‘Careful, Tanner. I could have you court-martialled for slander and insubordination.’
‘Go ahead. But you wouldn’t dare,’ Tanner hissed. ‘I’ll not be your second-in-command, sir. Right now, my company is still reeling from what happened at Sortino. The last thing they need is a new commander.’
‘You’re angry, Jack, I know. You’ve lost some good men. But one day you might be faced with a difficult decision like the one I made. Maybe then you’ll understand. Perhaps you’ll be more forgiving too.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ muttered Tanner. ‘Is that all?’
‘Yes. But sleep on it. You might change your mind by the morning.’
No chance, thought Tanner now, as he replayed the conversation in his mind. Arriving back at A Company, he had immediately taken out some paper to begin writing his full report on the attack at Sortino, just as Fauvel and Sykes had suggested. He had spoken to Macdonald earlier, who had promised him a report of his own, but as Tanner had sat there under the olive tree, pen poised, he had found himself unable to commit words to paper. Writing did not come naturally; Peploe had, over the years, taught him a thing or two about grammar and spelling, skills he had never really learned during his all-too-brief schooldays, but it was more than that.
‘I can’t do this, Gav,’ he’d told Fauvel.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. It’s like running to Teacher. Telling tales.’
‘Hardly, Jack. He killed and wounded lots of very good men. I wouldn’t call that a schoolboy snitch.’
‘But I’ll write a report, he’ll write a report. His will be worded better. Neither of us will come out well. It’ll achieve nothing. Peploe’s disobeying of Creer’s order will be scrutinized over and over, and because we’re in the middle of a battle for this sodding island, he’ll take the blame and it’ll all be smoothed over. Creer will get away with it. You know what the Army’s like.’
‘I don’t know. I’m not so sure.’
‘It’s not me, Gav. I prefer to fight my battles the way I know how. If Ivo wants to write a report, that’s his affair, but there are certain things Creer will have to admit to in his own write-up. Any soldier worth his salt will see he’s a blackguard with or without anything from me.’
Fauvel had nodded. ‘Maybe. A dignified silence reflects better on us all, you mean?’
‘Exactly. I can’t stand the man. I wish he’d never darkened my life. I wish he’d never been given command of the battalion. But unless I’m directly ordered to give my version of events, I’m not going to say a word. I’ll get him for what he’s done, you have my word on that, but in my own way.’
Tanner lay there now, eyes wide open, staring at the branches above. Had he done the right thing? What a mess. But in his dying words, his father had been saying something more: that gut instinct should be trusted. It was something Tanner had adhered to religiously, however unpleasant the course of action might be. And his gut instinct had told him that sending off finger-pointing reports would come back to haunt him.
Wednesday, 14 July. At Ponte Olivo airfield, Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Wiseman was waiting for the 60 Squadron Mosquito that was due in from Monastir. It was another baking hot day, but after the bombing meted out by the Allies in the build-up to the invasion, and the subsequent heavy fighting at nearby Gela, there was not a building still standing, only a few hastily erected tents. The airfield looked a wreck, Wiseman thought. Mangled, burned-out Italian aircraft were strewn around the edge, while the ground was pocked with hastily filled-in bomb craters. An atmosphere of destruction pervaded.
The Regia Aeronautica had made way for the US 86th Fighter Group. American fighter planes lined the perimeter in squadron groups. Wiseman had been sent to the 309th Fighter Squadron, on the southern side of the airfield. Hastily built blast pens had been constructed, a vast workshop tent erected, plus a number of pup, mess and chow tents.
Captain Tooley, the Fighter Group’s intelligence officer, had been assigned to look after Wiseman.
‘You been flying much, Colonel?’ he asked.
Wiseman shrugged. ‘A little.’ He looked at his watch. Around 1100 hours.
‘I’m sure he’ll be here soon, Colonel,’ said Tooley.
‘You waiting for the Mossie?’ said a pilot, emerging from the mess tent.
‘Yeah.’
‘They’re beauties. Boy, we could do with some of those. Fast, powerful and kicking ass.’
‘What about your A-36s?’
