He was thankful that the German retreat had passed the di Rossoni estate in a hurry, for otherwise it would have a good strongpoint and he would probably have been on his way to drop his bombs on it now. Instead, he let his thoughts dwell on it and imagined Marisa, with her shining hair and dainty feet, her quick smile and gentle voice, standing at her window and looking up each time she saw Spitfires, wondering if he were in one of them.
They saw gun positions beneath them, then, further forward, foxholes, and infantry in action. Their orbit point was a low hill topped by a small wood, half a mile from the most forward enemy positions.
“Banco Leader to Rover Teddie. In position. Over,” O’Neill called.
“Roger, Banco Leader. Target for you. Grid C, square K14. Over.”
“Rover Teddie from Banco Leader. Got it. Over.”
“At the north-west corner of the square, the Garigliano makes an S-bend. There’s a minor road running south to north, just downstream of the bed.”
“I’ve found it.”
“On the north bank, at the S-bend, there is a group of six houses. We want them destroyed.”
“Understood.” All these exchanges had been prefaced formally by call signs. Fiver now called the other aircraft in his cab rank: “Banco Leader to all Banco aircraft. Continue orbiting while I verify the target.” Leaving them to circle the hill in line astern at 8,000 ft he dived towards the target three miles away, to relate the controller’s description to what he could see. After crossing the houses once at 2,000 ft he swung back and climbed, talking as he went: “Banco aircraft from Banco Leader. Six houses, four along the north bank of the river, two at right angles at the east end of the row. Clear approach from all directions, but, as you probably saw, the flak’s pretty hot. I’ll lead Blue Section in from the south. Green section attack from the east. Blue will take the three houses on the west, Green take the rest. Bomb from 1,000 ft.” He had joined the circling aircraft, at their head. “Echelon starboard. Go!”
When the aircraft had moved into position, the Flight Commander leading Blue Section had a quick word with Sgt. Sampson. “Blue Three, you take the last house on the east. Blue Two and I’ll go for the two at right angles.”
“Attacking now,” Fiver said, and the sections separated to divide the attention of the flak gunners. In the familiar lacework of tracer and myriad puffballs of smoke where shells were exploding around them, through the always churned up and bumpy air, they dived steeply.
Yule, flying Blue Three with Warren at No. 2, had time to see O’Neill’s bombs hit the roof of the extreme westerly building. Warren’s bombs were still falling when he released his own. Climbing out in a hard port turn, he saw smoke hiding the second building and watched his bombs strike the third one: both on the front wall. When they had rejoined over their orbit point they could see the entire target smoking and flaming.”
“I’m going down to have a look,” Fiver said. A minute later they heard him again. “Rover Freddie. Banco Leader. Target destroyed.”
They landed amply satisfied with their new game, and gathered by the C.O.’s aircraft in an excited group, no one listening to anyone else as each recounted what he had seen and done.
“It was a good briefing,” O’Neill said.
“That’s the difference between being briefed by someone who has to stay miles from the target, and one of the squadron pilots who can usually see it, he’s so close,” said Warren.
“They get a pretty hot time in the F.C.U.s,” Yule said. “No wonder they’ve got an armoured car with them.”
“The system works.” O’Neill looked reflective. “We can ring all sorts of changes with this cab rank idea: we can attack singly, or in pairs, or en masse. Or the leader can bomb first and act as marker. Or he can attack first and then give the detailed briefing in the light of what happens when he attacks.”
Vincent said, with his well-known smirk, “If he’s still all present and correct.”
“The flak reacted a bit too enthusiastically on that one,” Fiver admitted. “But we can always confuse the jolly old Krauts by darting in from six different directions at once.”
“And all meeting in one colossal collision in the middle,” said Vincent.
*
Corrado was spending three days’ leave with Dr. Bottai, who had put his Posillipo house at the disposal of the 975th’s officers. He had also done the decent thing towards his so-called nephew’s regiment by allowing them to use his La Siepi estate as a recreation centre. This, however, was not in much demand by the G.I.s, who preferred the urban pleasures of Naples, where the American Red Cross provided lavish facilities and entertainment. Dr. Bottai had also invited O’Neill to send his officers there on leave, and some of the airmen to the weekly dances he arranged for them and the G.I.s.
Tustin remarked, “With Naples almost starving, it’s amazing how well these rich landowners manage to live. It’s far less astonishing that they try to ingratiate themselves so deeply with us and the Americans. What I can’t understand is how a villainous-looking character like Bottai has such a clean record at the Questura, while a pleasant-looking, easy-going chap like di Rossoni is on record as a Fascist supporter. I suppose any senior regular officer qualified as that. Frankly, I think he’s much too selfish and weak to be a Fascist or anything else: just as he’d be too lazy and self-centred to take the trouble to oppose Mussolini.”
