Air Strike

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  “Perk?” Sarti sniffed. “I can do without that, thanks very much: remember what happened last time. It was the most painful experience of my life; I don’t know which was worse, the affliction or the treatment. You can keep that sort of perk to yourself.”

  “You expect to be lucky all the time? I got it too, but you don’t hear me complaining, do you?”

  “You shouldn’t sample your own merchandise,” Sarti grumbled. “Or invite your friends to. Not unless you can be sure... and no one can be sure... not after a girl has been working for you a week or so and had probably more than a hundred strange clients.”

  “If they didn’t keep up that kind of work rate they wouldn’t keep their jobs, I can tell you.”

  “Well, I’m disappointed in you. I thought I’d risked my neck to do something really big. I’ll settle for a job with the R.A.F. squadron, but only as a means to an end: once we get a foot in the door of any British or American unit, we can get our hands on all sorts of things.” Sarti’s eyes glistened as he amplified eagerly: “Have you heard of some new medicine they call peni... peni... penicillin? Now, if we can get access to a British or American hospital or sick quarters we can pinch loads of the stuff, and it’ll fetch a fortune from doctors, who can make their patients pay double what they give us, to be treated with the stuff.”

  Ferugino, huffily, said, “That’s small stuff. What I intend is to trade in vehicles and arms. Even a truck tyre will fetch 80,000 lire from some desperate farmer or haulier. As for arms; well, we don’t need to look further than our own: Cosa Nostra will welcome them; and pay handsomely.”

  “They’ll gyp us out of every quattrino they can,” was Sarti’s gloomy opinion. “Much better to sell on the open market: I mean, you and I are small fry in the Family, and we’re scared stiff of the capi; but anyone who doesn’t belong to Cosa Nostra is just as scared of us. Never forget that.”

  “You’ve got something there, Gennaro. I’m glad you reminded me. We pack quite a wallop, don’t we? To people outside the Mafia, a mere threat from one of us is enough, however humble we may be in the hierarchy. Hey, look! See that girl across the field there, with her skirt hitched up so she can swing that pitch fork? Get a load of her legs: with a figure like that she’d be worth 5,000 lire a night to us in Naples, once the Americans and British move in. Let’s go and have a word with her.”

  To this pattern of wrangling and plotting, daily and nightly trudging and frequent concealment, they covered more than 200 mountainous miles in two weeks, following an erratic course to avoid German troops unpredictably on the move.

  When they stood at last on a hill from which they could see the Tyrrhenian lapping against the shores of the Bay of Naples, they felt as triumphant as stout Cortes on an earlier and similar occasion, surveying a more distant sea; had they ever heard of him.

  To add to their delight was the sight of a formation of Spitfires flashing past along a valley, so that they actually had the magical experience of looking down on these much admired symbols of Allied power and wealth. The two little men danced with joy. “They look exactly like the aeroplane of Tenente Yule,” cried Sarti.

  “All Spitfires look alike, idiot,” Ferugino said.

  “But I am sure them’s ’em: it’s a sign... our luck’s in.”

  “Look over there, then.” Ferugino pointed north and then to the east. “Two more lots. I suppose you’ll say they also must belong to Tenente Yule’s squadron? How many Spitfires do you suppose they have in a squadron, fool? You can count; just. Better get your boots off: you’ll need toes as well as fingers to count all these. Six just gone past, below... eight over there... twelve... and another two... there. The sky’s full of them. They can’t all be the ones we’re looking for.”

  “I don’t care. It’s a lucky sign that the first aeroplanes we see after we set eyes on the Bay of Naples are Spitfires. It must mean something.”

  “It means we’d better start moving south again if we don’t want to run into a German patrol, that’s what it means. Come on.” Wearily they foot-slogged on, but with high hopes now.

  “It had better not be too far,” Sarti groaned. “I’ve worn out my second pair of boots.”

  With supreme disapproval, Ferugino said, “These criminals of manufacturers: they get a big fat Army contract to supply billions of lire-worth of boots, and they turn out shoddy stuff with cardboard soles. Not a thought for us poor damned squaddies who have to depend on them to carry us hundreds of miles. It’ll be a pleasure to pinch a few thousand good pairs from the Americans and British and unload ’em on the black market. One in the eye for the dirty thieving bastards who made these useless things: my second pair’s just about worn right through, too.”

