The Sword of Fate

by Dennis Wheatley

  We had to allow for the fact that the bulletins were mainly faked up by Mussolini’s propaganda chief, ‘Woe! Woe!’ Ansaldo, but there were certain concrete facts about the course of the war which had to be admitted sooner or later. One of these was the action at Taranto which had taken place during the night that I had made my trip out into the desert with Aitken’s reconnaissance party. Rather obscure references to the action kept on coming through for several days after I reached Fort Maddalena. What exactly had occurred I could not discover, but I learned quite enough to be certain that the British Navy had once again pulled off a magnificent feat of work and either sunk or crippled several of Mussolini’s capital ships while they were still lying in harbour.

  From Axis accounts the Luftwaffe was still knocking hell out of England, and in the middle of the month it was declared that they had razed Coventry to the ground; while some days later Portsmouth, Plymouth and Bristol were claimed as victims.

  Towards the end of November there was another British naval victory off Sardinia, although once again the Italians strove to minimise the damage they had suffered. A piece of news which pleased me almost as much was that the filthy little Corsican traitor, Chiappe, one of the most venal of the Vichy crooks, had been killed in an aircraft which got mixed up in this battle by accident. He was the French Police chief—Gestapo Boss Himmler’s opposite number—and on his way to take over the Governorship of Syria, which the little swine undoubtedly meant to hand on a platter to the Germans when the time was ripe.

  On December the 6th there was terrific excitement owing to the resignation of the veteran Marshal Badoglio from the position of Chief of the Italian General Staff, and this was followed the next day by the resignation of General de Vecchi, the Commander-in-Chief of the Italian forces in the Dodecanese. Badoglio had always been opposed to Mussolini and a King’s man. It was he who had offered to bust the entire Fascist outfit at the time of the march on Rome if the King would allow him to order out a single division of troops; but Victor Emmanuel had not had the courage to back his general and preferred to resign to taking orders in future from a dictator.

  It was Badoglio, too, who had pulled the chestnuts out of the fire in Abyssinia. Mussolini first appointed the ancient Marshal De Bono to the Supreme Command, solely because he was one of the original Fascists; but this elderly goat was so terrified that the Abyssinians would massacre his men in a second Adowa that he hadn’t the guts to advance a hundred miles in three months, although he had a numerous air force, scores of tanks and was only opposed to half-naked blackamoors. The whole campaign would have had to be postponed at enormous cost for the best part of a year through the coming of the rains if De Bono had not been sacked at the eleventh hour and replaced by the non-Fascist Badoglio, who took the Italians to Addis Ababa in a month.

  The resignation of Italy’s greatest soldier and numerous other high Italian officers in all three services certainly seemed to indicate that something was very wrong inside the Fascist State; so Bannister and I at least had that to cheer us.

  Late on the afternoon of December the 9th, somewhat to our surprise we were ordered without warning to collect our few belongings and hurried out to a big motor coach. We had not been seated in it for more than a few minutes when about twenty British non-commissioned officers and men, including the fellows who had been captured with me, scrambled on board, and it was clear that all the prisoners were being evacuated in one body.

  The Italian Intelligence major arrived and addressed us clearly in staccato English. An armoured car would be following immediately behind us during the whole of the journey that we were about to make, and we were warned that at the first sign of any funny business its machine-guns would open fire.

  Having passed through the great gates of Fort Maddalena we saw that on the Libyan side of the frontier the desert roads were a very different proposition, with the one exception of the coast road which had been re-made by the British troops, from the miserable tracks, half-buried in the sand, which served for roads in Egypt. From the fort a fine broad metalled highway, with trees planted at intervals on either side of it, stretched away as far as one could see, running as straight as an arrow to the north.

  As soon as we were clear of the oasis we caught the sound of distant gunfire. None of us thought very much about it at the time, although, as Bannister remarked, one of our tank patrols must have penetrated unusually far west. We both looked longingly towards the east, knowing that our fellows must be somewhere out there in that trackless yellow waste, but neither of us even contemplated slogging the driver and trying to make a bolt for it, as we knew that, with the wind in the right direction, gunfire could easily be heard thirty miles away across land which presented no natural barriers.

