Air Strike

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  The Battery Commander had a brooding look, Pienze reflected. He could understand his boredom with the tatty half-dozen peasant girls he himself had taken under his protection, and who had been attached to the unit, for rations, as ‘nursing assistants’. They had even been provided with G.I. shirts and pants He was shepherding them to Catania for his cousin Salvatore Ferugino, whom he had never met. A more distant cousin of them both had made contact with him soon after the invasion and set up the combinazione. It suited Pienze very well; indeed, it suited the whole outfit. The major had appeared especially pleased. And now he was looking sour. Oh, well, if he wanted him to find him another broad, one all to himself, he’d have to do something about it: life wasn’t worth living with a Commanding Officer who was permanently sulking; whatever their respective standings in the Mob.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” asked Sgt. Pienze with most unusual formality and deference. He even took his cigar out from between his teeth.

  “You can locate Lootenant... Flying Officer Yule. And don’t give me any horseshit, Tommy: you make a deal and we’ll buy him back.” He held up a hand to stop the instant protest. “I don’t mean you should go looking for him: just find out exactly where he is and get the message to your cousin somehow.”

  “It’ll cost a few bucks, Pete.” Pienze was mellowing under the influence of neat Scotch whisky.

  “Then take this.” The major drew a wad of notes from a money belt under his shirt, counted ten fifty-dollar bills and gave them to his transportation sergeant. “You can toss in a couple of dozen pairs of shoes as well. Fix it with Supply.” He meant G.I. boots, which the Americans call high shoes; and the supply sergeant was as venal as Pienze. “If you have any trouble, tell your contacts those broads will never get to Catania: we’ll lose them.”

  Sgt. Pienze winced. “Godfather wouldn’t be happy about that, Pete.”

  “He’s a long ways from here.”

  “Yeah, maybe: but there’s other Godfathers right here; and in Napoli; waiting for you.”

  Corrado grimaced and reached for the bottle: he needed no reminding of what awaited him in Naples.

  Chapter Eight

  Anna kept the shotgun constantly in her hand and never turned her back on Yule, even when she was cooking. To answer calls of nature she retired behind sacking curtains, with the gun barrel pointing through them. It was an unnecessary precaution, for Yule’s shyness compelled him to turn the other way and he did not see the gun.

  With the passing of the hours he counted his blessings. The one for which he was most fervently grateful was the enforced respite in Anna’s assault on his virtue. He told himself that, if she had not been obliged to keep him under surveillance at gun point, God alone knew what would have happened between them. Not strictly accurate, he admitted: for not only God but himself and the girl knew it too. But she would have to sleep some time; then his chance to escape would come.

  The entrance to the biggest cave was a narrow cleft in a sheer rock face and there was another entrance to a smaller cave which led from it. This was also a mere crack in the hillside. Anna let him sit close to the entrance of the large cave to enjoy as much fresh air as possible. From there he could hear the battle being fought all round this place. Artillery barrages were frequent. The stutter of automatic fire and the thumping of mortars were almost incessant. Rifle fire never stopped: it could always be heard from some direction. The roar of diving aircraft and the bursting of bombs had gone on all day. When night fell the heavy bombers did not cease their attacks and the enemy flak batteries kept up a constant defence.

  Three hours after full dark the suet-ball Ferugino and pinchbeck Sarti reappeared. Ferugino hailed Yule cheerfully but Anna shrieked a long tale of complaint at him as soon as he arrived and he turned to Yule with an expression of sorrow.

  “Why you don’t trust us?”

  “I object to being kept here against my will. And it’s an insult to be the prisoner of a woman. Especially one who keeps a gun pointed at me all the time. You can’t treat a British officer like this and expect to get away with it. If you want me to put in a good word for you, you’d better get me back to my squadron at once. And if you can’t, or won’t, then let me find my own way.”

  “All right, chum, listen to me.” Ferugino settled down with a glass of red wine, facing Yule across a battered kitchen table. “You think your honour as a British officer is being insulted? Let me tell you what British officers, flying aeroplanes, have done to us...”

