After around ten miles they saw another town away to their left, a collection of dark silhouettes, a church higher than the rest, but there were no villages, no farmsteads.
They had barely spoken. The two Italians up front occasionally murmured to Spiro, but now Wiseman said, ‘Pretty empty, isn’t it?’
‘Where are all the farms?’ asked Tanner.
‘In the towns,’ said Spiro. ‘It was safer that way. Safety in numbers.’
‘From who?’
‘Bandits. We still need to watch out for them. They’re more of a menace than the militia.’
Just before four a.m., they paused. Tanner was tired; they all were. They drank water and Wiseman handed around chocolate, which the Italians appeared not to have seen before. They devoured it hungrily, grinning at this new source of ecstasy.
‘How much further are we planning on walking tonight?’ Wiseman asked. ‘My eyes are used to the light well enough, but night marches are not easy. We’ve all stumbled a fair amount.’
Spiro consulted with their guides, who began pointing and gesticulating.
‘We have to get past Valledolmo,’ he said. ‘It’s a couple of miles away on our left. Then the land rises and we enter a long valley below the Bosco Granzo. We’ll lie up there for the day. There’s a cave they know.’
‘How long?’
‘An hour. Maybe a little more.’
They set off once more, the dusty track becoming noticeably more stony as they entered a narrow valley, walking alongside a rocky stream. The land either side of them rose up, towering over them darkly. Tanner felt as though they were being watched over by some brooding force of nature. Silence still, but for the gush of the stream.
Around five in the morning, the first hint of dawn spread along the eastern horizon. The darkness of night softened to pale blue and grey. The Italians muttered to Spiro, pointed, and they all began to clamber up the slopes to their left, towards a rocky outcrop, through baby oaks and scrub. They reached the rocks, their breath heavy, as the horizon behind them turned from pale grey to deep gold.
‘Ecco,’ said one of the Italians, looking up at the rocks. They jutted out into the sky, but between them, at their base, was an inlet, a shelter.
‘Hardly a cave,’ said Wiseman.
‘It’ll do,’ said Tanner. ‘It gives us cover, but we can look down into the valley below easily enough.’ He peered inside and saw signs of an old fire: bits of charred wood and stones still lay in a rough ring. He wondered who had been there before them. ‘I’ll take first watch, if you like,’ he offered. ‘Three-hour shifts?’
‘All right,’ said Spiro. ‘If you’re sure.’
Tanner sat by the mouth of the rock shelter while the others settled. He felt tired, hungry, and his feet ached, but he wanted to see his surroundings for himself before he had any kip. There was certainly no visible sign of any habitation: no fields, no fruit or olive groves, not even livestock. Above them, the ground rose, covered with more scrub and stunted trees, although what lay beyond, over the ridge, he couldn’t say. What a strange place Sicily was, he thought. It had surprised him by how backward it seemed, with its population apparently living in towns for fear of bandits, and with peculiar shabbily dressed men like Don Calogero ruling the roost. He looked at his map of Sicily, and reckoned they were no more than a dozen miles from the coast, yet here, in this quiet and apparently unoccupied valley, it felt as though they were in the middle of a vast wilderness.
He had fought against the Italians for more than two years. A lot of their kit had been poor. The tanks had been no match for British and certainly not the better German models. Much of their artillery looked as though it had been built in an earlier era. The Breda machine-gun was all right, and the Beretta sub-machine gun was a beauty, but whenever they had overrun Italian positions, he had been amazed to find, more often than not, several types of small-arms ammunition, different models of rifle and a lack of standardization that must have caused their quartermasters nightmares. The food they found was revolting; bully beef and hard-tack biscuits never seemed quite so boring after they’d overrun an Eyetie position. The prisoners they took were invariably poorly turned out, and missing key parts of their uniforms. What was more, he hadn’t noticed any improvement over the course of the long North African campaign. British tanks had improved; so too their field and anti-tank guns – the new seventeen-pounder was an incredible piece – and no matter how monotonous the rations were, they always had enough to eat and char to drink; they might feel hungry at times, but never ravenous. God only knew, fighting in the desert was tough enough, with the millions of flies, the incessant heat during the day and the cold at night, the lack of home comforts, but to fight with half-baked kit, insufficient rations, and without the kind of replenishment of uniforms and weapons that he and his men had taken for granted was quite another matter. If some of the Italians appeared to give up all too easily, was it any wonder? And, as it happened, he reckoned the Eyeties could be as tough an opponent as any. In Tunisia, they had proved themselves doggedly hard bastards on a number of occasions, and as brave as any man.
