Volpe raised his hand to quieten him. ‘They’ve broken through Pistoia and are now at Porretta and Castiglione dei Pepoli. We could walk to the front in a morning. Look, I don’t need to tell you this – we’ve been listening to the guns for the past couple of days.’
‘And watching the skies,’ added Edward.
‘Exactly. We’ve seen how many planes have been flying over. Even Eduardo’s old squadron have probably been buzzing about here.’ He grinned at Edward, then said, ‘The Allies need our help now more than ever. They want us to make sure the Monte Luna area is completely secure. They cannot afford to let the Germans capture the high ground and hinder the Allied advance through the Setta and Reno Valleys.’
‘Surely Monte Luna is secure,’ said Edward.
‘No,’ said Volpe, ‘it’s secure whenever we’re there. Not when we move off again.’ He looked at them all again, nodding his head as he did so. ‘My friends, we’re going to move back to Monte Luna and stay there.’
Edward’s first reaction was one of relief. Carla, he thought. I can see Carla again.
Giorgio was incredulous, however. ‘What?’ he said. ‘All of us?’
‘Yes,’ said Volpe. ‘All of us. All four battalions.’
‘Isn’t that asking for trouble?’ he said. ‘The Germans will soon find out; we’ll never be able to keep twelve hundred men hidden for long. Our strength has always been our manoeuvrability. Our ability to hide.’
Volpe shrugged. ‘We’ve got more arms coming. There’s lots of us now, and the Germans are in disarray. And anyway, those are our orders.’
‘Christ, man,’ said Jock, shaking his head. ‘I wish I shared your optimism, but I tell you, I’ve heard all this before. They said this before Cassino. I tell you something, you can say what you like about the Jerries, but they know how to defend. The Gothic Line will be no easy nut to crack.’
‘Orders are orders,’ said Volpe again.
‘Well,’ said Jock, ‘you’re the boss.’
As promised, the two arms drops arrived. The first landed safely, but there was just one plane and only half a dozen canisters – Volpe had been promised four aircraft at least. On the second, German troops were ready and waiting and easily saw off the partisans who were there to collect the drop. Although only two men were killed, the Germans managed to capture all the canisters and escape back down the mountain before enough partisans could be roused to launch a counter-attack.
Headquarters was now a cave near the summit of Monte Torrone. They had heard the firing on the plain below – had known something must have gone wrong. The news had been confirmed soon after.
‘Shit,’ said Volpe, standing up and pacing by the edge of the cave. ‘We’ve got a spy amongst us.’
‘Or spies,’ said Giorgio.
‘Can’t we get a message to Colonel Bianco?’ suggested Edward. He was sitting on a rock by a small fire. Beyond, the sky was clear. Millions of stars twinkled benignly. ‘We could change the drop zone.’
‘Ah, maybe,’ he said, his hands on his hips.
Giorgio rolled a cigarette, sucked the end then spat. ‘Perhaps we could move for a few days. Ask Prospero.’
‘No,’ said Volpe. ‘Our orders are to stay here. We don’t know when the Allies might break through. We’ve got to be here, holding these mountains when they do. No, we must get some more arms. I want to know about any suspicious behaviour. Everyone needs to watch everyone else very carefully. We’ve been careless. Some treacherous little toad is tipping off the Germans, and I want to know who. No-one, and I mean no-one, is going to be allowed to join us now unless his story is absolutely watertight. All right? Any doubts, you know what to do.’ He passed a finger across his throat. ‘There’s too much at risk now.’ He ran his hands through his hair, then raised his arms to the sky in frustration.
Edward felt tired. He looked at Giorgio and Volpe. They were both unshaven and dirty, faces and hands smudged with grime, and looking worse in the flickering light of the fire. He was filthy himself. They all smelled: of sweat and piss and dirt. Moreover he was hungry; all of them were hungry. Tomorrow, he thought, I’ll go to the Pian del Castagna. There he could wash and clean himself, and see the Casalinis – and Carla. She had been his solace these past months. When he was with her, everything was tranquillo – a word for which there was no precise translation, but which, he felt, so perfectly described the calm serenity and gentleness she possessed. Unlike him or any of the partisans, Carla was somehow pure and unsullied. She reminded him that there was a life beyond the killing and maiming, the brutality and suspicion. To many of his comrades in arms he had both a deep attachment and sense of commitment: to Giorgio, Bruno, and Pietro; to Volpe too, and Jock, and even Billy. The camaraderie was as intense as in any fighter squadron. And he grieved for Alfredo as he had for so many friends in the RAF. But Carla was the person who occupied most of his thoughts. Time and again, he imagined the life they would live together after the war, and it filled him with hope and lifted his spirits. Everything that had happened to him, and everything that was to be endured in the weeks and even months ahead, would be worth it with that promise in mind.
