to justify whatever opinion he’d advanced, which always seemed to go back to some episode or other from the south side of Chicago, where he’d grown up. His stories often involved friends with funny names, like Four-Hands Hanrahan or Lefty Stinato or Big Belly Livassa. It seemed an exotic and incomprehensible world, where someone was ‘on the make’ or ‘one down in the last’. And if he wasn’t asking Joe ‘Right? Am I right?’ he was asking, ‘You know?’ Joe found it exhausting: he was used to men who spoke little and, for the most part, made silence companionable. When he realised that Charlie wasn’t really looking for any reply, the pressure came off. How had Harry, who said bugger all, put up with the American? On the third day, when Charlie drew breath, Joe asked him how he’d met Harry.

  Charlie said he’d been on his bicycle on the outskirts of Udine, trying to go south towards Allied lines, ‘wherever the hell they were’, when he’d been overtaken by this priest, pedalling hard, cassock billowing. When he’d called out, automatically, ‘Sia lodato,’ he was sure he’d heard the priest say, ‘And up yours too.’ He’d managed to catch the priest and ask him, ‘What the fuck?’, and the relationship was born.

  ‘How’d you end up here?’ asked Joe.

  When they’d got to Udine it was as full of Nazis as Gemona, so Harry had looked around and said, ‘Let’s head for the hills.’

  ‘And that was it,’ said Charlie. ‘We got up here, found Reant. The folks up here say they’ve always been their own men. They laughed fit to die when they found that the only Italian this priest knew seemed to be blasphemous curses.’

  * * *

  Mid to late afternoon, they would climb up to the road and head to one or other of the small villages ‘to score some chow’, as Charlie put it. He insisted that they follow the procedure set down by Harry: that Charlie walk about a hundred yards ahead of Joe and give a signal if he saw or heard someone ahead. Then Joe would immediately leave the track and hide. If it was an Italian civilian Charlie would have a conversation. If it was soldiers, Republican or German, Charlie would dive for cover too or try to brazen it out.