‘Bit of an accident, sir. May I have a word with you?’
‘Yes, I wanted to see you, too. I was just going to send for you. Do you feel like a bit of fun and frolic?’
‘Why, what’s up, sir?’
‘Orders just come through from HQ. The whole brigade’s off on a three-day scheme tomorrow. Like the idea?’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic. I think it’s a great idea. It’s just come at the tight time. Now listen, here’s the form. We’ll be shoving off at nine o’clock in the morning. The rendezvous is at Paterno, tomorrow evening, and we’ll have all the details outlined to us when we get there. It sounds as if we’ll be going up Etna way. I’ve got Porky typing out Orders now. Breakfast at seven, parade for inspection at eight. I want you to go round the rooms tonight and see that the men get their kit ready before they go to bed.’
‘Right, sir. Is that all?’
‘That’s all for the time being. Now, what’s eating you?’
‘About Jobling, sir.’
The captain looked up in surprise. ‘What about him?’
‘I’ve got an idea I might know where he is.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Well, what I wanted to ask was, if we get him, couldn’t we do anything for him?’
The captain took a typewritten sheet that Piggott offered him, signed it and answered, ‘You know where he is, don’t you?’
There was a pause. Craddock said, ‘Yes, sir. I was thinking that we could say he’d given himself up. That’d make it better for him.’
The captain buckled on his revolver belt. ‘Let’s go. Where is he?’
‘Well, what about it, sir?’
‘What about what?’
‘Fixing it up like I said.’
‘Sergeant Craddock, are you trying to bargain with me? The captain strode towards the door. ‘Stand to attention and stop this bloody nonsense. Now, out with it, where is he?’
Craddock said, ‘We’ve got him in the stores.’
‘Piggott, tell the guard commander to detail an escort, and get me a driver for the truck. He’s not our prisoner. We’ll hand him over right away. Sergeant, you come with me.’
Craddock pleaded, ‘Look, just give us a minute.’
‘Don’t daydream, sergeant. You’re in the Army. Remember? If you want me to overlook the way you’re acting, shut up.’
‘But…’
‘I won’t give you another chance. Shut up!’
Craddock followed the captain to the stores.
Chapter Eighteen
THE battalion toiled up into the mountains. Each time the men looked over their shoulders the panorama beneath them grew wider and more remote; at each halt the air was cooler; but the broad crater that crowned the tiered ranges never came nearer.
The road drew a white line, zigzagging backwards and forwards on itself, up the unending slopes ahead of them. It led them through vineyards, orchards, cool woods of beech, chestnut and pine, fields of tall maize and plantations heavy with the scent of oranges; through farms, through huddled villages and little towns heaped upon the hillsides in level upon level of rippling, russet-tiled roofs.
The noises of the march seemed tiny in this vast, crystal silence; the undulating distances offered to each man, as he looked out from the straggling file, loneliness and freedom. Flocks of goats came rushing down upon them with a music of bells. Oxen moved past with massive dignity, tolerant of the little boys who goaded their flanks with sharp-pointed sticks and urged them on with long-drawn cries of ‘Ah-guah! Ah-guah!’ The world of crowds was far below, beneath veils of mist. Here each human being was a separate mystery; a black figure looking down on them from the steep terraces; a glimpse of movement against a great cactus clump; a leathery face in a doorway; a woman gliding past in black dress and white headcloth, erect beneath a tall water jar, secret and untouched by their cries of greeting. This was a world without shouting. The women’s voices came to them low and lamenting, the men’s in harsh animal grunts.
They climbed on, leaving behind them the realm of human habitation. They were passing through a waste of black cinder. This was the zone where the earth made manifest its hidden agonies. Every particle of soil had been burned to death. The mountain’s flanks spread beneath them in bulging slopes, pocked by old craters that thrust up their lips like a hundred clamant wounds, scarred by broad tracks where fire had flowed, disfigured by long growths of black lava; a scorched moon-landscape. The sky assumed its proper dimensions, no longer a flat sheet rising behind a solid scene but an infinity of pale space in whose midst they crept. They sang and jested, seeking each other’s comfort in face of the revelation that they were less than insects in this universe. But the vision did not frighten; the plains of death that surrounded them were possessed with the peace of death; all problems died here and the mind was liberated.