  *

  Yule climbed down from the cockpit of his Spitfire to the baked and dusty ground of the temporary hard standing, pulled off his sweat-damp helmet and wiped his face with a handkerchief which had seen better days; laundry facilities on campaign and his supply of linen being what they were. He loosened the blue, paisley patterned scarf at his neck and eased his shorts away from his hot thighs.

  Warren strolled around a wingtip, also mopping his damp face, Vincent and Sgt. Sampson a few paces behind.

  “Right, Toby,” Warren said authoritatively. “That’s us finished for the day. You can have your birthday round of drinks set up in precisely one hour from now. That’ll give us time for a shower and a cool-off.”

  Sampson called from where he had stopped to talk to one of the fitters; who were always the first with a rumour or news. “Liberty run leaving for the beach in ten minutes.” This rare event produced a rush of feet as officers and men hurried to dump flying gear and tools and fetch towels and costumes.

  “Birthday treat for you, Toby.” said Vincent. “Quite a memorable day you’re having: a Tiger all to yourself, a brace of flamers, and now a swim. What more could a twentieth birthday offer?”

  Yule had attacked a Tiger tank early that morning with such accuracy that his bomb hit it plumb in the middle of one side. On a second sortie he had attacked a convoy of German vehicles, with Warren, Vincent and Sgt. Sampson, and they had left several of them in flames. Flamers were always gratifying, because so often one’s gunfire killed the driver or wrecked the engine without causing a fire; and bombs tended to blow them to bits or lift them off the road by blast: again, no flames.

  Since the attack on the factory, of which Count di Rossoni had been so admiring a spectator, Yule’s self-confidence had surged upward. He had had to nerve himself to hold his run-in at so low a level for such a long time: it had, really, been foolhardy to delay his pull-out until so late. As he did it, he knew he was lucky that the building had collapsed and he had thus escaped flying into its upper floors. He had, a few days later, gone into a neighbouring village with Warren, who was shopping for the mess, and, in a shop near the church, found a St. Christopher medal. Somewhat daringly he had also bought a cheap white metal chain (the two articles cost him twenty cigarettes) and wore the medal around his neck on this rather than on the string from which his identity discs hung. He thought it was rather Continental and even slightly pansy to wear a chain round his neck, and it made him feel very doggy. When Vincent saw it, his remark was, “I wonder you didn’t go completely Eyetie and get yourself a bottle of cologne to smother yourself with, as well.” It was at the beach, so Yule had ducked Vincent until he went puce and swallowed a lot of sea water.

  Fiver having guided him on his approach to fling his bombs into the ground-floor workshops, Yule had learned the necessary timing. In consequence, his skill had improved greatly and prompted much sarcasm from Vincent. “Why did you hide your light under a bushel for so long, Toby?” “We’ll have to call you Kraut-Killer if you keep on like this.” “ ‘Buster’ as a nickname acquires a whole new significance when applied to you, Toby.” And, which led to another scragging on the beach, “Is it true the A.O.C. is posting you to H.Q. as Bombing Adviser? Having changed his mind dramatically about having you
sent to Canada to instruct on Tiger Moths...”

  Two months ago Yule would not have offered long odds about his chances of living to the age of twenty. The last few weeks had given him a new optimism. Having survived the onslaught on Sicily after three months’ respite from operations which had blunted the squadron’s fighting edge, and having seen half a dozen other pilots killed in action recently, he was reassured about his own prospects.

  The long hot Italian summer showed little sign of ending. The Meteorological section said there would be no appreciable lessening of temperature until October, and apart from odd showers, no rain until November. Flying all day was still a sticky job and the chance of a swim too infrequent: there was seldom time, for the squadron usually landed from its last sortie too soon before sunset to enable liberty trucks to cover the ten miles to the sea before dark; and teatime. Tea was the troops’ last meal of the day and not to be missed or delayed.

  Progress towards Naples was annoyingly slow. Instead of the three or four days on which the Allies had planned, nearly three weeks had passed and the Germans were stubbornly holding their ground.

