‘Not much. I know that most men are supposed to be fighting with the fascist army, that the Germans occupy all of the country north of the front line, and that Mussolini’s government is a sham.’
Volpe smiled. He was a good-looking man, his face delicate, almost feminine. Unlike Giorgio, there was nothing swarthy or tough about him; he barely needed to shave. He spoke quietly too, but Edward was aware that Volpe possessed both intellect and iron-willed determination. It was clear that the others at Pian del Castagna held him in nothing less than awe: the way they spoke about him, the hushed tones and throwaway comments. ‘There’s fire in him,’ Orfeo had told Edward. Even Eleva mentioned Volpe’s intelligence. ‘He always was a bright one,’ she had said, ‘even as a boy. Ran rings around the others.’ Earlier in the day, Nella had said to him, ‘So Volpe’s coming to see you tonight, then?’ as though Volpe were the padrone rather than a twenty-seven-year-old resistance fighter.
‘Listen,’ said Volpe now, ‘I was always anti-fascist. Always. I hated Mussolini even as a boy, but before the war they were nothing to what they are now – Nazi stooges. They want to destroy Italy, to make it a vassal state of the Third Reich. They want to bleed us dry: take our money, use our young men as cannon fodder and the older ones as slaves. There is no Fascist Republic – republic! Ha! It’s a joke. The whole system of government has collapsed. We are submerged in a wave of chaos, of anarchy. Everyone fears for the future. Nothing is certain any more. Even here, on Monte Luna, a place bypassed by war for centuries, our way of life is threatened. Everyone is being taxed to the point of starvation – money that goes straight back to Berlin!’ Edward thought of what Federico had told him. ‘In the valleys below,’ Volpe continued, ‘we have Germans and troops of the Fascist Army rolling up and down, we have the fascist militia, evil men who want to make their bed with the Nazis and profit from the misery of others, and we have old diehard fascists who don’t know which way to turn.’ He paused, drank from his glass, then said, ‘Most people round here signed up to the Fascist Party in the old days. They had to, or else you couldn’t work, your children couldn’t go to school, you couldn’t buy food. And most people could live with that. But now, it’s very different. Do you know what the SS did in Rome? Did you hear what they did? They rounded up three hundred and thirty-five innocent men and shot them.’ He fired an imaginary pistol. ‘Just like that. For every German that is killed by an Italian, they have promised to murder ten civilians.’
‘My God,’ said Edward. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘It is a reign of terror. Even Mussolini’s fascism was not that. Everyone wants their old way of life back. They want to be left alone, but that will never happen until the Nazis are defeated. We have no choice but to fight, and to help the Allies. The more we can hinder the Germans and the Republican Army, the sooner the Allies will be here and the sooner we will be free.’
‘We’re about to make contact with the British,’ said Giorgio. ‘We’re now in contact with an agent of the CLN in Bologna.’
‘CLN?’ asked Edward.
‘Comitato di Liberazione Nationale, Committee of National Liberation,’ said Giorgio.
‘It’s national now,’ said Volpe. ‘Politicians, men of influence. The CLN started in Rome after the armistice but has spread to all the main cities. It’s the unofficial government, the political wing of resistance. The communists are also growing in strength but we’re not communist here. We’re not anything. We’re just anti-Nazi and pro-freedom.’
‘The agent is coming to see us tomorrow,’ Giorgio continued. ‘We want you to come with us. Your presence will give us credibility.’
‘You think that if the British know I’m here with you, they’ll be more likely to help.’
‘Yes,’ said Volpe. ‘Exactly.’
‘All right,’ said Edward. ‘By the way, who knows I’m here?’
‘More than you’d think,’ said Orfeo. ‘News travels fast, but most of the farms and villages on the mountain are full of partisans now. Where else do you think all these men are living?’
‘We all have to be careful,’ said Volpe. ‘There are already bounties on our heads.’ He pointed at himself and Giorgio, ‘And there’s a bounty for Allied troops as well. Times are hard: who knows who might be tempted?’
