25th September. Grey skies marked the end of summer. By mid-morning it was raining. From the farmhouse at Cà Serra, a kilometre south of Sant’Angelo, Edward stood with Giorgio in the main doorway, watching the rain falling over the Setta Valley and wondering what the Germans were planning.
Perched high on a rocky outcrop, the farmhouse itself looked down upon a number of barns and outbuildings clustered around a courtyard below. Crumbling stone steps led from the courtyard to the house, behind which stood a further stone hayloft and a terraced olive grove that led to more woods. Over thirty partisans were living there, alongside forty contadini and their relations from the valleys. They had become quite a little community. In one of the barns beneath them, Edward could hear some of the children playing football with a number of the younger partisans. The previous evening he’d been crossing the yard when three young boys had run towards him with their arms outstretched, pretending to be aeroplanes. ‘Il Pilote, il Pilote!’ they had shouted; he wasn’t known only as Eduardo. Remembering this, he smiled. He supposed it must be exciting for the children, living side by side with these mountain fighters with their rifles, blue scarves and their swagger. But for the women – the mothers – it was very different. They eyed him with suspicion, fear even. They blame us for this, he thought. He wished he could offer them some solace, some words of comfort, but he knew it would do no good: they were hungry, they’d been uprooted from their homes; and they feared for the safety of their husbands and children. There was nothing he could say that would make them feel better. But it will be over soon, he thought. Soon the Allies will be here.
Edward ducked his head as a cold, wet, drop of rain fell down his neck. He looked out again at the cloud-shrouded mountains. The expectation of violence and menace seemed to have charged the air he breathed; he could sense it distinctly. That sense of dread – he couldn’t shake it off. He tapped the edge of the doorway, looked at Giorgio as he rolled an ersatz cigarette, then retreated indoors.
Six o’clock in the evening. Outside, the rain continued to pour. The dust in the courtyard, after a long dry summer, had already turned to thick mud. Inside the house, however, it was warm and dry – the warmth coming not only from the fire, but also from the dozen men that were gathered there: the battalion commanders and the core of the brigade headquarters. They were, Edward reflected, an assorted bunch: a South African, another Englishman, a Mongolian, and a Serb; an intellectual, a thief, and a former Italian army officer. Edward stood next to Volpe and Giorgio, looking at them, while they waited for the last man to arrive. In the centre was the South African, Pat Hillmann – tall, arms folded, legs apart; in the corner on a chair sat Balbi, sharpening a stick with a flick knife. Karkov, the Mongol, leant against the wall, biting his fingers. No-one said much – just the occasional low murmur. Edward wondered what they were all thinking; whether they felt the very palpable sense of mounting tension as he did.
The latch on the door clicked open and Bossano, a former army captain, and now Eagle Battalion commander, walked in.
‘Sorry to keep you,’ he said, taking off his jacket.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Volpe, ‘you haven’t.’ He glanced around the room to check that everyone was listening, then said, ‘I’ve called you all here because of the rumours about a new rastrellamento. They may or may not prove to be true, but don’t forget this is not the first time we’ve been threatened with one. And we’ll do what we’ve done before. We’ll increase the number of lookouts – I want every possible route up the mountains covered. The rest of us will spread out around the main peaks. If there are too many of them, or if we run short of ammunition, we’ll simply retreat to the emergency zones: Zone X on the summit of Monte Luna and Zone Y on top of Monte Torrone. The Germans have never stayed up here overnight and I don’t suppose they’re about to start, so when darkness falls we can slip away to the south – if necessary, and depending on the situation, to the Allied lines.’
‘What about the mountain people?’ asked Edward.
‘We’ll tell the men to do the same: at the first sign of trouble they’re to climb to the top of Monte Luna. The women and children will probably be safe, but I suggest we tell them to head for the churches of Sant’Angelo and Capriglia. Get the word out right away.’
‘I still think we need to spread ourselves wider,’ said Bossano. ‘We’re sitting ducks here, no matter what you say.’
‘There’s nothing we can do about that,’ said Volpe. ‘The Allies have ordered us to stay here. Orders are orders.’
