A Pair of Silver Wings

by James Holland

  On arriving back at his house in Brampton Cary, he unpacked and took out the tin model Gino had made him and also the photograph of Carla that Christina had given him. It was of her sitting on the steps outside the hayloft at Pian del Castagna. ‘Carla – summer 1943’ had been written on the back. ‘I think it was taken at the Ferragosta the year before the rastrellamento,’ Christina had told him. In the picture, Carla was smiling, her bare arms hugging her legs. A wisp of hair had blown across her face, but the image was surprisingly clear. He had wept when Christina had given it to him, but now he smiled as he placed it on the side table by his armchair, next to the photograph of his wife, Cynthia, and the picture of him and Harry. He put the plane beside them.

  He sat in the chair for a moment, thinking. Rubbing his face, he felt the smooth top lip. Christina had said he looked more like the person he used to be without his moustache. And I feel more like the person I used to be, he thought to himself.

  That evening, he finally phoned his son.

  ‘Dad!’ said Simon. ‘I rang you last night. Where were you?’

  ‘Actually, I’ve been in Italy,’ said Edward. He couldn’t help smiling to himself.

  ‘Italy! My God! What were you doing there? Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I will tell you, I promise. I’ll tell you all about it. But listen, Simon, I was wondering, do you think we could meet up – soon, before Biggin Hill. Just the two of us? Would you come down here for a day or two?’

  ‘Er, ye-es. Of course. Dad, is everything all right?’

  ‘Perfectly all right. I’ll explain everything when I see you. Everything, I promise.’

  It was the end of August, the end of a hot summer. The playing fields of the school had been scorched a pale beige by the heatwave. In the countryside around Brampton Cary, the harvest had been cut and collected. Stacks of straw bales cast lengthening shadows across stubble fields.

  Edward and Simon walked along a track that led out of the town. Midges swarmed under the trees. The leaves were just beginning to turn: still green but with a hint of the russet they would become before long. Underfoot, the earth in the tractor grooves was cracked and dusty. The heat of the day had gone, but the evening was still warm.

  He spared his son nothing. He told him about his first attack off the Cornish coast, of the deaths he had seen on Malta – that erk’s ginger scalp, Chuck Cartwright burning to death in his Hurricane. He told him of the appalling conditions on Malta, of losing Harry; of his time with the partisans – Giorgio, Volpe, the death of Alfredo, Pepe’s attack in the cave. And he told him about Carla. He told him she had been the love of his life, and that not a day had gone by since when he had not thought of her. He spoke of the massacre – watching the Germans execute Carla and her family, and clasping her blood-soaked body.

  And he told Simon of his journey: how it had begun in the churchyard of Chilton; the trip to Cornwall and to Malta; his time with Lucky. He talked to him about Italy, about finding the place where the charcoal burner’s hut had been, revisiting the cemetery, his reunion with Christina and Giorgio.

  Christina had likened his grief to an albatross around his neck, and she had been right. As he talked, he felt the weight of his memories lift from him. Why? he thought. Why did I not do this earlier?

  When he had finished, they were sitting under a large horse chestnut, overlooking the town. The sun had almost set; the light was fading and the fresh smell of dew was heavy on the air. For a while Simon did not speak and Edward was happy not to goad him; it was, he knew, a lot for his son to digest.

  ‘I really had no idea – no idea at all,’ said Simon at last.

  ‘No, well, I never talked about it.’

  ‘And Carla, my God, Dad, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Yes, but if she’d survived then I would never have married your mother. I’d never have had you.’

  ‘That might not have been such a bad thing.’

  ‘Now who’s feeling sorry for themselves?’ He smiled. ‘Look, you must never think that. I know I’ve probably never said it, Simon, but I love you very much, you know. And I’m tremendously proud of you, too – for what you’ve achieved: the wonderful family you’ve created, the success you’ve made of your career.’

  ‘No, you haven’t ever said it. Not once.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Did you ever love Mum?’

  ‘Very much – you must believe that.’

  ‘But not with much passion.’

  ‘No – but Simon, this is what I’m trying to explain. Any passion I had was spent by the time I met your mother. But we had a good marriage. I loved her, and I miss her terribly. I mean that.’

  Simon was silent again, then said, ‘I don’t know, Dad. I don’t know what you want me to say. I mean, this is a lot to take in.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘But why did you never share this with us before?’

  ‘I’ve been asking myself the same question. I’ve been a fool. But Simon, you must understand, I came back from the war a broken man. What I saw – what I lost – it had a profound effect on me. I wish it had been otherwise, but it’s taken fifty years for me to mend the pieces. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’ve not been the father I should have been.’ They were silent again and then Edward said, ‘I want to make amends.’ He coughed. ‘I’m afraid I’m not very good at this sort of thing. But I’ve realised I’ve still got a lot to be thankful for; a lot to live for. I’m determined to make the most of what I’ve got left. The war has haunted me for so long, but it’s not going to any longer.’

  ‘Dad – I don’t know what to say. It’s just so –’

  ‘You don’t need to say anything. Look, I don’t expect this to suddenly put everything right between us, but I hope you’ll let me try – in time.’

