Bitter Harvest

by Ian Smith

  I pulled the rip cord immediately, but no sooner had the parachute opened than I landed on the side of a mountain and bounced a few times before coming to a stop alongside a passing bush. My immediate objective was to distance myself as far as possible from that position, in case anyone in the surrounding countryside had witnessed my drop. Eventually I saw a thicket of bushes and made for it, thinking it would be a suitable place of refuge. After resting there for a while to regain my breath and survey the scene, I came to the conclusion that this was so obviously the best place in the vicinity to obscure myself that it would attract attention for precisely that reason. So I moved further up the mountain to an inconspicuous bush, similar to others in the area, and found that it offered ample cover when I lay down and sheltered in it. I took off my Mae West, as the sun was hot, and then did another recce to assure myself that this was the best position from which to await further developments.

  Suddenly a man in civilian clothes appeared on the scene near the point where I had landed, and, as he walked, he waved and beckoned, obviously trying to attract my attention. I lay low, not knowing whether it was a genuine offer of help or a trap. A little later a young boy with his flock of sheep moved past, but did not notice me.

  Things were quiet for about an hour until a gang of Germans with a tracker dog appeared. Fortunately they had not located the parachute, and as the sheep had crossed my tracks there was no response from the dog. They shouted into the large thicket I had first selected for cover, and with obvious frustration raked it with a burst of automatic fire and then moved on.

  With the setting of the sun it gradually grew colder. We had been told that most of the rural people were friendly, and realising that sooner or later I would have to make contact, I came to the conclusion that there was no point in further delay. When the young shepherd passed back with his sheep I therefore emerged from my cover and approached him. He was surprisingly composed, and took me around and down the mountain until we could see a house across the valley below us and could hear someone chopping wood. Using sign language, he told me to sit and wait. After a short while he returned with his big brother, a tall gangling chap, most friendly, and they led me down to the house. There I was introduced to the mother, a well-built lady with a pleasant smile, and to the third son. Then I was taken into a bedroom to be presented to the father, obviously a sick man. A good meal of minestrone and bread followed, and then a surprisingly comfortable first night indoors.

  Next morning the mother took me about half a mile away to a small recess in the mountainside, well obscured by the undergrowth. Her explanation made it clear that this was a precaution against a German search — a wise one, because over the next few days the Germans returned repeatedly to question her. She left me with a blanket in what was to be my home for the next few days. She came back twice a day with her basket, in which one could see the chestnuts she was collecting, and when she removed these with the cloth which was underneath them, there was food for me.

  Once the coast was clear I lived a reasonably normal life in her home, observing sensible precautions. The local partisani (resistance movement) had an efficient system of communication if the Germans were moving in the area. Moreover, we were located in Valescura (obscure valley), well named as we were certainly far removed from the beaten track. I kept fit by constant walking — indeed mountain climbing — collecting chestnuts (castania) and mushrooms (fungi), doing my exercises each day, and chopping wood for the fire and bread oven. My hostess was concerned that I was doing this as compensation for my keep, but after a while I managed to convince her to the contrary — I hope! My adopted family, Zunino by name, went out of their way to accommodate me and, considering they were a peasant farming family, certainly did me proud.

  One of my main preoccupations was learning the Italian language, as this would be most important for my return through the lines, something which was constantly in the forefront of my mind. Fortunately, an English Captain Davis from the nearby village of Olba presently contacted me. He was one of those who had escaped in a breakout from a nearby POW camp. He had been offered shelter by Jannie and Nini Pesce in the mountain retreat they used to get away from their business in Genoa. They were a very fine couple, with positive pro-British and anti-Nazi sentiments, and subsequently I visited them on many occasions in their lovely home. They were happy to offer me an English–Italian dictionary and a Complete Works of Shakespeare. I could not have wished for anything more. Moreover, whenever I was in their company I would receive a few lessons in basic Italian grammar.

  After about a month, the commandante of one of the local partisani regiments arrived, an imposing character sporting a handsome beard, an automatic under his arm, a bandolier full of ammo, and a string of hand grenades around his belt. He had come to enquire about my wellbeing and to see if there was anything he could do. Fortunately he had a sufficient working knowledge of English for us to be able to communicate. After a full discussion it was decided that I should accompany him back to his headquarters, and I also obtained from him an undertaking to assist me in returning to the Allied lines.

  My rank? Captain, I replied. He declared very firmly that he would promote me to a major forthwith. From that moment I was introduced to everyone as the Englasie majore pilote. The quickest and neatest promotion I had ever received, and it soon became clear to me that my elevation had the effect of enhancing my Commandante’s prestige. After all, none of the other regiments in the area could boast an Englasie pilote and a majore to boot.

  It was an interesting change of life, and most stimulating to participate in the discussions and planning. We lived well on good food and wine, had clothes made from captured winnings (ambushes), haircuts from the communal barber, and on a few occasions drove around in an old Fiat.