He yawned, then so did Giorgio. ‘You’re tired,’ said Volpe. ‘You two get some sleep. I’ll take first watch.’
‘All right, thanks,’ said Edward. ‘Wake me in a few hours and I’ll take over.’
He took a blanket and settled down next to Pepe, who looked at him drowsily. ‘Night, Pepe,’ he said, and pulled the rough wool over his shoulders, so that it rubbed roughly against his cheek. The cave was dry, and the air warm from the fire and smelling sweetly of woodsmoke. Edward was asleep in minutes.
He was woken by a cry. For a brief moment he lay there, eyes open, wondering what was going on, then he heard Volpe say, ‘For God’s sake, what are you doing?’ followed by the groans and the strains of men fighting. Flinging back his blanket, he saw Volpe and another man grappling with a bayonet near the mouth of the cave, silhouetted against the starlit sky.
‘For God’s sake, get him off me!’ yelled Volpe.
Giorgio was also now awake and lunged at the man. Volpe fell away, clutching his arm, as Giorgio and the other man rolled onto the floor of the cave. The fire was out and the cave dark. Edward couldn’t see what was happening, or tell who was who, so he hastily lit a match, saw a bayonet lowering onto Giorgio’s forehead, then grabbed the man’s arms and yanked him backwards. As he did so, the man yelled in anger and Giorgio, blood streaming down his face, rose and punched the man first in the stomach and then the face.
The man gasped and Edward felt him collapse, unconscious. ‘Jesus Christ!’ said Edward, holding onto the man’s arms and shoving him roughly face-first to the ground. Jumping on his back, Edward shouted, ‘Someone light a candle, quickly.’ Pulling off his scarf, he frantically began binding the man’s hands.
Another match was struck and then a candle. In the dim, flickering light, Edward turned the unconscious man over. ‘My God,’ he said, ‘Pepe.’
‘Pepe,’ repeated Giorgio breathlessly. ‘Volpe, are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ said Volpe weakly. ‘But he got me in the arm. Giorgio, what happened to you?’
‘It’s nothing,’ he said, dabbing at his forehead and looking at the blood on his fingers. ‘Just pierced the skin.’
‘We need to get Dr Gandolfi up here,’ said Edward, then looked down again at Pepe. ‘Pepe, I can’t believe it.’
‘Nor me,’ said Volpe.
‘We knew very little about him,’ said Giorgio. ‘I’ve always felt you’ve been too trusting with him.’
Pepe groaned and Giorgio grabbed him by his shirt and shoved him against the side of the wall. ‘Pepe!’ he shouted, ‘Wake up!’ Pepe rolled his head and opened his eyes. For a moment he struggled to focus then suddenly his eyes widened with fear. Volpe stood over him, clutching his arm.
‘Why?’ he said. ‘Why, Pepe? How could you side with those people?’
‘There’s a lot of m
oney on your head,’ he stammered. ‘My family are starving.’
Volpe turned away. ‘Giorgio,’ he said, ‘do it.’
Giorgio lifted Pepe up onto his feet.
‘No!’ said Pepe, as Volpe passed Giorgio a revolver. ‘No, please, don’t kill me! Please, Volpe, please!’
Volpe looked at him and lifted his good hand to Pepe’s face. ‘Please, Volpe, please,’ Pepe cried.
‘I’m sorry, Pepe, I truly am. I liked you, you know. But you know I can’t let you go.’
Giorgio took Pepe to the edge of the cave. Edward turned away. He felt sick, both physically and in mind. The night was still except for Pepe’s whimpering and muffled pleas for mercy. Edward closed his eyes and flinched as the single shot cracked and echoed around the mountains.
