16
“Come and meet your friends,” Mahlknecht was saying. Lennox came into the room slowly, his tired muscles jibing at him.
It was a simple place, divided for sleeping and for eating. One half of the room had a wooden table and benches, shelves—obviously for dishes—and a cupboard—probably for food. The other half had a row of rough wooden bunks along its walls. In the centre of the wall opposite the door was a crude stone fireplace. The four windows were high-placed, small, and sheltered by the deep, jutting roof. They gave a feeling of snugness and security to the room.
The two strangers rose from the table. He suddenly realised that they were as wary of him as he was of them. They had given the right questions and answers; that was what Johann had said. But he still looked them over, as carefully as they were watching him. Leather trousers, embroidered braces, rough grey jackets not too new, collarless white shirts opened at the neck, battered felt hats with a jaunty feather, white stockings, heavy climbing boots with coarse leather laces. Their faces were tanned with sun and reddened by wind. Both were fair-haired, both were thin and yet tough-looking. One had snub features and grey eyes. The other had sharper features and blue eyes. Both sets of eyes were equally watchful. Both men could have been anything, pure Tyrolese for that matter. He couldn’t even guess which was American, which was English. Their anonymity was striking: they had the kind of face which you forget easily and remembered with difficulty.
Old Schroffenegger nodded approvingly. “Well, you’ll all know each other again.” He laughed. “They are all good Tyroler. Look, Paul: they don’t move a muscle. Good Tyroler. Why, I remember when the Italians used to meet each other there would be embracing and kissing. They did more kissing than our women.” His thin hands slapped the two nearest shoulders with surprising strength. “We can work with these dour faces, can’t we, Paul? Eh?”
The two strangers and Lennox weakened enough to exchange a self-conscious grin. Their tension relaxed.
“Can’t imagine us wasting kisses on each other,” the blue-eyed man said. He spoke in English, and judging from his voice, he was an Englishman.
The grey-eyed man’s smile broadened. “No darned fear.” He turned back to the bench and sat down. “We were just making sure, that was all. You fit the colonel’s description all right.”
Lennox said, “But I have still to make sure. The colonel couldn’t give me any description of you.” The Englishman looked at him appraisingly.
“Fair enough,” he said at last. “Well, I am Roy Shaw, captain, Royal Sussex Regiment. This is William Thomson, captain, Corps of Signals, United States Army. We were both sent here to follow up information given by Colonel Wayne after his escape from a prisoner-of-war camp outside of Bozen. Shall I have to go on describing the colonel’s greying hair; or the wound on Private John Stewart’s forehead and the dyed coat he was wearing—your coat once, I believe; or Corporal William Ferry’s views about the most hated guard at the prison camp whose name was Falcone?”
So Jock and Bill Ferry had got through... “Good old—” he began, and then halted. He felt a fool: he, the amateur, had challenged the professionals in what must have seemed a very naïve way. He gave Shaw a grudging good mark for his patience. He also remembered the word captain. He drew himself erect. “No, sir,” he said. His face was too expressionless.
“Cut that out,” Thomson said, grinning.
Shaw nodded his agreement. “We won’t get very far, that way,” he said. He sat down at the table. “Come on, Lennox, take a seat and tell us how you’ve been holding the fort. How did the winter go? How serious are these chaps?” He looked at Mahlknecht and Schroffenegger. “That’s the first thing we want to know.”
Mahlknecht had probably not understood the quickly spoken words, but he had interpreted Shaw’s look correctly enough.
“We’ll leave you here, and take a walk down to the woods to watch the south path for Johann,” he suggested. He walked to the door. “One of us may have to go down later to the Kasal barn just to make sure there is no trouble.” That was all he said, but Peter Lennox knew he was worried too.
The three foreigners watched the two men walk into the sunlight with their solid, heavy tread.
“It’s tough on them,” Thomson said. “Underground resistance is the toughest fight of all. It’s the women that make it so tough. That girl you were worrying about, for instance...?”
“It’s easier for us,” Shaw agreed. “Our wives and children are safe at home. But here, a German can use them as blackmail.” He looked at Lennox thoughtfully. “Do the men up here know what they are letting themselves in for?”
Lennox nodded. “We’ve talked about it this winter. They know that there can be no successful resistance unless the women are with them. If a wife starts weeping she’ll hold her husband back. That’s what old Schroffenegger said. But as far as I could make out, the women here do not go in for much weeping. They’ll follow their men, and they’ll take the risks.”
His voice was grim, and he eyed the other two bitterly.
Shaw noticed that look. “I know,” he said quietly, “our arrival spells trouble for many people. And yet if we hadn’t been asked to come here then there would have been no spirit of resistance, no proof that these people weren’t collaborationists. There’s no easy way for an occupied country. They fight either on our side or on the other. Inaction and neutral thoughts fight for the other side. That’s how you have to measure it. You count the facts and avoid imagination. That’s what you’ve got to do.”
