by Iain Gale
The big man smiled and, moving back along the trench, signalled to his lead platoon. Again the mortars fired, their rounds landing in the midst of the scattered British infantry.
Ruspoli nodded: ‘Fine, that should do it for now.’ He turned to Mautino: ‘They’ve got to stop sometime. My guess is they’ll keep coming till daybreak then try and stick where they are. At least the minefield seems to be holding.’
‘Yes, Colonel. I sent Ponzecchi out there to keep an eye open for enemy patrols trying to clear a path.’
‘Ponzecchi? Good. Look out for smoke too. That’s how they’ll try it.’ There was a sudden whine from their front. Mautino heard it first: ‘Incoming shellfire. Cover! Take cover!’
They all ducked, Ruspoli too, trying to press themselves against the sides of the trench. He knew what had happened The British, pinned down by Gola’s men’s murderous mortar fire had whistled up artillery support from the batteries to their rear. You paid for every small victory. And he knew that ultimately, man for man, shell for shell this was a battle they could never hope to win. Ruspoli shut his eyes as the rounds came crashing in, perilously close to the trench. If only we could do the same, he thought. Just make a wireless call and bring down the fires of hell upon the British. But there was no artillery to support them. The Germans had taken it to the north. Nor even was there a wireless on which they might make such a call. Again he began to feel horribly isolated. It was as if their brigade, their company, fifty men, was alone in the vastness of the desert against the entire British army.
He yelled above the din: ‘Counter-fire please, Captain Mautino. Engage the enemy. If you can see any of them.’
Suddenly, as it had started, the shelling stopped.
Mautino stood up and brushed himself off and shouted to the rear: ‘Gola. We need your mortars.’ He found a sheltering soldier: ‘Bari. Go and fetch Captain Gola.’ Then he turned to Ruspoli, smiling: ‘Their aim’s not so good, sir. Not today.’
Ruspoli too got to his feet, but with a little caution. ‘Careful, Carlo. We haven’t heard the coda yet.’
Mautino smiled. Ruspoli would have his musical reference. But the colonel was right. The artillery opposite them had recently taken to adding a short final burst to their barrage shortly after it had appeared to come to a halt. Today was no exception. There was another whine. Someone shouted: ‘Incoming! Get down!’
The last salvo whistled over above them and landed obliquely, directly on a support trench. They ducked and covered their heads. As it impacted, the ground shook and earth and sand fell from the parapet. As the dust cleared, Gola spoke:
‘Holy mother, sir. That was close.’ From the direction of the explosions someone shouted: ‘Stretcher-bearers. Medic. Here, quickly!’
Ruspoli turned to Mautino: ‘Carlo, send someone to find who’s been hit. No, go yourself. That fell too close. Gola, better get your lads under cover. Don’t respond quite yet. We’ll need you again soon and I don’t want to risk losing any of you.’
‘No danger of that, sir. My boys’ll keep their heads down.’
Mautino came running. He had news: ‘It’s bad, sir. Lieutenant Bartoldi’s platoon. Direct hit. Two men blown to pieces, two of the new boys.’
Ruspoli grimaced: ‘Not the singer?’
‘No, Colonel. He’s all right. A bit shaken. He was ten metres away from the impact. Must live a charmed life though, he should be dead by rights. Bartoldi’s not so good though, sir. Several shrapnel wounds. I don’t think he’ll live long.’
Ruspoli threw his hands up in despair. ‘Damn. Why Bartoldi? I swore to his mother I’d look out for him. She’ll kill me. Is he conscious?’
‘Yes, sir. He’s still in shock.’
‘Show me where.’