  “I don’t want to listen to a lot of Nazi and Fascist propaganda...”

  “This is no propaganda. It is my own firsthand experience, tosh...”

  “And don’t call me tosh... or chum.”

  Ferugino made deprecating noises and gesticulations. “So, I save your life, but because I am a Sergeant I cannot talk to you like a friend? Bene. Listen. British bombers have done much damage to our country and killed many civilians. Also your alleati... gli Americani...” With extravagant facial distortions and eloquent pantomime with his arms, Ferugino expressed dismay and disgust. “They drop their bombs everywhere...”

  “What about your Air Force in Abyssinia, deliberately bombing the civilian population... savages living in huts, who had no protection...”

  “We not talk about Abyssinia, we talk about Italy... Sardegna... and now Sicily...”

  “I don’t want to talk about anything, I want to leave here immediately...”

  “Listen! I am trying to explain you why is not safe.” Under stress and from lack of recent practice Ferugino’s English, like his sister’s, disintegrated. He pulled himself together. “Listen... sir... where were you last Easter?”

  “Last Easter? What the hell has that got to do with it? You’re a lunatic, Sergeant Ferugino...”

  “Last Easter twenty-six American Liberator aeroplanes bombed Grosseto in the afternoon. You know where is Grosseto? In the north-west of Italy. All the people were out enjoying themselves... crowds in the amusement park... like Hampstead Heath on Bank Holidays... all the streets crowded... I ask you again, where were you that day?”

  Reluctantly, Yule let a response be dragged from him. He was not interested in this silly fat little sergeant’s maunderings. “I suppose I was operating in the Enfidaville area: we were going flat out to capture Tunis around that time... April.”

  “All right... you were shooting at Italian and German aeroplanes... not civilians... not children. The Liberators came and bombed the aerodrome at Grosseto, then they machine-gunned the streets... they machine-gunned the tents in the amusement park, where hundreds... maybe thousands of children were enjoying the... the... caroselle...” Ferugino made a circular motion.

  “Roundabouts?”

  “Yes... and dodgem cars, and all the other funs... and they kill and wound many, many children. There is a priest on the steps of the church, with the people who are dying... and the Liberators come and machine-gun there also. One bomb drops on the hospital, and there were not enough bandages for all the wounded people... we are told, after, that the Americans think the tents are military... but why did they deliberately attack people in the streets?”

  “Very sad. But what’s that got to do with my getting back to the squadron?”

  “You will understand in a minute, sir. Before we came back to Sicily, my regiment was in Sardegna... Sardinia, you say. At Cagliari. The R.A.F. attacks... we shoot at you... we bring down some bombers... the American bombers come... we are shooting... there are civilians in the streets struggling to get into the shelters... the Liberators machine-gun them... 6,000 people are killed...”

  “I still don’t see...”

  “Please! Listen. In the first air raid the patients escape from the leper hospital and rush into the streets... they are soon all mixed with the rest of the people in Cagliari... terrible...”

  Yule said impatiently “But...”

  Ferugino ignored him. “To the people in Sardegna... and Italy... and in Sicily, there is no difference betw
een the British aeroplanes and the American aeroplanes. In Sardegna they make a new prayer when the air raids start:

  Ave Maria, gratia plena,

  Fa’ che non suoni la sirena,

  Fa’ che non vengono piu gli aeroplani,

  Fa’ che si dorma fino a domani.

  Se qualche bomba cade giu

  Madre pietosa, pensaci tu.

  Gesu, Giuseppe, Maria,

  Fate che gli inglesi perdono la via.

  Dolce cuore del mio Gesu

  Fa’ che gli inglesi non vengono piu.

  “That means:

  Hail Mary, full of grace,

  Don’t let the siren sound,

  Don’t let the aeroplanes come,

  Let us sleep until tomorrow.

  If any bomb falls below,

  Merciful mother, think of us.

  Jesus, Joseph, Mary,

  Make the English lose their way.

  Sweet heart of my Jesus

  Don’t let the English come any more.”

  By the end of this recital not only Ferugino but also his sister and Sarti were weeping copiously and loudly.

