Airborne

by Robert Radcliffe

  ‘You’re going to get back, Harry.’

  ‘We’ll see. They don’t take kindly to saboteurs around here, as we all know. See she gets it, Trick, promise?’

  ‘As soon as I get home.’

  ‘Good. And make bloody sure you get home.’

  They shook hands. Theo stuffed the note in his pocket and hurried back to his group, already making its way up a steep path away from the site. Pritchard’s plan was to ascend the mountain behind the ruined aqueduct, then follow the contour lines west, up and over the Apennines, before descending to the plateau beyond and thence to the rendezvous, where the River Sele met the sea. The other two parties were to head there by different routes.

  Difficulties hit them from the start. The path upwards soon petered out, so they were left clambering over boulders, or scrabbling hand over hand through undergrowth, the ground soft and cloying beneath them. Soon they reached the snowline and the climb became yet more treacherous, with icy rocks for hand-holds and hidden cracks and depressions waiting to catch the unwary. Soaked and frozen, men repeatedly missed their footing, stumbled and slid downhill, only to pick themselves up, battered and dazed, to begin the weary slog upwards again. After two hours Pritchard called a halt and everyone flopped gasping on to the snow. Fatigue dragged at them; without rest since the previous dawn, and following the exertions of the night, they were in dire need of sleep. But sleeping on snowy mountains was ill advised, and in any case time couldn’t be spared, so after a few minutes Pritchard roused them and the march resumed. Having traversed the peak, they came next to a series of deep ravines which required them to slither down treacherous rock faces, desperately clutching at roots and boulders and praying they didn’t plunge over a cliff. At the bottom of each ravine, fast-running streams and riverbanks knee-deep in sucking mud had to be negotiated, before they began the back-breaking ascent up the other side. They crested ridge after ridge, yet the line of distant hills they were aiming for never seemed nearer. Finally the starlit sky began to pale and, cresting the summit of the latest ravine, Pritchard called a halt, choosing an overhung ledge with a view below as their hideout for the day. Exposed and uncomfortable, the men nevertheless slumped to the ground and fell instantly asleep.

  ‘Got a position, Trickey?’ Pritchard asked as they pored over the map.

  ‘Here, sir, by my estimate, a little above Calitri.’

  ‘But that’s no distance! And we must have gone fifteen miles.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but only five or six as the crow flies.’

  And as dawn broke, the town of Calitri became visible in the valley far below. As did the lie of the land. Villages and farms dotted the lowlands. Any remotely flat piece of ground had been cultivated, and soon they saw labourers heading to the fields through their binoculars. They could only hope none ventured to higher slopes. Behind them rose the mountain above the aqueduct, still disconcertingly near. By now they knew it would be swarming with Italian military searching for them. Sure enough during the afternoon a spotter plane appeared, combing the hills and valleys, stopping, circling, moving on as it searched. The men froze, face down among the boulders, hoping the dull green of their clothes camouflaged them. The plane strayed near, buzzed above for a few minutes, and then departed. Whether it saw them or not, no one could tell. By dusk all was quiet. They boiled water for tea and the Arctic pemmican ration which brewed into a glutinous fatty porridge the men pronounced inedible. The two officers forced it down as an example; Theo too ate it, having eaten similarly in the mountains with his great-grandfather, but most rejected it and fed only on chocolate. At sunset Pritchard and Deane-Drummond ascended the ridge, returning later with the unwelcome news that the team’s next obstacle was a three-hundred-foot cliff.

  ‘We did well last night,’ Pritchard told them gravely, ‘but not well enough. If we’re to make the rendezvous we must cover more ground, and that means upping the pace and fewer rest stops. Nor can we wait for stragglers. You all know the drill: fall behind and you’re on your own – and we don’t want that. So check your packs again for unnecessary weight, chuck out all but the essentials and let’s get going.’

  Rucksacks were grudgingly unlaced and soon small piles of discarded clothing and personal effects were appearing on the ground. Theo watched, idly marvelling at the trappings some men chose to carry on their backs: books, shoes, a grooming set, a box of dominoes, a mouth organ; one man even had a framed photograph of his fiancée with him. His own pack was sparingly packed, as always, but as he watched his mind strayed to the package Smith had given him, including its weighty gold coins. But he could barely contemplate its existence, yet alone think of opening it.

