Freefall

by Robert Radcliffe

I sip water, nodding gratefully. We’re in the bedsit, it’s four in the morning. A single candle burns. I stink of fire.

  ‘Your overcoat’s somewhat scorched, I’m afraid. Oh, and I found this in a pocket.’ He picks up an envelope, singed brown at one corner. The letter from this morning.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Important?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ I cough again.

  ‘Trudi got home all right?’

  I nod. We’d made it to the old bridge, which was undamaged. Across the river only a few fires burned, with most of the southern city in darkness. I wanted to cross with her but she insisted I get back: ‘Before you get into trouble!’ Then she kissed me with cracked lips, her cheeks black with smut, her hair smelling of ash.

  ‘Vorst’s disappeared.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I croak.

  ‘Left Ulm for the night when the first bomb hit, is my guess.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why do you think!’

  ‘No, Erik, why is this happening?’

  ‘Why is what happening?’

  ‘Us. The Allies, bombing whole cities of no importance, like Ulm. Factories, power stations, docks, yes, I get that, but whole cities...’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘There are no armies here, no factories building tanks or U-boats, no airfields or docks. Just civilians, ordinary women and children and old people. The destruction, the death, I saw, I saw...’ But I can’t speak, only double over with choking, my poisoned eyes streaming with tears.

  Erik walks to the window. Even with the shutters closed and blackouts drawn, the glow of burning buildings can still be seen to the east. From his posture, the folded arms, the pursed lips, I can tell I’ve touched a nerve.

  ‘Erik?’

  ‘When you were at Arnhem…’ he murmurs. ‘Oosterbeek, I mean.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How did you find the local people? Their mood, I mean, their attitude.’

  I try to think back. The relief and joy as we marched in. The unquestioning support, and faith in our mission. The fervent hopes for deliverance. The disgust and disappointment when we failed.

  ‘They just wanted it over with.’

  ‘Yes. And that’s the point. We just want it over with.’

  ‘And this is the way?’

  ‘You’ve not been invaded, have you? Britain, that is.’

  I shake my head. ‘And that changes everything?’

  ‘Quite a bit, yes. It certainly hardens hearts.’

  ‘But still...’

  He looks round. ‘I’m done with it, Dan. This war. I want my life back, my freedom and my future. I want my brother back and I want my country back. I want a career, a wife and children. Life and liberty – that’s all anyone wants. And after five years of this, the world’s simply had enough of patience and waiting.’

  Dear Doctor Garland,

  My father was Generalfeldmarschall Erwin Rommel. My mother met him before he was married, whilst still a student at military college. The affair was short-lived, I was the sole product, but since my birth he has always treated me with affection and respect, and as much a part of the family as his wife and son. In honour of this great kindness, and with Frau Rommel’s blessing, I am become the guardian of his legacy.

  You may wonder how you came to be here in Ulm. You see, much is falsely known about my father, not least questions surrounding his loyalty. Loyalty was everything to him: these false conceptions must be corrected and, with Frau Rommel’s help, and that of his many friends and supporters, I will make this my life’s work. But not until the war is over, for only then will witnesses speak without fear. Fortunately he kept detailed records, and wrote hundreds of letters which are in our possession. Ultimately I envisage a biography of his life and work. Publication of such a document in a ruined Germany seems an impossible notion; we are seeking therefore to establish contacts abroad, and look to you and others to assist with this.

  My father died last October. In the weeks preceding his death, he was here among his loved ones, recovering from injuries sustained in France. At this time he followed with interest your Allied attempt to cross the Rhine in Holland and strike a decisive blow to end the war, something he described as bold, but doomed to failure with Montgomery in charge. Afterwards he went to great lengths to trace survivors from your First Airborne Division, until able to confirm that Theodor Trickey was among them – thanks to you. One of his last acts, via trusted intermediaries, was to arrange to bring you both here. Unfortunately events conspired that he die before you arrived, thus as a family we fulfilled this wish on his behalf.

  Frau Rommel’s offer to assist with your clinic for Ulm’s homeless is genuine and kindly intentioned. It would mean a great deal to her, in her grief, if you were to allow her this gesture, as a tribute to her husband. Thank you.