‘But we’re a partisan band. We can do what we like,’ argued Bossano.
‘Bossano’s got a point, Volpe,’ said Balbi. ‘Why should we listen to them?’
‘Do you think we’ll get any more arms if we start going against their direct orders? And how do you think they will look upon us when they get here if we start going against their wishes? No, we must do as they say.’ For a moment he stared at Balbi, daring him to speak out again. Edward saw Balbi glance at Bossano, but he kept his mouth shut. There were no more dissenting voices. So Volpe’s authority remains unchallenged, thought Edward.
Volpe held up his hands – a conciliatory gesture. ‘Look, this is a contingency plan only. Our war here is almost over. The Germans are on the run. It’ll all be over for them before they ever have a chance to attack us up here. So go back to your battalions feeling confident. Victory is just around the corner.’
If the others doubted his word, no-one said. Some of the men laughed and joked as they left the farmhouse. Most seemed more concerned about the weather than any rastrellamento.
A few days, thought Edward as he sat down on a chair by the fire. Could it really be so soon? I hope you’re right, Volpe, he thought. I hope to God you’re right.
Dawn, 26th September. Edward was woken by a man standing in the courtyard shouting, ‘It’s over! The Germans are on the run! The retreat has begun!’ Excitement quickly rippled through Cà Serra; it was just as Volpe had promised.
Later, as they moved their headquarters back to Cà di Maggio, there was further confirmation of the retreat. Dr Gandolfi, on his rounds from Saragano, told them that he’d seen troops pouring back along the Reno Valley in what appeared to be disorganised panic. Several former fascists, working as spies for the partisans, reached Cà di Maggio with news that the Germans were retreating at every point along the front.
Volpe ordered his men to carry out small harassing attacks. ‘Nothing much,’ he told them, ‘just snipe at them as they retreat. Make their lives even more uncomfortable.’
For a couple of days it appeared his confidence had been entirely justified.
28th September. Some time in the night, Pietro had gone. When Bruno told him, early in the morning, Edward felt stunned. He couldn’t believe it. ‘Maybe he’s gone to be with his girlfriend,’ said Bruno.
‘Maybe,’ said Edward, but neither of them believed it.
The news had a bad effect on everyone at the headquarters, especially as there was still no sign of the Allies. Expectations had been so high, but were now quickly deflated. Pietro’s disappearance added to the rapidly lowering morale. He had been popular; few had doubted his story about the girlfriend in Veggio. But to disappear twice – it was a betrayal, a cruel betrayal. The sense of intense disappointment hurt Edward deeply.
The rain continued. In the afternoon, Edward led a small patrol down towards the Reno, through the woods near Saragano. As the rain dripped off the leaves and down the back of their necks, they watched a large column of Germans trucks, tanks and guns that were halted on the main valley road. Men were standing about, in no apparent hurry.
Crouching, Jock came alongside Edward. ‘Here,’ he said, passing a pair of battered field glasses, ‘have a look through these.’
The column was larger than Edward had at first appreciated, and through his binoculars he now saw more men, and more equipment, down by the river. He fixed his gaze on a grey lorry. A handful of soldiers were talking and smoking toge
ther. ‘They’re laughing,’ said Edward softly.
‘Aye, it’s a fucking right laugh this retreat.’
Edward passed the binoculars back. ‘Doesn’t look much like a retreat to me.’
‘No,’ said Jock. ‘Looks like the best part of a whole fucking division gathering for action.’
‘How many’s that?’
Jock grimaced. ‘Thousands, boss. Thousands. Look, they’re unloading their equipment. They’re preparing to fucking attack.’
‘It certainly looks like it,’ Edward admitted. Jesus, he thought. We’re done for. What were they but a rabble of ill-equipped guerrillas? What hope did they have, concentrated as they were in the mountains above, against overwhelming numbers of trained and properly equipped German troops? Edward looked at his hands: they were shaking. He felt hollow inside, and nauseous as bile churned his stomach.