  The cliff nearly finished them before they started. Approaching in gathering darkness, it revealed itself as almost vertical. A goat track helped them up the first part; from then on it was slippery boulders, deep mud and loose shale occasionally studded with treacherous rocks that skittered away into the darkness when you stood on them. Using cut branches, hunting knives, bayonets or bare hands, they dug into the mire and clawed their way blindly upwards, gasping with effort and clinging to the slope in trepidation. More than once a warning shout from above was followed by the rumble and clatter of a landslip, and then sheets of icy mud and shale would slide down and around them like lava. Finally they hauled themselves over a crest to the summit and collapsed to the ground. Pritchard, near exhaustion himself, allowed them fifteen minutes to recover.

  From then on the going was still tough, but marginally less so, and better progress was made. Obstacles still had to be circumvented, ridges traversed, hills climbed, ravines plumbed, and running water became a frequent feature of the journey, with one deep torrent sweeping two men off their feet and thirty yards downstream before they managed to struggle clear. But by 2.00 a.m. an estimated eight miles had been covered, with the hope of another five before daybreak.

  Then they came upon a road. They spotted it far below, little more than a well-worn cart-track, winding in a generally westerly direction, like them. At first Pritchard would brook no discussion regarding its use, but did agree they could follow it from above. After struggling another mile, however, and with no sign of person or vehicle, he conceded that doubling their groundspeed outweighed the risk of discovery.

  ‘Form up into ranks,’ he said as they descended cautiously towards it. ‘If anyone comes, start marching in time. Trickey, you shout orders, and tell anyone who asks that we’re an Austrian unit on night exercise.’

  It worked. The feel of firm ground beneath their blistered feet brought immeasurable relief, and with energy and enthusiasm renewed they immediately made better progress. Four miles went swiftly by; no vehicles passed, no humans were seen, but then they rounded a bend to find themselves amid a cluster of houses. A few lights showed in windows; the usual chorus of dogs started barking.

  ‘Keep going!’ Pritchard hissed. ‘Now, Trickey!’

  ‘Sinistra destra, sinistra destra, keep in time, you useless rabble!’

  Curtains twitched, a light came on, the dogs barked, but they marched through the village and on without challenge.

  As dawn neared, the search began for the next day’s hideout, which meant ascending to high ground once more. They continued another mile but nothing suitable appeared; then with time running low the shadow of a hill loomed to their left, and they hastily departed the road and started to climb. They struggled up through the usual thick mud, and by the time they neared the top dawn was close. But the hill was devoid of trees, and they could see no useful clefts in the rock or large boulders to use as cover, while the summit itself was shrouded in cloud. ‘Up there,’ Pritchard ordered. ‘Maybe there’s some cover, and at least the cloud will hide us.’

  The mist was damp and cold. They stumbled up into it and searched, but found nothing but a few straggly juniper bushes. With no other option, and fatigued beyond caring, they crawled into them, ate some chocolate and fell into exhausted slumber. Theo waited, munching dried pemmican unti
l all were snoring. Then, retrieving his flashlight, he dug into his rucksack for the package from Smith.

  It had been haunting him all night. He’d tried to ignore it, tried to banish it from consciousness, but it kept coming back, like a recurring bad dream. At an appropriate moment you slip away, Smith had said. But when? That’s for you to decide.

  His name was Andreas Ladurner, he read, which was a shock, but then also logical thinking by someone, he recognized, being the name he was born with and registered under in Bolzano. His place and date of birth were the same too, in fact very little was doctored or made up, not his height, hair or eye colour, not even the photograph which was from Kingston Grammar School, of him smiling vaguely in jacket and tie. In fact it wasn’t a false identity, he realized, it was simply his ‘other’ identity, the one belonging to his other Italian self. Which made perfect sense, he had to concede. He was a legally registered citizen going about his lawful business and, if checked, this would be borne out by official records.