  Sincerely,

  Gertrud Stemmer

  A week later it’s my turn on duty at the drop-in. A straggly queue of homeless people waits at the door, rather longer than before – on account of the air raid, no doubt. This section of town suffered less devastation than the east, and happily the chapel has escaped unscathed. I lift the hasp of the heavy wooden door and push it open. To find a huge mound of furniture in the centre of the floor.

  ‘Good heavens,’ one of the women helpers exclaims. ‘What’s all this?’

  ‘Donations,’ I reply, ‘from an anonymous supporter.’

  We set to work, me attending the sick, the helpers busy sorting and arranging the furniture. Among it as promised are boxes of toys for the children, and I see one little girl settling down with sketchbook and crayons next to the stove, now glowing with warmth.

  ‘What are you drawing?’ I ask her.

  She grins. ‘An enormous cake!’

  CHAPTER 10

  Dear Theodorable,

  I’m a bit sad to write this letter but know it’s the right thing to do and you have the right to know. It’s not easy to come out and say these things but here goes anyway. This is to let you know that me and Albert (Fitch remember?) got back together. I was missing you something terrible, and as you know he was going with that Stella Watt (from Woolworth’s remember?) but then they parted ways and he got in touch, one thing led to another and we got back together. Things has been going nicely between us, he’s a buyer at his Dads greengrocer chain which is a reserved occupation being like farming also his eyesights bad so he won’t get called up. Anyway things been going nicely between us then last week guess what! He popped the question and I said yes! We’re saving up for the ring and plan to tie the knot next spring probably April or May so I hope you can come!

  So I’m writing to let you know that your released from our trough and I hope theres no hard feelings and your happy for us. In the meanwhile I wish you all the best.

  Affectionately,

  Susanna

  PS I popped round to tell your Mum the good news but she was out so I told your landlady who was dead sniffy!

  Theo folded the letter, one of several he’d just received, back into its envelope, and discreetly returned the bundle to his pocket. Nobody paid him any heed; around the room the others waited, wilting in the torpid heat. Above their heads a squeaking fan stirred the heavy air, while trapped flies buzzed at the window. Beyond it the Egyptian sun beat down on the yellow sand like burnished brass. Susanna Price, he mused, his auburn-haired Juliet of so long ago, with the laughing eyes and lips tasting of beer, was marrying Albert Fitch. Instead of him. What did he feel about that? he wondered, chewing the notion over like an unusual nut. Nothing, he soon concluded. He could sense no discernible feeling for Susanna at all. Nor had he for months, he realized. Not since the day he’d first met Clare.

  Footsteps approached in the corridor, a hurried scraping of chairs followed, and everyone clattered to attention, then the door flew open and a tall officer in freshly pressed fatigues strode in, followed by an adjutant with a clipboard.

  ‘At ease, gentlemen.’ The officer flapped his hands. ‘
Please do sit, it’s far too hot to stand on ceremony.’

  His name was Colonel Dugdale, he explained, he was their course commandant, and was there to welcome them to 348 OCTU Cairo. His apologies for the spartan conditions were heartfelt. Everything, he explained, had gone somewhat to pot following the invasion of Sicily; he hoped normal order would soon be restored. Then, after a roll call and brief summary of the OCTU curriculum, he perched himself on a desk and began quizzing each student about their previous experiences.

  ‘And you, young man,’ he said, turning finally to Theo. ‘How long have you been an officer cadet?’

  ‘Well...’ Theo thought back. Aldershot. 167 OCTU. Endless PT on a freezing parade ground. ‘Um, three and half years, sir. Nearly.’

  ‘Good heavens! What on earth happened?’

  ‘I went to France. Before the course finished. With the BEF.’

  Silence fell. The flies buzzed on. Somewhere in the distance a donkey brayed forlornly.

  ‘You were in France with the BEF?’

  ‘Yes, sir. 51st Highland Division. Under General Fortune.’

  ‘Goodness. But how old were you?’

  ‘Seventeen.’

  Teo lovely boy!