Orfeo snorted. ‘Up here? You must be joking.’
‘You never know,’ said Volpe, ‘and especially down in the valleys.’
The old man, Arturo, suddenly tapped his stick. ‘The Germans,’ he hissed. ‘Bastards the lot of them. I fought them in the last war. We should never have become their friend. Get rid of them. Get them out, I say!’
Volpe and Giorgio grinned. ‘We will, Mr Casalini,’ said Giorgio.
The two men left soon after. Edward bade Orfeo and Arturo goodnight, then walked across the yard to the barn. So, another night here. But sleep did not come easily. As Eleva had said, there was much to think about. Not for the first time, he wished the war would go away, and wondered how he had ever once thought it romantic and glorious. That person he used to be, that naive eighteen-year-old; he hardly recognised himself at all. The people back in England – they had no idea what was going on here in Italy. The war was brutal and ugly and ruined far too many lives. But while it brought out the worst in human nature, it also brought out the best, too. That much he could see: the kindness of the Casalinis, the bravery of these mountain people. The growing respect he had felt for the Italians when he’d been on Malta had been justified after all. Not for the first time, he realised how ignorant they had all been. What was it Mike Lindsay had said about that pilot who’d been impaled? ‘But he’s only an Italian, Eddie.’ Edward cringed at the thought; he wished Mike and even Laurie could witness this.
Carla, he thought, and closed his eyes, tracing the contours of her face in his mind. Without the war, he would have never known her – that much was true. Yet perhaps it would have been better for both of them if they had never met. He sighed and smelled the sweet smell of straw and hay and oxen dung. No, he thought. She’s right. The war can’t last forever.
Italy – May, 1944
2nd May, 1944. Around eight o’clock in the evening. Giorgio arrived at the Pian del Castagna, where Edward was ready waiting for him. It had been another clear day of white cloud and blue skies, the birdsong loud and constant and the mountains rich with the promise of summer. Edward had debated about whether to take his pistol – a revolver he had never once fired – but in the end decided to leave it in the barn.
He felt apprehensive as they walked up the lane and conspicuous too; as they walked into the field of young corn where he had landed, he was conscious he had not been so far from the farm since his arrival. Now, as he walked beside an armed partisan to meet an agent of the CLN, the reality of his precarious situation began to sink in once more. He felt rather as he had done on reaching Malta, a place so different from what he had expected. He’d felt then as though he were being carried along by events over which he had no control.
They talked as they walked. Giorgio was reluctant to tell Edward much about himself but he did admit he’d lived in the area most of his life. He’d known Volpe since he was a boy – and the Casalinis too. A good family, he told Edward.
Giorgio was several inches shorter than Edward, with a square, solid face and frame. His hair was light brown and thin, combed back off his wide forehead. He walked with a certain swagger, his arms wide. He looked tough, Edward thought. Suddenly, Giorgio said, ‘You like Carla, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Edward. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘She’s a beauty, all right.’
‘Beautiful? Yes she is.’
Giorgio suddenly nudged him and grinned. ‘And I think she likes you too.’
Edward smiled.
‘A-ha!’ said Giorgio. ‘Don’t worry,’ he winked, ‘your secret’s safe with me.’
They reached the end of the cornfield and crested a brow. Suddenly the mountains were spread before them, ridge after ridge
of woods and tiny green fields. Dropping in front of them lay a long winding white track that led to the valley below.
‘That’s the Setta, down there,’ said Giorgio, pointing to a narrow silvery sliver of river. ‘Montalbano is directly below us. Keep on this track and that’s where you’ll get to.’
Edward nodded and gazed at the wide and unexpected view in front of him. All across the mountains, at various different heights, were small settlements, a cluster of pale stone houses with their terracotta roofs, nestling between the oaks and chestnuts and silver poplars.
‘Over there,’ he said pointing to a hamlet away to their left, ‘out on that small ridge there. That’s Cortino.’
‘And where are we going now?’
