Constant Tides

by Peter Crawley

  Aldo glances at the man’s sleeves, as though all has become clear, “Ah well, I have already survived demotion, sergente, and let me tell you it is a blessing. In the past few days I have realised that the greater the rank, the bigger the fool. Now, lift up that boom and let us pass. If you do not and this man dies, I will most certainly return and demote you myself.”

  The sergeant steps back and peers in through the back window to be confronted by Mira’s most threatening scowl. He takes his time to look her over.

  Mira softens; her uniform lending her a chaste almost virginal aspect. She smiles and with her forefinger curling like the harbour wall, she beckons him closer.

  He leans in, uncertainly.

  “Sergente,” she mutters, “do you have children?”

  He hesitates. “Er, no sister. Why?”

  “Because if you don’t let us pass this instant, you are unlikely ever to father them.”

  He glances back at his men then looks back at her, suitably confused. “Why is that, sister?”

  In a flash, Mira reaches out through the open window, grabs him by his lapel and drags his head into the car so that it is only inches from hers. “Because when I get out of the car,” she hisses, lightning flashing in her eyes, her brow lowering like a storm cloud and the blade of the filleting knife silver in her hand, “I am going to slice off your testicles and feed them to you. And not only will I slice off your testicles, I’m going to do this in the full view of your comrades, so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll be a smart boy and lift up the barrier.”

  The sergeant recoils, his face blanched, his jaw dropped. He fumbles with his rifle, which clatters impotently to the ground.

  Amused at his state, his comrades laugh uproariously and one of them lifts the barrier and waves them through.

  “Cornuto?” Nicholas asks, chuckling.

  “Yes,” Aldo replies. “I bet your mother didn’t teach you that one. It means ‘horned’. It is what my men call a man who cannot control his wife.”

  “You mean a cuckold”

  “Exactly, Nicholas. A cuckold.” He glances over his shoulder. “Mira, you should have been a sergeant major; you very definitely have the mouth of one. Or is that how all daughters of fishermen speak?”

  In the back, Mira is quietly livid; upset that she has had to issue such a foul threat and annoyed with herself for having flown so comprehensively off the handle. “What else could I do, eh? He was a boy in a man’s uniform and you were talking to him as if he was your favourite nephew. Now tell me, where are we going?” She gazes out of her window at the mountains of rubble and the derelict buildings. “Mother of God, is there nothing left of this city which is not smashed and broken?”

  “I am taking you to your father,” Aldo says, pulling on the steering wheel to avoid a crater.

  “Then the prison is over in the Gazzi quarter,” she says. “Take the Corso Cavour, to the right,” Mira suggests. “That will take us away from the harbour. Then you should follow the Porta Imperiale through the Piazza del Popolo to the Via Catania; that will take us by the cemetery and straight to the prison.”

  “As you wish,” Aldo replies.

  Barely a soul out of uniform is to be seen, apart from a few children scavenging among the ruins. Hulks of burned–out houses and eviscerated churches line their route, and in the Piazza del Popolo a tented city has grown up like well–watered weeds between paving stones.

  “Where is everyone?” he asks.

  “If they have any sense,” Mira scoffs, “they’ll be with the great and the good in the air raid tunnels at the top of the Viale Boccetta. That’s if there’s enough room for them.”

  There is, though, life in the cemetery, where women ghost about the graves, praying and weeping.

  The road ahead is blocked with a convoy of trucks, so Aldo pulls up and parks.

  “Now, remember what I said. Mira, you walk beside Nicholas and I will be behind you.” He draws his sidearm and ushers them forwards. “These Germans are amongst the last to leave, so with any luck they will be more concerned with making good their departure than bothering with us.”

  As they walk towards the entrance, a single volley of rifle shots echoes from within.

  “I hope we are in time,” Aldo says.

  Barbed–wire tops the walls and two sentries stand either side of the gate, as other soldiers carry boxes of files back and forth.

