Air Strike

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  Now for the beat-up. In sections, they stooped on the railway tracks. Goods wagons and passenger carriages fell apart under the blast of their cannon and incendiary ammunition. A locomotive brewed up with a monumental cloud of steam. Some inflammable liquid in a tanker wagon burst into flames. German lorries and cars had fallen off the bridge. More stood at either end, men pouring from them and running for cover. The Spitfires machine-gunned them. Enemy soldiers fell, vehicles emitted smoke and flames. Through it all Yule was oblivious of the flak, which had not ceased for a moment.

  Crossing Le Siepi again on his way back, with the rest of the section, to rejoin the squadron over the village Fiver had given them as their rendezvous point, he saw men and women at work in the fields, vineyards and orchards stop and stare towards the columns of smoke and dust that hung over the target. It struck him how isolated they were, in their vast enclave, from the grimness of all that went on around them. It was a huge pool of undisturbed routine living. There was no reason why the war should thrust itself on this place, unless the Germans occupied it. Plainly, they had not, yet. Its occupants therefore need not see anything more horrible than distant smoke or hear anything more offensive than the roar of explosions. They did not have to see or hear men dying or screaming. They did not have to die or suffer themselves. He hoped the German retreat and the Allied advance would not engulf it. There were too few restful-looking places in a war torn countryside, and to be able to see one was a reassurance that not the entire world was falling down. In one small town in the path of the Allied armies, 2,000 of the inhabitants had been killed in an air raid which had to be carried out in order to dislodge the Germans. Yule had seen it that morning. It was another shattered place which generations of human endeavour had created, to add to the scores he had already seen in North Africa, Sicily and southern Italy. It had been erased as effectively as Pompeii had been wiped out by Vesuvius centuries ago. It would be a tragedy if the beauty, usefulness and peace of Le Siepi went the same way.

  Chapter Fifteen

  On 1st October Naples fell to the 8th Army. Two days later the American 5th Army reached a parallel objective, Benevento, thirty miles to the east.

  These events gave a common feeling of pleasure to O’Neill’s squadron, Corrado and Pienze, Ferugino and Sarti, il Conte Stefano di Rossoni and his beautiful wife Marisa, and to Dr. Raffaele Bottai. They also caused some of these people, for disparate reasons, a further reaction; anxiety.

  Ferugino and Sarti heard the news from Tech. Sgt. Pienze, who had fetched them from the squadron two days before and established them with Corrado’s battery as its own Intelligence section. The two Sicilians did not care what they were called, as long as they were fed, housed and clothed. In this sinecure they were also promised pay. The night after they left Fiver’s kindly guardianship the equipment stores of all three of the squadrons using the airfield were robbed of enough blankets, boots and clothing to set up the departed guests handsomely with lire capital to finance their further plans. Ferugino was, in fact, the earliest supplier of Allied Service property to the street traders around the Porta Capuana, in Naples, where the black market in such goods was soon centred.

  When Pienze gave him the word that Naples had been taken, Ferugino’s first question was, “How soon can we get a truck into town?” Within a few hours of the capture of Benevento, a 2½ tonner laden with items from R.A.F. stores was on its way, driven by the Transportation Sergeant, accompanied by the battery’s two-man Intelligence section. Both of these last were now kitted out in G.I. suntans of far superior material and cut to the British khaki drill; but Ferugino insisted they must keep their British uniforms for future emergencies, not sell them as Sarti wanted to.

  Corrado’s heart had missed a beat when he got the news, but the real chill of apprehension did not strike until forty-eight hours later and the American entry into Benevento. He could not long postpone his meeting with Dr. Bottai now.

  The tide of American infantry, armour and trucks sweeping north towards, and beyond, Benevento was watched closely by Count di Rossoni and his contessa.

  “Do you think the Americans or British will want to billet men in the house, or erect tents on the estate?” Marisa asked.

  The count shook his head definitely. “They are in a hurry to get on. Within a day or two we will be too far behind the front line to be of any use to them.”

  “We hope!”

  “Don’t worry: I have enough friends in the Services who have already made contact with the Allies and got Staff jobs with them, to ensure no one is allowed to disrupt us. There are already several Regia Aeronautica squadrons on R.A.F. wings, ships of our Navy serving with British flotillas, and senior Army officers in Allied appointments. A lot has happened since 9th September, when we capitulated.”

  “But politically...” She hesitated. “You are not exactly... well, these friends of yours... they perhaps didn’t have close relationships with the Fascist Party...”

  The count swelled with indignation. “Relationship with the Fascist Party? What relationship did I ever have? Yes, I served in Spain. But I was only carrying out orders. Certainly I had some misguided friends who were Party members: but I had known them all my life...”

