“You kiddin’? Salvato’ comes over to our lines, he gets shot as a deserter if he’s caught by the Krauts. If our guys catch him, he goes in the cage, right? Either ways, it’s a lousy deal. Me, if I try to get across to where he is...” Tech. Sgt. Pienze, nobody’s hero, shuddered at the thought. “No dice, Major, sir,” he finished coldly.
“Look, Pienze, we need every fighting man we have, to drive the enemy off this island so we can chase them all the way up Italy and get this damn war finished. Yule’s no use to the Allies as long as he’s in hiding somewheres.”
“You go get him, Buster.” Pienze saluted and marched away.
Chapter Seven
Sgt. Ferugino and Pte. Sarti had long since left to return to their battery, for fear that they were suspected of desertion. Before going, Ferugino had made Yule write down his and his companion’s Army numbers and the identities of their regiment and battery on a page from his diary. “You see how sure I am you not get caught by Tedeschi, eh? If they find that paper on you...” He gave a dramatic pantomime of a man firing a rifle. “They shoot us! But don’t worry... only friends find you here... and Germans never catch you... Gennaro and I safe...”
“How long will I have to stay?” Yule was apprehensive about many things; not least of all, Anna. He regretted the concern about him that the squadron would feel, and, inevitably, there would be a distressing routine telegram to his parents to say he was missing in action if he didn’t turn up by the end of the day. Also, he didn’t trust that blighter Vincent not to raid his kit and help himself to the fine new suede mosquito boots he had managed to wangle from stores, and the Dundee cake in an airtight tin his mother had sent him; probably his carefully saved cigarettes as well. Yule didn’t smoke, but, like most British officers, hoarded his cigarette ration to use for barter; Vincent smoked heavily.
“You no have to stay long,” Ferugino assured him. “My friends take you back to your squadron as soon as it’s safe. British and Americans moving forward fast now, Tedeschi retreating. Soon be safe to take you back. Don’t worry about it; you just remember not to lose that piece of paper. Very important. You tell your Commanding Officer I save you... me and Gennaro... so when war in Sicily finish, we don’t go in prison camp... we come and work for R.A.F. or British Army. And if Italy make peace, we will need jobs.”
Yule had his doubts about Fiver O’Neill’s welcome to a suggestion that this scruffy pair should be added to the squadron’s supernumerary strength, but gratitude resolved him to give it a good try. “I’ll do my best.”
“Bene. Ciao.” The two Italians shook hands with Yule, and, grinning happily, made their way back to climb up the well shaft. Anna accompanied them, chattering raucously. Yule did not look forward to her return. Ungallantly, he even contemplated flight before she did.
That had been a couple of hours ago and now he was even warier of her. Anna’s first action on returning to the large cave where she had left Yule sitting uneasily in a deckchair — incongruous anyway, here, and more so because it had Albergo Reale Taormina on it — was to pose in front of him with one hand on her hip, one knee bent and her massive bosom bulging out of an unbuttoned blouse. To her mind, it was the provocative posture of a mannequin; in fact it was the classic, brazen whore’s stance in any dingy doorway from Pigalle to Pernambuco, via Sydney. Her legs were pretty and she had fine eyes. Her attitude hitched her skirt up and her look was lowered seductively, on the sweating Yule. He had thought it cool in the cave when he first entered, and wondered why rivulets of sweat were now suddenly coursing down his chest and back. “You want a drink?” asked Anna.
When Yule tried to answer her his voice emerged as a croak and he had to clear his throat. He was annoyed with himself for being nervous. He had been flying almost daily into enemy gunfire for the past year. He had shot the Goumier without compunction. He had intended to shoot both Sgt. Ferugino and Pt. Sarti before he knew they were rescuing, not capturing, him. So why be scared now? “I’d l-like some w-w-water, please.”
Light filtered into the cave from a cleft in the hillside which was screened by undergrowth. It provided only a sepulchral illumination, but enough to show the amusement in the girl’s big dark long-lashed eyes. “Vino do you more good after your experience. What’s your first name?”
“Toby.”
Anna’s peal of laughter echoed around the cavern. “Toby! I remember Punch and Judy show on Hampstead Heath. The little dog was called Toby. I never heard this name before.”
With dignity Yule told her: “It’s short for Anthony. My father thought ‘Tony’ sounded sissy.”
“Oh,” she said, with mock seriousness, “I’m sure you’re not a sissy. But you are very shy. Molto timido. Vino make you bold.”
“Water, thanks. I’m thirsty.”
She shrugged. “All right. We’ve got plenty of time.”
That was the substance of Yule’s worry. The longer he delayed his return, the more anxiety and trouble he would cause to the squadron and the more sadness to his family. And the less his chances of avoiding the predatory machinations of this blowsy tart.
Anna moved away, swinging her hips and plump buttocks, to fetch water for him. He watched her go and felt a restriction in his throat, and sweat breaking out on his face, which he mopped. His handkerchief was grubby. That was another reason for getting out of here fast: he had no change of clothes. He was certainly not going to accept any offer of garments; if Jerry found him dressed in civvies he’d be treated as a spy. And the clothes themselves would probably be bug-infested, noisome and even lice-ridden.