His words made sense. But, Lennox thought, Shaw hadn’t lived with those people for eight months. They were part of a military plan to these two men: they weren’t Frau Schichtl and Johann and Katharina Kasal and old Schroffenegger. He said nothing. He watched the calm face and the cold eyes. The American, too, had lost his bitter emotion. He was equally matter-of-fact and objective.
Shaw’s colourless voice went on, “We’ll get down to the business on hand. Lennox, you’ve said the people here will accept the consequences. Do you mean they have all agreed to act?”
Lennox hesitated. It would have sounded better if he could have answered yes; but that wouldn’t have been accurate. “Many of them have agreed. All those whom Mahlknecht can trust.”
The American said, “Our information is that in the plebiscite of nineteen-thirty-nine the Austrians of the South Tyrol were sharply divided. Some hundred and eighty-five thousand voted to leave the South Tyrol to go to Austria. Up to date only about seventy per cent have been transhipped. The other eighty-two thousand voted to stay here and become Italian citizens. From your observations here this winter, can you add anything to these facts?”
Lennox said, “Statistics in this case don’t tell us a thing. In the first place the people of the South Tyrol had that plebiscite forced on them by what they consider to be two foreign governments—the Italians and the Germans. The people just wanted to stay here and to be left alone. But they were forced either to leave their homes if they wanted to keep their own language or customs, or to become Italian citizens if they didn’t want to leave their own land. Of those who chose to leave, only a few were pro-Nazi: most of them had only a hatred of Italian domination. Of those who stayed, none of them considered they had become Italians; they played out the farce, stuck to their homes, and hated the Nazis for having forced this plebiscite. They knew they had been put between the devil and the deep blue sea. Then the Germans sent many of the exiled South Tyrolese away from the North Tyrol where they had expected to settle. That isn’t being forgotten, either by those who stayed here, or by those who left here and were then cheated. When the Germans took over all the South Tyrol last September all the Austrians were glad the Italians had gone. But many of them consider the Germans are just another gang of tyrants. And these are the people whom Mahlknecht has organised.”
“And what about those who haven’t been organised by Mahlknecht?” Shaw asked. “A lot have been coming back from north this winter.”
“These can be divided into two groups. The larger one hasn’t done anything to help us so far, but they haven’t helped the Germans either. They are waiting and watching. They are just pro-themselves. The smaller group is pro-German, because they still believe the German promises to save them from the Italians. They’ve seen the Germans replace the old Austrian names and inscriptions and Austrian is again being taught in the schools. They therefore believe that atrocity stories from other countries are merely propaganda, and some of them—who have returned from Germany, where they were made teacher’s pets—think they are going to become powerful in key positions. Mahlknecht told us last night about some of these boys who are already Nazi bosses down in the bigger towns. Peter Hofer, for instance, in Bozen. He was killed in December. Karl Tinzl is still alive, though. Mahlknecht has a list of them. They will be taken care of, either now as supposed air-raid victims, or quite openly later when the need for secrecy is gone.”
Thomson was smiling. “Peter Hofer was reported to have been killed in an air-raid on Bozen,” he said.
Shaw was thoughtful. “Mahlknecht and his friends have a difficult job. They haven’t a clear-cut issue to put before their people: the Italian problem makes a mess of that. Did he tell you the Socialist underground paper, Avanti, has been having editorials showing that Italy must be given back the North Tyrol? It’s Italy’s historical function to protect the Brenner from the Germans.”
“Swell job of protection they did when they got the chance,” the American said. He gave a short laugh.
“It’s a serious matter, though,” Shaw said at last. “It’s enough to throw all the South Tyrol into cynical neutrality.”
“Not Mahlknecht or old Schroffenegger or any of their chaps!” Lennox said determinedly. He halted in amazement at the warmth of his own voice.
“I believe you,” Shaw said. “Our men who made contact with him in Bozen saw some of his work there.”
“All the more credit to these guys like Mahlknecht who do see the issue even if it’s all blotted over for them. A lot of men won’t fight unless they see things pure black and pure white,” Thomson said. “Now, what interests me is just how Mahlknecht proposes to use his organisation. What about that?”
“Yes,” Shaw said. “We’ve learned why. But how?”
Lennox hesitated. He was gathering the facts together. He was worried in case he would forget the most important angles. Or perhaps the things which he thought important would not be what these two men wanted. That would be a criminal blunder on his part. They were waiting expectantly. That made him feel all the more nervous.
He began speaking too quickly.
“Take it easy,” Thomson advised with that slow smile of his. “I’m kind of dumb.” Shaw was smiling at that, and Lennox’s tension eased. His explanation began to take concise form.
First of all, there was the German defence of the Brenner Pass and the Eisak Valley to be considered. That was the road into Austria. German guns, placed high on the mountainsides, would hold up any advance there by Allied troops for months. There would be wholesale slaughter. But men who knew the mountains, who had been supplied with the right equipment, could do an efficient job of sabotage. Some highly trained men should be sent into the mountains to help Mahlknecht’s organisation. It was willing and eager to do the job. It only needed a few experts—and a lot of explosives.