A long night, even for a partisan. The bayonet had gone clean through Volpe’s forearm as he’d tried to defend himself; it was only by chance that he had turned his head as Pepe was about to plunge the blade into his back. Giorgio’s wound was less severe, but both were bleeding profusely and unable to stem the flow. ‘I’ll go and get Dr Gandolfi,’ Edward had offered. Waking Pietro, the two of them had then hurried down the mountain to Saragano.
They roused the doctor, who wearily dressed, and then together they hurried back up the mountain. ‘You did well to get me,’ said the doctor on seeing both men. ‘These wounds need stitches and dressing right away.’ He gave Volpe a stick. ‘Put this in your mouth,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid this is going to hurt.’ Pietro and Edward held him down as the doctor began stitching his arm. Volpe’s eyes looked wild with pain, and the veins on his neck strained and pulsed. ‘Nearly done,’ said the doctor, ‘keep still now.’
In the early hours of the morning, Edward accompanied the doctor back down the slopes. ‘I’m going to Pian del Castagna,’ he had told Volpe and Giorgio.
‘Give Carla a kiss from me,’ Giorgio had said, winking. The first pinks of dawn were rising in the east. As they stumbled down Monte Torrone, they saw the Setta Valley shrouded in a deep mist. The first rays of sun crept over the mountain ridges, then spread slowly and soothingly across towards them, so that Monte Luna glowed and the sky turned to gold. Birds began to sing, and a deer paused then darted away from them. They tramped around the edge of the field where Carla had first found him then joined the mountain stream that led into Saragano. It bubbled gently. The air was still cold, but sweetly fresh. There was mist over the Reno Valley too.
‘You can leave me here,’ said the doctor. ‘Go on to the Casalinis. Honestly.’
Edward thanked him and made his way back towards the main track, walking through dew-sodden grass that soaked not only his boots but his trousers as well. Thousands of cobwebs, silver with moisture, shone in the dawn sun. Looking at his watch, he realised it would still be some time before Carla arrived at the farm. He was desperate to see her. The hour or more he would have to wait suddenly seemed like an eternity.
Orfeo was standing in the yard stretching as Edward reached the farm. The dog barked and Orfeo turned and waved.
‘Ah, Eduardo,’ he said, grinning, ‘what a pleasant surprise. How are things?’
‘Not too bad. But I could do with a clean-up.’
‘You look like you could do with a sleep.’
‘That too.’
‘Well, Carla will be pleased to see you. Come in. Have some coffee with us.’
They were all there: the old man, Eleva, Nella and Rosa. What was the news, they wanted to know. Were the Allies really coming this time? They’d heard the guns in the distance. Edward told them what he could. ‘We’ve just got to hope for a quick breakthrough,’ he told them. ‘They’ve reached Castiglione, you know.’
‘And how is Bruno?’ Eleva asked. Edward had stopped at Pian del Castagna after Alfredo had been killed; Eleva had given Bruno wine and an old chestnut liqueur she had kept hidden. ‘Drink it,’ she had told him kindly, ‘it’ll calm you down.’
‘Oh, he’s heartbroken,’ Edward told her now. ‘But he’s being brave. He’s a good fellow. I think it’s made him even more determined to carry on the fight.’
After the acorn coffee, he washed by the well, shaved using one of Orfeo’s razors, and borrowed one of Orfeo’s shirts. Then he went over to the hayloft to rest. The familiar smell of straw and dust, and cow dung; the warmth rising up from the bodies of the oxen beneath him, and their occasional and gentle lowing; they were comforting. I feel at home here, he thought, then his mind wandered to his real home, in Chilton, and he thought about his mother and father, picturing them sitting in the drawing room drinking tea; his father cross-legged in his armchair reading The Times; his mother perched on the edge of the sofa doing her needlepoint. Sitting in amicable silence. He wondered whether they knew he was safe, and what they would think if they could see him now. His mother was no countrywoman. ‘Darling, all that mud and muck – it’s just so ghastly.’ The thought made him smile.
When he awoke, he saw Carla’s face just inches from his, and for a moment thought he must be still dreaming.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Carla. Darling.’
She kissed him. ‘What were you doing last night? Uncle Orfeo said you came down here at dawn.’
‘A bad night. Tell me how you’ve been?’
She reached over and leaned on his chest. ‘No,’ she said gently, ‘first I want you to tell me what has happened. Please, Eduardo. How can I say the right things if I don’t know what happened?’
