Air Strike

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  “Only too well. That’s what scares me so.”

  He smiled lovingly. “Think of the admiring British air force officers you are going to meet. Perhaps one of them will replace my young aide as your cicisbeo!” The countess blushed: he had pointedly ignored the situation while it existed. “And stop worrying about the American major; Pietro Corrado can’t harm us.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Corrado was beginning to feel that pride at serving under General Mark Clark, in the 5th Army which was destined to drive up the west coast of Italy and must surely win glory in the field with consequent publicity at home, was a gratification with which he could have dispensed.

  The night the Germans broke through the British and American positions to the north and east of Salerno had him saying his prayers with a fervour unmatched since his early high school days. He had been a naturally pious youth until his good looks had attracted so much attention from girls that he had abandoned weekly confession and communion in favour of a more frequently practised fornication. He retained his superstition, however, and a fundamental terror of ultimate damnation; aggravated by the three un-confessed murders which weighed on his conscience and excited his fear at times like the present. The trouble about confessing to murder was that a priest could not give absolution unless the guilty party confessed also to the Police: a step Corrado had hitherto been unable to take, even had he wanted to, because the Mafia would have killed him for it immediately. Since being on active service he had tried to convince himself that making a perfect act of contrition without a confessor as intermediary was acceptable to God: but that didn’t really wash, either, because there were plenty of priests around, military and civilian, and he had almost daily opportunities to shrive himself to one. Added to that was the fact that he had no regrets about having murdered at least one of his victims, who was a son-of-a-bitching child-rapist: so he couldn’t really achieve perfect contrition anyway. When he thought about this he wasn’t sure whether it cheered him or made him despair. Especially as his last subject, a rival gangster called Fatso O’Rourke, had also filled him with such revulsion that he had positively enjoyed shooting him in the navel and watching him expire quite horribly in exquisite agony: and he still enjoyed it in retrospect. A good confession, he was forced to concede, was evidently not within his means. He resorted to cringing supplications to every saint whose name he could remember and the entire Holy Family, when he was particularly frightened, in the desperate hope that God’s ears were open to special intercession on behalf of His soldiers: for wasn’t Hitler the Anti-Christ, and wasn’t this war a crusade?

  Pietro Corrado could convince himself of just about anything.

  Of what he could not convince himself, however, was that his present danger was mostly a figment of his imagination: it wasn’t. As if those terrifying 88s the Germans had positioned overlooking the Salerno beaches were not enough, and the four subsequent days and nights had not been a sufficient inferno of noise, heaped corpses, flame, smoke and stench, there had been that bowel emptying confrontation with the long guns of Tiger and Mk. IV tanks: they had come within a few hundred yards of his battery site. He felt that the Silver Star he had won in Sicily exonerated him from any further displays of heroism; even though his one mad moment had been forced, rather than voluntary. He was relieved when the tanks had turned aside to attend to more threatening targets than his anti-aircraft guns.

  He was even more relieved, a few days later, to find his battery settled between two airfields. One, at Asa, was the furthest north of the temporary airstrips that had been cleared, and crowded for its 800 yard length. A Hurricane reconnaissance squadron, No. 225, operated from there with the four Spitfire squadrons of 322 Wing. A few miles east, another strip at Pacelli served Fiver O’Neill’s Spitfires, once again detached from their parent wing, and a squadron of R.A.F. Kittyhawks. With them was an American squadron which flew Warhawks.

  Staying behind while the 5th Army hammered its way to Naples provided a respite from close contact with enemy ground troops which Corrado welcomed.

  It was Tech. Sgt. Pienze who brought him the news, on the morning after they had dug in at their new site, that a couple of old acquaintances were operating nearby.

  “Hey, Pete, know who’s based over at Pacelli?”

  Premonition and an intestinal sensation that could have been a twinge of alarm or the stirring of hope conditioned Corrado’s “Don’t say it!”

  “Yeah, Squadron Leader O’Neill. Saw him myself.”

  “Did Yule make it? Toby Yule? I guess the flyers have had it pretty rugged, same as us.”

  “Yeah, I asked: he’s O.K.”

  “You saw O’Neill? Talk to him?”

  “Sure did, Pete. He said for you to go on over and visit with him in officers’ mess.”

  “Are they living on the strip?”