  His wife gave him a placatory kiss. “You were an obedient Fascist, tesoro mio, because that was the side on which your bread was buttered. You saw the end in time to get out before you were actually caught in the act, as it were. But I bet you your personal file in the Questura needs to be handled with asbestos gloves...”

  “The Questura! Those vultures have files full of lies about everyone...”

  “And with a lot of truth in them, too...”

  “I’m telling you, Marisa, there is nothing to worry about. Circumstances put me in a position where I was open to unjust suspicion. That is all. I was never an active Fascist. Anyway, those days are over. The Allies will have to forgive and forget if they intend to ensure the building of a new Italy.”

  “Don’t you think it’s time you went to see Dr. Bottai?” She shivered. “I’d rather sup with the devil, but at least he always kept well clear of any involvement with Mussolini and his crowd.”

  “That is the greatest of the many advantages of being a Camorrista. And when one is a Capo di Camorristi, one is impregnable in these parts, isn’t one? What could Fascism or the Law ever do against the Camorra?”

  “Exactly. So I think you should go to see him, to ensure that you get the benefit of his immunity.” She shivered again. “Rather you than me.” She crossed herself. “Go and ask the Bishop for a blessing before you confront that dreadful old man.”

  That dreadful old man was awaiting both his legitimate and illegitimate distant relatives with complacency. He kept the count waiting only for as little time as was necessary to annoy him, before allowing his butler to show him in. When Dr. Bottai shook Count di Rossoni’s hand he did so with a sniff or two, recognising the whiff of incense, giving tacit acknowledgement of his awareness of the count’s last place of call and the ecclesiastical precaution which his own reputation for evil works had occasioned.

  The prescribed polite circumlocutions were quickly dealt with and the doctor said, “Well, Stefano, and how soon do you propose to make a move, now that we shall soon have the services of Pietro Corrado? And, of course, his comrade, whom I hear is a very able man; in his own way.”

  “What comrade?”

  “Ah, you hadn’t heard.” The doctor knew full well that di Rossoni had not heard. “One Tommasso Pienze. From Chicago; an impressive training ground. At present a Technical Sergeant in Corrado’s battery, I understand.”

  “A Technical Sergeant?” The count, whose only traffic with Other Ranks had been to bawl at them frequently and strike them from time to time, looked and sounded disgusted. “I am sure we can dispense with him...”

  “No, we can’t.” It came like a whiperack. Marisa was so right, the count told himself.

  With dignity, he ignored the insulting reprimand. “There
are two things I need to do: establish my political respectability and make as many contacts as I can with people whom we can use, unwittingly, to help us with the acquisition... removal... storage... safety... disposal... and so on, of... of articles of value...”

  The doctor’s obliquely set, different-coloured eyes bored into di Rossoni with an amused, malicious stare. “Go on, Stefano. You are becoming quite diplomatic in your phraseology. I’m listening.”

  Di Rossoni scowled. “I can do without that patronising tone, Dottore: it is not becoming to my station.” The doctor make a deprecating Neapolitan gesture. “I saw a brilliant attack by Spitfires on the factory at Culostretto which the Germans have been using as a repair base for their armoured vehicles. I noted the squadron identification letters on the aircraft, and through friends in Intelligence I have been able to learn the squadron number and the name of its Commanding Officer. Also,” he added with a flourish, “where it is based. As an old fighter pilot myself, and one with an honourable wound...” The doctor’s bushy eyebrows shot up and remained elevated in amazement at this audacity. “...I propose to get in touch with this squadron’s Commanding Officer, express my admiration and gratitude, and invite him and his officers... to my home.”

  “Gratitude? For reducing to rubble a factory which was built mostly with your money?”

  Again the count ignored a shaft of venom. “I propose to establish the friendliest possible relations with these British gentlemen, as a testimonial to my own character and as a means of obtaining certain favours in the future: whether they render them knowingly or not.”

  “Very well put,” Dr Bottai approved, shifting in his chair to show his hump and birthmark to his visitor, knowing how unsettling these were. “My informants tell me that Corrado has been in close touch with a Spitfire squadron since the landings in Sicily: also to further our joint purposes.” He mentioned the squadron number, smiled with satisfaction when he saw di Rossoni’s startled jink, and added, “The name of the Commanding Officer is O’Neill. An Irish name, but not Catholic I think. The O’Neills are well known in Ulster. Black Protestants. What are called Orangemen. It has nothing to do with fruit-growing.” He offered his wintry smile again.

  Di Rossoni gagged as though he had a bone stuck in his throat. “O-O-O’N-Neill? That’s the same one... the same squadron... you mean to say this... this bastardised American is poaching on my preserves?”

  “Hardly bastardised, poor fellow. And after all he is family. It’s not his fault that his father was conceived without benefit of clergy. I think he’s done very well.” There were two goading implications there: approval for Corrado and the suggestion of a closer relationship than really existed between the noble di Rossoni and the merely squirearchal Bottai houses.