  Mira adopts a deferential manner, averting her eyes, standing out of their way and guiding Nicholas slowly forward.

  “Halt!” One of the sentries bars their way, his rifle across his chest. “What is your business here?”

  Aldo steps in front, his pistol plain for them to see. “My name is Tenente de la Grascia, I am here to see Oberstleutnant Moser. Please, take me to him.”

  Much to Aldo’s surprise, the sentry simply nods at his colleague and stands aside to allow them to pass. He waves Mira and Nicholas before him through the gate and the sentry leads them towards a square grey building.

  Before they can enter, they see not far down the way a solitary man standing against a wall, a firing squad lining up before him. The poor man’s uniform is a ragged dirty grey and his eyes are downcast as though he is reading words chiselled into the ground at his feet.

  Mira grips Nicholas’s arm and she pauses to watch as an officer calls the soldiers to attention and bids them take aim.

  They raise their rifles.

  The man looks up, raises his arm in salute and shouts, “Viva Sicilia!”

  The officer shouts.

  The sudden and loud volley causes both Nicholas and Mira to flinch, and she cannot take her eyes from the man as his bloodied, inert form slumps to the ground.

  Two soldiers step forward and drag the body away.

  Guarded by four more soldiers, a small group of men stand awaiting a similar fate. Enzo is among them.

  Mira is about to call to him when Aldo pulls her away. He frowns and inclines his head, encouraging her to move on.

  They follow the soldier into the building and to a door, outside of which two more sentries stand at ease. He says something to one of the sentries who then knocks at the door, opens it and goes inside. When he returns, he nods at Aldo, ushers him in and Mira and Nicholas follow.

  Lieutenant Colonel Franz Moser is standing by a desk, sifting through papers with his one and only hand. An aide sitting across the desk from him, hands him a piece of paper, which he glances at briefly before dropping it into a box at his feet. Moser looks up. “Ah, Aldo, to what do I owe this pleasure? Please, whatever it is you want, make it quick.”

  “Good morning, Franz.” Aldo stands, his pistol still in his hand. “I’d like to speak to you in private for a moment.”

  “Well, say what you have to say. You can speak freely.”

  The aide sits back, waiting.

  “In private,” Aldo repeats, “if you don’t mind?”

  For a few seconds Moser is unmoved and Aldo has no alternative but to stand his ground.

  “I see you have brought me a prisoner and a nurse; for what reason?”

  Aldo frowns at the aide.

  “Very well, then.” The German officer nods and his aide rises to his feet and leaves. “Now, why all the secrecy? Are you here on official business or is this a social call to wish me luck with the rest of my war?”

  Nicholas listens, turning his head as each one speaks, and though he stands upright, it is weeks since he has stood up for so long and his knees threaten to give way.

  Mira puts her arm round him and guides him to the empty chair.

  “Your nurse,” Moser says, studying her. “This is the woman you were with at the café. I remember now; you always had an eye for nurses. That time you came to see me in the field hospital you found it hard to take your eyes off them. Well, you have good taste, my friend, y
ou always did. Now, come on, out with it: obviously you want something from me.”

  “Yes, I do, Franz. Though it’s not so much something as someone. You have a local man here, one Enzo Ruggeri. Right now, he is lined up outside with others waiting to be executed. I’d like you sign an order releasing him into my charge.”

  “You’d like me to do what?”

  “I’d like you sign an order releasing him into my charge.”

  Moser smiles, clearly believing the request to be some form of joke. However, when he reads Aldo’s perfectly serious expression, he realises it isn’t. “My dear fellow, how can you possibly expect me to rescind an order that has been signed by my superiors? No, no, no,” he shakes his head vigorously, “I may not like my orders, but…” He pauses and stares hard at the man who rescued him from a ditch in Russia. “Look, Aldo, I have already today had to carry out the unenviable task of executing eight of my own soldiers for various crimes ranging from desertion to rape. Believe me, to have to do this breaks my heart. Like you, I am a soldier and what sort of soldier would I be if I did not carry out the orders?” The German waits, not so much for a verbal response as a visible sign that his refusal is accepted. “Aldo, I owe you much, but–”

  “Franz, you owe me your life. If, during our retreat, I had left you in that ditch, you would have bled to death; that’s if the Russkies hadn’t got to you first and carved your eyes out. So, I am calling in… No, let us say, I am asking you for a favour in return for the favour I did not hesitate to grant you.”