  Yule felt his own eyes prickling with tears. He was hot with embarrassment. He said, “It’s a terrible story, but I still don’t understand...”

  Ferugino jumped up and leaned across the table towards him. Savagely he said, “In the eyes of the Italian people the English are murderers just like the Americans. The R.A.F. bombs at night, the American Air Corps in the daytime...”

  “We do day-bombing, too, and we make damn sure we don’t hit any civilians...”

  “Impossible to be sure... but doesn’t matter... this is war... what I am telling you is, there are many Sicilians fighting here in Sicily, but most of the Army... and the Italian Navy and the Regia Aeronautica... are Italians from the... the... mainland and Sardinia. You cannot reach your squadron alone... if the Germans don’t catch you, the Italians will... and they will lynch you... they will have no mercy. Remember... ‘Fa’ che gli inglesi non vengono piu’... don’t let the English come back... not the Americans... the English... because you started the air raids. My friend,” he ended, sitting again, calmer, “you try to get back on your own, and you are a dead duck. Italian soldiers will catch you... and what the Moroccan Goumiers do will seem like a child’s game compared with what angry Italian soldiers will do to you. Believe me.”

  “I’m not afraid, damn you.”

  “Maybe not. But if you are needed by your squadron, why take risk you will never get back to it?” Impeccable Italian logic, born of many centuries of sophistry.

  Sgt. Salvatore Ferugino did not seem quite such an absurd figure any more. The comparison his sister had made with Al Capone no longer seemed far-fetched. There was more than a little iron in Ferugino’s soul, more than a little menace in his words. He had revealed an unsuspected depth of feeling in his passionate account of the bombings. Yule knew, from encounters with prisoners of war, the shallowness of Italian sincerity and the depth of Italian sentimental emotionalism; but Ferugino had moved him. He was still a scruffy little crook — how else could he think of so shifty and seedy a saviour? — but he had revealed a certain amount of concern for one’s safety. Nevertheless Yule was not without a measure of cynicism despite his youth and prosaic English suburban background: he reminded himself that as long as it suited Ferugino’s purpose to hang on to him, of course Ferugino would show concern for his safety and protection.

  The prayer which Ferugino had recited with such poignancy was a disturbing invocation for a young airman to hear, whatever distaste he had for someone whom he regarded as essentially a criminal; and to some extent a traitor: for it was the Italian sergeant’s duty to take him prisoner of war, not trade his freedom for an assurance of future security.

  In the gloom of the cave, lit by an oil lamp whose sickly aroma aggravated the greasy smell of cooking, with two enemy soldiers, one of whom at least was a professional cut-throat, the angrily described air raids were easy to see in the mind’s eye. Each catastrophe was as horrific as the other. A horde of lepers running riot and spreading contagion was no better or worse than the deaths and maiming of children enjoying a treat on a holy day. Yule wished he hadn’t heard that story or the pitiful and ineffectual prayer for protection.

  The sudden appearance among the eerie shadows of an intruder startled him, but whatever it portended it gave him something less disturbing to his humanity to think about.

  There was a warning call, first, before the man came into view: a voice from the back of the cave, towards the well shaft. Ferugino, plainly startled, jerked round in his chair and called back. Sarti slipped the safety catch off his rifle and aimed at the blackness. Anna scampered away into the shadows, her gun ready. Ferugino called out challengingly and was answered. Still tense, he said quickly to Yule, “It is all right... a friend.”

  The man who came out of the darkness was middle-aged and sturdy, with a heavy moustache and shoulders rounded by a lifetime of heavy work. He halted, stared at Yule, then abruptly pointed with what looked like menace and asked something. Ferugino replied at once, curtly, and there was a brief argument.

  “What’s going on?” Yule asked, hoping his unease did not show through his crisp tone.

  “This man has come to take you back to your friends... he is your guide.” Ferugino’s face slipped without warning into a smile. “Is all right, sir... not to worry... Italian soldiers will not catch you... no lynching, chum... sir... excuse me... and no Germans... here, we are not behind German line... your guide take you across country, and you reach American line... quite safe.”

