The wind was knocked out of him and his arms almost pulled from their sockets as the parachute opened. Thank God, he thought. A few seconds later he was winded again as he hit the ground. Searing pain coursed through his back and down one arm.
Grimacing, he lay prostrate on the ground, gasping for air as he tried to get his breath back. He knew he had to try and keep calm. Breathe slowly, breathe slowly, he told himself, then as he felt his lungs begin to work properly again, he hoisted himself onto his good arm, and managed to get onto his knees. Get the parachute in. With one arm he begun tugging at the cords and trying to gather up the silk canopy that was now being ruffled by the wind. Another stab of pain, and he cried out, then paused, his breathing laboured once more. He looked around him. He had landed on some low mountains, in a semicircular clearing. Ahead of him were thick woods climbing up to the summit of one of the peaks – he supposed – that he had seen from his plane. Behind were more woods, chestnuts and oaks, and thick with dense undergrowth.
The field he was in was damp and full of a green-stalked crop of some kind – wheat? oats? – he had no idea. No idea what he should do. Through clenched teeth, he began trying to gather in his parachute once more.
Movement caught his eye, and he turned to see two women running towards him, from over the crest of a ridge at one end of the field. Edward froze, and watched them slow as they realised he had seen them. All he could think was: thank God they’re not Germans, then realised that was no guarantee of safety. Perhaps they would turn him in; perhaps they were fascist in these parts.
Twenty yards from him they stopped and stared. One was older than the other, and slightly taller too. She had fair, shoulder-length hair, and a narrow face and wide eyes, while the other had the same-shaped face, but was dark. They wore simple cotton dresses, the blonde girl with a man’s jacket over the top, while the younger one wore an old woollen cardigan. Both wore socks and mud-caked boots.
‘Buongiorno,’ Edward called out, and forced himself unsteadily onto his feet. ‘Sono un pilota inglese. RAF. Mio aeroplano, um –’ He lifted his good arm and made a diving motion. ‘It crashed, er, fracassarsi.’
The two girls looked at each other and began talking rapidly, then the fair-haired one strode towards him. She was shorter than he had first appreciated – a little over five foot, he guessed, but slender and well proportioned. Her eyes were pale, but her eyebrows quite dark, surprisingly so with such straw-like hair. Edward thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She spoke to him, but Edward barely understood a word. He’d thought his Italian was reasonable – his first Wing Commander in Sicily had underlined the value of learning something of the language – but this tongue was very different to the patois in the south.
‘Scusi,’ he said, ‘non lo so. Piu lento, piacere.’ More slowly, please.
She smiled, and apologised, then beckoned over the younger girl. Between them they silently collected the rest of his parachute, then the fair-haired girl spoke again. ‘Mi chiamo Carla,’ she said.
‘Carla,’ Edward repeated.
‘E la mia sorella Christina.’
‘Ah, sisters,’ said Edward nodding – I understand.
Carla spoke again, this time more slowly. Edward managed to catch certain words as she pointed and gesticulated. Zio – uncle, podere – farm. Grenaio – barn. He was sure they wanted to help him. Beyond the end of the field, out of sight around the edge of the mountain. Carla then asked him something. He shook his head, and grimaced as another wave of pain coursed through him. ‘Ferite alla spalla?’ she said holding her hand up to his shoulder.
‘Si, si,’ said Edward. ‘But I can walk. Io cammino.’
‘Bene,’ she said. ‘Fa presto.’ Quickly. Yes, thought Edward, looking around him. There was no-one about. The girls were talking to each other quickly, urgently, hurriedly gathering the silk parachute. ‘Velocemente,’ said Carla, looking round anxiously. Edward unbuckled the harness and tried to take the straps off his shoulders, but the pain was too great. Seeing his discomfort, Carla hurried over to him and eased the canvas straps off him as gently as she could. She looked at him, her eyes scanning his face, then grimaced sympathetically.
‘Grazie,’ said Edward, his breathing laboured, ‘grazie tante.’