‘Well, they sure manoeuvre OK, but I wouldn’t call it the finished article yet, sir.’
‘We’ve lost more Apaches to accidents than to the enemy,’ added Tooley.
‘Sorry to hear it.’ He pulled out a crumpled packet of Camels, offered them around, then lit his own.
‘Here she is now, sir,’ said the pilot.
Wiseman paused and listened. Yes, there was the faint whirr of engines. ‘It works every time.’ He grinned. ‘I light up and something happens.’ He raised his hand to shield his eyes. ‘There she is!’ he muttered to himself, as the Mosquito banked and turned in to land.
A minute later, it had touched down in a cloud of swirling dust and was bumping across the rough ’drome.
Wiseman watched it taxi towards them, the roar of the engines deafening as it neared. Dust and grit were whipped into the air, but at last, after one final surge of revs, the engines were cut and the machine was suddenly silent, apart from the furious ticking of the cooling engines. Moments later, two men climbed down, both wearing flying helmets, Mae Wests, shorts and shirt sleeves, socks rolled down to their ankles.
The pilot was South African, Flight Lieutenant Keith Hammond, his navigator English, Flight Sergeant Les Greaves. Introductions made, Tooley led them back to the dispersal tent. ‘Can I get you fellers anything?’ he asked. ‘A cold drink?’
‘Cheers,’ said Hammond.
Tooley clicked his fingers and an orderly scurried away.
Hammond turned to Wiseman. ‘You’re going to have to be navigator, sir. You OK with that? The Mossie’s pretty cramped, I’m afraid.’
‘Sure. I’ve been there before – in fact, I’ve jumped on this place.’
‘And this time it’s daylight, so should be even easier.’
Wiseman shot him a grin. ‘Right.’ He pulled out a series of maps and aerial photographs. ‘This is where we’re going. Villalba. Actually, to be precise, we’re going here.’ He pointed to a large house near the centre of the town.
‘Who lives there, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘He’s called Don Calogero Vizzini. A man of honour and influence.’
Hammond looked nonplussed.
‘He’s a man who can help us,’ said Wiseman.
‘Shall I have a look at those maps, sir?’ asked Greaves.
‘You bet.’
‘Greavesie’ll make some calculations, sir, although if you can map-read we should be all right.’
‘A bearing might be helpful, though,’ said Greaves.
‘Right,’ said Wiseman.
The orderly reappeared with four chilled bottles of Coca-Cola. Hammond and Greaves’s faces lit up. They chinked their bottles together.
‘Here’s to our American allies,’ said Greaves.
‘I love you Yanks,’ agreed Hammond.
‘Amen to that,’ grinned Wiseman. ‘Now – shall we go?’
Wiseman had already been lent a flying helmet, Mae West and parachute pack so, leaving Greaves with Tooley, he and Hammond headed towards the now silent Mosquito. A small metal ladder hung down from an open hatch to one side of the cockpit.
‘You go first,’ said Hammond.
‘Sure,’ said Wiseman. He pulled himself up into the cockpit, which was as confined as Hammond had promised. His seat lay on the starboard side and a little back from that of the pilot, so he had to get in first. There was a window panel beside it that opened and was already slid back. Wiseman sat down and buckled his straps as Hammond appeared alongside him.
‘All right?’ he asked. ‘Got what you need?’
‘Yep,’ said Wiseman. ‘Right here.’ He patted a small canvas haversack. From his folder he took out his maps and aerial photographs.
‘And we’re dropping a flag? Is that right, sir?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Well, this is a first. I’m sure there’s a good reason for it.’
‘Oh, there is. I’d hardly be wasting your time if not. Tell you what, when this is all over, look me up and I’ll tell you about it over a beer or two.’
Hammond laughed. ‘You’re on.’
Cockpit checks, Hammond following a familiar mnemonic; then, with a thumbs-up to the ground crew, he watched them pull away the chocks and pressed the starter button on the port, then the starboard engine. The propellers began to run in turn, the airframe shaking with increasing violence as he opened the throttles.