  On that fine road it took us less than two hours to cover over sixty miles, and while there was still half an hour to go to sundown we reached Fort Capuzzo, the great desert stronghold which Mussolini had created to dominate Halfaya Pass, Sollum, and the coast road into Egypt. It was more like a town than a fort and was garrisoned by the best part of the division which had its headquarters there.

  The bus drew up in a small square which appeared to be the centre of the place, and as we got out of it I was vaguely conscious of a subdued excitement in the air. Italian soldiers do not as a rule jump to obey their officers. They are docile enough but decidedly lethargic by habit; yet here officers and men were hurrying in all directions as though their business was of the utmost urgency.

  Before I had a chance to try to find out the cause of this bustle and excitement my attention was caught by two Black-shirt officers who were walking swiftly across the square and about to pass within a few yards of us. The figure of the nearest of them was vaguely familiar. At that moment he glanced casually at the dejected little crowd of British prisoners among whom I stood. As his glance met mine recognition was instantaneous and mutual. Stopping dead in his tracks he swung round and glared at me. I knew then that I was in for trouble. It was Daphnis’ ex-fiancé—Paolo Tortino.

  Chapter XI

  In the “Big House”

  “Sapristi!” he exclaimed. “If it’s not the ex-diplomat who now calls himself Day! I have a bone to pick with you, my friend. We must have a little talk together.”

  He was speaking in Italian and I replied in the same language, “If you want to talk to me I can’t stop you.”

  “You certainly cannot.” He nodded his head up and down, and smiled in a self-satisfied manner. “How long have you been a prisoner?”

  “Twenty-eight days.”

  His smile broadened into a grin. “That is no time at all. No wonder you still look so stiff-necked. It will be different when you have done twenty-eight months in an Italian prison.” He turned to speak to the officer in charge of us and I heard him mutter: “Good. Then I will come over to see this fellow after mess.”

  As he stalked off we were marched away to a large white building that had heavy bars across all its windows. It was the fortress prison which was being used now both for Italian soldiers who had been sentenced by courts martial for various offences and the comparatively few British prisoners of war. The place was thoroughly up to date and had been built on American lines in which galleries of cells run one above the other and the door of each is not solid but a gate of bars through which the warder can see the prisoners the whole time.

  The cells were quite roomy with two bunks in each, and I managed to get put in with Teddy Bannister. We had not been inside for five minutes when a bell clanged; all the cell gates swung open from an electrically-controlled lever having been thrown over and we were shepherded down to a big dining-hall. I don’t think that there was any difference between the food served to the officers and men or the prisoners of war and the Italians, but we were segregated to different parts of the hall.

  There were five other officers besides Bannister and myself, and it was from them we learned the reason for the signs of unusual activity which we had observed on entering Fort C
apuzzo. The British had attacked along the whole front at dawn that morning.

  The others had all been taken while on patrol before the attack had started, so they knew nothing of the details. It might be an attack in force with the objective of throwing the Italians right back to the Libyan frontier, or it might only be a powerful demonstration to cover large-scale raids designed to destroy certain of the preparations which the Italians had been making for their own projected offensive.

  Naturally we were all thrilled by the news and Bannister and I agreed that the distant gunfire we had heard soon after leaving Fort Maddalena must have been part of this operation; but we did not feel that there were any grounds for hoping that the British attack would alter our own situation. Even if the Italians were driven in it was quite certain that they would remove their prisoners further to the rear before there was any chance of their being rescued, and it was doubtless because Fort Maddalena, although no further to the east than Fort Capuzzo, was in a much more exposed position that we had already been transferred to the larger fortesss.

  My own delight on hearing that our people were at last slapping into the Italians was to some extent overshadowed by the knowledge that Paolo Tortino had announced his intention of coming to see me after dinner that evening. What exactly he could do to me I had no idea. From my own experience and that of the other captive officers that I had so far met it seemed that the Italians treated their prisoners very decently, and to date there was no act of mine which the authorities could pick on as an excuse to single me out for special hardship.

