Air Strike

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  “Fancy that!” said Vincent. “What will they think of next?”

  “Sorry. Was I being pompous?”

  “Not really. Just bloody obvious.”

  “And up yours too, mate.” That was a rejoinder that the R.A.F., not Magdalen, had taught Warren.

  *

  Major Corrado, Pete to his friends, Pietro to the senior ranks in the hierarchy of the Mafia, one-time speakeasy operator and most recently assistant vice-president of a casino hotel in Las Vegas, was drawing deeply on the reserve of pseudo-patrician nonchalance he had acquired during his four years at Princeton. Outwardly philosophical about the delay in reaching the north coast, he was inwardly seething with impatience. He was in a hurry; not merely to get to Palermo, or to set foot on the Italian mainland, but to get to Naples. He had a Godfather back home whom he feared far more than even the most terrifying military commander. He had been given certain tasks which Godfather unreasonably insisted should take priority over his Army duties: he could fit in fighting the war as best he could; but he must not fail in his duty to the Family. Corrado hoped that by discharging this obligation swiftly he would win some respite from the demands of the Mob and be allowed to serve out the rest of the war in mental tranquillity. Even so, Pienze would still be around as his watchdog; unless a lucky salvo of counter-battery fire from the Krauts took care of him.

  Watching through his binoculars the tiny distant shape of Toby Yule falling clear of his Spitfire, he followed him down to the point where he touched ground and disappeared from sight among a litter of boulders and clumps of trees. He could discern uniformed figures hurrying towards the spot. He hoped they were local boys and not Krauts: everyone believed that Italy was ready to make a separate peace with the Allies; in which event they would release all their prisoners of war. Moreover, being taken by the Germans suggested brutal treatment by the S.S. and harsh interrogation by the Gestapo. He was vague on this subject but it was one of his greatest dreads: third greatest, to be accurate, for nothing exceed his terror of his superiors in Cosa Nostra; and next came the fear of being emasculated by enemy action. He summoned Tech. Sgt. Pienze, who arrived with a cigar in his mouth.

  “You have connections here, Tommy...”

  “Connections? Man, I got relations. You got relations in Napoli, I got ’em right here. So?”

  “So I want you to find out what happened to that British pilot who just bailed out. I saw some guys running towards him: they looked like Italiani. Maybe we can help get him back to his outfit.”

  “You polishin’ someone’s apple, Pete?”

  “I recognised the identification letters on those Spitfires: it’s the same outfit as that one we... we made that boo-boo with.”

  “You kinda wanta make amends, right?”

  “Amends and friends, Tommy: you never know when you’re going to need them.” Corrado had a pretty clear idea of when he was going to need all the friends he could muster: when they finally made it to Naples. His many years’ experience of booze-running and gambling had taught him that even the most tenuous friendly connections could prove a matter of life and death; and taught him also the way to calculate and play the odds in any precarious situation. And he was faced with just that before he grew much older: provided the Germans didn’t land a shell or a bomb on him first. Sometimes he wondered whether he was morbid about this: as though he took some private proprietary satisfaction from contemplating the awfulness of miseries which balanced, if not outweighed, the benefits he derived from his inherited connections.

  “I’ll go see what the word is,” said Pienze, “I gotta go fetch a coupla barrels of vino for the guys in C Battery, anyways: poor bastards got none of us in their outfit, so I help out.” “Us” could have meant either simply Italian-Americans who could speak the language, or Mafiosi, and Corrado didn’t want to know which. He shook his head commiseratingly to deprecate the ways of the Army, which didn’t ensure a fair distribution of those who could and those who couldn’t survive in more ways than just living through enemy fire. At the same time, he was wishing that Tech. Sgt. Pienze would drive his jeep over a mine one day soon and disappear forever in a cloud of dust and smoke.

  “If we can recover the guy, and hand him back to his squadron, it’ll make me feel a lot better.”

  “Sure, I understand.” Pienze lit a fresh cigar.