  So you been gone like six months why you not write me letter naughty boy? Your room still here an everything safe tho times hard an so I had let it go to nice man called Brown, paper salesman I think you meet him once no? Anyway he never here but pay rent good an regular, an he don’t mind your stuff in his cubbard an say he vacate any time you come back right away. When is that Teo? An what you doing in bloody Africa anyhow? there absolutely no word in newspapers about parachute regimente or nothing! Like you vanish off a cliff or something. Anyway make sure you keep clear African germs like malaria an be sure eat plenty vegetable. If you can get it, we fine here but rationing a bloody nightmare, no fish no meat no fruit no veg hardly a scrap it a disgrace an damn hard make end meet. I get guests pool ration books so we share what we get an make katsarola stew and mutton stifado and something call Woolton pie which bloody disgusting leftover scraps with pastry on top. Still guests eat it so everyone happy. Your mother still here an happy too tho never stop with the bloody politics. she has new boyfriend one of them thin fellows with strange voice and no chin but I think this one serious. She say she going to write you and tell me say nothing so I say nothing except maybe she leaving here soon. I manage this okay, her room I can rent, my legs an back are not so good but still not bad for old Greek woman! Write me soon bad boy big kisses yours affectionate Popodopoulos Eleni. PS Sorry spellings disctionary bloody useless. PPS strange woman come roun with scruffy little girl erchin age 8 or 9 maybe. She dont say who is but ask I send you letter from little girl. So I inclose for you. Didn’t these two come round before Teo? I have suspicions! PPPS I gone right off that Susanna girl from up the road she no good trollup I sure you can do better lovely boy.

  Later the same morning, Theo was in his Cairo classroom, half listening to a lecture on map-reading and compass work, and vaguely thinking he’d heard it somewhere before, when the OCTU adjutant appeared around the door.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, but Trickey’s wanted outside.’

  They walked out on to a painfully bright parade ground. All around watery mirages shimmered, dust devils spun skyward, while overhead the sun beat down mercilessly. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘No idea, chum. Some major wants to see you. All very hush-hush.’

  He was led to a hut with a side-office and ushered in; the door closed behind him and there stood Yale, fanning himself with a file.

  ‘Ah, Trickey, there you are.’

  ‘Major. What are you doing in Cairo?’

  ‘Seeing you, amongst other delights.’ He was wearing khaki shorts and a shirt stained dark with sweat. His face was flushed and his brow perspiring. ‘How’s it all going?’

  ‘All right, sir, so far. Well, apart from the dust and heat and that.’

  ‘Too right, give me Algiers any day.’ He mopped his brow with a handkerchief. ‘Have a seat, Theodor, something’s come up.’

  Theodor? His heart lurched. Clare. ‘What’s come up?’

  ‘Mussolini, of course! I take it you’ve heard?’

  ‘Oh, um, that he’s gone on sick leave or something. Is it true?’

  ‘Not sick leave.’ Yale withdrew a sheet. ‘Latest gen suggests that he’s out.’

  ‘Out?’

  ‘Yes, here we are, apparently his own governing council thing...’

  ‘The Gran Consiglio del Fascismo.’

  ‘That’s the one. Apparently they had a secret meeting and voted him out, then voted some chap called Badoglio in.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Protective custody, under arrest, on the run – who cares? The point is the bastard’s gone!’

  Theo shook his head. Mussolini gone. It was scarcely believable. More than twenty years, for all his life, his people had lived under his fist. Now it was over.

  ‘You don’t seem overjoyed.’

  ‘I am, sir, it’s just a lot to take in.’

  ‘I’d have thought you’d be cock-a-hoop. Good news all round surely, for the Allies and the Italians. Your lot up north especially. I mean, no love lost there, eh?’

  ‘No love at all, sir.’ He thought at once of Carla, at home in Kingston surrounded by her letters and petitions. How jubilant she’d be at the news. How proud. And of Grandpa Josef, struggling away in Bolzano for all those years, demonstrating on the streets and secretly printing his posters and pamphlets. His life’s work, to free South Tyrol from the tyrant. Accomplished.

  ‘Anyway, the big question now is what happens next. And according to—’

  ‘He should be released!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My grandfather. Josef Ladurner, and Gino Lucetti and all the others. They should be freed!’

  ‘Ah. It’s funny you should say that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, well, you see I have something to discuss with you.’

  They were sending him back. Even though it took twenty minutes more for Yale to come out and actually say it, he knew immediately they were sending him back. The situation on the ground was confused, Yale explained, nobody knew who the new authorities were, yet alone what they might do. Or where the myriad political factions fitted in. Or how Germany would react now their staunchest ally was gone. Or what the Italian military would do, or the general public without a functioning government, or the many disparate rebel and partisan groups out in the field.