  At least, it would be for as long as his other ‘other’ identity, the half-English one which had fled Italy to fight for the British, remained undiscovered.

  He dreamed he was in his bedroom above the print shop in Bolzano. It was morning and the town’s women were at market, gossiping animatedly as they shopped. They seemed far away, their voices tinkling like music, but getting nearer; then he knew he wasn’t dreaming and straightened stiffly up, groggy with sleep, to find himself staring into the eyes of an elderly peasant leaning on a crook twenty yards away. The mist had gone and bright early-morning sunlight warmed the hillside; he and his compatriots lay in plain view.

  ‘Um, Major Pritchard.’ From down the hill rose the murmur of approaching women and the excited laughter of children. ‘Major, I think you’d better wake up.’

  Ten minutes later Pritchard’s party was standing amid an animated crowd of women and children, all noisily inspecting the ‘Angeli inglesi’ like sightseers on a village outing. They weren’t hostile, they were curious, and amused; there was much pointing and passing of comment.

  ‘What do we do now, boss?’ one of Pritchard’s men asked.

  ‘Nothing reckless. We don’t want civilians getting hurt.’

  ‘I vote we fire a round over their heads and make a dash for it.’

  ‘Dash where? We’re surrounded.’

  ‘Good point.’

  ‘What are they saying, Trickey?’

  ‘Um, they know who we are, I’m afraid, sir. English angels from the sky, they’re calling us, the ones who blew up their aqueduct.’

  ‘God, you mean they’ve been tracking us all along?’

  ‘It rather looks like it.’

  Another party was labouring up the hill, a more official one, possibly a mayor, accompanied by a civilian clerk and two elderly policemen in plumed helmets hefting ancient muskets.

  ‘Now what? Home Guard?’

  ‘Sir, if we don’t make a break for it now…’

  ‘Hold your ground, Corporal!’

  The mayoral party arrived, red-faced and puffing, and elbowed its way to the front of the throng, which by now numbered a hundred or more. Having mopped his brow, the clerk, who was wearing a tightly buttoned suit with bow tie, produced notes and began to read a lengthy pronouncement. Theo listened, noting as he did so that men with shotguns and hunting rifles had appeared at intervals along the ridge of the hill above.

  ‘Um, he says, in effect, that his excellency District Under-Secretary Caballo, here, is formally and, er, respectfully, arresting us for the wilful destruction of Italian government property, namely the water-conveying structure at Tragino, and that we are to lay down all weapons and submit—’

  ‘Submit, my arse. I’m getting the fuck out—’

  ‘How, Corporal?’ Pritchard snapped. ‘By shooting women and children? And have you see those lads up there? They’ve been trailing us the whole time, and those are telescopic sights on their rifles. How far do you think you’d get?’

  ‘But, sir…’

  ‘I’m sorry, everyone. It’s over.’

  *

  They were disarmed, searched, escorted down the hill and marched into the nearby village of Teora, where they were met by a far less friendly crowd who jeered and spat as they passed. And waiting at the police station was another unpleasant surprise: two lorries were parked outside, one containing armed carabinieri military police, the other containing one of the other X Troop parties from the aqueduct. Led by Captain Lea, they too looked filthy and exhausted; some also showed cuts and bruises on faces and arms. Among them was a worried-looking Fortunato Picchi, nursing a bloody nose.

  ‘A civilian was killed by one of our boys, Theo,’ he murmured. ‘It became ugly.’

  Worse was to come. As they waited, the crowd began to shout angrily, chanting ‘Viva Il Duce! Death to the terrorists!’ and surging menacingly forward until the carabinieri had to form a defensive ring round their captives. Meanwhile Deane-Drummond sidled up to Theo.

  ‘Didn’t expect you to still be here.’

  ‘No, sir. Thought I should stay as far as the rendezvous.’

  ‘Bad idea, by the looks of it.’

  Then a car screeched to a halt and four men disembarked wearing the black shirts, jodhpurs and boots of the feared Fascist government militia. With them was the stationmaster from the farm by the aqueduct, the one who had protested his importance and complained about carrying the stores. Followed by the Blackshirts he set about searching among the prisoners.

