For the most part, Volpe insisted they stick to the kind of guerrilla warfare that the Colonel had advised: hitting hard and fast, then disappearing into the mountains, constantly on the move. There were few large-scale clashes with either the Germans or the fascist militia after that first battle on the mountain, although the Red Battalion, led by the Russians, had found themselves involved in an all-day fire-fight in Grazoldino, a mountain town some miles to the south of Monte Luna. Men had been killed on both sides. Afterwards the Germans had taken a dozen of the townsmen hostage – innocent men who had had nothing to do with the partisans. Most were later released, but three, evidently chosen at random, had been hanged in the town square, and left there for all to see.
Soon after, two German soldiers were attacked by partisans as they walked in woods near the town of Roggio, a few miles south of Montalbano – their bodies were nailed to trees. In response, the Germans rounded up eleven men from the town and shot them. A few days after that, two Germans were trying to buy eggs in Saragano when they were seized by a small band of partisans led by a former thief known as Balbi. One of the soldiers was shot and killed almost immediately, while the other was dragged to a partisan encampment in the wooded slopes above the Reno. There he begged for his life, showing them photographs of his wife and two small children. His pleas for mercy were ignored: Balbi told his men to find a clearing and to pin the German to the ground with knives through his wrists. He was then left to die in the sun.
Edward heard about this from Balbi himself during a visit to Volpe’s headquarters, at that time a contadino’s hayloft in the mountains north of Monte Luna. He was small and sinewy, with short hair and several day’s growth of beard. When he spoke, it was with a lisp; half his teeth were missing, the rest stained and crooked. Edward disliked him intensely.
‘If you had to kill him, couldn’t you just have shot him in the head?’ Volpe asked him.
‘No,’ said Balbi. ‘We’ve got to make them fear us. They’ve got to know that if they shoot innocent Italians a fate worse than mere death awaits them.’
‘We’re not animals, Balbi,’ said Volpe.
Balbi looked incredulous. ‘What do you care about the feelings of Germans? They’re scum. They’re raping Italy. If we can put the fear of God into them, maybe they’ll think twice next time they’re rounding up our people for the firing squad.’
‘It doesn’t work like that, Balbi. Reprisals are one thing – crucifying people is another. I don’t want to hear of this again.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Balbi, waving his hand nonchalantly in the air.
‘For the love of God,’ muttered Volpe when Balbi had gone.
‘The man’s a maniac,’ said Edward.
‘He’s a thief and a murderer,’ said Giorgio.
Volpe sighed. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I need some air. Let’s take a walk.’ They ambled into the olive grove behind the barn and, pausing to sit on a collapsed stone wall, rolled cigarettes. Tobacco of sorts; the smoke was thick and pungent, the taste sweet but sharp.
‘It was easier when there were just a few hundred of us,’ said Volpe, ‘but we mustn’t lose sight of what we’ve achieved.’
‘Where we’ve been successful has been in virtually stopping all traffic along the two valleys,’ said Edward. ‘Random butchering of Germans will not help the Allies.’
‘All right, Eduardo, enough. Look, I feel the same way as you do, but we have to be careful here. At the moment my authority is undisputed, but we are only partisans. We’re not a proper military outfit. We have no official rules and laws of war. There are people among us now I hope I never have to speak to again once the war is over – Balbi and half the other criminals, or those Mongols. They’re vicious, with no respect for God or man. But I can’t lean on them too heavily. This is war; terrible things happen, but we need these men on our side, working with us, helping us to clear the way for the Allies.’
‘As long as they do work with us,’ said Giorgio, ‘and don’t become more of a hindrance than a help.’
‘Well,’ said Volpe, ‘let’s hope we hear no more stories like this.’
His hopes were to prove misplaced.
August arrived. The contadini did their best to carry on farming their fields, but it was difficult with partisans swarming over the place one minute, and bands of German and fascist patrols the next. Many of the men spent their days hiding in the woods on the highest slopes of the mountains. The women did what they could, but when the corn ripened, too many fields remained unharvested. The wheat went from glowing crisply gold in July, to dusty brown by August. For weeks, the sun had continued to shine day after day, bearing down and scorching the land and people of Monte Luna. And yet a menacing cloud of violence continued to hang over the mountains and valleys.