  ‘It’s a right beggar’s muddle, Theodor,’ he said, using his forename again. ‘But also a golden opportunity, and of one thing we can be certain. Now that Sicily’s secure, we the Allies are going to invade mainland Italy. Any day. And for that to succeed we need good people on the ground.’

  So they were removing him from his OCTU and sending him on a course. A very different course, run by SOE specialists, who would teach him about guerrilla warfare, unarmed combat, signals, radio and Morse code, explosives and demolition, escape and evasion, advanced weapons handling, and many other skills. Once he was trained they were then going to ‘insert’ him into the hilly interior east of Naples, where he would be met by a local partisan group. And then he would set to work: ‘... gathering intelligence about German strength and disposition, sabotaging their communications and supply lines, tying up their resources, and generally making their life as unpleasant as possible. Get the idea?’

  ‘Just me?’

  ‘No, we have several operatives going in, but all to different areas. So you’ll be on your own. But don’t worry, we’ll be supporting you every step of the way. You’ll be well armed and properly equipped, regularly resupplied by air too, and kept in close contact by radio.’

  Theo shook his head. Then managed a wry smile. ‘There goes OCTU. Again.’

  ‘Afraid so. For the time being anyway.’

  ‘How much time?’

  Yale’s gaze flickered.
‘Until Italy’s secure.’

  ‘Months.’

  ‘Quite possibly.’

  ‘Then I have one condition. Or rather a request.’

  ‘You don’t actually. But go on.’

  ‘It’s about Clare Taylor.’

  ‘No.’ Yale’s hand shot up. ‘Absolutely not for discussion. Sorry.’

  ‘Tell me she’s safe. Or I refuse to go.’

  Through the window the crunch of marching feet and barked commands could be heard echoing round the parade ground. Theo folded his arms. The handkerchief reappeared, and Yale mopped sweat.

  ‘Last heard of,’ he murmured, ‘all well.’

  ‘Thank you. One more question. Why Campania, why Naples? It’s not an area I’m familiar with.’

  ‘Naples is seen as crucial to our invasion plans. We need someone well proven and dependable there. I can say no more, you must understand that.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Except this. The cell there. Your partisan contacts. They’ve been keeping in touch, sporadically. Via an intermediary.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They specifically asked for Horatio.’

  *

  Carla’s letter was in Italian and written on a typewriter. Composed long before any hint of the turmoil currently engulfing Italy, she wrote at length about the ongoing campaign for South Tyrol’s recognition as a free and autonomous state. Progress evidently was slow. On one hand the province was worse off even than in the dark days following the Option Agreement. The programme of compulsory Italianization was now complete and deeply embedded, evidence of cultural or ethnic identity had been suppressed to the point of obliteration, and 95 per cent of all public and official posts were now held by Italian Fascist Party members. To cap it all ‘that disgusting criminal Mussolini’ had fulfilled his promise to build a wall, a ‘Vallo Alpino’ isolating the Tyrol from its cultural neighbours in Austria and Switzerland. Little progress could be made on the ground, she acknowledged ruefully, until the war had run its course. On the other hand Partito Popolare Sudtirolese and its London base was thriving, with over a thousand subscribers now signed up as members, a proper office above a Kingston bookmakers, and plenty of cash in the coffers. It also continued to receive recognition from exalted circles, with Carla personally receiving letters of support from various Foreign Secretaries including Britain’s nice Mr Eden, Mr Cordell Hull of the United States, Comrade Molotov of Russia and even Germany’s von Ribbentrop, who was at least polite enough to answer her letter, acknowledging that the situation was ‘uniquely problematic’. Theo read on, impressed yet disheartened by the letter, with its four pages of dense typescript, which enquired little of him, was virtually devoid of endearments, but did at least conclude with the personal news hinted at by Eleni. I have met someone, Theo dearest, she wrote towards the end. His name is Nicholas Abercrombie, he is 42, and an official of the British Foreign Office. He is polite and courteous, careful of his appearance, with excellent manners and diction. They had been in a respectful relazione for some time, she went on, then recently he had proposed marriage, which Carla was of a mind to accept. So please be happy for me, dearest.