Sicily lay at their feet, a mass of hill-contours crowded like the corrugations of a walnut, a fringe of flat plain scalloped by the sea. Towns were tiny white clusters, clinging to the hills or spread upon the plain. From these heights men looked down like gods; the rest of the human race was lost to sight; all those multitudes below were too insignificant to catch the divine eye. Sea and sky fed the sensation of mastery. One mirrored the other, the same pale blue; and the clouds floated at eye level, flat-topped and flounced beneath, like ribboned reflections of the Calabrian shore. The meeting-place of sea and sky was imperceptible. There was no horizon, no place where the eye could rest and assure itself of reality. Was this the dream, or was yesterday the dream? The men were not conscious of transition. Only the unreal present was real. They were exhilarated, purified, released.
Captain Rumbold, sitting on a boulder, said to Perkington, ‘This is the life, eh?’
Perkington raised his chin from his cupped hands. His eyes were heavy with thought, and he answered unwillingly, ‘I could stay here for ever.’
‘I don’t know about that. I see what you mean, though.’ The captain pondered. ‘Yes, it’s a thought. Ever done any climbing?’
‘No. I’m afraid I was never very active.’
‘I used to do a bit. Rock-climbing. In the Lake District. There’s something about it. I always wanted to have a go at the real thing, you know, Switzerland, but I could never afford it. I started saving up about fifty times, but I was never the thrifty kind. Good Time Charlie, that’s me. I read all the books, though, you know, old Smythe’s stuff, that kind of thing. About all I ever did read.’ He reflected. ‘Damn funny, when you come to think of it.’
Perkington’s interest quickened. The self-conscious grin on Rumbold’s face was something he had never seen before. He had not expected confessions from the captain; for the first time he felt intimate with the other man, and his equal. He said, ‘I used to read the old voyages and histories. Anson, Prescott, Robinson Crusoe, Two Years Before The Mast. I suppose that was why I was keen on the Odyssey. Do you know it?’
‘Ancient Greeks, or something, wasn’t it? Not exactly in my line.’
‘You’d like it. It all took place in this part of the world. As a matter of fact, I was thinking about it just now.’
Rumbold let a respectful moment elapse, uttered a noisy sigh of satisfaction and said, ‘Yes, this suits me all right. Funny, you join the Army and you find yourself perched up here. Talk about on top of the world! I’ll tell you frankly, I’ve never had so much fun in all my life. Oh, I had a good time before the war! I made a living, I sodded about, I did all sorts of things, women galore, you know. But it never really meant a thing. Have you ever been having a hell of a fine time, getting on all right with everyone, and yet you somehow want to punch someone on the nose or kick a chair to bits, just through sheer boredom? Well, that was me.’
Perkington, in his turn, became confidential, trying to strengthen this new intimacy between them. ‘I know what you mean. I can’t say I led your kind of life, but I was fed up, too. I suppose I ought not to talk ti
ll I’ve seen a bit of action, but I must say the war has been an escape for me.’ He paused, and asked suddenly, ‘Have you ever tried to make sense of life?’
‘Can’t say I have. The world can go its own sweet way without my help.’
‘Well, I did. And the more I tried to understand it, the more of a muddle it seemed. Everything came to pieces in my hands as soon as I touched it. I was taught that all sorts of things were true, and when I looked at the opposites, they were just as true. The university seemed all wrong, my parents and the things they believed in seemed all wrong, my friends seemed all wrong, when I looked at myself I seemed all wrong. The whole darned world seemed all wrong. You see these things, and you feel responsible, but you don’t know what to do about it. I spent four years getting an Arts degree, and ended up writing publicity for beauty preparations. The money was all right, but I ask you!’
‘Sounds a damn good job to me.’