  “Hell, no; there’s no room. And it’s dusty as hell: when those planes take off they whip up a dust storm. They’re in tents in an orange grove about a mile from the field. I’ll show you on the map.”

  “Go get me a couple of bottles of bourbon. I don’t know if the British drink bourbon, but I don’t want to go empty handed.”

  “See if you can bring back some Scotch, Major. And I’ll put a sack of spam in your jeep; maybe they’ll do a deal for some corned beef.”

  “O.K., I’ll go over this evening, after chow.”

  “Want I should drive you, sir?” Pienze’s respectful address and mien were as convincing as the smile on a fox before it raids a chicken coop.

  “You want to do a deal with the sergeants, or take them in a poker game?”

  “Maybe. Anyways, I’ll settle for a shot or two of Scotch: I ain’t lookin’ for a whole bottle.”

  “Well, since you know the way, it’ll save time and trouble if you drive me there. We’ll leave at eight thirty: I don’t want to eat their chow, and the Limeys eat late.”

  When they set off in the dark, weaving through slow moving columns of lorries and limbered guns, the sky in the north was lit by a sullen crimson glow from the cone of Vesuvius. The volcano was brewing up for an eruption any day now. Corrado felt it presaged a personal calamity, that it was symbolic of what awaited him in the near future. It was a surly welcome to the city of his ancestors. In its own way it made him more fearful than the gun flashes and bomb bursts that also disfigured the night.

  During the first four days and nights after the Salerno landings mosquitoes had plagued them without cease. Two thousand years earlier the Greeks had been forced to abandon their colony at Paestum by these malaria-spreading pests, and there seemed to have been no improvement since. Now, Corrado complained, he and his men had left the torment of incessant bites, itches and the mosquitoes’ mocking hum, they were afflicted by stifling dust which clogged the air and filled their mouths and nostrils. Dust which rose in clouds from the wheels of every vehicle, was raised and scattered by any errant gust of wind, stirred by the plodding hoofs of farmers’ horses and donkeys, disturbed into small storms by the propeller wash and slipstream of every aircraft that took off or landed. Dust which formed a gritty miasma drifting above the dry earth over which they fought.

  The squadron had pitched camp among fragrant orange trees, and from an adjacent orchard the scent of lemons came drifting, a gentle contrast with the smell of gun oil, petrol fumes and explosives among which everyone had lived for so long. A sentry pointed out the large tent in which the officers messed. When Corrado, suddenly self-conscious in these unaccustomedly British surroundings, stood hesitating at the entrance, it was Yule who first noticed him and called, “Hello, Major. Don’t just stand there holding those bottles, sir; let’s see what’s in them.”

  Silence fell momentarily. O’Neill rose from his chair with a wary smile, and, sauntering towards Corrado, said, “Good evening... Pete... come in. Glad to see you. Let me introduce you to the chaps. You know Toby Yule... these are my two Flight Commanders...”

  Corrado went round shaking hand
s, flashing a practised smile each time he did so, and repeating the first name or nickname of every officer as though meeting him were the apogee of all his desires. “Hi, Toby, how are you? Hi, Vince... glad to know you, Bunny... Tahm... Hairy (which was as close as he could get to Harry)... Dick... Steve... Dusty... Ginger... Porky... Creamy (that was Flying Officer Devonshire)... Dinger (one Bell, of course)...”

  He gave the two bottles of bourbon to O’Neill. “I don’t know if you guys ever drink this stuff.”

  “We do whenever we can get hold of any.” Which was gracious of Fiver. His eyes took in the latest addition to the ribbons on his guest’s shirt. “Congratulations. When did that happen?”

  “Aw...” Deprecating Major Corrado. “It was nothing really. The outfit got lucky back there around Messina, and I was the lucky guy whose name they put on the medal.”

  “I think I heard something about that.” Fiver looked at his Intelligence officer. “Tusty?”

  Tustin nodded. “It was your battery that did that fine bit of shooting over open sights when Jerry cut you off, was it? We knew it was an American unit, but not which one.”

  With suitable modesty Corrado admitted this.

  “That deserves to be duly wetted.” O’Neill called to the barman: “Let’s have some spu. Put it down to ‘mess guests’.”

  “Spu?” Corrado’s thoughts whirled at the implications of this horrid-sounding abbreviation.