“I wouldn’t trust Bottai as far as I could throw a bulldozer,” said O’Neill. “Di Rossoni’s a frightful line-shooter, of course, but I agree he’s harmless. He’s very boring when he shoots a line about aviating with Balbo and ops. in Spain, but I think it’s as much to establish a bond with us as to make out he’s been a hell of a pilot. Besides, the Italians always lay it on thick: they despise modesty. The type who foxes me is Corrado: he’s always so smooth on the surface, but sometimes I catch him off-guard and he looks bloody vicious.”
“I’ve seen that look on the faces of murderers in the dock,” said Tustin. “And I’ll tell you something else: he’s frightened out of his wits of Bottai. I’ve watched them when they’re together.”
“You’ll get another chance tonight,” said O’Neill.
The officers of the squadron had been invited to a party at Posillipo, where officers from the 975th would be among the guests.
*
Dr Bottai and Corrado were talking quietly in the privacy of the library. “The snail’s pace at which you people are advancing is a disgrace,” said the doctor. “Less than 100 kilometres in the ten weeks since you landed at Salerno. Barely thirty since you captured this city, seven weeks ago. Now at last you’re getting close to Milgreppi, what d’you propose to do about rescuing my treasures? Every day’s delay means a greater risk that either the Germans or your people or the British will find them. I’m very worried.” The look he cast on Corrado left no doubt that he ought to be very worried also; for his skin.
“If you’d hidden them at Le Siepi...”
“Don’t be a fool. It would have been impossible to keep it secret anywhere in the Zona di Camorra. I had to go outside my own area. I stayed as close as I dared, while keeping within easy reach of Rome, where most of the valuable objects were assembled for me. I thought you would have driven the Germans back at least to Rome by now. If you hadn’t landed so far south, you could have been beyond Rome today. But it’s pointless to discuss strategic errors. The fact is that Milgreppi is almost within reach at last. So what are you going to do about it?”
“I haven’t entirely wasted my time, as you know. You’ve acquired a decent armoury of American and British weapons...”
“Thanks to Pienze. No credit to you.”
“I’m sorry you think so. Without my help...”
“Without Pienze arranging the collecting, nothing would have happened.”
“If you choose to think so, all right. But Pienze’s more interested in selling gasoline and G.I. stores on the black market.”
“That’s his perk I made you
responsible for the arms, and you brought him in to help you: as far as I’m concerned, the arms and the treasure are your responsibility. If Pienze wants to run a black market racket, let him get on with it. He’d better keep an eye on that awful Sicilian fellow, that’s all
“Ferugino? He’s only a pimp. To him, being a big shot on the black market is high on the criminal ladder.”
“Don’t underestimate him. He’s a Sicilian. That means he’s almost as dangerous as a Camorrista. Of course he thinks a Camorrista comes second to any Siciliano.” Bottai chuckled and Corrado’s blood ran cold. “Anyway, you’ve evaded my question.”
“The only answer I’m going to give you is that I’ll have your treasure in your hands within a week of the Allies crossing the Pozzanghera.”
“You’d better.”
It was not a note conducive to conviviality, on which to end the discussion and approach a party, but Corrado contrived to be his effusive and noisy self when he greeted the arriving guests.
The di Rossoni arrived early. Marisa was radiant and her eyes sought everywhere for her Toby. Meanwhile three American officers pounced on her, but she pretended to be almost devoid of the English language; still they persisted in their attentions.
Corrado led the conte away to the library, deserted now that Dr. and Signora Bottai were among their visitors.
The two men sat on a sofa with their heads together, conferring in low voices. “He’s given me an ultimatum,” said Corrado. “I’ve got to deliver the treasure within a week. Are you sure you’re all set to take it over and start getting it ready for sale and shipment out of the country?”
“Of course. Space is prepared in our gallery at home for the paintings, and the other art objects will go into the vault under the house. Then, when the rich men among your American officers to whom introductions are being arranged visit my house it will seem perfectly natural that I show them my family treasures. And equally natural that they should offer to buy some of them. The other items, your connections will be able to have shipped out to England and America, and eventually to France when the Allies invade it. And so to Switzerland. And from England and America some of them will reach the millionaire collectors in Latin America. Everything is ready to fall into place, Pietro. All that remains is for you to liberate the treasure from its hiding place.”
“The only thing in this whole business that gives me any reason to be thankful is that these valuable articles are not bulky: one 2½ ton truck is all I need to shift the lot in one load. Now, you promised to bring me some photographs of the place.”
“I have them with me. We took them three years ago, when we were on a holiday visit to Milgreppi.” Di Rossoni drew an envelope from his inner pocket, took out some pictures and spread them on the sofa between Corrado and himself. “As you can see, the lake is small but very beautiful. The hunting lodge on the ridge above was built in the late eighteenth century by an ancestor of mine. The place got its name because it is, almost literally, an area of 1,000 ravines: mille greppi. So the casina di caccia was named Casina Milgreppi. It was built to provide a magnificent view from the ridge, commanding the countryside for many square kilometres around. A couple of years ago I agreed to lease it to Bottai for five years: he was most unpleasantly insistent, but agreed that my family could use the place at his discretion for occasional holidays and weekends. Now I learn he had the audacity to use it to store all the art works he had been... well... ‘fencing’ is the only word for it. He put them in the cellars, then had them concreted up. I shudder to think what happened to the poor devils who did the concreting: he would never have allowed them to live to talk about it.
