‘C’mon, man.’ Comanche touched Frank’s elbow. ‘Gotta move.’
Twenty seconds to make the other side. Hands stretching to pull you up the bank, and your frozen, sodden pants scalding your thighs back to life. ‘This way.’ Bear’s hand on your shoulder, counting each man as he shoved them on. Skirting the other side of the road, facing the chestnut woods they’d just come down through, round one neat bend, and there it lay. The track to Sommocolonia.
‘Wait.’
Frank sheltered into the rock overhang. About ten of them had grouped, hidden from view by the sheer hill rising over them. A muffled thunk; Ivan resting up beside him. The Bangalore torpedo he nursed was fifty feet long when full-grown, packed with pounds of TNT. Five-foot lengths of threaded pipe, which you screwed together and assembled along the way.
‘See how high I had to lift her? She is heavy tonight. Love to meet the asshole who invented this bitch.’
‘You say that every time.’
‘I mean it every time too. Hell. I am shit-sick of climbing.’
‘Yeah.’ A deep bass – it sounded like Claude. ‘Wonder how many of us be coming back down?’
‘You shut the fuck up, farm boy.’
Frank reached for Ivan’s arm. ‘Enough.’ Felt Ivan pull away, go close in Claude’s face; Frank could see the sleepy eyes, the slow-jowled surprise that anyone was even listening to him.
‘Don’t be saying that, OK? You get that? You get that, stupid nigger?’
‘Hey—’
A fist swung, then a rifle butt, then Bear sliding in from Godknows where to crack skulls (it was a literal skill of his) and silence them with threats of lynching.
‘Now get your miserable asses in some semblance of order, stand tall and get climbing, you hear? Claude, what the fuck you doing, boy?’
‘Takin my socks off, sergeant.’ Claude hopped and swayed, one boot heel in one meaty hand. ‘’Cos they’re wet.’
‘Fuck, Comanche, just you keep beating on him ’stead of Ivan.’ Bear straightened his doughboy. ‘OK, my children. Santie’s coming.’ Teeth, gleam-sharp in the moonlight. ‘And a Merry Christmas, one and all.’
No one spoke on the way up. Only rasping breaths and crunching snow. The terrible silence of no guns firing intensified. Fucking bring it on, why don’t you? But the Krauts would not come out to play. On and on, gliding upwards: maybe they were ghosts already. And then, like herald angels, US guns started firing on Lama di Sotto. Great spits of colour soared above the Buffaloes’ heads. In turn, the Germans hurled their fiercest response down onto the banks of the Serchio. Back and forth, like kids aiming to holler loudest. Soon it seemed as if the entire Lama ridge was set ablaze. An appalling brightness illuminating their climb, shining their faces gold. Black shadows roared from incandescent trees further up the mountain, but still the Buffs ploughed on. None of it was aimed at them, this stream of men cowed and moving against the rock. Tell yourself that. Tell yourself you are inured to everything. You have to. Lesson one trillion and one: pretend to enjoy the light show.
Then, as ominously as it began, the pounding stopped: a few final stutters of ya-boo firing before both sides bowed out, returned to sullen gloom. Even the moon had given up and gone to bed.
‘Was that cover for us, sarge?’ whispered Claude. He sounded younger than Willis. For a painful second, Frank thought of his brother, tucked up and waiting for Christmas. He should’ve sent him something. When he got back down, he’d sort it. A picture maybe? Yeah. Willis liked when Frank drew stuff. He could make up a little frame with twigs and wrap up that sketch he’d done of Pisa. And he still hadn’t finished that picture of Vita. He couldn’t quite recapture the lithe sketch he’d made on her terrace.
‘Guess so,’ said Bear. ‘Either that or it was Santie’s sledge backfiring. Now shake you little tush, Claudette, because, in case you ain’t noticed, that’s our cover ceased. Hup, now! Hup! Fly, my children.’
Hup two three four. Hup two three four. Dark lightening to grey. One final hairpin and the track they were tramping became flanked by a tall stone wall, rising to the left of them. The Buffaloes had arrived. As dawn broke on Christmas Day, they entered Sommocolonia.
The silence continued. Up the cobbled slope to a little piazza with a fountain, their rubber-soled boots sliding on the icy ramp. A platoon of partisans was already waiting. They’d taken up a command post in Casa Vincenti – nice family, who hovered, anxious, in the background as the partisan lieutenant greeted the Buffs. Sommati. Just a young guy. He assured them all was bene. Suggested they make their command post at Casa Moscardini.
