Air Strike

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  Seizing on this moment of euphoria, Corrado said, “About your order, sir: I sure would like to be up front with the boys when they cross the Pozzanghera.”

  “Then you shall be, son. And it’s gonna be any day now.” The General turned to his A.D.C. and rapped a few instructions to him. When he left, Corrado watched his jeep disappear with mixed satisfaction and qualms.

  It was thus that he found himself attached as an observer to a Forward Control Unit a few days later. The British were instructing the Americans in the new craft of Rover patrolling and controlling. O’Neill’s squadron, still operating independently, was now being used exclusively to provide daily cab ranks. On the day when the Pozzanghera river was crossed, Warren, who had recently been promoted to flight lieutenant, was Rover controller.

  The crossing was made at 3 a.m. on a rain-whipped November night, and Corrado stood trembling with cold and fear, watching the assault from between the points of his turned-up coat collar. The vehicles of the F.C.U. waited in a copse on a low knoll for the assault to succeed. As soon as the far bank was secured a Bailey bridge would be thrown across the narrow river and the F.C.U. would move forward to direct the Rover patrol cab ranks when daylight enabled them to begin operating. Warren, equally cold and scared, stood next to Corrado, clutching a mug of steaming brandy-laced cocoa in his gloved hands and gulping it.

  Neither of them had witnessed a river crossing before. It was an inferno of detonations, shouting and vivid flashes of light. The rain had settled into a thin, wind-driven drizzle. The thick darkness of the small hours was ripped by sizzling lines of tracer, flames at the muzzles of automatic weapons, bursting Verey lights and dazzling flares. Wood and canvas assault boats pushed away from the bank and headed into the dark, paddled by grotesquely outlined crouching figures caught in the backwash of flares. Shells burst on the water, enemy machine-guns thumped out rods of tracer that whipped the river into angry founts. Boats foundered, overturned, sank. Men screamed as they were wounded. Others shouted orders. Tanks clattered past and took up positions on the riverbank, shooting at the far side. Armoured cars came by and formed up, waiting for the bridges to be built. It occurred to Corrado that he was on a curious errand, that his real reason for being here seemed utterly bizarre in the context of men around him dying by the score; that if Bottai was so damnably anxious to lay his greedy, unscrupulous hands on his hidden fortune, he ought to be here himself.

  Shouts of triumph floated back from the northern shore and the field engineers began hurriedly to build the first Bailey bridge. By the time first light washed over the battlefield the bridge was half-way across. When dawn broke properly there was a lull in the rainstorm and, watching the first armoured vehicles rumble across, Corrado muttered, “Milgreppi, here I come.”

  He grinned to himself. He had refused to divulge to Pienze the nature of the task that Bottai had forced on him, and his last memory of the sergeant, when he had driven away after leaving him at the F.C.U. two days ago, made him laugh. Chewing his cigar and scowling, Pienze had prodded at him all the way from the battery, but Corrado had told him nothing. When they parted Pienze looked bitter and surly, which made Corrado very happy. All Pienze would ever know about it would be when he ordered him to drive a truck to Milgreppi to pick up a quantity of wooden cases and take them to il Conte di Rossoni’s home.

  He stopped grinning when the F.C.U. scout car in which he was riding with Warren lurched off the far end of the Bailey bridge and instantly came under mortar fire. But someone up ahead at once silenced the unwise mortar crew and the seven-vehicle convoy, led by its own armoured car, moved cautiously on.

  Through his binoculars Corrado could now see the silhouette of the hunting lodge, the casina di caccia, on top of its hill, with a lake shimmering at its foot. Between them lay three miles of enemy-held ground. He pointed at the building and said, “Lookit there, Bunny. That’s a fine target for you fellas. Guess Fiver’d love to hit that one.”

  Warren, field glasses to his eyes, presently nodded. “I should think that’s on the programme for today.”

  Presently the Rover tentacle was established within two miles of Milgreppi. Warren, at the R/T receiver, heard, “Hello Rover Bunny, this Banco Leader, in position. Over.” It was his own Flight Commander.

  The first target was chosen and three aircraft sent to attack it. Twenty minutes later a second target was agreed and the remaining three were put on to it. Ten minutes after these left their orbit point another six aircraft took their place. This time it was Fiver O’Neill himself who led them.