Saragano – a small village on the lower slopes of Monte Luna. At its heart was a small square with a water pump and a memorial to those lost in the Great War of 1914–18. There was a store bearing empty shelves, a small church, a large house, and a handful of smaller buildings, farms and barns. Saragano was also home to Dr Gandolfi, the man who had reset Edward’s dislocated shoulder and who had become unofficial doctor to the partisans.
With the help of Alfredo and Bruno, Edward had brought another partisan to see the doctor. The young Italian, a fresh-faced youth known as Vito, had been hit in the leg during an attack on the militia headquarters in Veggio. The bullet had gone clean through his thigh but needed to be properly cleaned and dressed.
‘I’ll keep him here a few days,’ the doctor told Edward as he treated the boy. ‘There are signs of infection, so I want to keep an eye on him.’
Edward nodded. ‘Whatever you say, doctor.’
‘Now help me lift him upstairs. I’ve a cot in the attic he can have. He’ll be safe and comfortable enough there.’
The staircase was not wide, and there was only a ladder leading from the first floor into the attic, so it was with some difficulty that they carried and hoisted Vito up to his hideaway. But after much grimacing and yells of pain from Vito, they set him down on the cot.
Vito lay back and closed his eyes. ‘Remind me not to get shot again,’ he gasped.
Dr Gandolfi felt his brow. ‘You’ve a slight temperature. Get some rest and I’ll be up again shortly.’
‘You take care of yourself, Vito,’ Alfredo called out as he began climbing back down the ladder. Vito waved his hand.
Back downstairs again in the hallway, Dr Gandolfi turned to Alfredo and Bruno and said, ‘Now would you mind leaving us for a few minutes? I’d like a word with Eduardo.’
‘Sure,’ said Bruno.
‘Wait for me on the track,’ said Edward, ‘I won’t be long.’
Once they were alone, the doctor said, ‘So. How are things?’ He spoke in Italian.
‘All right,’ said Edward. ‘Tense.’ The doctor led Edward into his kitchen and offered him some wine.
‘Yes,’ the doctor nodded, pouring out two tumblers, ‘it feels like the spring is tightening. I must say, I’m nervous. The reprisals are getting worse. No-one is safe any more. Not even doctors. For God’s sake, just for talking to you now, I could be shot.’ He smiled ruefully and they sat down at the table. Behind them, a tall grandfather clocked ticked and then chimed the hour. Dust particles glinted in the air where the sun shone through the wide window. The room gave the impression of time only slowly passing, not accelerating as it had seemed to Edward these past few months.
‘There’re a lot of us now,’ said Edward. ‘Well over a thousand, and of course, the more of us there are, the harder it is for Volpe to keep a tight rein on everyone, especially as we’re now well spread – and we have to be. By covering a comparatively large area we can operate more efficiently, but also it makes it easier to feed everyone. But I fear there are some who are more interested in causing trouble and throwing their weight around than actually helping the Allies. Did you hear about the land agent of La Morazza?’
The doctor nodded
. ‘I heard they lynched him. What’s Volpe doing about it?’
‘Nothing. There’s little he can do. We’re pretty certain it was Balbi, but there’s some communists amongst us now. It might have been them. The man was a rent collector and still kept his fascist party card. The Reds don’t like people like that.’
The doctor shook his head. ‘My God,’ he said, ‘what times we live in. Everyone’s suspicious these days. You always used to be able to trust people – well, on matters that counted. Oh, I know there were always people who cheated a little, who told the odd white lie here and there, but for the most part the communities here were bound very firmly together. You’ve seen this, I take it?’ He passed Edward a newspaper. ‘Field Marshal Kesselring’s latest proclamation – another warning to the partisans.’
Edward looked. ‘No, I haven’t,’ then read aloud: ‘“Wherever bands of partisans gather, a percentage of the male population is to be arrested and, in cases of acts of violence, to be shot. If military personnel should be fired on from villages, the villages are to be burned.”’ He put the newspaper down and ran his hands through his hair. ‘But the Allies are coming. They’re getting nearer. Florence will be in their hands any day now. Hopefully, they’ll break the Gothic Line before winter and we’ll all be free again.’
