Airborne

by Robert Radcliffe

  ‘What has he to do with Action Party?’

  ‘He is one of Mussolini’s closest allies and henchmen, and therefore our sworn enemy and a legitimate target. He has a villa not far from here – he uses it when the Senate is sitting. You will go there next Tuesday night and assassinate him.’

  CHAPTER 15

  He had four days. Before Leon departed, and with his mind reeling, Theo secured consent for the mission to take place under his sole control. He would pick his men, he insisted, and plan and carry out the operation. No one from Action Party or any other group was to come near. Leon, face impassive behind his spectacles, agreed, then handed over a package wrapped in cloth.

  ‘It is a Webley. Old, but in full working order. British too.’

  ‘So I see.’ Theo hefted the pistol. ‘Is this all?’

  ‘One man. One bullet. What more do you want?’

  The next morning he took Cockerel aside. ‘Francesco, I need three good men, and as much weaponry as we can gather.’

  ‘Do you not trust Leon?’

  ‘Action Party has enemies, the Cellinis have enemies, I have enemies, danger and betrayal lie everywhere and our security is deplorable. We can trust no one.’

  ‘Then trust me.’ Francesco stiffened to attention. ‘I will be your tenente.’

  ‘Thank you. You’ll be second-in-command, covering our withdrawal.’

  ‘But can’t I lead—’

  ‘No, I need you in the rearguard. Now, two more: fit, fast runners and, um, dependable men. The youth with the Springfield perhaps?’

  ‘Starling, yes, he’s keen, and the baker’s boy too, Armando, would be suitable.’

  ‘Code name?’

  ‘He hasn’t got one yet.’

  ‘Tell him he’s Nightjar and they’re both to meet us here tomorrow for training.’

  ‘Will do, capo.’

  ‘And tell them at all costs to say nothing to anyone. Now, weapons. I must see everything you have.’

  By Monday he was as ready as could be. Transportation was by baker’s van, supplemented by bicycle. His three-man team was eager and had rehearsed diligently, but the weapons cache was woeful, amounting to one Webley, one Springfield, a couple of shotguns, sundry knives, and three rotting hand grenades of First War vintage.

  ‘More,’ he’d pleaded, when he saw them, ‘we need much more.’

  ‘Are we expecting trouble?’ Cockerel asked.

  ‘We’d be fools not to.’

  So Cockerel put out the word, and then he and Theo set to work with petrol cans and wine bottles preparing Molotov cocktails. They also made something Theo called a jam-tin grenade, which was gunpowder from shotgun cartridges packed into a jam-tin with a wick for a fuse. ‘It’s in the army field manual,’ he assured Cockerel. As they were finishing, the old man called Crow appeared on the track leading a mule.

  ‘Artillery.’ He gestured proudly at the mule. ‘For your mission.’

  ‘How do you know about our mission?’

  ‘Doesn’t everybody? It’s a cannon.’

  Theo examined the device that was strapped to the mule’s back. ‘It’s very small. Is it a toy?’

  ‘A toy! This weapon saw service in the Ethiopian war. Battle of Adowa, 1896!’

  ‘I’m sorry. Does it have, um, cannonballs?’

  ‘Of course! I have six. You light the fuse, drop one in, then fire by pulling this string like a flintlock. Straight up it goes, then poum into the ground like a mortar!’

  And a while later one of Cellini’s women also appeared, limping up the muddy track towards them.

  ‘Good day, Greenfinch,’ Cockerel said, ‘are you in pain?’

  ‘No, just damned uncomfortable.’ Glancing round, she fumbled beneath her skirts and produced a bundle. ‘My Giorgio works at the quarry at Velletri. He borrows these sometimes.’

  ‘I see.’ Cockerel opened the bundle. ‘He borrows sticks of dynamite?’

  ‘For fishing. On the lake.’

  That night Theo addressed the Cellinis for the last time. The kitchen was packed, which was worrying, yet since everyone knew all about the mission, pretending it was secret seemed pointless. ‘Tomorrow I must leave,’ he began. ‘If all goes well I will be reporting your good work to my superiors in a few weeks. If not I will most likely be dead in a ditch, or taken into captivity. In that event you must disband immediately and make no contact with each other until safe to do so. Thank you for your faith and,um, solidarity, I wish you good health and victory: la salute e la vittoria!’