  “Aldo,” he says, his tone hardening, “the army owns my life. You did the Wehrmacht a favour, not me.”

  “Then as a representative of the Wehrmacht, and unless you can present me to General Hube so that he can repay the favour, I suggest you find it within yourself to pick up that pen and sign the order.”

  As if to emphasize the need for a swift resolution to their squabble, another volley of shots echoes from outside.

  “Aldo, I cannot.”

  “Franz, you can. Look, I have not fired my pistol since I found you in that ditch and if I hit the three Russians who were aiming to shoot you, then I am a better shot than I consider myself to be. If I didn’t, then at least one of my men must have been, because all three fell heavily. In a room this small, Franz, I don’t believe I could possibly miss whatever I was aiming at.”

  The German is very suddenly calm as he looks from Aldo, to Mira and then to the seated Nicholas. “Who is this man?”

  “He is a British naval lieutenant. He has been hiding out since his boat was destroyed a few weeks ago. We found him and we thought you might like to take him in return for Enzo Ruggeri.”

  Nicholas looks up, his bandages not wholly concealing his look of surprise. Mira, meanwhile, moves to his side and hugs him, protectively.

  “A British naval officer, indeed.” Moser chuckles. “Wearing an Italian uniform. No identification papers. I said you were not to be ridiculous, Aldo, and now you are. For one thing, he is plainly blind and for another, out of his correct uniform I would be perfectly within my rights to shoot him for a spy. That’s not a trade, that is merely exchanging one corpse for another.”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Moser,” Nicholas says, sitting up and turning his head. “If it makes all that much of a difference to you, take me, stand me up against the wall outside and do your worst; as long as you permit Enzo Ruggeri to leave with the Tenente and this woman, I won’t make a fuss and nobody besides us needs to know. You can tell whoever you need to tell that you’ve got the wrong man; that the man waiting in line outside is not Enzo Ruggeri, but that I am.”

  “Very gallant of you, Lieutenant…”

  “Lock. And it’s Sub–Lieutenant.”

  The German thinks for a second before stepping over to appraise Mira. “Right, now that I know who your prisoner is, let me ask who this lady is. Apart from being your… what shall we say, paramour. Is that acceptable? Well, this Enzo Ruggeri must mean a great deal to you, Aldo, if you are willing to risk this man’s life for him.” He looks her up and down, examining her the way a collector might examine his butterflies. “So, who are you, pretty lady? Mm? Tell me honestly and I might consider repaying my favour to Aldo here. Tell me who you are and what this man you want released means to you?”

  Yet another volley of shots shatters the silence.

  However, it does not distract Mira, who stares deep into Moser’s eyes, a raw hostility burning in hers. “He is my father and he did not commit the murder of which he is accused.”

  “Oh,” he says, evidently amused by her response. Moser looks at Mira, then shifts his gaze to Nicholas. “And if your father didn’t commit the murder, who may I ask did?”

  She glares at him, leaning towards him so that he can feel her hot, sweet breath against his face. “I did.”

  Dawn rises in the German’s face. “Oh, of course, how stupid of me.” He looks from Mira to Aldo and then from Aldo to Nicholas. “Now I realise what is going on here. Not only do I find myself caught in the act of running from this godforsaken island that hangs from the toe of Italy like a deflated football, but also I find myself caught between two men who love the same woman and both of whom would willingly sacrifice themselves for her father; for her father and for her love. Love in war; life in death. Oh, what dizzy heights!”

  Moser lifts his one remaining hand to his chin and taps his lips while he considers. “In that case… Schneider?” he barks.