Then they were off, rolling bumpily along the rough airfield, until at the far eastern end they turned, paused, then sped down the dirt runway, swirls of dust following in their wake, faster, faster, the wings shaking and bouncing until suddenly the shaking stopped and the distance between the wing and its shadow below widened. Airborne, and speeding away over the hills to the north-west.
‘OK, I’m heading on a bearing of three-five-zero,’ said Hammond.
‘It’s about sixty miles away,’ said Wiseman.
‘So, ten minutes, then. I’m going to stay low, around angels two, and fly fast. I need you to keep your eyes peeled, though. There are still bandits about.’
The sky was vast and bright and, to Wiseman, seemed empty. Below him, the Sicilian countryside sped by. It looked dry and sun-scorched. Mountains, silvery grey valleys, small towns. He recognized Butera and Riesi and was content they were on the right track. Then, away to the west, he saw Caltanisetta and the main road that bisected the island.
And then there it was, Villalba, just as he remembered it from that moonlit night. ‘There!’ he said.
Hammond scanned the skies around him, throttled back, and flew lower. ‘I’ll circle the town first,’ he said. ‘It’s near the church, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ said Wiseman. ‘There’s a main square. It’s to the south of there.’ He pulled out a triangular yellow flag with a black L stitched on it, and opened the side panel. Refreshing air gushed in.
They circled low, at just a few hundred feet. Wiseman could see people below, peasants, like those he had noticed back in May, but no obvious sign of any troops. Was Don Calogero really down there? Were his men waiting for this moment?
‘OK,’ said Hammond. ‘There’s the church, there’s the square.’
Wiseman placed an aerial photograph in front of him. ‘See the house now?’
‘Yes. Got it. I’ll turn east, then fly a slow, low run from south-east to north-west so that we go directly over it.’
Moments later, they were speeding over the town, the main road and the church just on their starboard.
‘Ready?’ said Hammond.
‘Sure,’ Wiseman replied, holding the first of the flags out of the window to his right. Just as they neared the villa, he let go and saw it flutter down, but with the turbulence caused by the wake of the Mosquito it appeared to be heading towards the town square, not Don Calogero’s villa.
‘Damn!’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I got that right.’
‘Want me to go around again?’
‘Yeah, and this time I’ll throw the entire haversack. That’ll be heavier.’
‘Good idea.’
Around they went again. Below, people were pointing, staring up, hands shielding their eyes. There was the main street on their right. The church up ahead. Seconds now. One … two … three. Wiseman let go, saw the haversack plummet, and this time he knew he’d dropped it well. Hammond flew on, climbed and banked. They were passing over the town one more time when Wiseman saw a man running in the garden of Don Calogero’s villa, then watched him pick up the haversack, turn and wave.
Mission accomplished. But would Don Calogero honour his promise? Would the Italians now help the Americans?
But he’s a man of honour. Of course he will.
At Motta Sant’Anastasia, the Germans had arrived, just three to begin with, in a requisitioned Italian car. At a light knock on the door, Francesca had opened it to see a German officer standing there, with two of his men behind. They looked rough, unshaven, and wore dirty cotton uniforms. The men’s helmets were low over their eyes so Francesca could barely see their faces, but the officer had only a peaked cap on his head, which he took off on seeing her and gave a small bow.
‘Sorry to bother you, Signora,’ he said, in fluent but rough Italian. ‘I wonder whether we might come in.’
‘Why?’ said Francesca.
‘It’s all right,’ he said, with courtesy. ‘We mean no harm. But I have a feeling your house may be an ideal observation post.’
‘An observation post? You want to take over my home?’
‘It is ideally situated.’ He looked apologetic. ‘We will try not to get in your way too much.’ He peered around her. ‘May we?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘I regret, no. I assure you, Signora, I am very sorry. But your ancestors built this house for its wonderful views, which is why we need it now.’
Francesca, her heart quickening, stood clear of the door.
‘Thank you, Signora,’ he said.
She followed them as they toured the house, Cara close beside her. The lieutenant gave the child a small bar of chocolate. ‘She’s a credit to you, Signora. A very pretty girl. One day she will be as beautiful as her mother.’ He smiled, and despite herself, Francesca could not help smiling too.