  Yule felt that pessimism and annoyance had no place on a man’s birthday. He even dredged up a measure of charity for Vincent, who was beginning to aggravate his irritation at the delay in reaching a place of real civilisation. After North Africa, Europe had looked full of promise; but Sicily had proved a disillusionment. The dirt and poverty, the many houses built of earth instead of stone, the villages which had not changed since the Middle Ages: Europe did not begin here. The look of mainland Italy across the Straits of Messina was more inviting, and what they saw of the country from the air encouraged them to believe in a more comfortable future; once they had taken Naples. They looked forward to decent clubs for both officers and troops, where they would be able to eat good food and eye military nurses. Wrens and other members of the women’s Services would surely be sent here also as soon as the front line moved far enough beyond Naples. On the east coast there were Taranto and Bari, with abundant fleshpots as well as aerodromes from which they could operate effectively. Some Desert Air Force, Coastal Air Force, Strategic Bomber Force and Tactical Air Force squadrons were already flying from that area. The aerodrome at Grottaglie, near Taranto, was in service and soon the many more around Foggia would be in use. All looked promising, but for the time being they were still stuck here with Naples an unattained objective.

  The squadron’s trips to the beach were an excuse for a great deal of horseplay. Fiver, whose massive physique made him an invincible contestant in any rough game that was organised, encouraged robust bodily contact sports. Rugger, football and water polo balls were taken along. Stumps were set up and highly unorthodox cricket was played with a tennis ball.

  This afternoon Yule reflected that this campaign and the one in North Africa must be unlike any other in history. One minute they were in action and an hour later fooling about at the seaside as though they had no cares. In Egypt, Libya and Tunisia not all their landing grounds had been deep in the desert. Often they flew from strips near the coast. At times they had been able to snatch leaves in the sophistication of Cairo or Alexandria. It was no new experience to exchange, within an hour or two, the dangers and discomforts of active service for the comforts of a first rate hotel or a beach picnic.

  On the way back from their swim O’Neill had given Yule a lift, in honour of his birthday, along with Sgt. Sampson and three others. Fiver slowed his jeep at the entrance to the squadron’s domestic site in its orange orchard. By the Guard Room tent, under the eyes of a Service Police sergeant, stood two bedraggled figures in creased, stained Italian Army uniforms. Both were short; one fat and his companion cadaverous. They leaned forward, peering, and on identifying Yule both capered and waved their arms, shouting,

  “Tenente Yule! Flying Officer, sir... Mr. Yule... Hello... Please...”

  “Chums of yours, Toby?” asked Fiver. “You keep some queer company, don’t you?”

  Yule did not need to scrutinise this shabby couple. He would have known them in the deepest darkness. “It’s the types who helped me when I pranged, sir.”

  “Which time?” O’Neill unkindly asked. “Oh, they’re the types who helped you escape, are they?” He beckoned to the two Italians to approach. They trotted up to the jeep beaming and saluting. In his excellent Italian O’Neill said, “Are you looking for us? What can we do for you? Flying Officer Yule tells me you are good lads. I am his Commanding Officer and would like to thank you for what you did for him.”

  With every appearance of ecstasy Ferugino launched himself into a eulogy. “But how beautifully you speak Italian, Colonello...”

  “My name in O’Neill and I am a squadron leader... a Commandante.”

  “You should be at least a colonel, commanding such a fine body of men, sir. I am Sergeant Ferugino and this is Private Sarti. At your service.”

  “All right, Sergeant, I’ll see you both later. In the meanwhile the Police sergeant here will find you somewhere to sleep, provide you with showers and food, and clothes if you need them. I’ll send for you later.” He gave these instructions to the baffled-looking policeman.

  After florid expressions of gratitude Ferugino added, “Excuse me, Commandante... Mr. Yule, how are you? I am overjoyed to see-a you... very ’appy, tosh... sir... excuse me...”

  “I’m very well, thanks. I’ll see you presently. I’m looking forward to hearing how you got here.” As an afterthought, as the jeep moved on, Yule called back, “How is Anna?”

  “You remember-a my sister?” More entranced smiles. “I not have-a news since we leave Sicily.” Ferugino’s command of English had slipped once again.