  Chapter 29

  As they walk back down the rubble–strewn Via Catania to the car, Mira takes her father’s arm and rests her head on his shoulder.

  Aldo guides Nicholas, their progress slowed by the uneven pavement.

  “Tenente?” Nicholas asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Would you have left me behind if Moser had requested you to?”

  Aldo chuckles. “Yes, I was hoping you would not ask this question. But now that you have, I suppose my answer is I don’t know. This morning, on our way here, I firmly believed I would. But when I suggested trading you for her father, I saw the way Mira looked at you and I perceived such a turmoil in her that I came to realise she loves you as much as she loves her father, and there can be no deeper love than that of a daughter for her father. It was in that moment that I realised I had quite clearly finished a distant third in the competition for her affections. Now, only a poor loser would permit himself to throw his competitor under the tracks of a German tank simply to win the affections of a woman, and my vanity would not have permitted me to behave in such a manner.”

  “Your vanity?”

  “Yes, Nicholas, vanity. You see I also realised that in all this ugliness and through all this madness, it is important for a man to maintain a sense of pride in the way he both acts and looks. That his vanity appeals to him is fundamental in ensuring a man can maintain his pride. I recognised this in Franz Moser, for when I rescued him that time in Russia, he always maintained a certain pride in both the way he behaved and the way he looked; even covered in mud and as badly injured as he was, he would never let himself be carried as long as he had the ability to stand upright. Now, a man who believes this is either a fanatic or vain, and I got to know Franz well enough to know that he is not like others who wear the same uniform; he is no fanatic. So, I appealed to his vanity in the same way I rely on mine to police my actions.”

  “And if you’d misjudged him?”

  Aldo pauses in his step. “Mind, there is a broken paving stone.”

  On the way back to Ganzirri, Mira and Enzo sit silently in the back. Enzo had been the next but one in line for the firing squad when Lieutenant Colonel Franz Moser had led them outside, and the relief of his timely reprieve has exhausted both if not all of them.

  The checkpoint at which Mira had threatened the sergeant with a similar emasculation to that suffered by her husband, has been abandoned. The red and white boom lies broken
and the sergeant lies very dead at the side of the road.

  Rather than risk running into any traffic jams caused by the last of the troops queueing for embarkation on the coast road, Aldo takes the higher route through the upper reaches of Salvatore, Paradiso and Pace. The road is longer and narrower, and winds along the undulating contours of the lower slopes of the mountains.

  Below them, a flotilla of barges and a salt and pepper smattering of smaller boats, plough dark furrows, their bow waves bursting brilliant white against the azure waters.

  “What will you do now, Aldo?” Nicholas asks.

  The Tenente hunches his shoulders, inclines his head a little, raises his eyebrows and purses his lips. And when his affectation garners no response, he remembers it is because his passenger cannot see him. “Oh, in the long term, I don’t know. I suppose I’ll have to wait in Sicily until either Badoglio negotiates an armistice or he decides to join the Americans and British in ridding our country of this Teutonic plague.”

  “I mean, in the short term.”

  “In the short term? Oh, I have to return to the battery and try to ensure no harm comes to my men from the Americans, for it is they who are closest to us.”

  “What were your orders regarding surrender?”

  Aldo chuckles. “Orders? Fortunately, I received no orders dictating whether I should surrender or keep fighting. That is often the way it has been in the Regio Esercito. If you don’t know which order to issue, rather than issue the wrong order and be culpable, issue no order and blame someone else for not issuing one. Our Coastal Division has been forgotten, not that there is enough of it left to remember, and I am told there are many men who have simply cast off their uniforms and gone home. I will probably give my men extended leave, but I must stay by the fort at Capo Peloro until someone tells me different.” He quiets as he considers his future.

  Out of the village of Pace, the road rises in a graceful curve before descending towards Principe, Sant Agata and home.

  “What will happen to you, Nicholas? What will you do?”