  On the other hand, since he had held a post in the Italian Diplomatic Service, Tortino must be a member of the Fascist Party, and in a totalitarian State there is never any knowing what the limits of the arbitrary powers of an official of the ruling party may be. I did not think that I need fear being beaten with steel rods or rubber truncheons, as might have occurred had Tortino been an influential Nazi and myself a prisoner in Germany, but all the same I had an uncomfortable feeling that he might be able to make things extremely disagreeable for me.

  As it turned out I had nothing to fear after all that night as Tortino never put in an appearance. I suppose he was prevented from doing so by some urgent duty. Instead, I met another acquaintance, and this time one whom I was frankly glad to see.

  It was just before lights-out that the guards suddenly called us to attention, and a few moments later a rather portly individual, who appeared to have been poured into a spotless uniform and quite obviously was the Prison Governor, came into view, followed by several officers composing his small staff.

  I recognised the fat, good-natured face under the peaked gold-braided cap immediately. It was Gonzaga, who used to be the head waiter at the Tiberius Hotel in Capri. I had spent several weeks there in the spring of 1938, and although it was now nearly three years since I had seen him he knew me at once and stopped abruptly outside my cell.

  “Well, well,” I said in English, knowing that he understood it perfectly. “This is a pleasant surprise. Do I congratulate or commiserate with you upon this change of occupation?”

  He returned my smile and his soft brown eyes were full of humour as he replied: “Et is much easier to keep ze eye on a ’undred cell than on a ’undred tables, an’ ’ere we do not lose ze customer ef ’e is dissatisfi’. Also, before I bow to ze peoples; now all ze peoples bow to me!”

  “Then I certainly congratulate you, Gonzaga,” I said. “Or should I address you as Comandante in these days?”

  “As you like.” He shrugged good-naturedly. “’Ave you everyzing you want?”

  “Yes, thanks,” I replied, “except pens and paper. At Fort Maddalena, where I’ve been for the last four weeks, they wouldn’t give me any, and I’m very anxious to write a letter.”

  “I senda you in ze morning,” he said, and with a friendly nod continued on his tour of inspection.

  Next morning the promised writing material was brought to me, and I was able at last to write a long letter to Daphnis. In it, knowing that it would be censored, I could only tell her why she had not heard from me before; how I came to be taken prisoner, that I was well and as cheerful as could be expected, and of my undying love for her; but I covered sheets of paper, and it was a great relief to have this privilege of writing to her, which had been denied me for a month.

  The day passed without incident, except for exciting rumours, which reached us from goodness-knows-where, that the British offensive was going well; and when I turned in that night Tortino had still not made his threatened visit.

  On the Wednesday at about eleven o’clock I was taken out of my cell and the big cage-house, through some corridors to a roomy well-furnished office. Gonzaga was sitting there behind a bulky desk. His big head and heavy bluish jowl made him rather an impressive picture of authority. As he barked at the guards who had brought me in there was nothing of the head waiter about him, at least nothing of the head waiter that the customer usually sees; but once we were alone he smiled and waved a beringed hand towards a chair.

  “Ples, Meester Day, you are at ’ome ’ere—sit down.”

  “Thanks very much,” I said, taking the chair and a cigarette from the box he pushed towards me. “I’m afraid, though, if you mean to interrogate me I’ve nothing to add to the statement that I have made already.”

  “No, no. Zis is not interrogation,” he said quickly. “I am not police spy. I aska you down because for me et is nice to see someone of ze old days an’ for you—why, it maka da little change from sitting in da cell.”

  “If that’s the case, I think it’s charming of you,” I laughed. “But tell me: how did you ever become a prison governor?”

  “Et was ze great Balbo. ’E persuade me to leave ze Tiberius and take over ze Miramere at Derna. ‘E often come zare but ze ’otel, she go broke an’ I am on ze rocks. So ze Marshal ‘e say: ‘Don’t you worry, Gonzaga. Any man ’oo runna a restaurant so good as you maka de big success in any job. I giva you good post in my Colonial administration.’ One thing goes to anozer, yes, so ’ere I am.”