‘And I’ll tell you another thing,’ said Jock, ‘this rain’s not helping. The Allies will want to break the Gothic Line before winter. Looks to me like they’ve left it just a tad too late.’
They tramped back up the mountain without having fired a shot. The paths had turned to mud – thick, syrupy mud that clung to their boots and made their legs heavy. Edward led them via the Pian del Castagna. ‘Wait for me here a moment,’ he told them, leaving them in the barn next to the oxen. He wanted to see Orfeo and Federico, to make sure they knew exactly what to do should the Germans launch a rastrellamento.
He found them in the kitchen – most of the family were there; in this weather there was little they could do outside. They listened to him carefully, Orfeo stroking his chin thoughtfully. The others looked worried and, Edward thought, understandably frightened. He wished he had brought better news – words of comfort, that the rumours of retreat were true, and that the Allies had broken through at last. He hated telling them to prepare for the worst; that because of the actions of the partisans, Orfeo and Federico might have to go into hiding to escape the wrath of the Germans; that Pian del Castagna might no longer be safe.
When he had finished, Carla followed him to the door. ‘Be careful, my darling,’ she said to him.
‘You too.’
She passed a hand across his face.
As Edward and the others headed off out of the yard, he looked back and saw her standing there in the rain. He waved, and watched her step back inside. On the path, tiny rivulets of water were already hurrying down the slope. Above, the sky looked even darker.
‘A storm’s coming,’ said Jock by his side. ‘A huge great fucking storm, so help us God.’
Italy – September, 1944
29th September. The previous evening, the headquarters had moved yet again, back to Cà Serra. The storm had arrived, and the men tramped through streams of mud in a deluge of rain. Edward had stayed up late, sitting with Volpe, Giorgio and a few others, huddled round the fire, drinking rough wine and trying to dry their sodden clothes.
He slept badly. In the early hours of the morning, the temperature suddenly dropped. He hugged his blanket around him, but he could not get rid of the cold. His mouth also felt dry from too much wine. As the very first hint of dawn crept over the house he lay awake, listening to the gentle snoring of the men around him and thinking, wondering about Carla and wishing he could be lying next to her. He got up to pee, then, with his blanket still around his shoulders, he stretched and looked out of the window. The rain had stopped at last, but the mountains had become thick with low cloud. He could barely see the far side of the farm.
A shot rang out, startling him, then another. Someone ran into the yard, emerging through the mist. It was Enrico.
‘Enrico!’ Edward yelled, ‘What’s going on?’
‘Germans!’ he shouted back. ‘Germans everywhere! Quick!’
‘What’s that?’ said Giorgio sleepily, sitting up and scratching his head.
Christ, thought Edward. His chest pounded. ‘Germans,’ said Edward, then more urgently, ‘Come on! Everyone, get up now!’ He looked for his boots – found them, but fumbling fingers struggled with the laces. Grabbing his rifle and pistol, he hurried downstairs. Germans soldiers were entering the yard. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered. His breathing was quickening, his chest tight. He crouched beside a window then moved into the frame briefly, fired a couple of shots and hurried to the back of the house just as Giorgio, Jock and Billy appeared. More shots rang out, pinging against the walls of the farmhouse and through the window. Plaster spattered over them and a pewter plate was hit, clattering loudly to the ground. They could smell burning from outside, and shouting – some from panicking Italians, others in German.
‘Fucking hell!’ muttered Jock as they headed for the back of the house.
‘Where’s Volpe?’ asked Giorgio.
‘Here,’ said a voice from behind them in the kitchen.
‘Come on!’ said Jock. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’ Together they stood either side of the back door, then Jock kicked it open and waited a moment. There were no shots or burst of fire, so he plunged out into the mist, the others following.
‘Head for the barn!’ yelled Volpe. It was just thirty yards away, but now bullets started ripping into the ground all around them. Edward felt one whistle past his ear, then heard Volpe cry out. Edward stopped, even though he knew it was madness to do so. Volpe was on the ground, but Edward grabbed his arm, heaved him up, then saw that Jock was by his side too.