It was true, he thought, that he had been in Sicily only a day and two nights, and he supposed the main cities were quite different places, but he’d always thought Italy was, well, a more sophisticated country. He had seen pictures of Mussolini and newsreels of Fascist soldiers goose-stepping through Rome, which had given the impression of a certain degree of strength and prosperity. This place, though – or this part of Sicily, at any rate – seemed to be the part of the country that did not fit. An island tacked onto the rest, poor and backward, where bandits lurked. And what of Don Calogero? He couldn’t help thinking that Spiro and the intelligence bods had been duped by that man. How could some little old man wield such influence? Perhaps in Villalba he was the bwana, but what use was some back-arse-of-nowhere town in the big scheme of things? Spiro had said very little about the conversation with Don Calogero; he hadn’t said very much about the mission at all. Nor had Wiseman, but then, Tanner thought, Charlie was probably as much in the dark about it as he was. Still, Tanner was not going to ask. The secrecy of the mission had been emphasized; he was there to protect, to demonstrate Allied solidarity; it wasn’t his place to start asking questions about things he knew he’d get no answers to.
Tanner wished again that he could be back with his mates in the York Rangers: with Peploe, Sykes, Browner and the other boys. Englishmen, who called a spade a spade and with whom there was none of this cloak-and-dagger tomfoolery. Jesus, he thought. The sooner they reached that sub the better. The sun was rising, golden light spreading across the valley. From the small trees and shrubs he could hear birdsong, and smell a crisp freshness as he breathed in. A rock lizard darted in front of him, then disappeared behind a stone. Behind him, hidden in the crevasse in the rock, the others slept, one of them snoring lightly.
He was still thinking about the Rangers when he heard something – the sound was faint, but enough to make his body tense. Stones moving. An animal of some kind? What did they have in these parts? Deer? Wild boar? Foxes? He listened intently. Nothing. His heart had quickened. Still he listened, his hands gripping the Beretta, and slowly he began to relax, only to be gripped with renewed alarm when he realized the birdsong had stopped.
Crouching by the edge of the rock, he pulled back the bolt on the Beretta, then picked up a stone and threw it at Wiseman, then another towards the Italians. Wiseman sat up and looked at him – What is it? Tanner pointed towards the slopes above them and motioned to him to get up.
Another small clatter of stone. Distinct this time. The others were all up now. Tanner scanned the ground ahead but could see no one; the sound of footfalls had come from above them, but out of view. Could it be an animal? He thought not. Well, whoever it was would get a shock if and when they came into view. Wiseman was now beside him, Tommy gun in hand.
Tanner listened again and this time heard rustling; they were getting nearer, no more than tw
enty or thirty yards away, he guessed. Wiseman nodded to him – I hear it.
Then a rifle shot rang out, the bullet zipping past Tanner’s head and fizzing off the rock. A tiny splinter struck his cheek as he instinctively ducked. From ahead! Christ! Tanner saw a figure dart between the trees, and now he heard a rush of footsteps – a number of men, hurrying down the slopes. He was about to spring out and open fire, when Baldini called, ‘Basta! Che cosa vuoi?’
‘Siete circondati!’ A rough voice from above.
‘Banditi,’ said Baldini.
‘He says we’re surrounded,’ said Spiro. Tanner heard the catch of fear in his voice.
‘Bollocks!’ said Tanner. Another rifle shot rang out, the bullet zapping past higher this time. A warning shot.
‘Mettere giù le armi!’
‘I think I got the gist of that one,’ said Tanner.
‘Well?’ said Wiseman.