‘I suppose you’d call it that. But every time I picked up the papers and saw what was happening in the world, I felt like a criminal. My job seemed parasitic and useless. I mean, what’s the use of living like that?’
‘Bit of a philosopher on the quiet, aren’t you?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Do you want to go back to the old grind after the war?’
‘After the war?’ The captain screwed up his eyes and stared out across the landscape. ‘Anyone can see you’re new to the game.’ He pointed. ‘Look, there’s the Simeto.’
Perkington peered down through the haze. He could just discern the dark line winding across the plain. The sight of the river and the captain’s words had reminded him of what was to come. The cold feeling crept back into his entrails. He was still a schoolboy, uninitiated.
§§§§
There had been a panic in the Via dei Martiri when the soldiers assembled to march away, but the news soon spread that they were coming back. Nevertheless, without them, the street seemed bereft. Rosario could not remember when it had ever been so quiet before.
He left his mother gossiping with a customer, and walked down towards the waterfront. There was no work for him at the billet today; the place was deserted, with only a handful of men left on guard. The sea was smooth and sparkling. Masts crowded the harbour. Rosario looked at the hundreds of little craft, all long and low, all painted blue and white. Men were moving on their decks.
‘They are loading stores.’
He turned at the sound of the low, strong voice. Francesca’s man was standing at his elbow. He said, ‘Ciao.’
‘Ciao.’
Rosario said, ‘You are bold, today.’
‘Why bold?’
‘This is the first time I have seen you walking about in the street.’
‘I often walk.’
‘What do you fear? To be interned? They have not interfered with me.’
‘There is the risk. Besides, I have suffered much with malaria.’
‘You are well now?’
‘For the moment. But it comes back.’
‘I know. If Francesca had gone to the soldiers they would have given her quinine for you.’
‘Francesca!’ The man laughed. ‘She guards me like a she-wolf. No soldiers for her!’ He put his hand inside his shirt. ‘Here, this pleased you when you saw me making it.’ He drew out a wooden crucifix and offered it to Rosario.
Rosario examined it, passing his fingers over the body of the Christ. ‘It is a work of art,’ he said reverently. ‘It is as smooth and supple as the living flesh. One can even see the agony in the face, although it is so small.’
‘And the wound in the side,’ said the stranger. ‘You see the wound?’
‘Truly I see the wound. And the fingers clawing in agony at the nails that pierce the hands. It is worthy to be placed in the cathedral. You have seen the carvings in the cathedral? They are the work of Scipione di Guido, a great man. You know them?’
‘Yes, I have seen.’
Rosario held the crucifix up before him. ‘A man touches a piece of wood, and the spirit breathes from it! To be an artist is to be like God.’
The man said, ‘You work for the English?’
‘Yes. Why, do you want work?’
‘Do you ever work in the port?’
‘No.’
‘Those are landing-craft, for an attack. Have you seen any soldiers going aboard them yet?’
‘No. You are an inquisitive man. It is better not to be thus, particularly when one is in your position and mine.’ Rosario held out the crucifix. ‘I am grateful to you for showing me this. It grieves me to relinquish such an object of beauty.’
The man said, ‘Keep it. I shall make more.’
‘Truly? How much do you want for it?’
‘It is a gift.’
‘A gift? Tell me, what do you want from me? I know too much of the world to believe in gifts.’
The man smiled. ‘You are a sour one! We are comrades, of a kind, are we not?’
Rosario dropped the crucifix into his jacket pocket. ‘I thank you from my heart. This will make my mother very happy. She will weep over it.’
‘I am glad.’ The stranger indicated the deserted street with a jerk of his head. ‘It is better without them, eh?’
‘I am indifferent.’
‘Perhaps. But it is better, is it not?’
Rosario shrugged his shoulders. ‘Yes.’
‘Francesca tells me you have spoken against them.’
‘Francesca lies. They are no worse than others. I am not a fool, to speak ill of conquerors.’
‘But a man can think, non è vero?’ The stranger paused. ‘I see the fishing boats are going out again.’
‘Yes, there is plenty of fish.’