  “That was a bad business about the Marshal’s death, wasn’t it?” I said.

  My words seemed to electrify him. His dark eyes flashed and he sat forward suddenly. “Balbo was ze greatest man in alla Italie. Ze greatest, yes, an’ zose pigs, zey kill him!” He made a most unhead-waiter-like gesture with his head over the side of the desk as though about to spit.

  I glanced swiftly at the door to make quite certain that it was shut, then I hazarded, “You’re not exactly one hundred per cent for Mussolini, then?”

  “Zat one! Bah!” he snapped his fingers. “At one time, yes, ’e was good for Italie, but zese last years ’e ’as been bad for Italie. You ’ave an English saying, no? ‘Zose whom ze gods wish to destroy zey first maka dem mad.’ II Duce ’e losa ’is ’ead and ze Italian peoples zey foota da bill. But we giva politics ze go-bys; et is better zat we not talk too much. Instead, we splitta da bottle.”

  Getting up, he went into an inner room to return with a gold-foiled bottle of Asti Spumanti and some glasses. The wine was dead cold and had evidently just come off the ice. I abominate sweet champagne, but I am very fond of rich wines such as Tokay, Chateau Y’Quem and the great Hocks; and sparkling Asti has an aromatic flavour that is all its own, so while we talked of the old carefree days when he had been a great hôtelier and I had been a guest at the Tiberius in Capri, I thoroughly enjoyed my share of the bottle.

  I hardly liked at first to ask for the latest news, but on my remarking that surely it was the rumble of distant gunfire which was drifting in through the partly opened window, he said at once:

  “Ze British ’ave given us ze great surprise. On Monday zey go zip through our outposts. On Tuesday zey are outside Buq Buq. Zis morning Sidi Barrani ’as fallen.”

  “Good God! Do you mean that?” I exclaimed.

  He hunched his shoulders and spread out his hands in a rather pathetic gesture. “We ’ave no warning an’ ze British tanks ze
y are veree fast. Ze firing you ’ear is below ’Alfaya Pass where ze British try to storm et an’ retake Sollum.”

  “If they advance much further we’ll be in the front line here,” I grinned.

  He shook his head. “Fort Capuzzo et is veree strong an’ zere is also much good fortifications at Bardia. Now we know ze attack comes we meet et.”

  He evidently saw my face drop as he laughed and went on: “I guess what you are zinking. Ef you stay put ’ere Capuzzo she falls an’ you are rescue. But don’ fool yourself, Capuzzo will not fall. Also war prisoners we do not keep ’ere. Zey go firs’ to Tobruk, zen to Italie.”

  He had caught the wild hope that had just flamed in my mind, but extinguished it in the same breath.

  “When are we likely to be moved?” I asked.

  “Veree soon—tonight, tomorrow night. I cannot tell until I getta da order.”

  We talked again of Capri, fine cooking and great wines, until we had finished the bottle of Asti Spumanti; then, just as he was about to summon the warder, I gave him my letter to Daphnis and asked if he would censor it personally and post it for me.

  He agreed at once and I felt that, although it would have to go via Italy, the Balkans, Turkey and Palestine to reach Egypt, and might be among mail destroyed in a ship or ’plane by British action while crossing the Sicilian channel, there was still a reasonably good prospect of its reaching its destination in due course. After thanking Gonzaga most heartily for his kindness I was taken back to my cell.

  That evening, down in the dining-hall, all the British prisoners were in a great state of elation. I had naturally passed on such news as I had received from Gonzaga, but where the others had obtained theirs I have no idea. It is always something of a mystery as to how prisoners get their information, but it is well known that important news always reaches men living in captivity pretty nearly as quickly as it does other people. Everyone knew that the British offensive, now nearing the close of its third day, had met with a most amazing success. Sidi Barrani had been cut off and surrounded before the Italians realised what was happening. Thousands of prisoners and great quantities of stores which the Italians had prepared for their advance into Egypt had fallen into our hands, and our columns were said to be pressing on for all they were worth, with the Italians fleeing before them.