‘Let’s hope so, but in the meantime, my English friend, you need to watch it. There’s a price on your head and times are hard. If the partisans start murdering and pillaging from the mountain people, the loyalty the contadini have shown so far will be severely tested. You know, most of us are patriots, but for many, family will always come first. For a bag of salt and a few lire, some will sell their souls. There’s sixteen thousand dollars on Volpe’s head, you know.’
Shots suddenly rang out, startling both men. They looked at each other, then the doctor said, ‘Quick, hide in the cellar,’ and lifted a worn rug to reveal a trapdoor in the floor. ‘I’ll see what’s going on. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ The doctor lowered the trapdoor and Edward heard him leave. Another shot – closer this time.
It was dark and damp down there, and Edward had just a single candle. The minutes passed slowly. He paced about, sat down, then stood up again, chewing his fingers and wondering what the hell was going on.
When at length the doctor opened the door, he had blood all over his shirt and a dark expression on his face. ‘It’s all right, you can come out again now,’ he said wearily.
‘What is it? What’s going on?’
‘Come on out and I’ll tell you.’ Bruno was sitting at the kitchen table, his head buried in his arms, sobbing uncontrollably.
‘Bruno?’ said Edward. He climbed the steps then walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘What’s happened? Where’s Alfredo?’
‘It was the Blackshirts,’ said the doctor.
‘Jesus, no! For God’s sake,’ said Edward angrily.
‘We were lying on the track,’ sobbed Bruno; he could barely get the words out.
‘It’s all right,’ said Edward. ‘Take your time.’
Bruno’s eyes were red, and tears rolled down his cheeks. ‘We were watching a kite circling overhead. Then suddenly it dived, as though it had been startled, so I looked up and saw a militia patrol walking out from behind the church towards us. I told Alfredo to run and then made a dash for the woods as fast as I could. I thought he was behind me, but then I heard shots and saw Alfredo running back towards the village. I don’t know why he did that.’
‘Panic, probably,’ said the doctor.
‘He was hit in the leg, but he staggered on. They went after him – they seemed to have forgotten about me. Then I heard another shot and I knew they must have killed him.’
‘I heard it,’ said Edward.
‘He was in the village square,’ the doctor continued. ‘Apparently, he had offered to surrender. He couldn’t run any more – his thigh had been shattered. But the corporal merely put the barrel in his mouth. Alfredo begged for mercy – pleaded for his life – I heard him as I was coming out of the house – but the bastard pulled the trigger. When I got there, Sylvia Moretti was cradling him in her arms and screaming abuse at the corporal – she’s already lost two sons in Russia. A number of the villagers had crowded around. Brave of them, really. “He was a traitor,” the corporal told us. “Nothing but a useless rebel,” then he told Sylvia that he’d shoot her too, if she didn’t shut up.
‘I sensed he meant it too, so I tried to get them to leave. “Look,” I said to them, “this whole area is full of partisans.” I told them it would be best if they cleared off right away. The crowd had grown considerably, and were beginning to press angrily around them. I think the corporal realised he was about to lose control of the situation. “He was shot because he was a rebel,” he said. “Let that be a warning to you.” Then the three of them pushed their way through the crowd and hurried out of the village.’
Bruno looked up, his eyes red. ‘I saw them leave, so I ran down to the square. Oh God!’ He began sobbing again. ‘And there was Alfredo, lying there with his brains blown out. Alfredo – he was my friend. My best friend in the world.’
Edward put a hand on Bruno’s shoulder: I know how you feel. Then he thought, I wish Harry were here now. ‘Where is Alfredo now?’ he asked Dr Gandolfi.
‘In the church,’ said the doctor. ‘It’s cool and safe there. Poor boy.’
Edward banged his fist on the table. ‘When is this madness going to stop?’
The doctor patted his shoulder. ‘You must get out of here. Take Bruno back to the mountains in case more militia reappear. Leave Alfredo with me. I’ll make sure he’s properly buried.’