  Much singing, carousing and back-slapping followed, together with frequent toasts and copious glasses of wine and grappa. Theo yearned for solitude and calm and a good night’s rest, but the Cellinis’ buoyant mood was infectious and soon he found himself thinking of X Troop, and Colossus, and sitting in the hut at Valetta the night before the mission, joshing and joking with Fortunato, Harry Boulter, Tag Pritchard and the others. As though keeping a tradition.

  The old man Crow sidled up to him, his eyes rheumy with wine. ‘Wish I was coming with you, my boy.’

  ‘Next time perhaps.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Crow leaned closer. ‘So how will you do it? Deal with Tolomei, that is.’

  Theo drained his glass. ‘In my own way.’

  *

  Nightjar drove the baker’s van; it belonged to his grandfather so only he was permitted to drive it. It was very old with a canvas roof and wooden frame with spoked wheels, and it poured smoke and lurched alarmingly, but Nightjar, who was eighteen, wiry and strong, wrestled it along the darkened lanes with practised aplomb. Beside him sat Theo with the map and Cockerel who gave directions, while the fair-haired youth Starling rode in the back steadying the weapons and equipment. All were darkly clothed, their faces blackened with charcoal; they spoke little, the only sounds the asthmatic rattle of the engine, the squeaking of springs and the clink of petrol bombs in the back.

  A village appeared in the headlights. ‘Up here, then turn right.’ Cockerel pointed. ‘Go on a little further… now pull in and stop. There, look, that’s the driveway to the villa.’

  They waited and silence fell; a dog barked, lights burned at a few windows, but otherwise the village seemed deserted.

  Theo raised field glasses. ‘Trees lining the driveway – they may be a problem. Then it narrows at a bridge over a stream before continuing to the main house. The stables are to the right.’

  ‘Any sign of guards?’

  ‘I… It’s too dark to tell.’ A lorry lumbered by; he lowered the glasses until it passed. ‘We’re exposed here. Time to reposition.’

  Ten minutes later they were unloading the equipment by the side of a forest track. Dense woodland surrounded them; a half-moon showed through thin overcast and leaves rustled in the breeze. Soon they were ready and after final murmured instructions and a clasp of hands, Theo led the two youths into the trees. Weapons slung, they set a fast pace; underfoot was dry and the snapping of foliage sounded like gunfire, but for the moment speed was more important than stealth. Heavily laden, slashing at brambles with their hunting knives, soon all were gasping for breath as Theo took them on a compass bearing through the forest. Then suddenly they broke into clear ground at the edge of an ornamental lake. On the other side of the lake rose the dark outline of outbuildings; beyond these stood the taller profile of the villa.

  Theo sheathed his knife and drew out the Webley. ‘You know what to do. Wait five minutes before moving up. If you encounter guards, or hear gunfire at the house, withdraw immediately to the rendezvous with Cockerel and go home without waiting.’

  ‘But, Horatio—’

  ‘Those are my orders. Listen for the signal. And for God’s sake be careful with the combustibles.’

  He crept forward, skirting the lake and then advancing on the main house using the outbuildings for cover. All seemed unnaturally quiet, with the villa’s doors and shutters closed, no guards patrolling, no dogs barking. A single light burned in a downstairs window. He scampered across
the courtyard; then, pressing his back to the wall, he crept around the back, testing shutters until he found one loose. Prising at the window with his knife, he levered it open and slipped inside.

  Tolomei was in the adjacent room, a wood-panelled study, sitting behind a desk lit by a table-lamp. His face was in shadow, and he appeared much older than in the photograph, dressed in suit and tie, his beard trimmed, grey hair combed, shoes shined. He looked like an old man expecting visitors. Who had fallen asleep.

  Theo was behind him in seconds. ‘Wake up, senatore.’

  Tolomei started. ‘Who—’

  ‘Don’t cry out, I have a gun to your head.’

  ‘Are you going to kill me?’

  ‘I’m going to finish you.’ He fumbled papers from his pocket, smoothing them on to the desk in front of Tolomei. ‘Sign.’

  ‘What are these?’

  ‘Letters. Sign them all. Quickly. Here is the pen.’

  Tolomei began signing. ‘You were not meant to get into the house.’

  ‘So I imagine.’