  “Spumante, old boy. Nearest thing we can get to real bubbly.”

  “Oh, Asti Spumante? Great. Where d’you get this stuff?”

  “I leave all that sort of thing to my Intelligence officer. He’s supposed to know everything that goes on, and he’s got an Italian phrase book: I think it mostly tells you what to do if your postilion gets struck by lightning, and that sort of thing...”

  Corrado’s assumed smile of rapt interest changed to a look of battlement. The ancient British jest about useless foreign language aids to travellers was evidently not current in the U.S.A. He murmured, “Postilion? Is that some sort of a flying category we don’t have? Like, maybe, air gunner or bombardier?”

  “Something like that.” Fiver used the dismissive tone one employs when running out of patience with an idiot. “Let me top up your glass.”

  “Say, do you really use a phrase book to get around... er... Tusty?”

  Tustin’s sheep-like features registered mild astonishment at such a question, as though it were the obvious resort of any sensible person. “Of course.”

  “Don’t you have any guys in your outfit can speak Italian?”

  “The C.O. does.”

  Corrado turned to O’Neill with a beam of delight. “That so?”

  “Along with about five other languages,” Tustin added.

  “Oh! I was going to say, any time you need an interpreter, my Transportation Sergeant... you know him, Fiver... I could send him along to help out.”

  “That’s more than civil of you, old boy. Tusty, what about it? Pete’s lot are only about five miles away.”

  “I think I can manage, thanks. But perhaps Bunny (Warren was messing officer) and the sergeants’ mess caterer would find him useful.”

  Genial Corrado: “Any time we can help, just let Tahmmy Pienze know: he’ll be glad to help you.”

  “There you are, Bunny,” said Fiver. “Now perhaps you can find us something decent to eat, at last.”

  “I’ll gladly hand over to someone else, sir,” Warren said promptly.

  “I don’t doubt it. But as there is no one in this mess more addicted to his victuals than you are, the job’s yours until someone even greedier turns up.”

  “Not fair, sir.” Warren looked ruefully down at his generous waist. “I’m not greedy. A certain... er... generosity of girth runs in the family.”

  “Listen, fellas,” said Corrado with apparent spontaneity and enthusiasm, “when we hit Naples I’ll introduce you to a sort of cousin of mine... a kind of godfather... he has a big spread...”

  “Like Bunny!” That, of course, came from Vincent.

  Corrado duly laughed. “I mean, he has some farms; and he has a palazzo in town. The old guy’s loaded, and I guess he’d like to show his gratitude when we liberate Napoli from the Krauts. I’ll ask him to throw a party for both our outfits, and we can fix for him to supply us both with vino — he’s got acres of vineyards — and chow from his farms.” He winked and his smile became a grin: “Besides, when he throws a party it has to be a good one: you bet he knows all the best lookin’ dames for miles around.”

  Fiver ignored this last inducement. “It would certainly be useful to have a source of supply for decent food and drink; but, without seeming ungrateful, I hope we won’t be hanging around Naples for long.”

  “So do I. But I’ve seen this country in the winter: I’m tellin’ you we’ll be lucky if we get halfway to Rome by New Year’s. Anyways, even when we’re 100 miles north of Naples, what’s transportation for, for Crissakes?”

  Tustin said, “We’ll probably be switched across to the east coast, to support 8th Army.”

  “So what? Narrow country like this. Why, your Desert Air Force squadrons from over near Taranto... what’s the airfield called?... Grottaglie... have been operating over Salerno since D-plus-6... more than a week: Grottaglie’s 125 miles from here. As we work our way up Italy, 5th and 8th Armies both, your outfit and mine’ll never be more than fifty miles apart; and you’ll have no problem sending down to the Naples area to get supplies.”

  “I’m afraid the British Services aren’t as liberal about transport as you people are,” Fiver said.

  “So you keep in touch with my outfit, and we’ll help out, O.K.?”

  “That’s very kind of you, old boy.” Fiver, despite the dismay he caused at higher formations and his general demeanour of reckless, hearty boldness, was not devoid of native shrewdness. He wondered what this type was after with his persistent and somewhat extravagant overtures of friendliness.