Following Mautino, Ruspoli hurried back down the lines and found the ruined support trench. The direct hit had taken away the walls and flattened the entire area into a shallow scooped-out crater. The ground had turned dark red where the two soldiers had been hit. Of their existence that was now the only trace, but five more men of the platoon lay horribly wounded on what had been the trench floor. The medics were doing what they could for them but it was clear that two of them would not make it. Bartoldi was one of them. They had laid him in what was left of an embrasure in the side of the trench, with his head upon a rock. Ruspoli made a quick appraisal. Classic shrapnel wound. The lieutenant had been wounded in the stomach, face and back by three large pieces of redhot metal. One of them was still protruding from the gash in his stomach. His handsome face had been horribly cut from the forehead down through his left eye and into the cheekbone, leaving no more on that side than a mess of blood and bone and tissue. The right side though was unscathed, and the mouth. Ruspoli knelt beside him and calmly took a pad of paper and a small pencil from his own top pocket:
‘Ciao, Giovanni. It’s Colonel Ruspoli. Listen, I’m sure you’re going to be fine. I’m just going to send a letter to your mother to tell her so. Is there anything particular you want to say to her?’
Bartoldi’s eyes bored into Ruspoli’s with a mixture of growing agony, despair and grief. He opened his mouth. Blood trickled from his lower lip. He tried to speak but at first only air came through.
‘Don’t force yourself, Giovanni. Take your time.’
Again Bartoldi opened his mouth and managed to raise his head slightly towards Ruspoli’s face.
‘Tell her. Please tell her that I love her. And Papa. And that I’ll see them soon. After school.’
Ruspoli wrote the words in pencil on his pad and nodded. ‘Good, Giovanni. Now rest. Then you can go home.’
The lieutenant closed his eyes and smiled and then, as if startled, opened them again and grasped Ruspoli’s arm tightly. The colonel tucked his pencil and pad away in his breast pocket, buttoned it carefully and then cradled Bartoldi’s head in his elbow. The lieutenant opened his mouth again: ‘Mama.’ Then he closed his eyes. His head dropped to one side.
Gently, Ruspoli laid the young man’s head down on the ground. ‘He’s gone. Bury him someone, please.’
He reached down and pulled one of the dog tags from Bartoldi’s neck and stuffed it into his pocket.
Mautino spoke: ‘Did you hear him, Colonel? He thought he was at school.’
‘Yes. And he was going home to see his mama and his papa.’ Ruspoli smiled.
‘Sir?’
‘His father died five years ago.’
He pictured the boy’s mother in their pretty baroque villa overlooking Florence in the little hillside village of Fiesole. Donna Bartoldi would receive the telegram within the week, before his letter could reach her. He saw her drop to her knees in the great entrance portico, beneath the trailing vines in the October sunshine which dappled the Tuscan hills. He heard her sobs for her poor boy and shared her despair, imagined her as she asked the old priest in the village’s convent how a good God, who had already taken away her husband, her only love, could now take away her only son. And to that question he himself had no answer. He turned back to Mautino: ‘Poor sod. It’s luck, Carlo. Just luck. Could have been you or I. Or any of us.’
‘That’s true enough, sir. All we can do is take care and trust in God. Perhaps the Germans will send reinforcements and ammo.’
Ruspoli stared at him: ‘Do you really think so?’
Mautino said nothing. There was nothing to be said. Ruspoli saw his eyes with their look of fear and apprehension.
‘All I know, Carlo, is that we are Folgore and we will defend this position until the end. We will never retreat and we will never surrender. You and I know that, yes? Make sure that all the men understand that too.’
‘Of course, sir. But I don’t think I need to make sure. They’re with you all the way, Colonel. This is your brigade. You made them what they are.’
Ruspoli felt a surge of pride. Mautino was right. They were his men, his family. As they walked down the trench back to the front line, he realized that the left sleeve of his tunic was covered in Bartoldi�
��s blood and drawing out a linen handkerchief from his pocket began in vain to try to clean it off. And as he did so he looked at the men. His men. There was a curious lull in the fighting and for an instant what seemed like total silence directly to their front. In the trench though the tension was almost physical. The men stood and half-lay against the walls, clutching their rifles and sidearms. Mostly they wore shirts and helmets but more than a few were stripped to the waist and some had held on to their tropical topees, the symbol above all else of Italy’s foray into dreams of an African empire.