‘Sod that,’ said Tanner, ‘I’m not laying down my weapon.’ He pulled a grenade from his belt.
‘Mettere giù le armi!’ came the voice again, but now Baldini spoke out.
‘No! E mettere giù le armi,’ he said. ‘Lo sono un uomo d’onore.’
‘I’m sure you are, mate,’ said Tanner, looping his finger in the grenade pin.
‘Wait,’ said Spiro. ‘Jack, wait!’
Tanner looked at him. What?
Baldini called out again.
‘Look,’ said Tanner, ‘let’s just shoot the bastards. I reckon we’ve a good chance. I’ll throw the grenade, then on one, you and I stand up, Charlie, and open fire.’
‘No, wait,’ said Spiro, clutching Tanner’s arm. ‘They’ve stopped firing.’
Baldini spoke up once more, and this time, after a moment’s pause, they heard one of the men say, ‘Va bene, va bene. Pace.’
Baldini stood up, Zucharini beside him, and stepped out into the open. Tanner could hardly believe what he was seeing.
‘What the hell’s going on, sir?’ he asked Spiro.
A clatter of stones from above, and now a group of men appeared before them. One, clearly their leader, stepped forward. He was small, dark, and roughly clothed, with bandoliers crossed over his chest, a thick moustache and a week-long beard. He eyed Tanner, Wiseman and Spiro suspiciously, then turned to Baldini and Zucharini.
They talked in low tones for a couple of minutes, then Baldini beckoned Spiro to join them. Tanner watched Spiro delve into his jacket pocket and hand something to the man with the thick moustache, who glanced furtively towards Tanner and Wiseman. Tanner gripped his Beretta, then stepped clear of the crevasse, Wiseman beside him. Once again, they towered over this rabble of poorly clothed and armed Sicilians. He counted a dozen, some with rifles, one with a flintlock blunderbuss, the others with knives. Only one had a sub-machine gun. Tanner smiled to himself. He reckoned he would have come off best, after all: the blast of the grenade, the smoke and confusion, the mass of bullets being sprayed. Feeling something trickling down his cheek, he raised his hand, felt and saw blood. Nicked by that piece of stone. It stung and he cursed.
Moments later, the bandits turned and began clambering back up the slopes. Tanner could scarcely believe it.
‘We’ll be safe here for the rest of the day,’ said Spiro, relief on his face.
‘If you say so,’ said Tanner.
‘What you just saw, Jack, is the power of Don Calogero.’
‘I’m flabbergasted,’ he said. ‘But should we really have let them go? What if they report us? What about the Italian Army? And the police? There must be some on this island – not everyone can be beholden to Don Calogero, surely.’
‘They’re outlaws, Jack. Beyond the law. The moment they make contact they’ll be arrested, no matter what information they have.’
Tanner shrugged. ‘All right. But if we’d opened fire, I reckon we’d have got the lot and saved you a few bob.’
Spiro smiled. ‘But was it worth the risk?’
‘It depends on whether the risk of letting them go proves less or more than opening fire on them.’
But it seemed Spiro had been right: they were not troubled for the rest of the day.
Later, once dusk had fallen, they moved off once more, tramping through a largely deserted landscape. Mountains loomed at either side of them, then fell away as they emerged into a wide, open coastal plain. Joining a road that led north towards the sea, they continued their journey, the going easier and faster now. Once an Army truck thundered by, but they had heard it coming from a long way off and were able to hide as it passed. By early morning they were within sight of the coast and the sea, the light of the moon twinkling benignly on the dark expanse of water.
They had been given a marker: a small spit that jutted out to sea to the east of the river mouth, five miles west of Campofelice. Following the river, they crossed the coastal railway – a single track, running dead straight. Empty, quiet and still. Beyond, down the shallow embankment, they paused, the smell of the sea strong on the air.
‘I’m going to send another signal,’ said Spiro.
‘We should scout around,’ said Tanner.
‘Seems pretty empty to me,’ said Wiseman.
‘Best to be sure,’ said Tanner. ‘We should have a look at the beach first. See if there’s any defence obstacles. When we move, we want to move without any surprises.’