  Acting independently, with their own forward tentacle, as the F.C.U. was also known, Fiver’s Lot were given targets without the delay inseparable from other Rover operations. The Army and R.A.F. officers at the F.C.U. were able quickly to agree priorities. The previous day, his second with the F.C.U., Corrado had suggested that they themselves in the tentacle could usefully, when it was right forward, recommend targets themselves. The British officers had received the suggestion well. That evening, preparatory to the river assault, Corrado had driven over to the nearby Divisional H.Q. and requested an interview with his Major-General.

  The General was full of adrenalin and confidence and greeted this one of his favourite artillery officers with almost boyish levity. “What can I do for you, son?”

  “If the General will allow me to make a suggestion...”

  “Cut out the horse crap, Pete. What is it?”

  So Corrado had talked to him about the practicality of the F.C.U. controller and Army Liaison Officer choosing targets which their specialised experience suggested.

  “I like it,” the General roared. “It’s a British idea, this Rover racket, but by Gahd! Good old Yankee ingenooity can improve on it. Yes, son, we can go ahead with that one.”

  Corrado had humbly invited the General to visit the F.C.U. as soon as convenient after the crossing, to be the first to put the idea to the test.

  “Damn right I will, Pete,” the Old Man had declared. And, just as Fiver came up on the R/T, he appeared at the tentacle.

  “That Kraut tac. H.Q. on top of the hill, Casina Milgreppi, General...” Maj. Corrado was obsequious but firm. The target was agreed without hesitation.

  “Hello Banco Leader, this is Rover Bunny. Target for you.”

  “Rover Bunny from Banco Leader. Good show. Let’s have it.”

  “Map L, square P 16.”

  “Map L, square P 16.”

  “Three miles north of the Pozzanghera there’s a small lake.”

  “O.K., Rover Bunny, I see it.”

  “Immediately north of that is a hill with a house on top, surrounded by a belt of trees.”

  “I’ve found it.”

  “We want it completely written off.”

  “Roger, I’ll just have a shufti. Banco aircraft, stand by in orbit while I recce the target.”

  The crew of the F.C.U. saw a Spitfire zoom overhead in a long slant, from the cab rank’s orbit point a mile to the east, turn in a tight circle around the Casina Milgreppi and head back for the cab rank. They heard Fiver again.

  “Banco aircraft from Banco Leader. Piece of cake. Very light reaction from the defences. Perfect approaches all round. Nice fat target. We want to make absolutely certain of this one, as we have to flatten the place, so we’ll take it in pairs, attacking at one-minute intervals. Let’s go.”

  His throat constricted by excitement, Corrado watched the six Spitfires come haring obliquely across his front. “Go get ’em, baby,” he muttered exultantly.

  Fiver’s voice sounded briefly once more. “Interesting to see how these incendiaries perform.”

  There was a moment of horror and stupefaction in Corrado’s mind before he cried in anguish, “Incendiaries? My Gahd!” he turned to Warren, his eyes starting, and croaked, “Incendiaries?”

  “Yes, it’s a new idea. Fiver’s trying it for the first time. The boys are each carrying one high-explosive bomb and a clutch of incendiaries.”

  “Oh,
no! Abort the mission... abort it...”

  “What the hell’s with you, Pete?” snapped the General.

  “M-M-Maybe we can use that house, General sir, ourselves... we maybe shouldn’t destroy it...?”

  “Hell, it’s no use to us, son. I’m not sending my boys up that goddamn hill. We’re going round it.”

  Warren glanced curiously at Corrado, who was trembling.

  Yule, flying No. 2 to O’Neill, felt his usual sense of rivalry with Sgt. Sampson, who was leading the second pair. Vincent led the third, but Yule didn’t bother about him. Ever since the attack at Culostretto all those weeks ago, when he had done everything right, he had competed in skill with Sammy. He was keen to try his luck with the incendiaries. In Fiver, he had an impeccable example to follow, even closer to perfection than Sammy.