  ‘The place is surrounded, you will never escape.’

  ‘We shall see. Now stand.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re coming.’

  A flash lit the night sky beyond the shutters, followed by a distant thump.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Time to go. Quickly, through the window there.’

  ‘But I’m seventy, for the love of God!’

  ‘Climb out or I shoot you.’

  ‘Help me. There – that stool.’ Another flash, now the crackle of gunfire, then an explosion of yellow flame. ‘Joseph and Mary, my garages!’

  They clambered out, Theo dragging him round to the front of the house where outbuildings were already ablaze. Dark silhouettes, some of them bearing weapons, scurried about the courtyard in confusion.

  ‘Call to them, call them off, or we torch the house too.’

  Tolomei needed no urging. ‘Save the garages!’ He waved frantically. ‘Save the limousines, the lake – hurry, get water!’

  Theo left him and doubled back around the courtyard; then he sprinted for the trees on the driveway. Spotting Nightjar and Starling by bushes he ran to them.

  ‘Good work with the outbuildings.’

  ‘One of the grenades was a dud but a Molotov did the trick. Where’s Tolomei?’

  ‘Busy saving his cars. Anything from Cockerel?’

  ‘Not yet, but there are men on the driveway. Near the bridge – look.’

  Theo peered. Five or six figures, some clearly armed, were advancing slowly up the drive towards them.

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘I, um…’

  ‘Horatio, that’s our escape route, what do we do?’

  Scottish boys in a lane, Germans creeping towards them. You’re the fucking officer!

  A flash, then a spurting thump on to the driveway as Crow’s cannon fired.

  ‘Horatio!’

  ‘We charge them! Throw dynamite and shoot as we go. Now! Come on!’

  The three sprang from the bushes and sprinted for the bridge, the Springfield and Webley firing as one. Figures on the bridge stood up, hesitating, startled, while others knelt to shoot back. As he ran, Theo felt fire rising in his chest, then a wild animal howl escaped him, exultant, primal, like the war cry of Highlanders charging tanks. Beside him Nightjar and Starling took up the shout, the three of them running and howling like wolves. As a second shell from Crow’s old cannon thumped in, Starling paused to throw dynamite; the stick landed short but exploded spectacularly. A few shots hummed back in their direction but their enemy was confused, faltering. ‘Stop!’ Theo ordered then. ‘Kneel, aim, shoot!’ A third cannonball crashed and dynamite lit the night. ‘Now move! Left into the trees – go!’ They rose and ran, leaping into the woods like deer. In seconds the trees swallowed them; behind came chaotic shooting and confused shouts, and the tinkle of bells as an autopompa arrived. Soon noise was receding until only the crash of their feet and breathless hoarse gasps filled their ears. They lost direction, corrected it, then glimpsed a flash from the cannon, and heard Cockerel’s anxious shout: ‘This way, boys! Hurry, they’re coming.’

  He was by the van, his blackened face streaked with smut from the cannon, which stood at his feet, angled skywards, two shells remaining. Half a mile back along the forest track, headlight beams scoured the trees.

  ‘Shoot the cannon towards them, there, deeper into the woods.’

  ‘Who are they?’ Cockerel fumbled for a shell.

  ‘The enemy.’ Carabinieri, police, Blackshirts, Tolomei’s thugs, Action Party and its foes, Rommel, Aunt Francesca, a loose-tongued Cellini: the list was endless. The cannon flashed, the shell soaring skywards to explode into trees near the headlights.

  ‘Now go. Leave the grenades, the jam-tins and the rest of the Molotovs.’

  ‘But, Horatio—’

  ‘It’s all right. It’s as we expected. Take the van, continue along the track, lights off until you reach the Telo road. Then head home, long way round as planned.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ll hold them, cause a diversion, then leave.’

  ‘Can I take my Springfield?’ Starling’s eyes were anxious.

  ‘Yes, but leave me the rest. And the bicycle.’

  *

  He set the Molotovs in the woods beside the track, a jam-tin grenade next to each. After lighting the fuses he sprinted back to the cannon, which he pointed into the trees. As the first of the Molotovs blew, bathing the forest in yellow and gold, he fired the remaining shell, throwing the grenades at random and loosing off with the shotgun. The result was a haphazard pattern of shots and explosions in all directions. Then, flinging aside everything but his suitcase, he picked up the bicycle and pedalled into the night.