  You don’t understand, thought Corrado. It’s not only that I want to apologise in a practical way for shooting down the Spit. It’s because that goddamn Sqdn. Ldr. O’Neill made me feel about four inches high, instead of six inches taller than he is. He demolished me in ten minutes, including throwing back in my face an invitation to chow and laying a broad. I never met anyone like him at Princeton. What he meant was that O’Neill manifested an inherent assumption of superiority and savoir-faire such as he had never before met. For O’Neill’s mother was a Romanoff and his maternal uncles still used the title of Prince, and that was something else Corrado had no way of knowing.

  “Get your ass out of here, then, Tommy. I want you back before dark.”

  Sgt. Pienze saluted, about-faced with parade ground smartness and stepped smartly off with his left foot.

  Corrado wore around his neck three holy medals and a charm to avert the evil eye. Among the medals was one which was a safeguard of his virility: it depicted San Rocco, patron saint of coitus reservatus, a feat on which, like all males of Neapolitan origin, he prided himself. His father had given it to him with the touching words “Here you are, my boy, I don’t need it no more: age takes care of my reservatus now, even when I don’t want.” Corrado fumbled under his shirt to touch the silver disc and thought with eagerness of the voluptuous, if somewhat slatternly, “nursing assistant” who awaited his pleasure that evening. She was his only present solace; and a poor substitute for peace of mind.

  Chapter Six

  Yule reached instinctively for his revolver as he sat up.

  “No toucha the gun, eh?” said Sgt. Ferugino with a reproachful look. “We helpa you.”

  Looking past him Yule saw that the thin, narrow little man, just behind, held a rifle. It was pointed at his chest. He scrambled to his feet, angrily brushing aside the sergeant’s outstretched hand.

  “You all right?” Ferugino sounded anxious. “Can walk?”

  “Yes. Where did you learn English?”

  “I work three years in London, chum. You know Ristorante Luigi, in Romilly Street? Soho? My cugino... cousin... he padrone.”

  “Never heard of it,” Yule replied with surliness. He didn’t like the look of this ingratiating fat Wop: the chap was suspiciously matey. Hadn’t bothered to order him to hand over his revolver, either. Memory of his summary despatch of the murderous, rapacious Goumier gave him encouragement: he’d find a chance to shoot this greasy blighter presently; and his furtive-looking companion.

  “Very good ristorante... never mind now... we talk later... come on, quick...”

  “What are you up to?” Yule asked suspiciously.

  “I tella you, we help you. No take you prigioniero... we hide you... get you back home safe...”

  “Why?”

  Mamma mia! thought Ferugino. Half the trouble in the world was caused by such typical Protestant questioning. Why couldn’t this pleasant-looking boy just accept help gratefully instead of wasting time with questions? Why had people like him, four centuries earlier, questioned the Pope instead of accepting his dogma? There would be so much less trouble in the world today if everyone were Catholic and just did what they were told, accepting good fortune graciously without expressing doubt. Perhaps a touch of asperity would do the trick: “Porca madonna! Why you stan’ there? Why you no come with us?”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  Ferugino gestured to the other soldier and spoke a few sharp words, whereupon Yule felt the rifle prod his ribs painfully and the sergeant’s hand on his arm jerk him round. The rifle jabbed him in the back and he stumbled.

  “We take you to safe place... we h
ide you... soon you go back to your friends.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Yule asked over his shoulder, as they walked quickly along the hillside.

  “English and Americans will soon win... Germans go away... we Italians don’t like Germans... my regiment all Siciliani... understan’? Sicilians. Germans go, we make peace with British and Americans... we are your friends.”

  Perhaps he wouldn’t need to shoot the blighter after all, Yule told himself. “Are there any Germans near here?”

  “Si... yes, plenty Germans... we must hurry... they look for you also... never mind, we too clever for bloody Tedeschi... they think we Siciliani know damn nothing, but we know damn all...”

  “They must have seen me come down. How far is the nearest German position?”

  “Very close... so we musta hurry plenty much... what your name?”

  “Flying Officer Yule.” Toby was beginning to pant with exertion and spoke jerkily. Sweat ran freely under his shirt and muffling Mae West life jacket. He had abandoned his flying-helmet when he bailed out and his unprotected head ached in the roasting sun, which aggravated the throbbing bump where he had hit it against a tree. Heat waves rising from the ground made his senses reel and he began to waver and stagger as he ran. The two Italians formed up either side and grabbed him by the elbows.

  “You hurt?” Ferugino peered into his face, breathing stertorously.