  “At least the fellow is an officer,” the count conceded. “And, God help us, a field officer at that: one wonders how the Americans choose them. A bootlegger, a gangster, transformed into an artillery major. It’s indecent.”

  “To our advantage, Corrado has an excellent prospect of staying alive. Casualties in anti-aircraft regiments are light. We can look forward to having him around to help us for a long time. Your Squadron Leader O’Neill, on the other hand, is engaged on one of the most dangerous types of mission a man could have.”

  Di Rossoni made a dismissive movement of his arms. “Even if he is killed, the squadron will still be there. And there will be another Commanding Officer to befriend and manipulate.”

  Those frightening eyes and the whole hideous face were set in an expression like a rock-carving. The mellifluous voice dropped an octave. “I am glad you are not sentimental, cugino mio.”

  “How much time have we got, Dottore?” di Rossoni persisted in this formal, ostensibly respectful, form of address. It emphasised the difference of a quarter of a century in age between them, his refusal to admit a true cousinly consanguinity; and owed as much also to his innate fear of the man.

  “To start shifting the valuables out of the country and convert them to stable currencies in safe places? A few weeks only. Remember I have to account to my... associates... and they are eager to get their hands on their shares. As for the arms and ammunition, those can be stored for the time being. I would like to strike a blow immediately, but despite the civil confusion the time is not right. If we are patient we can create even worse disorder when the Allies begin to move north more quickly. Besides, the people down here in the south are not such fruitful ground for the implantation of the seed of revolution, as you know. Despite the hardships of war and having the Germans on our soil, they are loyal to the old ways: we southern Italians must be the most fervent royalists in the world, after the British. It’s too early to change that. Having got rid of Fascism is a great step. Let the people have a taste of German tyranny, followed by British and American occupation: by the time the Allies have driven the Germans out, all Italy will be in the right mood, ripe for... persuasion... indoctrination... ripe for action. And action, to be successful, needs firepower. We will provide that. And if we don’t act swiftly at the right moment, the whole country will be in danger of sliding back into a weak monarchy or falling under another dictatorial rule under a different guise.”

  “You really don’t think there’s any risk of a Communist takeover if we supply the arms for anarchy?”

  “You know as well as I do that it’s the industrial north where communism flourishes; but underground, of course. That’s why we must delay taking action: the ardent revolutionaries are found north of Florence. But can you imagine a Communist Italy?” The distorted features cracked into a smile. “A fervently Catholic country... dominated by the Vatican... a people inherently incapable of co-operation with each other... a total absence of civic consciousness in the Italian character... a nation of born hedonists... a country where beauty transcends everything. No, communism will never be a serious threat here: it satisfies our Italian love of passionate argument... intrigue... partisanship. That’s as far as it goes. We are too damned selfish ever to embrace a creed which demands the equal sharing of everything. We Italians are realists, above all.”

  “But you... and I... you... we... you intend to provoke chaos in order to emerge from it strongly entrenched for whatever the future holds for our country?”

  “When I went to America I learned an expression which admirably answers any query about a matter of which we are convinced, and determined to execute; anything, in fact, in which we passionately believe. It is my answer to you. I recommend you to learn it; it will impress Pietro Corrado with your command of his national idiom.”

  “And what is it?”

  “A universal Americanism which conveys much: ‘You can say that again’... Cousin mine.”

  *

  The squadron paid its first visit to Naples after a night of strong wind and heavy rain. The weather had broken a month earlier than the meteorologists predicted.

  They were allowed to stand down early that afternoon because of low cloud and deteriorating conditions. On their way to town they drove through village after village that had been knocked into nothing but piles of rubble and dust. There was Altavilla, pulverised by shells because it was suspected (not definitely known) to be in German hands. There was Battipaglia, scene of so much bombardment and close fighting, where not a living creature moved any more: it smoked, it was fly-infested, it stank of the dead lying under its ruins. There were Torre Annunziata, Portici and other small towns on the outskirts of Naples, where there were more roofless walls than intact houses.

  Yule recalled the prayer which Ferugino had recited to him in the cave in Sicily. It seemed an age ago. But what had happened here and was still happening not much further north was exactly the same as the savagery that had prompted that prayer all those months ago in a place far from here: what Sardinia had suffered and what parts of northern Italy had already suffered, the whole country must undergo. He didn’t want to be reminded of it and was glad when they arrived in Naples, where the damage was not so obtrusive.<
br />
  The city reeked of fires recently extinguished. The air was nauseous with the stench of charred bricks and timbers, of damp, still-smouldering embers and ashes. It stank of burst drains and overflowing sewers. Along the waterfront, cranes the Germans had sabotaged before departing were bent and tilted. In the harbour, ships the enemy had sunk jammed the entrance. Soldiers and civilians swarmed everywhere, clearing away and salvaging.