  Simon nodded.

  ‘Perhaps one day you’ll let me take you to some of these places. To Malta and to Italy. With the family, of course. I’d love you to meet Lucky and Christina. And Giorgio.’

  ‘One step at a time, eh Dad?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Edward smiled. ‘Come on. Let’s go back home. There are some things I’d like to show you.’

  Simon turned to him and smiled. ‘All right, Dad. Let’s do that.’

  A Spitfire roared past, just fifty feet from the ground, then climbed and rolled, the pitch of the Merlin engine changing as it did so. Another hurtled past and then the two joined, one flying slightly behind the other. They climbed into the sky so that their wide elliptical wings were silhouetted against the sky, then they both peeled off and dived.

  ‘Absolutely wonderful,’ said Simon. ‘Don’t you think, Nicky?’

  Nicky nodded. ‘I think they’re amazing!’ He turned to Edward. ‘Grandad, I still can’t believe you flew those.’

  Edward smiled. ‘They are rather beautiful, I admit,’ he said. He briefly closed his eyes, listening to the whirr of the engines as they thundered over Biggin Hill. It was a sound so familiar, so distinct, reaching out to him once more from across the lost years of his life. He opened his eyes again, and watched the two aircraft as they danced and tumbled high above them. Are you up there? he wondered, staring at an infinite sky. They’d stopped haunting him – Carla, Harry, the many others; he’d not had a single bad dream since his return to England. Perhaps he would see them again one day, as Christina had suggested. One day, he thought, smiling to himself, but not just yet.

  Historical Note and Acknowledgements

  Although this is a work of fiction, the wartime parts of the book are based around real events, while the experiences of Edward later in life came about through conversations with a large number of Second World War veterans. The inspiration for the friendship between Edward and Harry came from when I was working on a history of the Siege of Malta. Raoul Daddo-Longlais and ‘Laddie’ Lucas were two young fighter pilots who became great friends. Laddie was older than Raoul, a brilliant amateur golfer and a sports writer for the Daily Express. They met a
t their Initial Training Wing at Cambridge, were sent to do their air training in Canada, then went to their Operational Training Unit together, and were finally both sent to join 66 Squadron at Perranporth in Cornwall. It was very unusual for two friends to stick together in such a way, though, as they proved, not impossible.

  Raoul’s logbook and part of a diary he kept are held at the RAF Museum at Hendon, but all his papers – the many letters, old school reports and other jottings – are owned by his niece, Zoë Thomas, who very kindly allowed me to use her uncle’s experiences as the template for Edward’s early flying career. In the interest of authenticity, I used Raoul’s logbook almost to the letter. Like Edward, Raoul was idealistic and impatient during the early days with the RAF, and he had a very low boredom threshold. Like Edward, he made an unauthorised flight over France, (although on his own), but rather than being hit by flak, was flying so low that he clipped a wing against a telegraph pole. How he survived, I have no idea. His Squadron Leader, Hubert ‘Dizzy’ Allen, was just twenty-two at the time, had newly taken over command of 66 Squadron (on which 324 Squadron is based) from Squadron Leader Athol Forbes, and was under huge pressure. Like Jimmy in the novel, ‘Dizzy’ Allen was not best pleased with the escapade.

  Perranporth remains as it is described in the book. It is one of the best-preserved RAF Fighter Command airfields in the country, with blast pens and a control tower (built later in the war) that are still there for all to see. Its position, perched high on the cliffs, is also extremely dramatic. The Droskyn Castle is also still there, as is the Tregenna Castle Hotel in St Ives.

  Like Edward and Harry, the real Raoul and Laddie volunteered for overseas service to escape the boredom of endless convoy patrols. They thought they were going to India but at the last minute were posted to Malta instead, which, at the time, had become the most bombed place on earth. One pilot newly arriving on the Island said that Malta made the Battle of Britain look like child’s play. It was the toughest posting in the world at the time for an RAF fighter pilot, and much of what is described in the book revolves around real events. 634 Squadron is loosely based on 249 Squadron, although the others mentioned were real enough. The statistics about the Hurricane 229 Squadron are true, as are the details about the various convoys, the bombing of Takali on 20th/21st March, 1942, and the details of the Spitfire arrivals. It is also true that within forty-eight hours of the arrival of the April Spitfires, only seven were left. The plan put into effect for the consignment arriving on May 10 – and the subsequent air battle – is also described pretty much as it happened. Wing Commander ‘Butch’ Hammond is based very loosely on Wing Commander ‘Jumbo’ Gracie. Air Vice Marshal Hugh Pughe Lloyd and Group Captain ‘Woody’ Woodhall, were, however, real people. Woodhall was brilliant, and there is no doubt that he and Gracie were the architects behind the great aerial victory of May 1942.