Edward looked at her. He’d decided earlier not to speak about Pepe, but now he wanted to, as though he were at confession, whispering through the grille. He wanted to unburden himself, to talk to someone other than Giorgio and Volpe. She lay with her head on his chest as he talked. With one hand, he absent-mindedly stroked her hair. ‘It was terrible. I hated to see him shot, but Volpe had no choice. I still can’t believe it. I liked Pepe – we all did, I think, except maybe Giorgio.’ He sighed. ‘When I think of what I’ve seen in this war . . . do you think one can teach oneself to forget?’
‘Perhaps if you have enough distractions,’ she said.
He smiled. ‘What have you in mind?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. A demanding wife, naughty children . . .’
Edward laughed. ‘Yes, that ought to help.’
She kissed him again then said, ‘You’ve gone solemn again. What is it?’
‘I was just thinking that I’m nearly twenty-three. I hadn’t expected to feel so old.’
She ran her hand across his cheek, then a finger along his eyebrows and over his eyelids. ‘The Allies will be here soon. You’ll see.’
Tuesday, 15th August. Ferragosta, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. By eight o’clock in the morning, Father Umberto had reached the cave on Monte Torrone. He paused to talk with Volpe and some of the other partisans and then he led those that wanted to celebrate Mass to the very top of the mountain. There were hundreds there: nearly all those from the headquarters company, and most from the Falcon Battalion who were living on and around the mountain. Edward went too, walking with Bruno and Pietro as they picked their way through the trees.
It was another clear day with not a breath of wind. Father Umberto, small trails of sweat running down from his temples, began the makeshift service. His hands aloft, he gave thanks to God and to Jesus, and prayed for the quick arrival of the Allies and for the souls of those who had already given their lives ‘in the cause of freedom’. Next to Edward, Bruno covered his eyes with his hands. His shoulders gently shook. I know Bruno, thought Edward, it’s a terrible thing to lose your best friend.
Few feast days were as important as this one, Carla had explained to him. In normal years, it was like Christmas and Easter, families coming together for Mass at Capriglia followed by a huge party. No matter how hard the year had been, food and wine was always put aside for the Ferragosta above all others. It was also a tradition to invite friends, the priest, and anyone who had helped them out at some point during the year. Fa
ther Umberto was never so well fed as he was on 15th August, when, as the guest of every family in his parish, he staggered from one party to another. Ferragosta, Carla had told him, was her favourite day of the whole year.
Edward watched the men lining up to drink the wine and eat the bread. 15th August was a special day for the Maltese, too: the Feast of Santa Maria. He had still been on leave when he’d heard the news that the convoy had reached the island. The oil tanker, the ship the island needed above all, had inched its way into Grand Harbour on 15th August. He could imagine what the Maltese had said about that: a miracle, a sign from God. And yet, they’d been fighting the Italians as well as the Germans then. Could God be on both sides? He knew how Father Umberto would answer: God does not take sides; God favours the righteous. 15th August used to be a special day for Edward too. It was his birthday.
Afterwards, Father Umberto hurried back down the mountain to give his second service of the day at the church in Capriglia. Edward watched him scuttle down through the trees, looking at his watch, then thought about the Casalinis. They would be attending Mass – Carla’s family too – and then afterwards they would all go back to the Pian del Castagna. ‘It won’t be much of a party this year,’ Carla had told him, ‘but a family get-together all the same.’ Edward was going to join them. He’d been praying he would be able to, ever since Carla had mentioned it a week before: Monte Luna was blissfully quiet.
There had been little partisan activity at all since they had returned to Monte Luna. The Germans were preoccupied at the front, while the worrying lack of arms meant offensive operations had ground to a halt. Instead, Volpe had insisted they kept the men occupied with training, by building defence posts in the mountains, by practising their signals and keeping a lookout for any signs of trouble. ‘We must keep them busy,’ he had said repeatedly. ‘When young men become hungry and bored there’s trouble.’
But Edward could be excused on Ferragosta. ‘I’m granting you a day’s leave,’ Volpe grinned. He put an arm around Edward’s shoulder. ‘I envy you,’ he said. ‘You’re a lucky man. Now go to Carla and her family. We know where to find you if we need you. And make sure you give my regards to the Casalinis. They’re good people.’
A Pair of Silver Wings Page 40