  “You’re suspiciously pleased to get rid of me. How do I know this isn’t a trick?”

  Ferugino clasped his hands together as though in supplication and rolled his eyes, shook his head, made motions with his shoulders and arms, in an extravagant appeal for confidence in his integrity. “If I could come with you, I would, sir.”

  “You weren’t expecting him. So you intended to keep me here longer.”

  “This man has brought a message, sir, from my friends behind the British and American line. That has changed our plans... now we can safely let you go... you will come to no harm.”

  Yule held out his hand. “Give me back my revolver.”

  Ferugino turned towards his sister and gave her a sharp order. A moment later Yule felt her eager arms about his neck as she slipped the loop of the lanyard over his head. She encircled his waist to put on his belt, which she buckled for him. Then once again she embraced him around the neck and jerked his head down to smash his lips against her mouth and kiss him with an ardour which, combined with the heat of her resilient great bosom through his thin shirt, caused an instant and embarrassing problem when he tried to move his legs and break away.

  “I will see you again, Toby,” she breathed into his ear, her tongue stabbing deep, almost to his eardrum, before she released him.

  Dear God, I hope not, he thought: I wish I could remember that prayer; I’d adapt it to one for protection against this man-devouring harpy, this ambulant featherbed. But he recalled that the Sardinians’ prayer hadn’t protected them from air raids, after all, and something told him that he was no more easily going to rid himself of Anna.

  He thought of asking why, if this hiding place was not behind the Axis lines, he had been held here so long, but decided that it would be churlish to harp on the subject now that he was getting away. It seemed as though he had been here for days, but in fact it was only fifteen hours since he had been shot down.

  At the bottom of the well shaft they shook hands. Sarti with an unintelligible parting admonition in his truncated dialect. Ferugino, a final “Arrivederci... see you soon... good luck...” and Anna: “Take care... caro mio... think of me.” I surely will, Yule told himself; but not quite in the way you mean, dearie.

  When he climbed over the parapet around the well mouth, inhaling the clean air with pleasure, it was a night like any other of the many scores he had known
when a great battle was being fought. Nothing had changed, although he had been all those hours in surroundings so apart from his accustomed life. The night was bright with gun flashes and searchlight beams, the air shocked by the bursting of high explosive and the chatter of light weapons.

  His guide, who spoke no English, tugged at his belt and led him stealthily down the mountainside.

  It was a strenuous journey. Yule was not physically soft, but not conditioned to use his legs as an infantryman is. His working hours — and they were long — had, for nearly two years past, been spent sitting in the cockpit of an aircraft. When he left the airfield, unless it had happened from time to time to be by the sea’s edge and an easy stroll from the beach, he went by what the Service calls motor transport. Apart from shoving the rudder pedals of a Spitfire and walking from his tent or hut to the mess, he didn’t use his legs a lot. His wind wasn’t much to write home about, either, for he had taken no strenuous exercise since he left England, getting on for a year ago. But he was healthy, young and energetic. The scramble across rough country punished him but it didn’t bring him to his knees.

  For the rest of his days he would remember that series of rushes from one patch of cover to another, interspersed with furtive creeping between pools of shadow along a goat track or through a copse. Each time the guide signed to him to fling himself down, or, with a spade-like hand on his shoulder, dragged him to ground, he pressed his face against the earth and breathed the scent of bracken, grass, wild flowers, sheep and goats, that would forever linger with him and rise to the surface whenever he heard the name Sicily.

  He was not convinced that he was not being led into something worse than enforced seclusion in the cave. The accusation with which this guide had pointed at him when he first came to fetch him was disquieting. The argument between the guide and Ferugino had not been reassuring. He had no delusions about the basic dishonesty of either Ferugino or Anna. None the less, he was out in the open and he had his loaded revolver to hand. He didn’t think he’d risk drawing attention to himself by shooting at the guide if an emergency arose, but perhaps he wouldn’t have to: if the fellow were about to betray him in some way a whack over the skull with the barrel should be enough to put him out of action; though what he would do then, he didn’t know, for he had no idea where he was.