  We were based in the village of Moretti. I was given accommodation by Dr Prando and his charming family in their fine residence, his retreat from his practice in Genoa. There was a second regiment based in the village under Commandante Mingo, an outstanding man who had been an engineer in the Italian army before defecting to join the resistance movement. Instead of carrying a gun, he walked around with a small brass tipped cane in his hand, his only protection being about half a dozen hand grenades on his belt. On the outskirts of the village was a magnificent house owned by a man who was in the poultry and egg business, who had obviously made a lot of money. Living with him was a colonel who had been invalided from the army with a heart problem. According to Mingo, the colonel was a brilliant man, the youngest to have reached such a position in the Italian army. He also had defected to the resistance movement, not in an active capacity, but to give moral support and advice. Mingo and I often dropped in for a discussion, always stimulating, and an occasional game of bridge.

  Sadly, there were times when some of our boys were killed, fortunately infrequently. Tragically, one weekend while I was away visiting the Pesces, the Germans attacked the village with two armoured carriers and a truck-load of troops. Instead of disappearing into the surrounding country with the other partisans, Mingo decided to stand his ground and confront them. He put up a most courageous performance and succeeded in eliminating three Germans, but once his grenades ran out, there was nothing more he could do. He was killed. Before departing, the Germans conceded to the local populace his great bravery and handed over his body for them to bury with dignity. The egg baron’s beautiful home was burnt to the ground — they had obviously received information on him. The local partisani had the consolation of knowing that it was because of their successes in ambushing and harassing Germans in the area that the attack had taken place. Far from reducing operations, their efforts were immediately redoubled, and as a result the Germans decided to pull out of Sasello, a nearby town from which they operated.

  Accordingly, a great victory parade through the streets of the town was laid on, with flags flying and bugles sounding, accompanied by much cheering and waving from the locals. Early next morning Nino and a few of the other y
oung officers burst into my room and awakened me, saying: ‘Majore, Majore, avanti — we gotta de rosta beef of pork for you!’ Many was the time that my friends had promised that one day they would give me what everyone knew was the Englishman’s favourite dish — roast beef. That day had come — but it was roast beef with a difference! One of the locals had produced a pig to celebrate our triumphant arrival. In Italy once there is meat on the table, there must be wine also — so it was quite a day.

  Regularly I raised the question of returning to the Allied lines, but it always met one strong objection: the need to take more time to improve my command of the language; I looked too much like an ‘Englasie officier’ — tall, fair, with a moustache — if only I would remove it. For me to attempt to go now would be ‘periculosissme’. For a while I went along with this, but it was beginning to wear a bit thin. I had been with them for three months — certainly three of the most interesting months of my life — but we had witnessed the first fall of snow up in the mountains and I was not going to allow myself to be hemmed in there for the next six months. I therefore made it clear to my friends that I would be leaving within the week. When they realised that my decision was irrevocable, they accepted it philosophically and gave me every assistance, including letters of introduction to other partisani groups.

  I decided to go west into France. They concurred. A British corporal, known in our area as Bill, asked if he could accompany me. After about ten days, three others (French, Austrian and Polish) who were living in a partisani camp we passed through, asked if they could join in. Generally we were given food, shelter and direction, although occasionally people bustled us on, afraid of German reprisals. On one such occasion when we were given some food but no shelter, I pushed my way through a door into a barn and noticed a big log of wood burning under a line of half drums, similar to a system we sometimes used for feeding cattle in Rhodesia. They were drying chestnuts. I put my hand down and it was beautifully warm, while outside it had been bitterly cold. I rounded up the rest of the gang and we had a very comfortable night on a bed of chestnuts!

  The following day we bumped into a partisani commander with a few of his men. He invited us to spend the night at his headquarters in the mountains, where he was in control of a large area. He said his wife had often expressed the wish that he would bring back a British officer, so this would be a pleasant surprise for her. She was a handsome woman, tall and slim, with black hair but blue eyes and bright, rosy cheeks. They lived in a very big house, with numerous outbuildings — indeed, a small village, with cattle and sheep grazing, orchards and vineyards and ploughed lands. We were given five star treatment: good beds and excellent food, including meat, butter, cheese and fresh vegetables. Sipping wine, we talked long into the night.

  The next day a fine looking young doctor in his Alpini uniform and hat accompanied us as our guide. Not only was he a mountaineer, but as we approached the French border the country became more difficult and he knew the area well. He was a most pleasant and enlightening companion. The following morning we parted company to enable him to return, as he was the only doctor in the area and had calls for attention every day. Moreover, he was a marked man by the Germans and we were now entering a dangerous area. He gave us careful and detailed directions — only two more days’ travel were needed — and advised me to divide the group up so that it would be less conspicuous. One half could spend the day and night where they were, but Bill and I went on. The other three were to follow the next day; once we were out of the danger zone, we would wait for them.

  I had carried with me my small first aid pack, incorporated in a pilot’s Mae West, with a syringe and ampoule of morphine, bandages and various medicines. I gave it to the doctor, saying that his need was probably greater than mine. After a close inspection he expressed his gratitude and we parted company with a warm handshake.