‘To Capriglia. It’s along this track and through the trees. You can’t see it now, but it’s not far.’ He grinned again. ‘I used to go to church in Capriglia every Sunday when I was a boy. You see, everyone knows everyone around here. Everyone has family who are contadini up in the mountains. It’s the people we don’t know that we need to be careful about. Strangers.’
‘Like myself.’
‘Exactly, Eduardo. But we don’t think you are a fascist spy.’ Edward could not tell whether Giorgio was joking. ‘Anyway,’ Giorgio grinned again, ‘now you have Carla to think of, eh?’
Edward smiled, but a renewed sense of apprehension welled within him. He decided to change the subject. ‘I can see why this is a good place for partisans to base themselves.’
‘We thought so. We didn’t know what we were doing when we started. It was last September, just after the armistice. I’d been in the navy, but when the armistice was signed everyone just walked off the ship. The officers, the crew – everyone. It was amazing. No-one said, “Go home,” or anything, but that’s what everyone did. I was on a train full of troops all heading back to their homes.’ Somehow – he didn’t explain how – he’d met up with Volpe, who suggested they raid the newly empty army barracks in Bologna and steal as many arms as possible. ‘We just walked in there and took what we could,’ Giorgio told him. ‘There was no-one about. There were storerooms full of rifles – you never saw anything like it.’ Loading them onto a waiting cart, they later managed to borrow a truck and drive them to Montalbano. Moving to the mountains had also been Volpe’s idea. ‘We both knew Monte Luna like the back of our hands, and we knew the mountain people would help us. The towns attract the fascists. That’s where the carabinieri are, where the Blackshirts lurk. Anyway,’ he added, ‘this is an easy place to hide, and if any stranger comes up here it’s not too hard to spot them. And of course, it’s not easy for vehicles. There are tracks and paths but no roads like they have in the valley. I don’t think a car has ever been up here. Perhaps a tank could get up here.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I tell you, Eduardo, the Nazis might run the country at the moment, but Volpe’s king of Monte Luna right now.’
A faint rumble of engines in the sky and they both looked up. High above them – just pinpricks – a formation of bombers hummed over, white contrails vivid in the fading sky.
‘The Allies off to bomb Bologna or Milan,’ said Giorgio.
‘Yes,’ said Edward, and wondered whether he would ever fly again.
More oaks and poplars lined the track, providing a cool, dark avenue as they approached the village. Although Capriglia had its church, the place was made up of just a cluster of houses, barns and other outbuildings, although, Giorgio told him, there was also a larger property owned by the padrone known as the Palazzo, and a cemetery a few hundred yards along the track towards Cortino. ‘My grandparents are buried there,’ he added.
Giorgio took them off the main track and down a narrow driveway to another tired-looking farmhouse, a ramshackle collection of stone walls and cracked plaster the colour of faded umber. Giorgio tapped lightly and the door opened almost immediately. Another contadino with wild grey hair and a large dark moustache looked at them and nodded.
Edward followed Giorgio past the man into another stone-floored kitchen. Volpe was there, as was a priest and another man, sleek with dark hair and clean-shaven, and wearing a suit that looked too clean for the mountains. Tallow candles lit the room dimly. Shadows fell across the room and across the faces of the men gathered there. There was the same smell of the kitchen at Pian del Castagna: animal fat, herbs and a distinct mustiness.
‘Eduardo – some introductions,’ said Volpe, taking his hand and clasping him on the shoulder. He turned to the man who had opened the door. ‘Sergio Panni – a good friend of ours. Three sons, all with us. Sergio is good enough to allow a number of our men to sleep in his barns. He hates the fascists – he’s been particularly singled out by the Blackshirts. They keep turning up and pestering him, raiding his stores and supplies and claiming them as part of the new taxes he owes.’
They shook hands and Sergio muttered, ‘Next time they come I’ll kill them myself.’
‘And this is Father Umberto,’ said Volpe. ‘He is the priest here in Capriglia.’
‘The famous pilot,’ beamed the priest, taking both of Edward’s hands in his. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’
‘Really?’ said Edward, glancing at Volpe and Giorgio.