  They went in vertically, to concentrate their cluster of incendiary bombs. Aiming conditions were perfect. The lake gave them a superb pinpoint and the sun lit the hill and the house atop it in a break through the rain clouds. A few seconds before he was due to release his bombs, Yule saw Fiver’s hit the house. There came a great sheet of flame when the high-explosive went off, then a moment later a coruscation of bright lights where his incendiaries spread along the roof. Yule held steady, the ground hurtling to meet him, the trees a blur but the house as clear as he could wish, already burning in the centre. He released his bombs and climbed away hard. Looking down along his banked port wing he saw that his H.E. had knocked down one end of the building and his incendiaries were burning inside the hole he had blown.

  Fiver called the next pair to attack differently, at 75 degrees, and the third to go in low and level.

  Before they had regained their orbit point the house had been razed and was already almost gutted. The fire burned fiercely, flames running in rivers all over the house and grounds, as vehicles exploded and petrol and oil caught alight.

  Corrado stumbled out of the control vehicle and vomited, then leaned against it, moaning. After that holocaust there could be nothing left of Dr. Bottai’s carefully hoarded treasures: not a scrap of canvas, a splinter of wood or an ounce of un-melted gold, not a piece of marble that had not been ground to dust.

  *

  A week later the Allies had pushed only two miles beyond Milgreppi, but Corrado kept his promise to report to Dr. Bottai.

  Once again he stood in the Posillipo library under Bottai’s stony glare. After the curtest of greetings, Bottai asked, “Where is my art collection?”

  “In a safe place. I’m taking you there now.”

  Bottai removed his cat from his knee and slowly rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving Corrado, his face uncompromisingly grim. “Where?”

  “I have a special pass for you: we’re going up beyond Capua.”

  “Why didn’t you deliver it direct to di Rossoni?”

  “I said it would be in your hands a week after we crossed the Pozzanghera. I am keeping my word. I have not had the chance yet to take it to Rossoni. But I will, soon.”

  It was a dark, cold evening, the stars hidden by cloud. Bottai followed Corrado to a jeep. “Where’s Pienze?” he asked. “He’s twice the man you are when it comes to doing a job.”

  “Up at the battery. You’ll see him later.”

  At first they drove in silence, then Dr. Bottai said, “I was taken by surprise. Perhaps I was too harsh. I appreciate what you have done: how did you arrange it?”

  “It wasn’t easy. First, I had to make sure the building wasn’t completely destroyed, but blown up just enough to open up the concrete that closed off the cellars. Then I had to ensure that our own people didn’t occupy it. After that, I had to wait for an opportunity to get in and, later, remove the art collection. No, it wasn’t easy.”

  “You’ve done well, Pietro. I congratulate you.”

  “I don’t know why you were so distrusting.”

  “Of course not. It was foolish of me.” he glanced sideways. “Naturally I can trust you: the Mafia or the Camorra would take care of the matter if you let me down.”

  “There’s no need to talk like that, Uncle.”

  The battery site was well behind the support area by now and it had been easy enough to arrange a pass for the eminent Dr. Bottai, with his impeccable security record, into the military zone.

  Corrado turned off the main road and stopped. “I have to explain to you, Uncle. I removed your treasures to a safe place. Not even Pienze knows where they are, but I shall need him to help me take them to Stefano’s place. I have arranged for him to meet us a couple of kilometres from here. I would like you to transfer to his jeep, then I’ll go ahead to make sure it’s all clear, with you following 100 metres or so behind. Afterwards you can take some of your art treasures back with you, to make sure they’re all right.”

  “That sounds a well thought out plan, Pietro. I am surprised you managed so far without Pienze’s help.”

  “I trust him, Uncle, but I thought it best not to let him into the secret until you could be there to witness it yourself.”

  “I applaud your caution.”

  They drove along a lane and then turned on to a bumpy farm track. They found Pienze waiting under a clump of trees and Corrado stopped, to lead Dr. Bottai over to the other vehicle.

  Before driving off again he cautioned Pienze, “Keep at least 100 yards behind me. Watch my tail light. When I switch it off, stop and wait till I return.”

  “O.K. Pete, but fer Crissakes make it quick, I’m cold.”

  After another half-mile or so a building loomed up ahead. Corrado stopped and switched off his lights, then got out and walked all round the strong stone-built barn. He paused at the double doors, unlocked a big padlock and undid a heavy chain, then went inside. Coming out, he left the doors open, turned his jeep and drove back to rejoin the others.