She smiled briefly, then said, ‘Affretiamo.’ Let’s hurry.
They walked briskly by the edge of the field, alongside the undergrowth beneath the mountain’s summit. The narrow strip of young corn narrowed, and began sloping downwards, and soon Edward could glimpse the Reno Valley beyond. He wondered how far it was to their uncle’s house and what reception he would get. The girls spoke rarely; mostly they walked in silence. Edward’s shoulder throbbed and he cradled his right arm with his left.
They left the field and continued down a track, already bursting with the growth of spring. It began raining, a light drizzle, and Carla turned and spoke to him again. The weather? He wasn’t quite sure. He smiled and nodded. The track came to an end and Edward realised they were now underneath the far side of the mountain. There was a clearing and a series of small terraced fields. Below, behind some chestnut trees and an orchard, was an old farmhouse. Carla pointed. ‘Il podere di nostro zio.’ At last, thought Edward. It couldn’t have been much more than a mile from where he had landed, but he felt exhausted.
A sand-coloured dog on a chain barked and snarled as they entered a yard thick with mud and dung. A few chickens scampered across their path. The girls led him into the main house and called out. ‘Zietta! Zietta!’ Edward was still adjusting to the sudden darkness when Carla turned to a figure sitting on an old chair in the corner.
‘Eh, nonno, dove zietta?’
The old man mumbled something and pointed outside. Edward looked around: a kitchen living room, with a stone floor, large fireplace at one end, the fire smouldering gently; next to it was a cast-iron stove. At the other side of the room stood a long wooden table with chairs and benches. By the window, next to the doorway, was a large stone basin. The fire was barely drawing; the room was hazy with woodsmoke and the smell of damp animals and food. The old man sat in the corner, large, knuckly hands clutching a stick. His face was creased like brown paper. On his head he wore a wide cap; a white moustache covered his top lip, and stubble his chin. He mumbled something again, just as a middle-aged woman came in from outside. Looking at Edward, she put her hands to her mouth and began talking rapidly. Carla and Christina began speaking too. An animated discussion began, each occasionally glancing at Edward. He stood there feeling bewildered by his predicament, watching and wondering exactly what they were saying. A sense of helplessness overwhelmed him. His shoulder was agony; he needed their help, yet was unsure whether he should trust them – well, he would have to. He had no choice. If only, he thought. If he’d flown over that enemy column a fraction of a second later, then he would have been back at Termoli by now.
The conversation stopped. The women looked at him again, then the middle-aged woman beckoned him to follow. Accompanied by the girls, she led him back across the yard to a barn on the far side. Running up the outside were a set of stone steps leading to a second floor storeroom. The woman climbed the steps and again motioned to him to follow. The door was low and riddled with woodworm. It creaked open and Edward ducked as he stepped inside. The room was dusty but dry, save for one corner where the rain dripped through a hole in the roof. At one end were fat sacks of grain, in the other, stacks of hay and straw. The woman motioned him towards the hay and spoke to him. He looked at her. ‘Lui ripsoa,’ she beckoned. ‘Ecco.’
‘OK, grazie,’ said Edward. He was to lie down and rest and so did as he was bidden. Carla smiled at him and spoke to him gently. Again, Edward could only pick out a few words: food, doctor. ‘Il dottore,’ she said slowly. ‘Stasera. Sta-sera.’ Tonight.
‘Grazie, Carla, molto grazie.’
She smiled at him again, then the three of them left. Edward looked at his watch – nearly two o’clock. Only. He shut his eyes �
� there was a lot of the day left; it would be a long wait until the doctor arrived. He wasn’t sure what he had done to his shoulder, only that it hurt like hell. Outside, the rain became heavier. He could hear it drumming against the tiles of the barn, and dripping into a wooden pail on the far side of the room. Below him, oxen stirred. A warm smell of dung and urine wafted up through the gaps in the floorboards. He wondered what would become of him. The fighter pilot’s existence may have been a fragile one, but at least there had been innumerable constancies in his life at Termoli: the familiar faces, the mess, his camp bed, the daily routine. Now, he had nothing. He could speak less of the language than he’d thought, and was at the mercy of people he knew nothing about. He had no more clothes, no razor to shave with, nor a toothbrush. The farm appeared to have neither electricity nor running water, while it seemed likely that the Germans were now scouring the area looking for him. Then what lay in store? Imprisonment, torture? He had no idea.