Wiseman nodded. ‘All right. I’ll come with you. Maybe hold off sending that signal until we’re back, sir?’
‘All right, but make it quick,’ agreed Spiro. ‘Baldini and Zucharini can stay with me.’
Tanner and Wiseman walked forward. The sea was only a couple of hundred yards further on, and by hugging the sandy, tufty grass of the riverbank, they soon reached the low dune that overlooked the beach and crouched among the grasses. Ahead, silhouetted against the sky, were coils of wire.
‘Damn it,’ whispered Wiseman. ‘That wasn’t there before.’
‘Nor that encampment over there.’ Tanner pointed across the mouth of the river. Half a dozen tents were dark against the moonlight.
‘Shit,’ muttered Wiseman. ‘That’s torn it.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Tanner. ‘Let’s have a look at the beach. Maybe we can move along a bit – look, the shoreline is slightly concave. Three hundred yards on, no one in the camp will see us.’
‘Although they might see the canoes.’
‘They’d have to be crack shots, though, wouldn’t they? Anyway, I don’t see that we’ve got much choice.’
‘That’s true enough. It’s been a cinch so far. We should have guessed there’d be some spanner in the works.’
‘Good plans rarely go the distance in my experience.’ Tanner grinned ruefully, then scrambled up and, crouching low, ran along the dunes a hundred yards, Wiseman following, then dropped onto the beach, the sand soft beneath him. Just a single coil of wire. Good. That would be easy enough to negotiate. They could probably get through without the need to cut it. But what about mines? He looked down and could see a mass of footprints along the beach. The work had been recent – in the past day or two, he guessed – and now that he looked more closely, he saw that every fifteen yards or so he could make out where the sand had been lifted and smoothed over, with more footprints around each site.
‘Mines?’ hissed Wiseman.
‘Looks like it.’ He squinted along the beach. ‘A landmark,’ he whispered. ‘A landmark would be helpful.’
They hurried along the beach, still crouching low, a soft breeze blowing off the sea and rustling the thick dune grass. Behind them, the encampment had disappeared from view.
‘There,’ said Wiseman, pointing to a cluster of palm trees a short distance ahead.
Tanner nodded. As they reached the trees they paused. The sea was so peaceful, so calm. Above, the moon shone, and a billion stars twinkled, just as they had always done. Where was the sub? He wondered. Was it out there?
‘This should do,’ he said, then glanced to either side. Nothing – no house
, no other trees – just the long expanse of the beach stretching away from them. ‘How far is this from the river mouth?’
‘Four hundred yards or so?’ suggested Wiseman.
‘And a little more to where those Eyeties are camped. It’ll have to do. We’d better hope they don’t have any sentries.’ He glanced at his watch. It was after three. ‘We need to get a shift on. Come on, Charlie, iggery, eh?’
‘Iggery, Jack.’ He grinned.
Spiro was far from happy when they rejoined him.
‘Where the hell have you been? There are Goddamn soldiers over there!’ he hissed.
‘Yes, we saw the encampment,’ whispered Wiseman.
‘Encampment?’ whispered Spiro. ‘I just saw two, rifles on their shoulders, walking down the opposite side of the river, then back again.’
‘Damn it,’ said Wiseman. ‘We were hoping they were all getting in the zeds.’
‘Bollocks,’ muttered Tanner.
‘Jesus! How are we going to be picked up now?’
‘It’s not over yet, Colonel,’ said Wiseman. ‘We spotted the encampment – half a dozen tents, no more – on the other side of the river, so headed along the beach a little and found a good spot. It can’t be seen from the Eyetie camp. And there’s a clump of palms right by it – a good marker for our sub.’
‘All right,’ said Spiro, ‘but we need to get a move on. It’ll be dawn in ninety minutes or so.’
‘Where are those soldiers now?’ asked Tanner.
‘I don’t know,’ said Spiro. ‘They wandered down, smoking and having a cosy little chat by the sound of things, then wandered back. But we need to watch our asses.’
‘No, sir, I’ll watch your backsides.’
The Devil's Pact (2013) Page 4