Looking for somewhere to amuse themselves, Fiver’s Lot were, as usual, irritated by the unavoidable segregation of officers and Other Ranks in Service clubs. Commissioned and N.C.O. pilots did the same job and took the same risks. They preferred being together to being separated. An officers’ club had been opened next door to the San Carlo opera house, but sergeants were, of course, barred. Fiver accosted a likely-looking passerby and fired questions at him. A few minutes later he and his pilots, his ground officers and their senior N.C.O.’s were ensconced in Hans Jenni’s Swiss Bar, oak-panelled and discreet, quiet and welcoming.
Yule had immediately sensed the unique atmosphere of this great city. He had never seen a more beautifully situated place, but it exuded corruption and decadence; yet its roguery wore a smile. Sinister-looking men clustered on street corners, whores haunted the bars in the lovely galleria, the high-vaulted arcade, through which he had just strolled. The oily, cloying aroma of brilliantine and cologne drifted from the doors of barbers’ shops, blending with the foetor of the drains and burned buildings. He remembered what O’Neill had said before they took off to destroy the bridge near Aversa, and impulsively prompted him: “You never told us about the Zona di Camorra, sir.”
“Didn’t I? There hasn’t been much time, has there?” They had been taking off on sorties almost as soon as they returned from the previous one. Fiver drew reflectively on his cigarette-holder. “Well, the Camorra is like a small-scale Mafia; I suppose that’s the best way to describe it. Camorristi were originally bandits. They still are, but they wield enormous influence in their own area. The Carabinieri are virtually powerless against them. A big man in the Camorra is far more important and influential than any Police chief. The Zona di Camorra extends twenty-five or thirty miles around Naples, to the north. Aversa, Afragola, Caivano, Casoria, Acerra... they’re all stiff with Camorristi. And you can be sure that all the new mayors whom the Allied Military Government appoint will be members of the Camorra. The Camorra rules the Zone, not the Carabinieri, the Government or the Church. Power lies entirely in its hands.”
“How does the Camorra discipline people?” Yule asked.
“Quite simply: by punishing transgressors in the most brutal way imaginable. The only punishment is death, but it’s meted out with supreme unpleasantness. No one dares to betray a Camorrista or give away any information.”
Tustin said, “According to Intelligence and the Field Security people, the Camorra isn’t on anybody’s side but its own. After a massacre in one of the towns the C.O. mentioned, a local Camorra boss called Prince Rocella did raise a partisan group when Italy surrendered. They killed a lot of Germans, but they weren’t really fighting the Germans or supporting us: they were simply interested in revenge for the massacre, and looting. They looted German equipment and took the opportunity to loot private property as well.”
“Vengeance is paramount, as in the Mafia,” O’Neill said. “The vendetta. The camorristi don’t only wage vendette against outsiders, but also among themselves. If a man is murdered, his blood-stained garments will be divided among the members of his family, who all swear vengeance. It’s not unknown for a youth to kill someone who murdered his father before he was even born. The most revolting custom of all is a disgusting ritual carried out by the mother of a murdered man: she sucks at his wounds at the funeral, to symbolise her lust for revenge. God! Toby, what a repulsive subject. Let’s talk about something cleaner and more cheerful. I hear there’s a singer at the officers’ club known as Mrs. Rommel, with the biggest pair of tits in captivity; whether or not it’s true that she used to get screwed by Rommel, I understand she was banged by just about every other senior German officer who passed this way. I think we should go and give her the once over later on this evening.”
“Unfair to the rank and file, sir,” Sammy protested.
“We’ll ask Hans Jenni to recommend a decent black market restaurant, Sammy, and after dinner you N.C.O.’s can peel off and find your own amusement, while the officers go and gloat over Mrs. Rommel. That’s fair enough, isn’t it?”
“No, sir! But I suppose we’ll have to put up with it.”
Warren asked, “What about contacting that cousin of Pete Corrado’s sometime, sir? I thought you were rather keen on it?”
“Dr. Bottai?” Fiver looked ruminant. “You were going to have him vetted by the Field Security Police, Tusty: what’s the gen?”