‘Do you know any of the fishermen?’
‘Yes, I have friends among them.’
‘Good friends?’
‘What is a good friend?’
‘Friends you can trust?’
‘Whom can one trust? Why?’
‘Do they go out far?’
‘I think that there are limits. Why all these questions?’
The man said, ‘Sometimes one must trust. Can a fishing boat cross to the mainland? In one night? It is not far.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to go to the mainland.’
‘The Germans are there.’
‘Well, the English are here.’
‘Why do you want to go?’
‘I want to go home.’
‘Does Francesca know?’
‘What do you care?’
Rosario pondered. ‘Can you pay?’
‘I have some money.’
‘You will have to wait.’
The stranger looked out across the harbour. ‘I do not want to wait too long.’
Rosario sucked at his lower lip, and studied the other man. ‘I will make inquiries.’
‘Good.’
Rosario said, ‘I must go back to the shop. I cannot leave my mother for long. It is difficult for a man. Will you come back with me, to take some wine? My mother will want to thank you.’
‘Another time. Now I am going for a little walk.’
The man went off along the street that led past the dock gates. Rosario watched, frowning. When the man was out of sight, Rosario sighed, and made his own way home. He walked slowly, deep in thought. He passed the soldiers’ billet, paused, and turned back. He asked the sentry, ‘When will the company be back?’
‘No capeesh.’
‘Craddock – il sergente Craddock. Dov’è?’
The sentry shook his head. ‘Craddock lontano. Not here.’
Rosario racked his brains for English words. ‘Ufficiali? Officers?’
‘No officers.’
Rosario asked desperately, in Italian, ‘When will they come back? Tomorrow? The day after tomorrow?’
The soldier caught the word domani. ‘Not tomorrow.’
‘But I have something of great importance to ask him.’
‘No capeesh.’ T
he sentry turned away.
Rosario lingered on the pavement for a moment, shrugged his shoulders and went home.
Chapter Nineteen
LATE on Wednesday evening the battalion was spread across a bare hillside, formed up for a mock attack. With the black wall of lava rising behind them in a menacing silhouette, the men looked up from the floor of an infinite cavern of sky into whose shadowed and mysterious depths the bleak slopes fell away beneath them. They lay for hours, talking quietly, while the cold crept into them and the darkness thickened about them. No orders came; only the brief roar of a distant motor cycle charging uphill, a voice raised far away in command, the rumble and crash of a falling boulder; each sound burst out of the night to compel attention, and died in the silence. Men exchanged rumours. The fear of the unknown, so easily aroused, awakened in them. Orders came, but not to allay their uncertainty. The attack was called off. Cold and cramped, they assembled in platoons in the darkness and began to stumble downhill. Nobody told them where they were going. It was unnerving, trudging and slithering downwards, downwards, like blind men stumbling on the edge of space. The hours crept by, and they marched on, their legs aching with the strain of this descent through the darkness. They halted again, and squatted on their heels. Still nobody told them what was happening. Shouts echoed in the night, and officers congregated mysteriously. They heard lorries crashing and lurching up towards them, and the banging of falling tailboards. Officers came hurrying back to shout at them, hustling them up on to their feet, stirring them again to a confusion of movement. The men milled and thronged in the dark, colliding, cursing and shouting questions. They were herded into the lorries, the officers packing them in, despite a hubbub of protests, until they were jammed to suffocation in the darkness. The tailboards slammed into place, pressing them even tighter. Engines roared again, and the lorries moved off in convoy, creeping downwards like a row of black beetles against the pale edge of the sky.
To the men, crammed upright in the lorries, breathing in each others’ faces, dashed against each others’ weapons and equipment by every bounce and jolt, it seemed as if they were boxed up in great coffins and being lowered violently into a bottomless grave. The din of engines deafened them. Newcomers to the battalion shouted bewildered questions to each other; they had been flung without warning from one compartment of life into another; they were aggrieved and humiliated. The older hands said nothing, as they swayed and sweated in the darkness; for them the familiar journey into the inhuman had begun again.
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