  ‘Him! And him!’ He pointed to Picchi and Theo. ‘Those are the Italian traitors!’

  They were separated, handcuffed and bundled at gunpoint into the back of the car, which sped off, pulling up ten minutes later outside a municipal courtroom in a town Theo guessed was Caposele. Here they were again roughly searched, before being thrown into a dungeon-like cell in the basement. The cell was cold and bare, with concrete platforms for beds, a stinking hole in the ground for a toilet and a barred window looking out on a courtyard. They were given neither food nor water; no one came; they heard no sound of other prisoners. Minutes passed, then hours, and as they did so Picchi became more agitated and anxious.

  ‘They’re going to do for me, Theo.’

  ‘No, Fortunato, don’t say that. We just stick to the story, and we’ll be back with the others before we know it.’

  ‘It’s all right for you, you look English and speak perfect English, and have British antecedents. But I don’t, I’m Italian by birth, my parents are Italian, I look Italian, I even speak English with an Italian accent. It doesn’t matter that I took British citizenship, they’ll see it as treachery and they’ll do for me.’

  The afternoon wore slowly on. As the barred shadow of the window crept across the floor, Picchi took to sitting in a corner, hugging himself. Then suddenly the door crashed open and two guards hauled him out. Thirty minutes later he was returned and thrown to the floor, his face bloody, his chest heaving for breath.

  ‘Fortunato!’ Theo knelt at his side. ‘My God, what happened?’

  ‘They don’t believe me!’

  ‘What do you mean? Here, try sitting up, let me help you.’

  ‘They don’t believe I’m British. I told you. They say I am to be shot as a spy!’

  Ten minutes later it was Theo’s turn. The bolt banged and the two guards grabbed him, dragging him by the neck along a corridor to an office-like room with table and chair. In the chair sat one of the Blackshirts from the car. Theo stood, his hands cuffed before him, the guards waiting behind.

  ‘Who are you?’ the Blackshirt asked in Italian. ‘And what are you doing here engaged in treacherous acts of terrorism?’

  Theo said nothing. A moment later an explosion of pain knocked him to one knee as a fist hit him in the back.

  ‘Answer!’

  ‘Trickey,’ he gasped in English. ‘71076 Private Theodor Trickey. That is all I’m required to say.’

  Another punch followed by a vicious kick to the
legs brought him to the ground. A storm of kicks and blows from the two guards followed, on his back, his ribs, his legs, too fast to follow, too brutal to assimilate. He curled into a foetal position and tried to protect his head with his arms. The assault went on, from feet and fists, and then suddenly he was dragged upright once more.

  The Blackshirt lit a cigarette. ‘You speak Italian like a native. It was heard by the guards, observed by the locals, witnessed by the stationmaster, so let us not pretend. Otherwise everything will go very badly for you, very quickly.’

  ‘All right,’ Theo panted, ‘all right, I speak Italian. My grandparents were Italian, on my mother’s side. But my father is English and I have British citizenship.’

  The Blackshirt nodded, blowing smoke. ‘This is your story. Rather like your friend’s. I say it is all lies, and that you are both terrorist traitors and spies.’

  ‘What?’ Theo hesitated, head still dazed from the beating. ‘But…’

  ‘As traitors and spies you are liable to the ultimate punishment. I have two choices. I can throw you to the crowd who will lynch you, disembowel you, stuff your genitals in your mouths and hang you naked from lamp-posts until you are dead. Then they will drag your bodies through the streets and leave them for the dogs…’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Or I can execute you by firing squad. One at dusk, one at dawn, then hang your bodies in the square as a warning to others.’

  ‘This is a mistake—’

  ‘Take him away!’

  After a further cursory beating in the corridor, he was returned to the cell and flung to the floor. He lay there, head ringing, mouth bloody, his body hot with pain, listening to the pounding of his heart, his own hoarse breaths and the receding footsteps of the guards. After a while he opened his eyes and forced himself to a sitting position. Picchi was in his corner, body hunched and rocking, muttering to himself.

  ‘Fortunato?’ Theo coughed, ‘Fortunato, we must try and get out of here.’

  ‘It’s impossible. They know, they know!’