‘Is at the foot of the fortress, so you have good vantage. You can use La Rocca for observations.’
‘Sure.’ The scene of normality, the casualness of the villagers as they woke to the day and headed across the square to visit family or the little church there, made everyone relax. Stand down, boys. Nuthin’ doin in Sommocolonia. Lieutenant Jenkins, the 366er in charge, lit a cigarette. Turned to Fox. ‘John, you want to go with some of Sommati’s guys and check that out?’
‘Call me Pier,’ said Sommati. ‘Please, I will take you myself.’
Jenkins split them into squads, told them to disperse throughout the village. Bear took his own squad. Frank felt his jaw ease as Charlie headed off with a group of 366ers.
‘So. We digging foxholes or what, sarge?’
‘My, oh, my. What a view. Foxholes you say? No way. Is Christmas Day, Francesco. The bad Bosch is having themselves a rest. And you is friends with the locals. So you, my golden chile, is gonna get us quartered in a nice, comfortable casa.’
‘Hey. I don’t know no one from Sommo, sarge.’
‘Nah.’ Luiz nudged him. ‘Catagnana’s where this boy lays his hat.’
‘Fuck up.’
‘Now, children. You won’t get no presents if you don’t play nice. How about that lovely lady over there? Good mornin, ma’am. Buonio Natalio.’ Bear bowed in the direction of a woman who watched them from the foot of the cobbled ramp. It was Renata. She chucked her own chin with her fist, then walked away.
‘Reckon that means “I’ll go get some coffee on”?’
‘Nope.’
‘We goin stop her? What if she a spy?’
‘Claude, baby. There’s ’bout a hundred assorted Buffs and partisans milling round up here. Try as we might, we ain’t gonna keep that secret for long.’
‘Ain’t you worried, sarge?’ Comanche passed round a pack of smokes. ‘Most of the 92nd been sent to the beaches now, not the hills. What if we don’t surprise Jerry? What if they surprise us?’
‘Nah,’ said Luiz. ‘OSS said the Krauts were gonna launch a massive hit two weeks back – and they didn’t. Those guys don’t know what the fuck’s going on.’
‘But HQ have moved our reinforcements back—’
Frank took a light from Comanche. ‘Yeah. To fucking Lucca. A bunch of tanks. What use is that to us?’
‘Suck it up, baby,’ said Luiz. ‘We is the thin black line.’ He started doing a stupid jig, ass waving in time to some unseen beat, and from there it all went a bit crazy. Bear passed around his hip flask, to wet Baby Jesus’ head, then Sommati returned with the village priest, and an invitation for them all to go have Christmas dinner at Casa di Mazzolini di Catagnana.
‘Very ancient family, you know,’ Sommati said earnestly. ‘Lords of the Castle of Sommocolonia.’
As if the Buffs might refuse a free meal. Not only was there to be food laid on, but the villagers would like to welcome them to Christmas carols and a sung Mass too. Even the boys who’d no religion crammed themselves into the tiny church. Not Frank. He and a few others remained on guard outside the service. Wasn’t that he never prayed. He just didn’t know what to say. He cleared off the snow, sat on a wall, a quiet niche that gave a decent view of the approach road, and the ridge above. Let himself be still, enjoying the throb of the singing seep through stone, the sunlight on his skin. Wasn’t in the slightest warm, but Frank wanted t
o accept every coming hour as a gift.
He thought about Vita, how she got up each morning and looked for ways to make her world better, even as it crumbled in. He wished so bad that she could know his world. The real one. Man, he wanted to show her California, take her to Santa Cruz. Imagine if they were on the boardwalk. The grainy snow crystals under his fingers could be sand. Those faint, persistent thuds might be sounds from the amusement park. Or they could be lying on a towel, him massaging the skin across her belly and those thuds might be the blood in his ears. Oh, God. Did she know that he ached when he was near her? Had he told her that?
He opened his eyes. Looked properly at the cobbles that formed the walls of these hilltop homes. Chosen and laid in patient patterns. Each one, considered, balanced, same as the terraced streets on which they sat. He watched the 366ers move a gun carriage into place, blurred his eyes so’s they disappeared. Some mediaeval man – no, way before that, Vita said this place was Roman – OK, some guy from antiquity, had stood right here, scratching his head, angling his foundations to get the best of shade and sun. Knowing that when he planted a settlement and raised his family here, they’d be sheltered.