  Tragically, Raoul Daddo-Langlois was killed during the invasion of Sicily, while, unlike Harry Barclay, Laddie Lucas survived the war and went on to have a rich and varied career in sport, politics and as a writer. But at the time of his death, Raoul was certainly feeling pretty depressed, his youthful vitality crushed by the stress and strain of being a fighter pilot in one of the most intense theatres of the war. He was twenty-one when he died, and like Harry, his body was never recovered, although his fate is known. He is remembered on the RAF memorial outside Valletta, but a number of the people I have spoken to about the war comment on how difficult it is to grieve when the fate of a loved one is not known. ‘Missing, presumed dead,’ is the worst epitaph possible.

  The events in Italy also occurred pretty much as described. The Blue Brigade is based on the Stella Rossa, a partisan brigade operating very successfully in the mountains south of Bologna during the spring and summer of 1944. I have changed all the names because a number of the partisans are still alive, including Gianni Rossi, the second-in-command of the brigade; also I wanted to make it clear that while the book closely follows real events, it is fiction rather than fact. Not that I have been subtle: the real Monte Luna is called Monte Sole; Capriglia is Casaglia; Veggio is Vado; Mazzola is Marzabotto; Sant’Angelo is San Martino. The leader of the Stella Rossa was not La Volpe, but Il Lupo, although the real Lupo was just as charismatic. The problems faced by the contadini and the partisans were largely as described, as were many of the battles and incidents. For example, Gianni Rossi still has a scar on his forehead from where he was attacked by the spy Amedeo Arcioni (on which the attack by Pepe was based), and he was involved with capturing the details of the German fortifications along the Gothic Line. There was also a Scottish ex-POW who fought with the Stella Rossa – he was madly in love with Volpe’s sister.

  Tragically, the rastrellamento is also based on a real event. The description of the massacre at the cemetery came from an interview I had with Cornelia Paselli, who lost her mother and brother and sister in the attack. She survived because she was knocked unconscious from the blast of a grenade thrown before the machine-gunning began. Like Christina, she waited under a pile of bodies for over seven hours before making her escape. Like Christina, her magnanimity was truly astounding. Another person I interviewed, who had watched nine members of his family be executed, showed astonishing forgiveness. Francesco Pirini had been a teenager at the time, but a few years ago a film crew tried to arrange a meeting between him and one of the officers from the 16th SS Panzer Grenadier Division, which carried out the massacre. It came to nothing, but he assured me that had they met, he would have shaken his hand willingly. Not all survivors were quite so generous, but their reactions showed that there were different ways of coping and coming to terms with such an appalling tragedy.

  Eighteen hundred people were killed during three days, and the shadow of death does still hang over the ruined mountain villages of Monte Sole. Today, it is a beautiful but eerie place. Wreaths are also regularly placed in the cemetery and at other sites where the massacre took place.

  Unfortunately, these terrible events were played out elsewhere in Italy: in Rome, in Sant’Anna, in Varreggio; there were over 700 separate civilian massacres carried out on Field Marshal Kesselring’s direct orders, many more than in France. (There were also many more partisans operating in Italy than there were maquis in France.) The worst, like those on Monte Sole, were carried out under the direction of SS Major Walter Reder. After the war he was tried for war crimes and imprisoned for life by the Italians. Some years later he appealed, but the survivors overwhelmingly rejected his appeal.

  Field Marshal Kesselring was tried as a war criminal at Nuremberg. He was sentenced to death but this was commuted to life imprisonment. He was, however, released in 1952 and died eight years later. In other words, he got off.

  I have drawn on interviews and conversations with a number of people for this book, but would particularly like to thank the following: Ken Neill, DFC; Wing Commander Tom Neil, DFC and Bar, AFC, AE; Squadron Leader Geoff Wellum, DFC; Captain Tommy Thompson, DFC; Captain Tubby Crawford, DSC; Art Roscoe, DFC; Ray Ellis; Hector Benassi; Cornelia Paselli; Gianni Rossi; Gastone Sgargi; Carlo Venturi; and Francesco Pirini. In Malta the advice and knowledge of Frederick Galea, John Agius and Ray Polidano in particular, have been much appreciated. In Italy, I am also grateful to Anna Salerno at the Consorzio Di Gestione Parco Storico Di Monte Sole in Marzabotto. I have relied on a number of books but should give especially credit to the following: Fighter Squadron by Wing Commander Dizzy Allen, Silence on Monte Sole by Jack Olsen, Carlino by Stuart Hood, Rossano by Gordon Lett, and Love and War in the Apennines by Eric Newby.

  I would also like to especially thank Zoë Thomas for allowing me to draw on her uncle’s letters and papers.

  Grateful thanks to the following: Giles Bourne; Lalla Hitchings; Julia Waley; David Walsh; Patrick Walsh and everyone at Conville & Walsh; Susan Sandon, Georgina Hawtrey-Woore, Ron Beard, Emily Cullum and everyone at Heinemann and Arrow; my father, Martin Holland; and, most especially, to Rachel and Ned.

  This eboo
k is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Epub ISBN 9781446456842

  Version 1.0

  Published by Arrow Books 2007

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  Copyright © James Holland 2006

  James Holland has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  First published in Great Britain in 2006 by William Heinemann

  Arrow Books

  The Random House Group Limited

  20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, SW1V 2SA

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at:

  www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9780099436461