  Corrado, whose perceptiveness was not entirely blunt, turned his attention to Yule. “Sure am glad to see you again, Toby. Tahmmy... Sergeant Pienze... told me he was asking for you when he was across here this afternoon: he’s mighty proud he was able to help out, that time. Now, he feels kinda proprietorial about you.”

  Warren appealed to his Commanding Officer. “There you are, sir. What about Toby for messing officer? He and Sergeant What’s-it can go off on jolly shopping sprees together.”

  “No, Bunny.” O’Neill was firm.

  “Besides,” Yule said, getting in a dig quickly, “an ace like you can spare the time to do the catering. Types like me need all the flying practice we can get.”

  “That, I wouldn’t contradict,” Warren answered happily. “But perhaps an occasional break will actually improve your flying; and since you’re already so matey with the sergeant...”

  “There are perks about being messing officer,” Vincent put in.

  “Oh, really?” asked Warren. “Such as?”

  “Whom are you trying to kid?” Vincent’s muddy little close-set eyes were alight with malice. “When you used to go buying vegetables and chickens from that farm near Tripoli... remember the farmer’s pretty wife? And the farmer was away in the Italian Army. What about the young widow in Sicily who supplied our eggs and fruit... and supplied you with a lot more?”

  “Figments of your imagination, you evil-minded little Irishman. Sheer slander.” Warren, however, looked smug and flattered rather than indignant. “Jealousy, as well.”

  Corrado now put on his jovial turn; “You go around with Pienze, you’ll get more perks than you can handle, Bunny.”

  Warren nodded thoughtfully. “In that case... how about tomorrow?” He looked at O’Neill: “All right, sir?”

  “I think I can spare you for the afternoon, Bunny. Not the morning, though: I understand there’s a show on.”

  Tustin looked disapproving. Security was the most sacred word in his vocabulary. Even though there was no one present
who should not overhear this, it was to him a malfeasance; if not actually a tort.

  When Corrado was taking his leave an hour or so later, he reminded the mess at large of his promise of a party to celebrate the capture of Naples; when it was achieved. “Don’t forget, fellas, my cousin... il Dottore Raffaele Bottai... Dr. Bottai... is quite a guy. If you make it to Napoli before me, just go and see him. Tell him you’re my friends: you’ll get a big welcome. You’ll find his home out at Posillipo. Anyone will tell you... it’s a big palazzo right on the ocean.” Bare-headed, he cut them, collectively, a sharp salute and left the tent followed courteously by Fiver.

  To his retreating back, Tustin said, “Any Italian with a degree is entitled to call himself ‘Doctor’. Anyway, before anybody goes calling on Dr. Raffaele Bottai, I’ll have him vetted by the Field Security Police. There’ll be a hell of a lot of Fascists desperately trying to make themselves appear respectable; and one way of doing that is by ingratiating themselves with us and the Yanks as quickly as they can.” When Fiver returned, Tustin repeated this warning.

  “I agree with you, Tusty. Corrado’s too smarmy by half for my taste, and even if this Dr. Bottai is a medical doctor... which I don’t suppose he is, if he’s a landowner... it doesn’t mean he hasn’t been up to the hocks in politics. In fact rather to the contrary, if he’s rich. But we’ll keep in touch with Corrado and see what we can get out of it: not for ourselves, obviously, but for the sake of the troops. They have a hard life and if we can find a squadron benefactor of some kind it should help to make things pleasanter for them. If this chap really has got a house on the sea, and a farm somewhere, they could be useful leave centres for the airmen. And believe me, if there’s going to be any kind of a party to celebrate anything, it’s going to be for all ranks. Corrado doesn’t have to invite his troops, but I’m certainly not going without mine.”

  Corrado had departed uncertain whether he had been accepted into their company or not. They had been polite, but at the most optimistic he could hardly interpret their attitude as affable. Like all the rest of the world, he had grown up to a traditional conception of the British as cold and aloof; so he had not expected to be offered overt bonhomie. He had always been told (by people who had never been to Great Britain) that the English (no one ever seemed to recognise the existence of the Scots and Welsh) never spoke to strangers or conversed in trains. He had not, therefore, anticipated being enveloped in fraternal warmth when he visited the squadron. But when he rejoined Pienze for the journey back to his own unit, it was not with a sense of having been discouraged or rejected: it was rather with a feeling of being excluded from some mystique, the requirement for entry to which was not immediately definable.