  Yule flinched and turned away from the blast of garlic. “A bit dizzy, that’s all... I’m all right... not hurt...”

  “My name Salvatore Ferugino... Sal-va-tor-e Fer-u-gi-no... capisc’? Understan’? Remember... I help you... this my frien’ Gennaro Sarti... don’t forget our names, eh? Don’t forget we help you...”

  “I... won’t... forget...” puffed Yule. “How close are the Jerries... Germans?”

  “Not to worry... they not catch us... but close, si... si... must hurry...”

  There were no sounds of pursuit, however, as Yule presently realised. He slowed down and struggled free from his supporters. “I can manage... thanks... I can’t hear any Germans looking for me...”

  “Not now.” Ferugino looked triumphant. “We fool them... leave them far behind... they look in wrong direction... they think you going downhill, towards British lines. Not far now.” He pointed. “Old well... dry now... many years... hidden... there, in trees... long ago we dig tunnel from well into caves further down the mountain... you will see...”

  “Why did you do that?” Yule spoke almost as jerkily as his rescuer, his breath laboured.

  Ferugino raised a fat greasy chuckle. “We ’ide things from Carabinieri and Polizia... good place... nobody ever know... if Sicilian Police not find, bloody Germans never find.”

  A couple of minutes later they were in a tangled welter of undergrowth through which they scrambled to a stony clearing where coarse long grass clustered around the broken parapet of a well on which lay a rotting wooden cover. The two Italians pulled the cover aside, and, Ferugino leading the way, his pistol now drawn, to Yule’s concern (was this a trap? Were they going to shoot him, once underground?) the three of them clambered down the well shaft by means of footholds scooped out of the side and handholds in the form of rusty iron bolts driven between the bricks. Sarti, with his rifle still threatening, closed the lid and took an electric torch from a niche, which he shone downward to help them all to find their way. Yule now had misgivings about the whole adventure. Or misadventure, as he thought of it with the loss of his first elation at avoiding capture.

  Ferugino’s voice came up encouragingly, booming eerily in the echoing darkness and musty odour. “No hurry... take it easy, tosh... just likea crossing the road in Old Compton Street... nothing to worry about...”

  Yule’s feet touched dusty ground and he moved away to make room for Gennaro Sarti, who handed the torch over to Ferugino, who had put his pistol back in its holster and now led the way. They had to stoop to pass along a low, wide tunnel which opened out into a small cave. Presently this in turn led to a larger one where Ferugino paused and turned to Yule with a smile. He said nothing but made a sweeping gesture around the place. Yule looked about him. Faint daylight filtered in from somewhere but it was still dim, despite this and the torch. He could make out a table and some chairs, mattresses and blankets, stacked wooden crates and metal boxes.

  A voice called quietly “Salvato’?” The corncrake tone of the female of the southern Mediterranean species, with which Yule was destined to become so familiar.

  Ferugino answered in rapid dialect, and with a quick tap of high heels a girl emerged from the gloom. She approached right up to Yule and, lifting her face to his, greeted him: “Hello... what your name? My name Anna...”

  “This my sister,” Ferugino announced, not without a certain proprietorial pride.

  “You got cigarette?” asked Anna, with a blast of foetid breath that would have lifted the armour plating off a Sherman tank: she was evidently even more devoted to garlic than her brother. “You got five hundred lire? Cigarettes or lire, all the same. You want short time? Maybe want to go case-o... if you don’t understand Soho pimp language, that means stay all night... gimme twenty Players...”

  “Anna worked in Soho, also,” Ferugino explained proudly.

  “Very nice-a flat in Greek Street,” the lady confirmed, putting a pudgy soft hand between Yule’s suddenly trembling thighs and kneading him gently.

  *

  “How d’you make out?” asked Corrado.

  “Nemmind how I made out.” Pienze’s hatchet face was infused with malicious joy. “I got news for you: the Limeys really made a Snafu (Situation Normal — All F...ed Up). They shot down two of their own guys today: anti-aircraft got a Spitfire and one of the Spitfires took a bomber... do the R.A.F. have an airplane called a Marauder?”

  “Sure... Martin Marauder... what we call a B 26. What’s the deal?”