As Edward led Bruno back out of the village, he passed a large patch of blood where Alfredo had lain. Small rivulets had weaved their way down between the stones and were now being enjoyed by a number of flies. Only that morning, as they’d walked cheerfully down to the village, Alfredo and Bruno had been telling him some of the escapades they had got up to as children. They had been just like any other young boys: getting up to no good, teasing the local priest; forever in trouble. Alfredo had been barely able to control his laughter as they remembered stealing Bruno’s sister’s clothes one time when they went swimming. And now he is dead, thought Edward. Poor Alfredo. Edward could scarcely believe it was true.
*
Two days later, word arrived that Florence had fallen and that the Germans were in retreat once more. It was news that was greeted with excitement at the headquarters of the Blue Brigade. They had moved again, this time to an old abandoned farm high on the slopes of Monte Amato, some three miles south of Sant’Angelo.
‘We should celebrate,’ said Volpe, as they sat outside the farmhouse in what had once been the yard. An oak grew in one corner, offering shade from the afternoon sun. Round about were old stone drinking troughs and a few logs of wood, which the partisans used as seats. ‘Hey, Pepe, find some wine, will you?’
‘Sure, boss,’ said Pepe. He was new – he’d been with the partisans only a couple of weeks. He soon returned with a stone flagon of rough wine, and passed it to Volpe, who drank thirstily from the jar, then passed it around. ‘Listen,’ he said suddenly. ‘There.’
‘Thunder,’ said Pepe.
‘That’s not thunder,’ said Giorgio. ‘Those are guns. My God, those are the guns from the front.’
Volpe raised his arm and cheered. ‘Ha!’ he cried, ‘the front at last. To the Allies!’ he grinned, ‘and to freedom!’
They all drank to that.
Volpe’s men were still on Monte Amato when they received a visit a few days later from Colonel Bianco and a British agent introduced as Prospero. It was evening, and sitting under the chestnut tree they could see for miles, across the Setta Valley to ridge after ridge of mountains, bathed in the last glow of sun.
‘Hard to believe there’s a war going on up here,’ said Prospero. Giorgio and Edward had joined them, as had Jock and Pepe. ‘This is a stunning view.’
‘The
whole area is beautiful,’ said Volpe. ‘The most beautiful part of Italy. We’re pretty well cut off from the rest of the country up here – always have been. For centuries this part of the world has been left to its own devices, and that’s how the mountain people would like it be again. They just want to be left alone, to a way of life that doesn’t involve fascists and Nazis or even partisans.’
‘That’s as maybe, but right now this stretch of mountains are of enormous strategic importance. I’m afraid they’re not going to be left alone – not until we’ve broken through the Gothic Line and got the Nazis on the run. Come on,’ Prospero said. ‘You and I and the Colonel need to talk.’
Volpe took them for a short walk away from the farm. Edward watched them from a distance. He saw Volpe gesticulate, then pace about pensively.
‘I wonder what they’re talking about,’ said Pepe.
‘We’ll know soon enough,’ said Giorgio.
‘Hopefully they’re going to drop more arms,’ said Edward.
Giorgio nodded in agreement. ‘Yes, let’s hope so.’
They watched Volpe embrace the Colonel and clasp hands with Prospero. For a few minutes he stood still, deep in thought as the two men set off back down the mountain. Behind him, the summit of Monte Amato glowed a deep and burnished orange as the sun began to set, and Volpe appeared to be framed by a strange luminescence, momentarily giving his silhouette an almost spectral appearance. Then slowly he turned and walked back towards them.
The British had promised them two more arms drops, Volpe told them as he rejoined them by the oak tree.
‘Where?’ asked Giorgio.
‘At the old site beneath Monte Luna.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ said Giorgio.
‘Yes – yes it is.’ Volpe paused for a moment and leant forward, hands together. ‘The Germans are in full retreat,’ he told them, ‘and the Allies are about to make an all-out effort to break the Gothic Line in the next couple of weeks. They’re expecting to be through before winter – as we hoped.’
‘Hope is one thing,’ said Jock, ‘reality another.’
A Pair of Silver Wings Page 39