  Fiver, driving on, remarked with pretended suspicion: “Just how long were you in that cave alone with the girl, Toby?”

  The others took up the inquisition loudly and suggestively.

  “I never got closer to her than ten yards,” protested Yule. “And even at that range she ponged of garlic. She had a loaded twelve-bore in her hand the whole time, what’s more. And she made some highly indelicate suggestions about where she’d shoot me if I made a wrong move.”

  “A likely tale,” was Sgt. Sampson’s view.

  “And so say all of us,” someone else added.

  “If you’d seen her...” Yule dwelt momentarily on a mental picture of Anna. “She’s got a build like the Boss... apart from the upper chest, I mean, sir...” This amid general amusement, in which Fiver’s booming laugh rose above the rest. “And I swear she could grow a moustache more easily than any of us...”

  O’Neill said, “Don’t let your imagination run away with you, Toby. I know damn well she... Anna, as you so intimately call her... must have been damned attractive... otherwise you’d have found some way of beating it, twelve-bore or not. You had yourself a bloody good time, young Toby, I’m sure of it.”

  Yule, although not unflattered by this imputation of rakishness, felt bound to protest his innocence. “Honestly, sir...”

  “Honestly is the last way you’re going to tell your story, old boy. You’re not fooling any of us... and we’re just envious...”

  “I wouldn’t mind getting shot down again if I ended up in a cave with a buxom Italian bint instead of hospital,” Sammy announced.

  Yule retorted quickly, “If you took Anna on, you’d soon find yourself in hospital anyway.”

  “Why?” asked Sammy. “You didn’t!” This ended the discussion in vulgar laughter.

  After dinner, sitting under the trees in canvas camp chairs and odd deckchairs the squadron had “liberated” during its sojourn in Sicily, with fireflies tracing whorls in the soft darkness and cicadas grinding but their monotonous chorus, Fiver said, “Let’s have your friend Sergeant Ferugino along. I’ll see the other chap tomorrow morning: he’d be embarrassed here.” The squadron sergeants had already been invited to after dinner drinks to toast Yule. A mess servant went to fetch Ferugino, who arrived presently looking spruce in a fresh khaki drill s
hirt and slacks and R.A.F. boots. He had transferred his insignia to his new clothes and exuded, with the aroma of pomade and toilet water (stolen from a nearby village shop en route), an air of pride. After an excess of bowing and ingratiating compliments he sat uneasily in a deckchair and accepted a glass of wine.

  “We’ll talk English so that everyone can understand,” O’Neill said. “And don’t waste time telling us how bad your English is. We all know it’s very good. Now, how did you find us and what do you think we can do to help you?”

  “We escape as soon as Italy make peace with Allies, before Germans grab us.”

  “You needn’t have panicked: Field-Marshal Kesselring agreed that if the Italian forces laid down their arms they would not be arrested, imprisoned or deported.” This, disapprovingly, came from Tustin.

  “We did not know. Afterwards we ’ear the Navy and the Air Force have escaped with ships and aeroplanes to join you and the Americans. But at first we are frightened and we hurry away. We walk more than two weeks, always looking for Spitfires... and then we hear there is an airfield here, so we come and ask if it is Commandante O’Neill’s squadron.”

  Tustin said, “Tomorrow morning I would like you to tell me everything in detail.” Ferugino’s black eyes went out of focus as he rapidly calculated what price he could squeeze out of this severe-looking officer if he spun him a lurid yarn about the Germans.

  O’Neill asked, “And now what do you intend?”

  “We would like to work for you,” said Ferugino simply. “We will do anything.”

  “Don’t you want to get back to Sicily?” Yule asked.

  “Is better we stay in Italy.”

  “Well,” said Fiver, “We can’t take you on officially, but we can make you supernumeraries... supernumerari, capisce?... and you can do odd jobs as orderlies... ordinanzi. We’ll draw rations for you and give you a tent to sleep in, but we can’t pay you. We’ll arrange to give you each 100 cigarettes a week: that’ll be worth more than money, anyway.” He cut short Ferugino’s expressions of gratitude with: “Why didn’t you go and find your cousin, the American sergeant who also helped in Flying Officer Yule’s return to the squadron? We know his Commanding Officer quite well. The regiment isn’t far from here.”