They reached the barn, Edward wondering how yet again he’d remained unscathed. Why? he thought as they laid Volpe down on the straw. He’d been hit in the leg, and was bleeding badly. The colour had drained from his face.
Crouching and huddled around the door and windows, partisans were swinging themselves into view and firing frantically and blindly, before taking cover once more. Giorgio stood in the doorway and hurled a grenade. ‘Get out,’ said Volpe. ‘Get out the back. Make a run for the trees.’
‘We’re not leaving you,’ shouted Giorgio.
‘Listen to me,’ Billy said as he crouched next to Volpe. ‘Jock and I will cover you, while Eduardo and Giorgio carry you out the back. How far is it to the woods? Forty yards? In this mist you’ve got a good chance.’
‘There’s no time for debate,’ said Jock. ‘They’ll be here in a few minutes.’ A sudden burst of light glowed through the mist as one of the haylofts caught fire. Men and women were screaming. A partisan suddenly collapsed onto the floor beside them, half his face shot away. My God, thought Edward, it’s Pico.
‘Go!’ shouted Jock.
They lifted Volpe, his head lolling from side to side. ‘Ready?’ said Giorgio. Edward nodded. His mind had numbed; he could barely hear Giorgio. He felt as though he were looking down on himself, watching the scene unfold. The intense fear he had felt just moments before had left him. He was clutching Volpe’s arm and they were pounding through the grass, weaving between the olive trees. At one point, Volpe’s legs caught on a tuft of grass, but they dragged him onwards, the woods drawing closer and closer. He glanced at Giorgio who was mouthing words he could not hear. Suddenly Volpe’s head snapped forward and a shower of blood arced in front of him. Giorgio dropped Volpe’s arm, shouted at Edward, and leaving Volpe face down in the grass they sprinted the last remaining yards, diving to safety as more bullets smacked into the trees around them.
Edward clutched his head for a moment, his senses returning sharply. Gasping, he peered from behind a chestnut. Ill-defined shapes were moving towards them, faceless like spectres. They can’t see us, he thought, then emerging into the clear he saw Billy and Jock running towards them.
‘We’ve got to keep going,’ said Giorgio beside him. ‘Eduardo, we’ve got to head for the mountain.’ Edward looked at him. Giorgio’s face was spattered with blood. Jock was now beside them, panting and gasping for breath. ‘They got Billy,’ he said. ‘Volpe?’
Giorgio shook his head.
‘Shit!’ cursed Jock.
Edward turned again and saw two men creep forward until their featu
res sharpened.
‘Pietro,’ he said, barely believing his eyes. ‘It’s Pietro.’
‘The bastard,’ said Giorgio, but Edward had already lifted his rifle to his shoulder.
‘Don’t,’ said Jock. ‘You’ll give us away.’
‘Too bad,’ said Edward; he knew even he could not miss from that range. He fired, three times in quick succession. At least one of his shots hit Pietro, who spun and fell to the ground as another fusillade of fire ripped into the trees around them. Then Edward was running, his face stinging as branches whipped back and hit him, and as thorns caught his hands and trousers. He could hear heavy panting and realised it was his own laboured breathing as he ran blindly up the mountainside.
As he finally cleared the trees on the high plain near Sant’Angelo, he found Giorgio and Jock pausing as they struggled for breath. The mist was beginning to disperse, the sky lightening. Grimacing with the pain across his chest, Edward glanced at his watch. It was just after six in the morning. They could see the flames and thick black smoke pitching into the sky, not only from Cà Serra, but from a number of other farms and settlements on the lower slopes.
‘My God,’ said Edward, ‘they really are going to torch everything.’ His mind suddenly turned to Carla and the Casalinis. ‘I’ve got to warn them,’ he muttered, and began running again, towards the mountain path between Sant’Angelo and Capriglia.
‘Wait!’ shouted Giorgio. ‘Wait, Eduardo!’
Edward stopped and turned to face him. ‘Go if you have to,’ said Giorgio, ‘but then head to the top of Monte Luna. OK?’
A Pair of Silver Wings Page 42