A long afternoon of boredom, pain and mounting anxiety. Time in which fear began to plague him. Carla visited him with a plate of warm bread, hard cheese and red wine, coming over and kneeling beside him.
‘Mangia, mangia,’ she said. ‘Ne hai bisogno.’ Eat up, you need it. She watched him intently as he tore off some bread and bit into the cheese. It had a sharp and cloying taste, and he drank gingerly from the half-full bottle of wine, but still could not help an involuntary tremble as the strong, rasping liquid went down his throat.
‘Bene,’ he said, smiling, and she laughed.
‘La signora,’ he said, ‘er, tua zia?’ He tried to think. ‘Um, come lei chiamo?’ What is your aunt’s name?
Carla laughed again. ‘Eleva Casalini. E il mio zio chiamo, Orfeo, e mio nonno, Arturo.’
‘Mi chiamo, Edward,’ he said. ‘Edward Enderby.’ He supposed he probably shouldn’t have told her his name, but it seemed rude not to.
‘Ed-ward,’ she repeated. ‘Eduardo.’
‘Lei e molto gentile. Loro sono molto gentile. Grazie.’
Once he’d finished his meal, she left him. Back to work, it sounded like. He tried to sleep, but the pain in his shoulder was too great, even after the wine. It was hard not to think about his predicament – he thought about the others returning to Termoli, about the telegram that would be sent to his parents. He wished he could tell them that he was all right, and that he was thinking of them. He wondered what tomorrow would bring, and about how these Italians – these Casalinis – must be feeling, worrying, with an English airman lying wounded in their barn. And he thought about Carla: her gentle face and soft voice, the callused hands, chipped and blackened nails and worn clothes. Scratches on her slender arms, mud on the men’s boots she wore, the fair hairs on her legs. Of course, he thought, she would not have the sophistication of a city-dweller; these were country people, mountain people. Yet, despite her appearance, there was a soft femininity about her, and as she’d crouched beside him, watching him eat, he’d been overcome by a desire to kiss her. He chastised himself, then smiled. Perhaps it didn’t hurt to think about her just a little.
It was dusk by the time the doctor arrived, but almost completely dark in the barn. Edward had been lying awake listening to the oxen moving in their stalls, and to mice – or maybe they were rats – scurrying somewhere over the wooden floorboards, when he’d heard voices outside, making him flinch with another wave of fear.
But it was OK. Four men had come in to see him, and Carla was also with them.
‘Buena sera,’ said the first man, then added, ‘Good evening. I am Salvatore Gandolfi – the doctor.’
‘You speak English,’ said Edward.
‘Not so well. A little.’
‘Well, thank you for coming.’
‘OK,’ said the doctor. ‘Let’s see.’
The others gathered around, staring at Edward. There was an older, middle-aged man – Orfeo? – but the other two were younger, in their twenties. Edward looked up at them, feeling increasingly vulnerable. One was lean, long dark hair swept back off his forehead; the other was shorter, stockier, and with a rifle over his shoulder.
The doctor crouched beside him and asked them to hold up the lamps above him. Edward looked at them again, dark shadows across their faces. The doctor carefully felt his shoulder, prompting another stab of pain. Edward clenched his teeth as the doctor moved his hands around his collarbone. ‘Does this hurt?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Here?’ he said, pressing his shoulder blade.
Edward shook his head.
‘Hm,’ he nodded. ‘You have, um, dislocated your shoulder. Yes? The arm, it is hanging free. Very painful, but not so serious. OK. Now this will hurt.’ The doctor suddenly grabbed his right arm, yanked then pushed it firmly. Edward cried out as the joint clicked back into place, then fell back on the straw, gasping.