  “Seems like some new Spitfire pilot shot one down this morning... so some British flak outfit got a bit trigger-happy... and maybe thought the Krauts were using captured Spits with British markings...”

  “Oh, my Gahd! So they shot down a Spitfire, too?

  “Sure did, Pete. Lemme tell ya sump’n else... the goddamn Limey anti-aircraft hit one of ours as well: a B 25 that got lost and dropped its bombs the wrong side of the line... but it had U.S. markings...”

  “This man’s war... it’s a helluva deal... we go on like this, the Limeys and us’ll end up fighting each other instead of the Krauts. So what’s the word on the pilot we saw shot down?”

  “First thing is, it’s the same guy got in the way of our guns a few days back... guy called Yule...”

  “Oh, my Gahd! I remember what the crazy squadron leader said... Toby Yule... gutsy kid... hasn’t been even two years in the Mob yet...”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought he said...”

  “You thought?”

  “Sure: I was listenin’ at the door. So I figures if this guy Yule’s in the Family, we gotta look after him, right?”

  “Right. You bet. You heard something?”

  “I heard he made it O.K. Not a scratch. And the Krauts didn’t get to him.” Pienze looked self-congratulatory. “Guess who got to him first? My cousin Salvatore, him I was telling you about.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Sure is, Major.” Pienze was obviously deeply moved, to have dropped his usual familiar “Pete” for this formality. “Seems he’s got this Limey kid stashed away some place the Krauts can never find him.”

  “Why should he do that? What’s a British pilot to an Italian soldier? Why would he want to hide him? What’s his angle?”

  “You said an Italian soldier. Salvatore’s a Siciliano first and foremost. He don’t go for the Krauts any more than we do. He knows we’ll throw ’em out of here a few days from now. He’s making himself some insurance: he rescues the British pilot, he gets in good with our side. Also maybe he makes himself a good contact for... you know... supplies...”

 
“I can imagine just what kind of supplies.”

  “What’s the harm?”

  “I suppose you’ll tell me a black market is inevitable, so why shouldn’t your cousin have a slice of it instead of someone else?”

  “A man’s got to survive.”

  “So long as the British pilot survives...” Corrado had received a nasty reminder of his own survival problems once they reached Naples, if he failed to carry out the obligation that the Family had lain on him.

  “He’ll be O.K. Mebbe Salvatore’ll have to ask for a few thousand lire... or a truck-load of blankets or medical supplies... to help him make sure this guy Yule does make it back to base unharmed...”

  “Ransom money,” Corrado stated bleakly.

  “Hell, no. Just... passage money... compensation for the risk of hiding him.”

  “You’re perfectly sure about all this? How did you get so much information so soon?”

  “Aw, Pete! C’mon...” Pienze turned a wry, pitying smile on his Battery Commander. “We got contacts everywhere, soon’s we hit the soil of the Old Country, remember? No problem: I talked to the right people and they had the message right from my cousin Salvato’ himself, fast as he could pass it.”

  Corrado sighed. As an apprentice bootlegger while he was still a sophomore at Princeton, he had been up to the neck in the rougher end of the Mob’s widespread and multifarious operations: as a matter of routine, he had been ordered to kill. Once a new trainee had committed a couple of murders his life was forfeit to Cosa Nostra. He himself had shot three men on three separate occasions. But that was more than a decade ago, and two years after graduation from university he had been promoted to the smoother side of the rackets. He found this sudden reencounter with the baser realities of Mafia membership distasteful. Military life and active service had made his old life seem so remote; despite the ubiquitous presence of Tommasso Pienze, his shadow. It was an unwelcome reminder also of what lay ahead. Naples was almost on the horizon now. The only gratifying facet of recent events and those to come was that the British were just as capable as the Americans of shooting down their own, and American, aircraft in the confusion of battle. He was looking forward to the next time he saw the terrible Fiver O’Neill; which was inevitable, sooner or later, with the close liaison between, and combined operations of, the American and British forces. But what should he do about young Yule? It was a moral problem as much as a Family one; and Corrado was a good Catholic, in a superstitious, get-away-with-mortal-sin-if-I-can (like murder) style of piety. “Can’t you contact this cousin of yours personally and get him to hand this guy Yule over to you?”