He called to her, “How long do you really think it will be before I can get away?”
“Get away? That does not sound nice, Toby. It sounds like you are unwilling to stay with me.”
“Well... I am... it’s my duty to return to the squadron as soon as possible...”
“But it is not possible to go any sooner.”
“We’re going round in circles. Sooner than what? That’s what I asked you: when can I get away from here?”
She handed him water in a glass made from the lower half of a beer bottle and he drank with relish. It was cool and sweet from a stream which ran through the cave.
“Most men would not be in such a hurry.” She put out a hand to ruffle his hair. Her other hand went elsewhere. She had to lean forward to do it, and the shock of her intimate touch, together with the explosion of her unfettered breasts from her flimsy garment so that they bounced into his face made Yule gag, splutter, do the nose trick and start coughing.
It was the excuse Anna needed. With a cry of concern she fell on him: not literally, for the deckchair would have collapsed, but she plunged to her knees beside him to cradle his head against her great chest and slap his back as though he were a baby being winded.
Yule had the presence of mind (the dead Goumier would have confirmed that he was not lacking in this) to convert Anna’s pounce from lust to maternalism. He let her soothe and mother him as a diversion from trying to coax the 500 lire he had in his possession from his pocket to hers.
“I look after you,” she said, as softly as her naturally harsh voice permitted.
“I’m very grateful, Anna... but I have to go as soon as it’s dark... I can’t wait until someone comes and fetches me... I’ll find my own way back... I’ve got a pocket compass... and my revolver... you can tell me how to find my way, and where the Germans are likely to be...” His voice was muffled, his face pressed into her bosom by her firm grasp.
She stood up. “I cook you nice pasta... spaghetti and pomodori... tomatoes. Then we talk about how you can go back to your friends. I’ll help you.” She sighed, and added: “Don’t forget to write my name and address on that piece of paper: I will need help also when the fighting here is finished.”
Glad of the change of topic, Yule took the diary leaf and a pencil from his pocket and said, “Tell me what it is and I’ll do it now. I’ll try to make sure you benefit from what you’re doing for me, Anna.”
She had her own ideas about how she would best like to benefit, but kept them to herself. “My name is not same as my brother’s... my name is Anna Calvino... I was married... my husband was a soldier.” She paused. “He is dead.”
“In the war?”
She shook her head and performed one of those ineffable Italian gesticulations. “During the war, yes... in the war, no. He was... he was a very small... unimportant, I mean... Mafioso... he did something the Family did not like... one day my brother Salvatore... I have three brothers and three sisters... find him on the mountain with a bullet through his heart...”
The sweat dried on Yule rapidly and all of a sudden it seemed to have become very cold in the cave. “The Mafia... could kill a soldier in wartime... just like that?”
“Wars make no difference to Cosa Nostra... vendette go on just the same... and even soldiers must obey the orders of the Family... my brother Salvatore... he is quite a big man in la Mafia... that is how he could bring you here and how he can be sure to keep you hidden... and get you back.” She paused again and added, “When he is ready.”
“Something tells me,” Yule said, “that it will be a lot healthier for me if I go when I’m ready.”
Anna gave him a sad look. “Toby... please... don’t make it difficult for me... if you go, my brother will kill me...”
“I feel like a prisoner here... being told when I can leave... being kept here against my will... it’s a lot of nonsense... you... your brother... can’t do this to me...”
“Of course you are not a prisoner: we did not take away your rivoltella... your revolver, did we? Because we are your friends. If you try to leave, I must stop you... because if I let you go, my brother will kill me... believe me...”
Yule rose to his feet. “Sorry, Anna, but I can’t stay here... I must go as soon as it’s dark... it’s my duty, d’you understand? And how can you stop me? As you say, I’ve still got my thirty-eight... not that I’d use it on you...”
Anna had gone to a dark corner and her back was to him. When she turned again to face him she held a double-barrelled shotgun pointed at his belly.
“Please take the cord of your revolver from round your neck, undo the gun belt and drop it on the floor. Then put your hands up and move back five paces while I pick up your gun. I’m sorry, Toby, but I have to do this. And if you think my brother would not kill me if the Mafia ordered him to, you are very innocent. I know he did not just find my husband’s body... he killed him. You think because Salvatore is a little fat man, he is not dangerous. Remember, Al Capone was a little fat man too. Now, drop your gun on the ground, put your hands up and move back... or I have to shoot you in the legs, at least... that will hurt very much and maybe you will be a storpio... a cripple... all your life... and maybe I miss your legs and blow your balls off, by mistake... or maybe the gun jump up when I pull the trigger, and shoot you in the heart...”
“Anna! Don’t be crazy...”
She recognised the hard look that had come into Yule’s eyes. He was only a boy, she told herself... but he was a man, a fighter pilot... trained and paid to kill... and he had been killing Germans and Italians for a long time. She knew what was in his mind: to play for time... to distract her attention and either grab the gun from her or snatch his own from its holster and shoot her.