‘There,’ said the doctor. ‘Mended.’
‘Thank you,’ mumbled Edward. The men were grinning at him, as the doctor looked in his bag. The older man handed Edward some more wine.
‘Thank you, grazie,’ he said, taking the bottle in his left hand.
‘Here,’ said the doctor. ‘La benda al collo. What is the word?’ He held up some cloth, which he began tying around Edward’s neck.
‘A sling?’ said Edward.
‘Yes! A sling, thank you. Wear this for two weeks, maybe three, and you will be fine. Try and sleep tonight. You will feel much better domani – tomorrow.’
‘Thank you,’ said Edward again.
The doctor felt his brow and pulse. ‘Good. You’re strong and fit. You will be OK. And now,’ he said, ‘let me explain.’
Edward nodded.
‘This is Orfeo Casalini. He will let you stay here. These other two are anti-fascisti – partigiani – you understand? This is La Volpe – the Fox,’ he said, pointing to the taller, dark-haired man, ‘and this is Giorgio. They want to help you.’
Thank God, thought Edward.
Orfeo looked at him and grinned, then muttered something Edward didn’t quite understand and the others all laughed.
‘What did he say?’ Edward asked the doctor.
‘He said he’s been waiting patiently for the Allies to arrive ever since the armistice, but hadn’t realised they’d be just one lone pilot.’
Edward smiled. ‘Advance guard,’ he said. The doctor translated, prompting more guffaws.
‘You don’t need to worry about the Tedeschi, the Germans,’ the doctor continued. ‘Your plane exploded into the ground and they think you died too – some contadini watched the Germans examining the hole in the ground where it went in. Only a few people saw your parachute. You were lucky. Carla says it only just opened in time.’
I was, thought Edward, remembering the brief seconds between the parachute opening and landing on the ground.
The doctor continued. Edward had a choice: the partisans would try to get him back to the Allies, or he could stay here and help them until the Allies arrived. Their banda was new – just a couple of hundred recruits, but they knew they could do a great deal to disrupt German transports going up and down the Reno and Setta Valleys.
‘That’s what I was doing this morning,’ Edward told him. ‘Tell them I shot up a column of trucks and tanks.’
Dr Gandolfi told them and they grinned and nodded. ‘They would like you to stay with them. You would be useful to them – an officer, and English-speaking. They are trying to make contact with the British secret service. You would be most valuable to them.’
‘I see,’ said Edward. ‘And getting back to the Allies?’
‘Possible. But difficult – there are many Tedeschi now in Italy, and around here the Black Brigades – fascisti militia. But do not worry yourself – you do not need to decide now, although I suggest you stay where you are for the moment.’
Edward nodded. Carla spoke to the doctor, but as she did so, kept her eyes on Edward.
‘Carla says she will teach you Italian,’ he said. ‘She lives down in t
he valley with her family, but is working here on the farm for her uncle. She will come here and teach you while your shoulder heals.’
‘Grazie,’ said Edward again, turning to her.
She smiled. ‘Prego,’ she said.
‘And here,’ said the doctor, delving into his bag again. ‘This might help.’ He handed Edward a book.
‘An Italian dictionary,’ said Edward.
‘Yes. I had a friend – an American doctor in the last war. Sadly, he died. But this was his. It might help, I hope. Now,’ he said. ‘We will leave you. They are good people here. Good simple people and they will look after you. We will try and keep your presence here a secret, as much for the Casalinis’ sake as yours. Not many people come down here, but there have been more Blackshirts and even Germans poking around, demanding food and wine and making a nuisance of themselves. You won’t see them at night – they wouldn’t be stupid enough to stay up here after dark. The only other person to keep a watchout for is the postein – er, the postman – who comes by. He’s no fascist but has a big mouth, so try and keep out of his way if you can. I will come and see you again in a day or two.’
‘And Volpe and Giorgio?’
‘In a few days. And Carla tomorrow. Now get some rest.’
A Pair of Silver Wings Page 29