“Too bad the Germans are using it as a tactical headquarters. But I don’t suppose they’d trouble to dynamite the concrete to get at the cellars. It’s not a strongpoint after all. You say it wasn’t a castle, just an ordinary building. Thanks for the photos. I know what needs to be done. Fixing it is going to be something else.”
By the time they returned to the main salone the count found his wife dancing with Toby Yule and nodded to them both with smiling approval. His own official mistress had managed, like so many Romans with the money to pay for it, to cross both enemy fronts and was installed in a villa near Dr. Bottai’s. She was a sultry, lovely actress, married to a film producer who had stayed behind in the capital; with his mistress. She was pouting in a corner, awaiting her lover, and di Rossoni hurried to her.
Yule was shocked when Marisa said happily, “My husband’s mistress is the most beautiful woman in the room: so I do not feel insulted.”
He blushed with confusion. “She’s only the second most beautiful woman in the room.”
She moved indelicately closer to him and whispered, “You are an adorable, sweet boy.”
It was difficult to reconcile holding this desirable young woman in his arms while music played, with the havoc he had wrought all day, the death and destruction he and his comrades spread so casually every day. He had a fleeting mental picture of the six houses along the north bank of the Garigliano crumbling in dust, flames and smoke. He thought of the four other Rover patrols he had flown that day and the other enemy strong points, a tank lager and two artillery positions he had attacked. He looked again into Marisa’s happy eyes and at her full, soft lips; and at the merry people around them with no thought, he supposed, of fighting and devastation disturbing them. He wondered on what terms he would live the rest of his life, whether it would be dominated by other strife like that which had filled his days for the past two years, or whether this was the reality: to hold a beautiful woman in one’s arms and have no cares; and the other was an ugly distortion of what life was meant to be. He suspected that it was the other way round: that all life for his generation was destined to be a series of miseries, interspersed with rare moments of happiness or, at the least, contentment. It was not a pleasing prospect, but he was beginning to feel that it was the realistic one. Still, it was difficult to think that only two or three hours earlier the enemy had been shooting at him. Thank God they had missed.
Chapter Eighteen
The Supreme Allied Commander in Italy, General Alexander, spoke of his armies’ slow and painful advance as “slogging up Italy”. By mid-November, the crossing of the Garigliano was still two months away as the Allies fought their way forward through mud, across swollen rivers and over steep, craggy mountains.
For Corrado the Garigliano was a minor objective. His thoughts and worries were centred on a closer, smaller obstacle in the Allies’ path, the Pozzanghera river, beyond which lay Milgreppi.
In this temporarily static phase of the campaign his battery had already remained on the same spot for a month, while the forward troops were now in sight of the Pozzangghera. He lay sleepless night after night fretting and planning, rejecting one scheme after another. It was imperative for the Casina Milgreppi to be destroyed and for him to have access to it immediately after this event. To leave it intact would mean that he would have to find some way of blasting an entrance to the cellars; which he knew was a task for engineers. It would also mean that the Allies would occupy it for the same purpose as the Germans, thus making it impossible for him to reach and remove the treasure.
It was fortunate for him that his Divisional Commander was a Major-General with original and liberal ideas. One of these was that all ranks under his command should have as much understanding as possible of each other’s jobs. It was not practical to give this opportunity to large numbers, but at least he could make a start with officers of field rank and work his way down from majors to second lieutenants. He had issued an order, to be published in all unit orders, to this effect. It was already in operation and officers from all the different arms of the Service were being attached to other arms for short periods of experience; battle experience and professional versatility were the Major-General’s articles of faith.
This Divisional Commander visited the units under his command more frequently than most. Ever since Corrado had won his Sil
ver Star with such spectacular if involuntary courage he had stood high in the General’s esteem. The General, of course, addressed him as Pete. The 975th were due for a visit.
The battery was in action when the General leaped athletically from his jeep and strode into the command post, where Corrado had deliberately taken off his steel helmet in anticipation of the Divisional Commander’s call. He jumped to his feet and they snapped salutes at each other.
“I see you still don’t believe in self-protection, Pete,” the General boomed with a huge smile.
The dashing major’s smile in return was a mirror image. “Guess my head’s hard enough without a helmet, sir. Anyways, it gives me a headache.”
“Waal, put it on and come outside: wanna have a walk round your guns.”
“Yes sir, General sir.”
While they moved about the emplacements, where the guns were firing at a clutch of Ju 88s and Do 217s which were bombing a vehicle assembly area, three enemy bombers came down in flames. When the enemy formation turned away and the guns ceased fire the General called the men around him and delivered a brief speech of congratulation and exhortation.
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