Soldiers were the lucky ones. They had some kind of freedom. Yeah, they got shot, but so did these folks. Least the Buffaloes got trained for war, got to run in like heroes, move on. They’d a fighting chance to be primed and prepared, while the folks here scrabbled to survive. War came to them, they didn’t bring it. Men like Frank did. He tried to imagine how he’d feel if men arrived at his momma’s house and beat her up. Shot his little brother. It wasn’t difficult, he didn’t believe even the dumbest Buff here would find it difficult, because you thought it any time some brother got lynched down South, or a coloured student was beat up on campus. You thought about fury and revenge. You thought all the pumped-up bullshit they tried to make you feel about war.
‘Buon Natale, figlio mio.’ Church door was open, folks milling out. An old lady took his hand. Warm. Real warm. She was smiling with her whole two teeth. ‘Per la pace.’
‘Per la pace, ma’am. For peace.’
She patted his cheek. The warmth in his hand came from a hot chestnut she’d placed there. A man was roasting chestnuts in a skillet over an open fire and he’d never noticed. Some sentinel Frank was.
When the Buffaloes left church into the wintery sun, more locals queued to shake their hands, offer the sign of peace. The chestnuts kept coming – caldarroste, Sommati told them, and the meal at Casa Mazzolini had now become a dance party. Vieni, vieni. As the troops were ushered towards the big Mazzolini house, Frank could hear the low boom of shells falling closer over Barga. He didn’t want a party. What was the point, unless you could sit with your sweetheart on your lap, kissing her in full view of the whole of Sommocolonia?
Salute! Grappa was passed, the local throat-shredding firewater made with all the bits of grape they didn’t want in their wine. Numbing his throat. They took it in turns. Some Buffs danced, some Buffs ate. Some patrolled the perimeter of Sommocolonia’s walls. A mix of villagers danced in the large hallway with them, old ladies and little kids, young women in pretty dresses. Frank was surprised to see so many villagers had stayed. Had he called it wrong? He’d thought dragging Vita down to Barga would protect her. But mountain rock was way stronger than brick or stone. He snatched at the grappa as it did its second rounds. Wanting to drown out all that tender heartburn. Apart from Willis, he’d never needed to keep anyone this safe before.
The partisans began to sing, old mountain songs the locals joined in with. Even stone-faced Renata was thawing, you could see the flesh of her arms jiggle as she swung them high, linked to the old boy next to her. A beautiful atmosphere permeated the room, of caring, pride. Joy, almost. You didn’t have to understand any of the words to know they were healing one another. One drink more and you could feel power drawing up through the earth and rock. When they stopped for breath or a change of tune, the occasional burst of gunfire might fill the pause, but these mountains echoed, and it was distant enough not to matter. Perhaps they had chosen not to care, not to count the seconds between to see if it was coming closer. The grappa, the flurry of limbs, was making his head buzz. No, it was the room; there were knots of consternation: he could see Sommati nod at Jenkins, could see Bear go over, cigar in hand as he gesticulated. Shake his head at a piece of paper they passed between them.
Frank couldn’t make out what they were saying. He was surrounded by 366ers, all sore about their colonel, and bellyaching about General Almond.
‘Almond. Soft white nut.’
‘Man, the shit he gave us when we got here. I did not ask for you, and I do not welcome you.’
‘Yeah, we heard,’ said Comanche.
One of them flipped his knife to open another bottle of wine. ‘Is all fucked up, man.’
‘I hear Almond call us monkeys.’
‘Well, I know he called us goats.’ Charlie, wedging himself into the group, and instantly bringing the centre of it to him. ‘Stood right there, in my white jacket, filling up their glasses. Amazing how folks can talk right through you when you’re serving canapés. Ole General Almond, dining out on the novelty of his nimble Negroes. “Sure-footed as goats, those culahd boys”. Like he was Hannibal leading his elephants across the mountains.’
‘Ah say, suh.’ Luiz held his mug with his little finger pointing out. ‘Use ’em niggahs at night, and they be damn-neah invisible.’
Jenkins and Bear joined the group. The laughter dissipated. ‘OK, men. Message from 370th Infantry HQ. We’ve to retire from assembly area. Order to attack Lama has been countermanded.’