So far from home, he thought. All of you. You should not be here. You, Franco Marozzi, he thought, seeing one of them, a talented painter from the Veneto. You should be painting on the Grand Canal in Venice; and you, Marcantonio, you should be working on the new vintage in the hills above Siena. You knew them all, even some of their families. There was Speda, son of the cobbler from Vicenza and Fratini, one of five brothers from Milan. They all had other lives they had left behind, peaceful lives to which he prayed they would return. Even though he knew that death had already placed his mark on too many of them. How many, he wondered, would know the joys of love, of marriage, of children. How many would be as lucky as he? They were only boys and had seen little of life. Yet for some this would be their last experience.
A whistle blew: ‘Here they come again. Take posts.’
Ruspoli edged just the top of his head above the parapet. The British were coming on again, infantry in wide, dispersed formations. At the same time he was aware of a new artillery barrage on their left.
All along the parapet the paratroops were firing on the enemy now as they continued to advance. Occasionally one of the Italians would fall back into the trench, hit by enemy fire and instantly another would take his place while one of the company medics went to see if there was anything that could be done. The field dressing-post was filling up now and the dead were not being put there any more but in a secluded trench to the rear of the front line.
A runner came towards them: ‘Colonel Ruspoli. Caporale Ponzecchi sent a message for you. It’s smoke, sir, smoke. He says they’re firing smoke shells at him.’
Ruspoli turned to Mautino: ‘I told you, Carlo. It’s as we suspected. The minefield. They’re going to come in under smoke and try to clear it. Then we’ll all be in the shit. Send out a party. We’ll have to meet them out there.’ He paused, while he pondered which of his officers might best command it. ‘No, wait. I’ll lead it myself.’
Mautino stared at him: ‘Sir, are you crazy? You’re the colonel. We need you here. You can’t lead a raiding party. I’m sorry, sir. I can’t allow it.’
Ruspoli frowned: ‘You can’t what? Carlo, you’re my second-in-command. I order you to prepare the party. And I shall lead it. You can’t stop me.’
‘But, sir, Colonel Ruspoli…’
Ruspoli smiled and shook his head. ‘Don’t try. Now who shall I take? All volunteers but you handpick them, Carlo. We’ll need a platoon. Good men. Santini for a start. He’ll do. You choose the rest.’
Within ten minutes they were ready to go. Ruspoli pulled tighter on the laces of his black jump boots unique to the paratroops. He had strapped on one of the canvas grenade belts, usually worn only by men and junior officers and filled every pouch so that he was carrying six grenades. On top of that he had fastened the old officers’ issue green leather belt that had seen him through the last five years, with his Beretta pistol in the holster. More grenades were stuck through the strapping and he had made sure that his combat knife was easily accessible. Finally he picked up a submachine-gun and turned to Mautino.
‘Carlo. If I don’t come back the brigade is in your hands. Right?’
‘Yes, sir. But this is madness.’
‘Right?’
‘Right, sir.’
‘So. Not another word, Captain. See you back here.’
Ruspoli surveyed his assault section. Santini was there, grinning. And Silvio, the short one from Brescia. There was Marcantonio Rosso from the Levanto and with him a score of others whom Ruspoli knew less well. For most of them though he could name their village and all of them he knew by name, some by their forename. He spoke: ‘All right, lads. You’re all volunteers. You all know what to expect. We’ve got to take out these mine-detector teams. If we don’t they’ll clear the field and that will be the end of us. Got it?’
They answered as one: ‘Sir.’
‘And one more thing. Give no quarter. They won’t be expecting any.’
He turned and they climbed slowly up the few steps that had been laid at the side of the trench and crawled out over the parapet and towards the minefield, with Ruspoli leading the way. Perhaps, he thought, this time for once, Mautino was right. This really is madness. But what madness. And what a way to die, if he must. If that was God’s will. He was a fighter, from a family of warriors. This was a warrior’s death. He was not though as young as he had been. At fifty he felt more aches than the others. But he could still run and he could still fight. And it was vital to show the men too. That was his way, had always been his way. Carefully, he and the small party crawled across the moonlit landscape, taking care not to swear as their knees and hands caught on the jagged rocks. He had asked for volunteers and chosen only veterans. They all knew what to do. How to make the most of the slightest dip in the land. For while the desert might seem flat to the untutored eye, anyone who had fought there knew that it was filled with undulations which could easily hide a man, a section, a whole platoon.