“It won’t take me more than twenty minutes to go round and see them, sir. I did ask them to investigate him through the Questura.”
“Well, if you don’t mind,” said Fiver. “If he can be of use to the squadron, and he’s got a clean sheet, we may as well see the chap. Now the wet weather has started, life is going to be pretty miserable in the mud. I’d like some decent recreational facilities for the troops, apart from the N.A.A.F.I. club and so on. Let’s see how big a place he’s really got.”
When Tustin returned, he wore a puzzled look. “Very odd indeed, sir. There’s practically nothing in Dr. Bottai’s file. The little there is, is harmless. He had no overt political activities or affiliations at all. As you can imagine, under a regime like fascism or nazism... or communism... the Police keep a file on virtually every inhabitant. Dr. Bottai seems to be totally innocuous. Despite the fact that he’s one of the biggest landowners in the Zona di Camorra: his estate is called Le Siepi.”
Chapter Sixteen
With Naples secured, the weight of aerial support for the 8th Army’s advance was switched to the east coast. On 3rd October a Special Service brigade and 78th Division had landed at Termoli, just north of the spur formed by the Gargano Peninsula. The 8th Army’s objective was to reach the Rome Line, which was to extend from Rome along the west-to-east highway through Avezzano and Pescara. To do so it had to cross the rivers Trigno and Sangro. The fighting would be long and bloody. The 6th October was a vital day in the advance. The weather had improved and R.A.F. Kittyhawks, Hurricanes and Spitfires, with Warhawks of the American Air Force, flew well over 500 sorties that day, damaging more than 100 vehicles and destroying almost as many, on the roads around Chieti, Isernia and Termoli.
When O’Neill’s squadron landed at dusk after its final task of the day, everyone was in good spirits and when O’Neill was told by a Service Policeman, “There’s an Italian... er... gentleman waiting to see you, sir”, he took the proffered visiting card from him without demur.
“Colonello il Conte Stefano di Rossoni, Regia Aeronautica (Ritirato),” he murmured. “What does he want, Corporal?”
“To pay his respects, he says, sir. He seems quite a decent bloke. We invited him into the Guard Room for a cup o’ cha. He’s there now, sir. I didn’t think I ought to take him to the Officers’ Mess, sir, seein’ as how he’s an Eyetie. He says he’s a count and a retired Air Force colonel, sir, but for all I know he may be selling bootlaces.”
“Quite right, Corporal. Selling his sister, more likely. Bring him over to the crew tent, please. We can offer him another cup of cha.”
O’Neill saw a long blue and silver Lancia drive up and a distinguished-looking man with a limp, supporting himself on a gold-knobbed Malacca cane, emerge from it while a chauffeur held the door open. He went to meet him.
“Squadron Leader O’Neill? I am Colonel Count di Rossoni, late of the Royal Italian Air Force,” he said in English, shaking hands.
In Italian, Fiver replied: “I have your card, thanks. What can I do for you? Will you come in and have a mug of tea?”
Sitting, holding an enamel mug, the count looked around with a smile. “It is good to be among pilots again.”
They talked briefly about his flights with Balbo, his command of a squadron in Spain and his wound. Then Fiver asked again, “To what do we owe this visit?”
“I live near Culostretto. I watched your squadron attack the factory there, through a telescope, from my astronomical observatory on the roof of my home. It was brilliant. Especially the flying of the pilots in the aircraft lettered K, M and
S, I venture to say...”
“You’re very kind...”
“I would like to meet them, if I may.”
“I’m afraid K is my aeroplane.” Fiver beckoned Yule and Sammy over. “This is Flying Officer Yule, who flew M, and Sergeant Sampson, in S.” Introductions and praise, in di Rossoni’s passable English, followed. Fiver asked, “How did you trace us?”
“My last appointment was on the Staff. I got in touch with an old friend at Bari, who handed his squadron over to the R.A.F. wing there, and is flying with you against the Germans. He did the rest.”
They talked for a while, and O’Neill, who had quite taken to his visitor, introduced him to the other pilots and his ground officers. Eventually, he said, “I wonder if you’d care to stay to dinner?”