  “Everything’s fine,” he said. “I left the doors open, so you can drive straight into the barn.”

  Angrily, Bottai said, “You left a fortune lying in a barn? Are you out of your mind?”

  “It’s perfectly safe, Uncle. It’s one of those old barns with stone vats under the floor for storing grain in winter. The boxes are in there, and covered over with boards and straw. Drive straight in, then switch your lights on. I’ll park outside.”

  “You took a big risk,” Bottai grumbled, but Corrado did not defend himself. He watched the other jeep drive past his and hurry on towards the shadowy building.

  He had turned again and driven only a few yards when he saw the vehicle ahead enter the barn. He stopped, chuckling.

  There was a vivid sheet of flame followed by a dull explosion and the barn seemed to rise in the air and disintegrate majestically as the two land mines he had concealed on its floor, to make absolutely sure that nothing recognisable was left of either the men or the jeep, exploded.

  He drove on and stopped amid the acrid reek of the explosion and a smoke-laden cloud of dust. Peering into the barn, he muttered, “Got rid of both the bastards at once. Bottai said Pienze was twice the man I am. Well, I guess he ain’t one-thousandth piece of what I am now!” A few shreds of human flesh hung bloodily here and there: he wondered which had been Pienze and which Bottai.

  He knew where Bottai had hidden his armoury at Le Siepi. He’d leave the weapons and the ammunition there until it was convenient to check the place out and maybe add to them. Perhaps he’d find a use for Ferugino in that connection. It didn’t really matter, he was in no hurry. He’d have a word with di Rossoni some time: perhaps they could handle the arms cache and their ultimate disposal in partnership. After all, he could always liquidate both the count and Ferugino after they’d served their purpose. He had to be grateful that the total destruction of Casina Milgreppi and everything and everybody in it had forced him to deal so drastically with Bottai: it had set him free. If Bottai had ever learned the truth about his hoard his life wouldn’t have been worth a dime.

  *

  Yule, Vincent and Warren were dining in the British Officers
’ Club in Naples with others of the squadron. The generously proportioned lady known as Mrs. Rommel was throatily bawling sentimental ballads to the accompaniment of the orchestra.

  The head waiter, intuitively selecting Vincent, leaned over him and suggested discreetly, “If you gentlemen would care for some amusement after dinner, sir, I can arrange it.”

  They had all heard him and silence fell over the table. Vincent asked, “You’re not touting for a fat little Sicilian called Ferugino, are you?”

  The head waiter dropped his tray from shock. “H-How d-did you know, sir?”

  Yule said, “We know all about the little blighter. He’s the greatest natural survivor in the whole of Italy. It won’t be long before he’s king of the black market and boss of the pimps’ union.”

  “He already is, sir,” the waiter breathed reverently.

  “Just send a message to Anna that I’ll be along presently,” Vincent said. He smirked at Yule. “No objections, Toby?”

  “Get stuffed. And don’t say I didn’t warn you when you catch a roaring dose.”

  “Not a chance: Ferugino sends all his girls to the quack every week. He’s a damned efficient type.”

  “Damned, certainly, I should think,” Yule agreed.

  *

  Eventually, on 28th November, 8th Army established itself on the north bank of the Sangro river on the eastern side of Italy. On 6th December 5th Army reached the Garigliano river line. On 1st December the first snow had fallen as far south as the airfields in the areas of both Foggia on the east and Naples on the west. Despite the foul weather, on 2nd December Desert Air Force Spitfires, Warhawks and Kittyhawks flew 410 sorties; out of a total of 1,200 flown by 2nd Tactical Air Force, of which D.A.F. was a part. This was a record, and the previous best effort which it beat dated right back to the days of the campaign in Tunisia.

  For Fiver’s Lot two hard winters and a torrid summer still lay ahead, during which they would risk their lives almost daily while living mostly under canvas and seldom in anything more substantial than a wooden hut, while they moved northwards to clear the way for the ground forces to advance. They were faced with another year and a half of rugged campaigning, of moving from airfield to airfield with their few possessions, of living constantly in heat and dust or cold and mud. They could look forward only to successive days of flak and enemy fighters; to the steady loss of friends from death, wounds or capture; to occasional short leaves when to sleep in a sprung bed with clean sheets, in a solid building, was the ultimate in luxury.