“I am not crazy... it is you who are pazzo... you think I am not serious? You think I wouldn’t have the... the nerve to shoot you? Listen, tosh, I worked in Soho two years... I started on the game when I was sixteen... I learned to look after myself... you will never meet anyone tougher than I am... and I am not ready to die for you... my brother would shoot me...”
Red with humiliation, Yule began slowly and reluctantly to raise the loop of his revolver lanyard over his head.
*
“Well, Tusty, what’s the score?” The squadron had flown its last sortie of the day, the pilots were still filling in their combat reports under the eye of the Intelligence Sergeant, and Sqdn. Ldr. O’Neill was feeling expansive. They had had a good day, apart from losing Toby Yule: and at least they knew he was alive; and the lost aircraft would be replaced tomorrow.
Flt. Lt. Tustin sat down, at his C.O.’s gestured invitation, facing him across his desk. The small airfield had been used by the Italian Air Force and was decently equipped: there were brick buildings for the officers’ mess and squadron offices, and well insulated wooden huts for sleeping accommodation. The office furniture was perhaps better than on most permanent R.A.F. stations. The I.O. was glad to settle into a comfortable chair and remove his cap. “I found out about Toby, sir...”
“Wizard show. Hang on a minute.” Fiver raised his voice and shouted “Crab!” Then added politely, “I’d like him to hear this.”
A moment later the door opened and the tormented adjutant sidled in. “Sir?”
“Take a pew, old boy. Tusty’s got some gen on Toby. Go ahead, Tusty.”
“The most important thing is, sir, he’s alive; and the Germans didn’t pick him up.”
“How did you find this out?” asked the adjutant. He and Tustin hit it off well; two legal men struggling to maintain their, and everyone else’s, sanity in the midst of a bloody, noisy war and permanently surrounded by whooping and hollering fighter boys; not to mention a Commanding Officer whose eccentricities would have made the Earl of Blandings seem a dull conformist. As a modest solicitor, the adjutant had a special regard for Tustin; the barrister, with his aura of Lincoln’s Inn, the prospect of taking silk and perhaps eventually becoming a judge.
“Everyone’s quite co-operative.” Tustin smiled, pleased with his understatement. “Both we and the Americans have got enough Italian-speakers — and the Americans have so many officers and men of Italian origin — for very close contact to be kept with the civilian population. And they, of course, detest the Germans, so we don’t even have to try very hard to get the Intelligence we need.”
Taking his cigarette holder from between his teeth, O’Neill said, “The Mafia run riot everywhere as well, and they’re dead against the Hun. They’ve got ’em — Mafiosi, I mean — in the American Services, you may be sure. I’ve never heard of the Mafia operating in the U.K., but no doubt they’ve got their contacts among the lower elements in Soho... and probably Manchester, Birmingham and Glasgow as well.”
“Quite so, sir,” Tustin agreed. “A ready-made information system. It seems Toby Yule was picked up by a couple of Italian artillerymen and taken to a safe place before the enemy could find him...”
“Find out who the chaps were, and we’ll put them up for some kind of a gong,” Fiver said at once.
Dryly, Tustin suggested, “I think they’d prefer something more practical, sir. It’s been put to me that a cash reward, or the equivalent in kind... cigarettes, blankets, that sort of thing... would be more acceptable...”
O’Neill thumped the desk. “What did I tell you? Ransom!”
The adjutant looked indignant. “Did they actually say they wanted to be paid before they bring Yule back to the squadron?”
“Not in so many words: but the message I got was that it might take a very long time before they could deliver him. The suggestion was that delivery could be speeded up if something could be arranged...”
“Una combinazione,” murmured Fiver. “The traditional Italian euphemism for sheer cynical opportunism. And this scum are Sicilians; born bandits. We can’t let them get away with it. Find out where he is, Tusty, and I’ll lead a strike on the place tomorrow: I’m not leaving one of my pilots to fester in the hands of a bunch of kidnappers; which is what it amounts to.”
“A strike, sir?” Crab asked.
“If we shoot the place up, it’ll give Toby a chance to escape. At least it’ll show we mean business and encourage these cheeky Mafia types to release him.”
Tustin said, “There’s always the chance that Toby himself would get clobbered in an air strike. And as for showing them we mean business, the only business they’re interested i
n is purely commercial, sir.”
“Well, I’m certainly not paying a ransom to get one of my officers back. These chaps are no better than gangsters. They’ve got a nerve! See what more you can find out about it, Tusty. If we advance on the ground fast enough, Toby will soon be on our side of the line; and whoever’s hanging on to him will be shot as soon as we get our hands on them.”
“We wouldn’t necessarily find them, sir,” Tustin pointed out. “It’s wild country and they know every inch of it; the war’s moving fast: there’s so much confusion, they could easily slip away. And when we do find Toby he may not be in very good condition.”
“That’s infamous: go away and see what else you can discover. There must be some way to find out where they’ve got him.”
“I’ll do my best, sir. I’ll just tidy up the combat reports first.” Wearily, Tustin took his leave, exchanging a sympathetic look with the adjutant.
*
With nightfall, Maj. Corrado sent for Tech. Sgt. Pienze and told him to sit down and listen, and pour himself a stiff Scotch from the bottle with which Fiver had presented him.
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