“It is most kind of you. But on the contrary I came to invite you to dine at my home. It is not far, as you know. Please do not refuse: my wife will be most disappointed. And so will the other ladies we have invited in anticipation that you would accept.”
The bystanders murmured approval: the prospect of girls had banished any hesitation. “You’re very kind,” Fiver said. “If you will allow us time to clean up and change, we’ll be delighted.”
“In that case, I shall hurry back and let my wife know.”
*
The 975th had moved on in the wake of the spearhead of 5th Army, and were already dug in north of Naples. Ferugino and Sarti had detached themselves and were established in a room on a side street off the Via Roma, their khaki drill and suntans exchanged for flash new civilian outfits. In any event it was too cold now for summer uniforms. They had left Corrado’s immediate protection with his blessing. Ferugino would be a useful means of contact with the Naples underworld. Corrado had been bred as a racketeer and was always on the lookout for opportunities. Meanwhile he connived at the skulduggery in which he knew Pienze was abetting Ferugino.
He could not postpone his call on Dr. Bottai. Six years had not dimmed the memory of the impact the doctor’s face and figure or his implicitly minatory attitude had made at first sight. Dressed in his best olive drab tunic and “pink pants”, shoes burnished and leather-peaked cap at a rakish angle to give himself confidence as much as to impress the beholder, Corrado travelled to Naples in a jeep with Pienze at the wheel. Descending at the tall locked and guarded wrought-iron gates giving on to a patio before Dr. Bottai’s house on the Posillipo cliffs, he dismissed his driver with the admonition, “Remember, I want you back here at nine sharp. You have a message I must report back urgently, right? I can take two hours of this guy, and that’s all.”
“O.K., Pete. I’ll be here.”
Corrado tugged the bell-pull and his stomach heaved at the sound of the distant, hollow peal. A surly gatekeeper emerged from the lodge and led him to the front door, where he had to ring again. The butler took his cap and coat, and at last he was ushered into the presence. Dr. Bottai sat in his library, stroking a Siamese cat on his lap. He set it aside and rose unhurriedly, hand extended. “What kept you, Pietro? I have been expecting you for some days.” He spoke Italian. Anyway, his English was poor.
“Better take that up with General Mark Clark, Uncle. We got held up on the way. I, too, have been expecting to see you for several days.” Bold words, with his stomach full of butterflies.
They dined well, accompanied by Bottai’s wife, and two girls who were, Corrado recognised, a subtle inducement: an indication of the rewards he would obtain by carrying out his orders faithfully. After dinner the two men sat alone in the library drinking coffee and cognac.
“Time for business,” Dr. Bottai said. “During the presence of the Germans in our country, I have been able to acquire a considerable collection of art treasures. As you know, the Nazi leaders are avid for such items. Göring has a huge collection of paintings. Göbbels and Hitler himself have amassed great quantities of valuable plunder. Naturally, less exalted officials were envious and wanted to emulate them. Through Stefano di Rossoni, in his position on the Staff, I was able to make contact with various German high-ranking officers: Army and Luftwaffe Generals, an Admiral or two. They were in a position to organise more or less official looting. But they had no means of getting their plunder out of the country, or even storing it safely. That was where I was able to help.
“Several valuable items were collected in Greece, but they could neither be taken to Germany nor sent to other parts of the world where they could be sold. The only available destination was Italy. Once here, I took them over. Similarly, when paintings, sculptures, jewellery and other artefacts have been picked up here, they have been sent to me. In theory, of course, based on the assumption of a German-Italian victory in this war, I would be the guardian of this treasure until such time as it could be clandestinely sold and the proceeds divided among the various participants in the scheme.”
The doctor smiled, a horrid sight. “Unfortunately for the other gentlemen concerned, I find myself in sole possession of this magnificent treasury.” He laughed. “The capitulation of the Italian Government was the first blow. That, coinciding with the Allied invasion, meant the Germans’ rapid retreat northwards, leaving the goods behind. You see, the high officers concerned could not entrust anyone to act as intermediary between them and myself. And no one else but I knows where the hiding place is. Oh, of course I had to tell my German partners something. But not the truth. They will still be deluding themselves that the treasures are safe and they will get their hands on them eventually. That is not so. The treasure is safe, but they will never see or touch it. Ultimate defeat of the Germans is certain. The treasure therefore becomes the sole property of the Family. And our brethren of Cosa Nostra are growing a little impatient: they want a share now. I have no wish to offend, unnecessarily, powerful elements here in southern Italy and Sicily, or in America. So I must declare a dividend. Which means evacuating some of the treasure.” He fixed his cold stare on Corrado.