Slowly, they edged forward. So far so good, he thought. The fire from the trenches was keeping the Tommies back and now he could see the smoke cloud where the shells had hit. They had twenty yards to go. Fifteen. Ten. And then they were in it. It was not like gas. Not as choking or as cloying a smoke as you might get from a wood fire. But it was smoke right enough. Ruspoli turned to Santini, motioned to him to stand up and did so himself. He knew that they could not be seen now. Together the men drew up the neckerchiefs which had lain knotted around their necks and pulled them up over their noses and mouths. Then they went forward into the smoke. Ruspoli put down one foot and then the other. Santini was close behind him, watching his every move, both of them acutely aware that at any moment an unfortunate step would result in death or terrible injury from an exploding mine. But there was no other way.
Two more steps. He stopped. He was not sure whether he had heard something up ahead. Another step. And then another. Ruspoli knew that he was testing his luck. The men behind him were marking his path for their return. But here at the front of their little patrol, it was his feet that were mapping the way. He stopped again. He was sure of it now. A noise. A sort of humming. He dropped to his knees and rested on his shins, motioned to Santini to close up. Then he saw it. Not more than three feet away through the smoke, the flat shape of a mine detector. It was emitting a low hum. Ruspoli pointed the submachine-gun directly above it and gently squeezed the trigger. A hail of bullets flew from the barrel and into the engineer holding the machine who let out a scream as he fell. Two of the bullets also hit his mate in the side of the face and the man fell on top of the other, sprawling in agony.
There was commotion through the smoke. Shouting in English and then rifle fire as the teams and their escort opened up in the direction of the Italians. Ruspoli walked to the dead and wounded men. The second man he had hit was lying on his back across his dead comrade, staring upwards. Half his face had been blown away. Ruspoli took out his pistol and fired a single round into the man’s forehead.
He called to Santini: ‘Luigi. With me. It’s safe here. You men, open fire in the direction of the voices. Over there.’ He pointed at vague shapes through the smoke, which was beginning to clear. The patrol opened up with submachine-guns and as it did so the rifle rounds hit home. Two fell to the ground. But from the smoke came the sound of men being hit. Then the noise he had been hoping for. A huge explosion rocked the area. One of them has run and triggered a mine, he thought. That’s good. No
w they’ll panic and move back.
Instead though and to his bemusement, the British continued to fire. Santini gave a moan behind him and Ruspoli turned to see him fall. He had been hit in the leg and lay clutching his thigh. ‘I’m OK, sir. Don’t worry.’
Ruspoli turned back and fired another shot from the Beretta. Then without hesitation he unbuttoned one of the pouches and fished out a grenade. He pulled the pin, counted and threw. A few seconds later he was rewarded by a blast followed by screams. Almost instantly though there was another explosion, louder. A mine, detonated either by shrapnel from his grenade or more likely one of the casualties falling on to it. Surely, he thought, now this was true madness. To stand in the middle of a minefield and throw grenades into it? All was chaos around him now as his men opened up in the direction of the explosions. Ruspoli shouted: ‘No more grenades! We don’t want to clear the field ourselves.’
Ahead of them men were dying and as the smoke began to clear he saw the British dead. They lay singly and in pairs where they had fallen. Most, as he had suspected, were mine engineers. A few had not died and were crying out in pain and terror. He looked back to where Santini had fallen. The corporal was smiling at him, although the blood continued to flow from the wound in his leg. His face was quite white. Ruspoli signalled to the rest of the party and yelled: ‘Retire. Back to the trench.’ The smoke was clearing fast now and he knew that as soon as the remaining British had left the minefield their guns would open up again and he and his men would be sitting ducks out in the open. He turned and bending down picked up Santini, hoisting his huge form onto his shoulders as a fireman might carry a woman from a house. He had seen such a thing once, in Florence when a palazzo had caught fire and the brigade had managed to rescue an entire family including a massively overweight mama. He wondered whether she had been as heavy as Santini. The corporal was moaning: ‘Colonel. Signore. Thank you, sir. Thank you.’