  That night we were taken by a Frenchman and his wife into their farmhouse, given a good warm meal and a place to sleep in a barn alongside a fine-looking bull. There was a big German base in the town below. They were doing a lot of patrolling, and in case they arrived during the night, it was agreed that our host would claim no knowledge of our presence, and that we, likewise, would co-operate. I took Bill to the far side of the barn to ensure that the bull was between us and the door. We buried ourselves in the hay, which was, in any case, a necessity to protect ourselves from the cold. I instructed Bill that if anyone opened the door he was to ensure that every part of his anatomy, including his head, was well buried beneath the hay.

  Next morning our host’s brother — an official in the town — came up to see us, a wonderful effort, as he was disabled with a bad leg. First he spoke to us in Italian, asking questions in an obvious attempt to establish our authenticity. Once satisfied, he switched to English, which he spoke immaculately. The plan was for us to cross to the other side of the valley that day, across a river, a railway and a main road. It would be difficult and dangerous because there was only one bridge across, with sentries who halted and interrogated selected people, so it was a question of keeping a cool head and taking our chance — there appeared to be no alternative. We were given careful instructions and a rendezvous the other side for late afternoon. Our host’s brother would be there to meet us. I told them of our three friends following, and asked for assistance if they should pass by, saying that we would wait a couple of days on the other side before the final crossing over the Alps.

  Bill and I sat and waited. We did not say much. I did some exercises, which always made me feel better. At midday our hostess gave us some bread and hot milk. Then our host took us along the side of the mountain to a point where we could see the bridge and gave us our final directions. He bade us goodbye, and I could see it was an emotional occasion for him, because he was a man of great sincerity and simple strength. He had previously spoken to me of his deep admiration of Britain, and of those dark days when it stood alone against the Nazis. He had begun to say that, if he refused help to a Britisher who passed by … but then he was at a loss for words, and simply shook his head.

  I surveyed the situation for a few minutes, then we moved slowly down and took cover behind a mound a few hundred yards from the bridge. I noticed that if people came across singly or in pairs, the sentry seldom stopped them but, if they were in larger groups, he usually examined one or two before allowing them to pass. Bill was beginning to have doubts about the whole plan, and suggested that we go back to our hosts of the last night. I reasoned with him quietly, but firmly, assuring him that there was as much danger in going back, as in going on. Moreover, we must not lose sight of the danger which our presence brought to those who sheltered us. It would be inconsiderate of us to overstay our welcome. I concluded that the time had come for us to move. There was a gap in the people moving below, so I took him by the arm and said: ‘Quickly, here’s our chance.’ I sent him first, saying that I would follow close behind, judging that if I went first he might turn back. ‘Just look straight ahead and walk quietly on,’ I said. Our luck was in — it worked! The sentry on the other side was not concerned — we had been told that the only danger was on the entry side.

  We went straight to our rendezvous, about an hour’s walk, and met up with our host’s brother and his daughter who had accompanied him on his walk from the town below. We were taken indoors and introduced to the man who was to be our guide across the Alps and his wife. We had left the Italian partisani and were now in the hands of the French maquis.

  Our friend, the author of that day’s successful plan, having assured us that we were in trustworthy and competent hands, took leave of us, as he had to be home before dark, and his lame leg slowed his movements. His daughter, a fine-looking, striking girl, obviously of courageous character like her father and uncle, asked many searching questions about the part of the world I came from and about my life as an RAF pilot. She gave me a butterfly brooch which she was wearing on her coat as a talisman of good luck for the successful completion of our missio
n — a simple but valued present, something which I have kept and treasured ever since.

  The following afternoon, two of the other three arrived safely (the Austrian and the Frenchman) and we had a warm reunion. The young Polish lad did not make it. At the bridge with the German sentries his nerve had cracked, and he had decided to go back. I was sad, because he was only a youngster, and I thought that had I been there I could have persuaded him to come along.

  We set off mid-morning on the next day for the final lap. We did not start earlier because the latter part of the journey took us out of the forest and up the open side of the mountain, a climb which we could not attempt until after dark in order to avoid German observation. It was a warm sunny day, and the walking was pleasant. We reached the end of the forest about 4 p.m. and kept under cover while eating the bread and drinking the wine which we carried. Just before dark we started to move out, as our guide assured us that we were obscured from the German observation posts for the first few kilometres. The climb became progressively steeper, and once we reached the snowline it became much more difficult, although with the snowy background we could see surprisingly well in the dark.

  Suddenly our guide stopped and gripped his knee, obviously in pain. He had been having some problems over the past few months but thought they had ended. He would have to return, because it would be madness for anyone not one hundred per cent fit to attempt the climb before us. He could indicate the directions for us to continue, but it was our decision. I asked him to explain what he had in mind. He pointed to the main mountain above us, and then, below it to the left, a smaller peak. We were to cross to the right of that — below it, to the left, we might bump into a German observation post. It was important to remember that we should not attempt our descent until daylight. There would be a ravine which would give us protection from the German observation posts, and eventually we would run into American patrols. This, however, was clearly something we should avoid doing during darkness.