In the second place, there was the Allied attack. Parachutists, even gliders with airborne troops, could land on the broad high meadows. If they were given excellent guides these advance units could cut off the narrow valley entirely and trap the German armies retreating from Italy.
Thirdly, there were political possibilities to be considered. The North Tyrol, where there was already much feeling against the Nazis, could have its resistance linked to the South Tyrol. Ties of blood and family were strong between the two districts. In action against the Germans they could achieve the union they had wanted. And if the North Tyrol were to rise—well, the North Tyrol bordered Bavaria. It was the biggest back door to Germany.
When he had ended the other two sat for some moments without speaking.
Lennox began to wonder if he had seemed a fool. He watched them nervously. They were looking at each other now, and he thought he saw an amused glance pass between them. Or perhaps it was a pleased glance. He hung on to that hope. Damn it all, what do they expect from a blasted amateur? he thought angrily.
Shaw said, “Ambitious, but exciting.”
Thomson was grinning broadly. “At least, we won’t be chasing our tail,” he said. And Lennox suddenly realised that these two men had been as much afraid of being disappointed in his information as he had been afraid of their scorn.
The tension broke. The American rose, still smiling, and began pacing the floor. “Boy, it gives us some scope,” he said at last. “I’ve got a couple of maps, but what about those guides you mentioned? One reliable guide is worth ten maps.”
“Four members of the Committee are guides. That was their job in peace-time. And there are guides in every village. They know this country like the back of their hands.”
“Have they much ammunition stored?” Shaw asked practically.
“No. They have small-arms and a few machine guns which they swiped. They need more. And they need dynamite and grenades.”
“What kind of man-power?”
“They can’t offer us quantity. They admit that. But they also say that you don’t need numbers for fighting here. This is a place for infiltration, not massed attacks.”
“Can they fight?”
“They are a fairly peaceful people. They are law-abiding and honest. But if they are roused they will fight. They are as hard as their mountains.”
Shaw nodded thoughtfully, and then fell silent. He was thinking over what he had just heard. Thomson too was far away in a world of mountain contours and safe landing-places.
Well, that’s that, Lennox thought. He rose and walked to the doorway. He had given his report and his vote of confidence. His job was done. All he had to think of now was the road which would take him south into Italy. At last he could try that long-planned escape. Yet strangely, now that he could have it, he didn’t want it. He glanced over his shoulder at the American and Englishman. He envied them.
He looked out over the grass—fine, thin grass, like the kind he used to see in a seedmonger’s window-display. There were small blue flowers close to the earth. A large flying beetle snapped its hard green wings at his feet. The small oaks, with their curiously gnarled trunks, were putting out their uneven leaves. The larch and spruce were tall and straight. They gave a blue cast to the depths of green in the woods. Soon the mountainside would be a stretch of bright colour. The last snows on the tall grey mountain teeth would melt, and there would be peaches and vines, ripening in the valleys under the high blue skies. “A poor country,” Mahlknecht had said yesterday, but he had said it proudly. Now Lennox understood the simplicity of the people who lived here: they were content with little because they had so much.
He saw Mahlknecht leave Schroffenegger at the path into the wood, and start slowly towards the hut. He walked as a man who is worried and thoughtful.
Lennox turned quickly back into the hut. “There’s still the problem of these two Jerries,” he said quickly, “I had almost forgotten them.”
Thomson and Shaw stopped their discussion.
“We can’t get rid of them the easy way,” Thomson said. “We can’t have men with bullet- or knife-wounds lying about.” Then thoughtfully: “We buried our parachutes according to the book. They might have heard our plane, might even—from some distance—have seen us drop. There’s always that chance. But how did they connect all that with the Schichtl house?”
“They didn’t connect it,” Lennox suggested. “I don’t believe they know you are here. You just timed your arrival for a rather delicate moment, that’s all. They are looking for the men who guide Allied flyers out of these mountains. Johann disappears a
t certain periods and returns, exhausted but weather-beaten. Someone who knows Johann well enough to note his disappearance and reappearance has given them that information. They have found that these disappearances take place after the remains of an Allied plane have been discovered. They are just checking up on Johann. That’s all.”
“But who could give that information about Johann?”
Lennox said, “He has been seeing a girl. Last thing on leaving, first thing on return, no doubt. She’s the niece of a collaborationist. Mussner is the name.”
“Johann’s a bloody fool,” Shaw said. He was angry. Thomson didn’t seem any too pleased either. They both looked as if they had begun to wonder how many fools they might find on this job.
“No,” Lennox said. “He isn’t a fool. He’s just young. He thinks that if a girl kisses you she really means it.” Lennox was silent for a moment. He was too busy remembering the past to notice the American’s uplifted eyebrow. “Perhaps he was a bloody fool,” he concluded with a bitter smile, forcing himself away from the memories which he had thought were long buried.
Mahlknecht entered the room. He looked quickly at the two officers. “Well?”
“Everything is all right,” Shaw answered. His Tyrolese accent wasn’t too bad, Lennox noted. It would be perfect in a week or two. He couldn’t resist feeling pleased that his own accent was better.
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