‘Say what, lieutenant?’
‘Postponed, leastways. So we’re gonna rest awhile with these good folks. Hold our positions and await further orders. I want intensive patrolling. Reinforcement of all existing defensive positions.’
‘Reinforcement? Jesus, sir. You think they expecting a hit on us right enough?’
‘Possibly,’ said Bear. ‘The request to intensify defences is a direct Field Order from General Almond hisself.’ He read from the paper. ‘We got to ‘reinforce, organise, occupy and hold present position, at all costs’.”
‘Only we ain’t supposed to know?’
‘Well, I guess they figure most of us can’t read,’ said Bear, handing the sheet back to Jenkins. ‘Hey, Lieutenant Sommati. You been recalled?’
‘Sì, I have. But I stay here with my men. We wait for comrades from Versilia and Pescaglia.’
‘Appreciate that, sir.’
Most of the 370th were at Molazzana and Calomini. Most of the Division were focused on the coast. Apart from Bear’s squad, the two platoons of the 366th, and the all-singing company of partisans, this was it.
‘OK.’ Jenkins spoke to one of the partisan soldiers. ‘Corneli is it, yeah?’ He was scribbling something on the bottom of the order.
‘Sì.’
Jenkins tore off the bit he’d been writing on, folded it over. ‘I want you to take this message to our command post at Barga, sì? Tell them it’s urgent. Urgente. Tell them we need more troops. I’ve been trying to radio the fuckers back, but there’s no reply.’
Sommati nodded at his man. ‘Attendere la risposta.’
‘Sarge?’ said Frank. ‘What should we do with these folks, then? Evacuate ’em?’
‘Where do you suggest?’ said Sommati. ‘America?’
‘We keep them company, I guess.’ Bear took out a slim box. ‘Cigar, anyone?’
There was a flurry of noise and fresh snow, the door of Casa Mazzolini crashing wide. Frank thought it was Corneli leaving, but it was a new crowd of people pushing in. Reinforcements already? How was that possible? A deep voice shouted, ‘È qui la festa?’
In trooped a dozen partigiani, headed by a woman flourishing a machine gun. They entered, bellowing, ‘Oh bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao, ciao, ciao.’
What was it with the partigiani and song? The entire brigade was topped and tailed by women: mach
ine-gun lady at the front, another two at the rear, one in furs, another part-hidden by her hood. Which was really a patchwork quilt. One of the women closed the door, subduing the heaving snow. The other shrugged off her rainbow cloak. It was Cesca. It was Francesca and his Vita. Wearing a wet fur coat. Smiling straight into him like a bullet through his heart.
Across the hubbub she grinned and waved, Frank, spilling his drink as she blew him a kiss.
‘Marry me,’ he mouthed.
She shook out her hair, scattering diamonds, and came over.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Sometimes it is the smallest thing. 4.15 a.m. on the 26th of December. Vita swirled the coppery liquid in her glass.
‘Here, you want more? Right up your street, scozzese.’ Dina poured another tumblerful. The scene in Casa Mazzolini was surreal. Twenty or so people lounged on couches, on the floor. Rifles were propped against the wall, beside a pile of Buffalo backpacks. A man and a woman danced in front of a table, which held a half-devoured wheel of cheese and the remains of some roasted meat. Although shuttered from the outside, the high-ceilinged room had been lit by several coal-fired acetylene lamps, which cast slender, rearing shadows into the wooden rafters.
The whisky tasted delicious. Papa had never let her try his precious stash. ‘What is it?’
Dina’s brother looked at the bottle. ‘Bourbon? Ameri—’
‘—cani?’ said another of her squad. ‘Beware of men bearing gifts. Guard your wine, your women and your chickens. Oh, and the going rate’s four americani cigarettes if you want un pompino.’ He pushed his tongue deep into his cheek to illustrate the point.
Vita put her glass down. Feeling the golden slide of it go all the way. For a lovely second, there was only her and this soft heat in her gullet. All night, she had been good. But the bourbon was making her loose, unguarded. Comments like that were why she must stay alert. She had talked to Frank, she had danced with him and his friend Comanche, then with Lenin and Tiziano and the dashing Pier Donato Sommati, because that’s what you did at a party. Nobody could hear her heart hammer when Frank moved close. Or know it was for him that she laughed, or touched her hair.
The Sound of the Hours Page 34