The priest laughed. ‘But of course! News travels fast around these parts.’
‘The postman,’ said Giorgio.
Edward was quite taken aback.
‘Don’t look so shocked,’ said Father Umberto. ‘Nothing escapes him. Perhaps someone saw you land, they told Luigi Balieri and then he gets talking. He can’t help himself. He’s the biggest gossip in the whole of Monte Luna, that postman.’
‘And this,’ said Volpe, turning to the man in the suit, ‘is Colonel Bianco.’
‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Colonel Bianco is also a pilot,’ Volpe smiled. ‘He flew fighters for the Regia Aeronautica before the armistice.’
Edward nodded. ‘Where?’
‘North Africa and Malta.’
‘Malta? When were you there?’
‘In the summer of 1941 and again in 1942.’
‘Me too,’ said Edward, shaking his hand vigorously. ‘I was there February to July, 1942.’ He grinned, feeling a spontaneous sense of fellowship.
‘Incredible,’ said Colonel Bianco. ‘Hurricanes or Spitfires?’
‘Spitfires.’
‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘Hurricanes were no problem, but those Spitfires – well, they’re beautiful aircraft. They should have been built by an Italian. Anyway, Eduardo, I am glad we’re friends now.’
‘Yes,’ said Edward. ‘Me too.’
‘We must compare stories one of these days, but right now we have other things to discuss.’ He looked at Volpe, and they all sat down at the table. Sergio poured them all wine, then left. When he was gone, Colonel Bianco leant towards them, his fingers together. ‘The Allies are about to launch their offensive in the south. The winter has been long and hard, but now summer is almost here. They’ve been building strength and the drier weather will play to their strengths. They’re confident that this time they will break the Germans and take Rome. We must believe they will.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Father Umberto.
‘If that happens, the Germans will probably carry out a fighting withdrawal, hoping to delay the Allies as long as possible, while the bulk of their forces retreat to their next line of defence.’
‘The Pisa-Rimini Line,’ said Edward, remembering a lunch he’d gone to at Group Headquarters where some senior army staff officers had been present and had been talking about it. It had been just a few days before he’d been shot down.
‘Exactly,’ said Colonel Bianco. He looked impressed. ‘Although the Allies have now renamed it the “Gothic” Line. We don’t know quite what defences have been prepared there, but we do know the Germans have been busy. It crosses the Apennines about twenty miles south of here.’ He looked around the table. ‘This obviously has huge implications for you here. First, you
can expect many, many, more German and Republican Army troops in the area. Second, these mountains here overlook two very important routes to the Gothic Line.’
‘With the proper arms we could make life very difficult for them,’ said Volpe.
‘Yes, and the Allies understand that. The British understand that. They want to help. I should tell you that I am now working not only for the CLN but also for the British. Let me talk frankly. Volpe, you have done a good job here, gathering men to your banner. But you need to organise yourselves. Eduardo, I know you are an RAF man, but you must help Volpe and Giorgio shape these men.’
‘But I have no more experience as a soldier than Volpe and Giorgio,’ said Edward.
‘But you have experience of leadership.’ He turned to Volpe. ‘You must dominate this area. This must be your kingdom.’ Edward glanced at Giorgio, who winked. Colonel Bianco continued, ‘And spread your net wider. Move onto Monte Torrone and beyond.’ They were to remember where their strength lay. Hit-and-run tactics were the key. ‘Then disappear back to the mountains. Do not be fooled into operating in large forces. You know this area and the Germans don’t. You must always guard that advantage. Split your band up into companies, with specialists in each company. These can then operate individually under your instruction. And keep everyone on the move. Never, ever confront the enemy directly. Sneak up behind him, hit him in the arse then slip away back into the mountains.’
‘All right,’ said Volpe.
‘And give yourself a name.’
‘Like what?’ asked Volpe.
The Colonel shrugged. ‘What’s your favourite colour?’
‘Blue.’
‘What about the Blue Brigade? You can wear blue scarves. Easy to get hold of and easy to identify your men with.’
A Pair of Silver Wings Page 33