“How can I help, Dottore?”
“Ships and aircraft will travel frequently from Italy to America now. Also to England. Even Latin America will be within reach. We have no contacts in the British forces, and none in the American Navy or Air Force. You will have to find a way to ship the goods out. What is more, you will have to organise their removal from where they are hidden, to the ships or aeroplanes in which they will go. You have the transport facilities, I haven’t.” Corrado felt sicker than he had in the worst weather on the troopship. He wished now that it had sunk and he had drowned with it, rather than have to go through with the doctor’s demands.
“Is that all?” he asked sarcastically.
“By no means,” was the bland reply. “That is just the beginning.”
“God in heaven! What more d’you want?”
“It is not just what I want, Nephew. It is what the Family demands. I am just the instrument of Cosa Nostra.”
“Go on. Tell me the rest.” Corrado sounded defeated. “I have been stock-piling arms and ammunition...”
“What the hell for?”
“My own designs. And to spread the Family empire, of course. Not to mention strengthening the power of my good friends of the Camorra.”
“I feel as though this is a nightmare...”
“You are wide awake, Pietro, I assure you. This is no dream. It is hard fact. By one means and another I have been able to build up quite a decent armoury, but it is nowhere near big enough. I need it for two purposes. First, as a means of arming a section of the populace of this country, to create civil disturbance. Wars, it is a truism to say, cause chaos in every department of a country’s life. Even though there was no fighting here until recently, the mere existence of a huge Army of conscripts, with the added presence of the Germans, has meant a proliferation of arms and ammunition. That is how I was able to start my collection. Now, with the speed of events in Sicily, there are great quantities abandoned there, some of which I have been able to get hold of. But that is nothing. Fighting right here in Italy is already on a tremendous
scale and that means that all kinds of military material is being left abandoned on the battlefield or kept inadequately guarded in dumps all over the place. Rich pickings. I am already gleaning a share. But only when the front line extends right across from coast to coast will the real harvest be possible. I look to you to play your part.”
“How, for God’s sake?”
“For my sake, not His. And how? By collecting and delivering weapons and ammunition for me, of course. You’re in the thick of things: a glorious opportunity.”
“Why do you want to arm people here? What is the purpose of civil disturbance?”
“To keep any Government that the victorious Allies foist on us off balance. To make sure that when we Italians choose our own Government we get one we can tolerate and live with.” He winked. “Una combinazione, eh? In that way, as long as I hold the weapons, I shall always hold the means to upset the political balance. Which means that I shall be the real power in the land. Besides, Pietro, there is still more in it. Another consideration, which will make you rich, too.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. When this war is over there will be many others, scattered about the world. Small, sporadic civil wars; rebel-lions; bigger wars, between nations which cannot afford to buy arms on the open market. There will be mercenary armies and air forces and even mercenary navies. They will all have to be equipped. Arms dealing has always been a highly lucrative business, but after this war it will attain an undreamed-of scale. I will make another fortune as an arms trader. And win powerful friends around the world. And so will you, if you help me.”
“It sounds interesting. If I help you.”
Slowly and deliberately Dr. Bottai rose and stood over Corrado, his crooked shadow cast across him, his hooded eye half-closed and the other brightly scrutinising him without expression. The mouth half-smiled. The beetling forehead threw a dark shade over the twisted face. In his beautiful, soft voice Dr. Bottai said, “There is no if about it. The Mafia will avenge itself on you if you let us down over the shipment of the treasure. If you desert me over this matter of the arms, the Camorra will attend to you. You know how they do it, don’t you? With a stiletto and a red-hot poker, inserted in places you have never imagined, in that handsome body of yours. Think about it.”
Air Strike Page 18