  He rode the remaining hours of darkness without pause, staying off roads and riding only dirt lanes and tracks, in the open one minute and plunged into dark trees the next, head down, legs pumping, like a frightened young messenger in France so long ago. When dawn broke he took to the roads, continuing hard north all morning, nearly thirty miles to the town of Monterotondo, then on to Rieti where, nervously circling the station, he dumped the bicycle and caught a local train to Perugia, changed on to a second for Siena, and finally a third to Florence, where he arrived in the evening. That night he dared not use a pensione, so hovered near the station, passing the freezing hours of darkness with the other tramps on the steps of the basilica. A policeman moved them on brusquely at dawn but nobody asked for his papers. The next day, still using local trains, he avoided detection through Bologna and then Modena where he boarded one bound for Verona, just a stone’s throw from the southern frontier with South Tyrol. With the architecture more Alpine, the landscape more rugged and snow-capped peaks gleaming to the north, salvation seemed tantalizingly close, but nearing Verona the carriage jolted, the brakes squealed, and the train lurched to a stop. Ten minutes passed, twenty, and nothing happened; soon passengers were becoming impatient.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ one asked, leaning out of the window.

  ‘Gang of carabinieri up front, looks like they’re boarding.’

  Theo collected his bag and moved swiftly rearwards. The guard was on the track watching proceedings. Theo quietly opened the door, jumped out and ran. A shout pursued him, but he kept his head down and sprinted, reaching the cover of woodland where he followed the railway line round a bend, crossed over and struck out westward. He walked for an hour, sticking to lanes and paths, then hitched a lift from a farmer on a tractor.

  ‘Where are you heading, young man?’ he asked.

  ‘Lake Garda,’ Theo replied.

  ‘Twenty miles.’ The farmer pointed. ‘There is a bus, you know.’

  Spectacularly beautiful, mountain-fringed and more than thirty miles long, Lake Garda stretches from Verona northwards deep into South Tyrol, its northern shore just forty miles from Bolzano. Theo had visited as a child with Car
la, played on its beaches and ridden its passenger ferry. The bus dropped him at the dock where he caught a late-afternoon sailing and three hours later stepped ashore at Riva, where he made for the station. By midnight he was home.

  Exiting the station, for a moment he stood shivering in the icy air, savouring the familiar townscape with its tall spires, cobbled streets and overhanging roofs. Snow crunched underfoot; a wintry moon bathed the town in silver. It had been four years since last he was there, and it felt barely a week. Yet Bolzano was now firmly under Italian control and as he walked towards the old centre he noticed Tolomei’s handiwork everywhere. Shops all seemed to have Italian proprietors now; street names too were in Italian, while posters and advertising hoardings promoted Italian goods and services. The tricolore flag hung from municipal buildings instead of the crimson eagle of Südtirol. And rounding one corner, he found himself face-to-face with a huge billboard of Mussolini, twenty feet tall, glowering down on him imperiously in the moonlight. Viva Il Duce! the caption read. l’Italia ha finalmente il suo impero – Italy finally has its empire. Italian policemen patrolled the streets too, he saw, and he gave them a wide berth. And as he neared Laubengasse, its once familiar sign now Italianized to Via Padiglione, caution slowed him further, until he was stealing from shadow to shadow like a burglar.

  The print shop was gone. It had turned into a hardware store. At first he thought he was mistaken and doubled back to check his bearings. But it was no mistake: his childhood home was no more. He stared in confusion. A light came on upstairs suddenly as someone moved rooms. Not only had the shop gone, but people were living in the apartment. He crept closer. ‘Di Paolo’, the nameplate said.

  He lingered in the street, shivering with indecision. The hour was late and the temperature plummeting; he had only his student clothes and nowhere to go. If he stayed outside he’d freeze. He needed shelter: a shed or outbuilding or something. Then he remembered Mitzi. Mitzi Janosi, the girl he’d held hands with at the chocolate parlour, the girl he’d sat next to at catacomb school, the girl he’d kissed at the cinema. Her family lived fifty yards away: he knew their house. They’d signed the Option Agreement and stayed on as Italians; Mitzi’s father was vehemently pro-Italy. Could they be relied on? Were they even there?