‘Your house is ideal,’ he said to her eventually, having examined each room and the yard outside, below the kitchen. His name, he told her, was Leutnant Albert Kranz. He would do all he could to ensure any disruption was kept to a minimum.
Soon after, Kranz and his men left. They had not been gone long when there was another knock at the door and there was Salvatore Camprese, accompanied by two carabinieri.
‘Are you all right, Francesca?’ said Camprese. ‘I heard the tedeschi had been bothering you.’
She sighed. ‘They want to use the house as an observation post for their guns.’
‘Then why not come and stay with me? I have room. You don’t want Germans interrupting your life.’
‘You must be joking,’ said Francesca. ‘At least this way I can keep an eye on them.’
‘All right, but if you have any trouble, any trouble at all, you come and see me, OK?’
‘Goodbye, Salvatore,’ she said, closing the door.
Leutnant Kranz returned later that morning, this time with five others, and several boxes. He was once again apologetic but explained that they would need to use the kitchen with its balcony and the bedroom above.
‘But that is my room,’ she said. ‘Is there no other you can use?’
‘I regret, no,’ said Kranz. ‘You see, the view across the Plain of Catania is perfect from those two rooms. The sun is above and behind us, so there will be no reflection from it in our field glasses, and this promontory juts out to a really very pleasing degree. Below in the yard, you have the ideal storage sheds. My men can sleep there too. Really, it was as though this house was built as an artillery observation post.’ He smiled. ‘It will not be for long,’ he told her. ‘And we are not asking you to leave.’
‘Very well,’ she said. What else could she say? Kranz had been polite but firm. She supposed she should be grateful that these Germans, at least, were courteous.
‘My men will move anything for you,’ said Kranz.
‘Thank you,’ said Francesca. She took Cara with her to her room. It was simply laid out: a chest of drawers, a wardrobe, two bookshelves and a large bed. The latter, she thought, could stay, but the rest could be taken into the spare bedroom, where Niccolò had stayed, and which was sparsely furnished.
As Kranz h
ad promised, the men moved the furniture, so that all Francesca and Cara had to do was make the spare bed, and ensure her things were in order, that the photographs and trinkets she kept on top of the chest of drawers were put back as they had been. There was the framed photograph of her mother, looking young and beautiful and full of hope. There was another of all the siblings, which used to live in her father’s room, and one of Nico just before he had left home to join the Army. Francesca held it and looked at it. He’d not changed much – a few lines had been added, perhaps, but that was all. The picture caught the essence of her brother well, she thought: the intelligence, the kindness, the sense of fun.
She was just placing the picture on the chest of drawers when she turned to see Kranz in the doorway.
‘Excuse me, Signora,’ he said. ‘But you should come downstairs.’
‘What is it?’
‘The postman.’
Panic gripped her. Glancing at Kranz, she hurried from the room, ran down the staircase and there, in the hallway, saw the postman’s frame silhouetted in the light of the open doorway, like a sinister messenger from Hell.
Her insides felt crushed as she stepped towards him. Her heart hammered, and her head felt light. There was his hand, holding the telegram. Her eyes were drawn to he small buff envelope.
‘What is it, Mamma?’ said Cara, behind her.
Francesca felt a tear roll down her cheek. Please, God. Please let him be all right.
Then her hands were on the envelope and she was opening it and pulling out the simple, folded sheet of thin paper.
‘I’m so sorry, Signora,’ said the postman, then took a step backwards.
With shaking hands, Francesca stood there and read:
WITH DEEP REGRET REPORT CAPTAIN NICCOLO TOGLIATTI REPORTED MISSING IN ACTION BELIEVED KILLED 12 JULY.
‘Mama?’ said Cara, but Francesca barely heard her daughter. Staggering, she felt her way along the hall towards the kitchen. The table. She needed to sit down at the table. But the table – the table she and Nico had sat talking at just weeks before – was now being used by a German listening on his radio set.
‘No!’ said Francesca. ‘No!’ And then she screamed, a long, deep wail of despair and grief that made the German push back his chair and stumble to his feet.
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